No Ordinary Gentleman

“I wouldn’t mind getting a little of the man myself.” His wife not so subtly glances to where Dylan Duffy sits. “Except the way I heard it, there isn’t anything little about him,” she adds lewdly.

“Carrie,” Horowitz hisses, tugging on her arm. “This liquid diet you’re on is no good for you.”

“I don’t know,” Portia mutters under her breath. “I’d say Mrs Horowitz has the right idea.”

“Ideas for the man or the diet?” I ask, feigning interest.

“No, no, no!” My bastard brother’s laughter catches my attention. “Falling in love is for those with sadomasochistic leanings. Just ask his grace.” All eyes turn my way. “Those are his own words I’m repeating, by the way.”

“Such a nihilist!” heckles someone at the fun end of the table. Van, I think.

“It’s true,” I reply because those are my words, though I don’t remember speaking them within earshot of Griffin. “Matters of the heart inevitably bring or cause pain.”

“That sounds a little tender. A little heartbroken, even.” This from Dylan Duffy’s wife.

“My heart isn’t broken,” I answer with a small smile.

“It’s probably still in the packaging it came in,” Griffin mutters, catching my eye.

“Romantic love, in my experience, can bring as much heartache as happiness.”

“But it’s worth the risk,” Ivy Duffy argues. “To find someone to love is—”

“Is the chance to feel pain.” Parting my fingers, I slide the V over the base of my glass before my gaze flicks to Portia. “Or for you to cause someone pain.”

Portia almost winces though why, I’m not sure. This is a conversation we had a long time ago. I will never fall in love again. I will never again give that power to anyone.

Not even Holland.

“Only if that’s what you’re into,” Griffin supplies to the guffaws of his tablemates.

Matteo smothers a laugh though Van gives in heartily to his, adding, “I think that says more about our learned friend,” he says, using pointed legalese, “than it does his grace.”

“Love is gentle. Love is kind,” joins in drunken Carrie Horowitz.

“Love hurts,” Van counters, sending Griffin the kind of glance that makes me wonders what else played out on the club’s monitors the other night. “But some people like it that way.”

“To love is to give someone the power to hurt you,” my sister interjects quite suddenly. “The flip side is that you too can cause hurt.” When I glance up, my gaze lands on Holland’s as she looks my way for the very first time. I wonder what she’s thinking, what she’s seeing in this shit show of a dinner. It must be like watching animals at the zoo for her.

“And somewhere someone is singing an R.E.M. song,” announces Griffin, playing up to his audience. “But love makes the world go ’round,” he says, sliding his arm deliberately behind Holland’s chair, who discreetly leans forward.

“I didn’t realise you were an expert on love, Griffin.” On sexually transmitted diseases, maybe. “I must’ve missed your great love affair,” I murmur, reaching for my glass.

“You shouldn’t make fun of other people’s experiences.” This comes from Portia, her words as heartfelt as I’ve ever heard them as she stares daggers Griffin’s way. “It’s human nature to avoid that which has hurt you. Until you’ve suffered loss, you can’t understand.”

“Ah. The lady is quite right.” Griffin lifts his glass. “A toast to Leonie, his grace’s late wife. God rest her soul. The paragon of perfection and the reason her beloved will never, ever remarry.”

They are my words. At least, some of them are. I will never marry again. But what I don’t understand is why hearing them now makes me feel so uncomfortable. I glare down the table as our guests murmur an awkward toast. I will never love again, but not because I pine for Leonie. I will never love again because I am married to this life. This dukedom. And because I choose not to share this albatross of an existence with anyone else. No, I don’t miss Leonie, but part of me wonders if our marriage was part of the reason for her death. Suicide or accident? I suppose I’ll never truly know.

I imagine Holland already knows I was married once. Our staff was very fond of the idea of her, but Leonie never spent enough time here for them to know her. This, I suppose, allows them to see her as the fantasy. The perfect duchess for their noble duke. Not the nightmare revealed to me once we were married.

Yes, maybe her death is on me.

“But you can’t spend your life wandering around like some lonely Heathcliff,” Griffin adds. “Or would that be Mr Rochester?”

“I’m glad to see your education wasn’t wasted on studying dead white men,” I answer coolly, ignoring the turmoil his words have created. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as one with interest in the gothic.” Which of these tales is supposed to hit a nerve, I wonder? Heathcliff was a tortured hero, driven to madness by longing and jealousy. Mr Rochester kept his mentally ill wife in the attic. While I can’t lay claim to that exactly, we all have skeletons in our closets. The attics at Kilblair are full of nothing but useless stuff. Maybe I should also shove Griffin there.