No Ordinary Gentleman

We’re not suited, and he’s not serious. Not really.

He wants me, yeah. And I want him. But he’ll tire of me eventually, but not because he’s a rat or unprincipled, but because he said from the start, he’s not the settling down type. I’m pretty sure you don’t get to his age without knowing your own mind.

Maybe one marriage was enough. Maybe losing her broke his heart. Maybe there’s no getting over that. But that’s exactly my point. I don’t know the reasons because I don’t know him.

And while I might not be so comfortable in my own skin, I also know my own mind. I know he has the makings of an obsession. Of a broken heart. And those are the kinds of temptations I could do without.

Alexander, the 13th Duke of Dalforth, was never meant for me. Not really.

“Well.” Isla swallows, and for a minute, I wonder if I should pass back the tissue box. “At least you’ll be here for Duffy’s party.”

I frown a little, then remember the conversation in the car.

“Batman,” I offer, and she nods.

“It’s apparently Batman’s birthday, and his wife, Ivy, is throwing him a party. Quite short notice, but I don’t know anything about Hollywood types.”

“I think she said she used to be a hairstylist.”

“Did she? Well, whatever she did, whatever she does now, I like her.”

“Me, too. But I don’t think I’ll be coming along. I mean, unless you need me to look after the boys—”

“No, not at all. That’s all taken care of, and Ivy made particular mention of the fact that she’d like to see you again.”

“Maybe you can pass on my apologies. Or I’ll write her a card or something.” I don’t need another repeat of last week’s dinner, and I mean, any of it.

“Holly,” she says, her posture and her gaze softening. “How many people get to say they’ve been invited to the home of a Hollywood star, let alone that they were invited to his birthday party—to Dylan Duffy’s birthday party? How can you not be excited? This is a first for me, too. It’s quite a coup, I understand. I expect my currency will fly through the roof with the PTA mothers.”

“I’m not much for parties. Besides, I don’t have anything suitable to wear.”

“I’m sure I can help.”

At this, I laugh. Laughter that deepens as her eyes coast over me, confidence exchanged for uncertainty as her brain catches up with her mouth. Nothing hanging in her wardrobe would fit me. I’m almost a foot shorter and not exactly what you’d call sylph-like.

“A dress is an easy fix,” she says, joining me in my amusement with a cheeky grin. “The important thing is that you see the invitation for what it is. An opportunity. Who knows what might transpire? Who you might meet? What kind of opportunities might reveal themselves? Work, for instance.”

“I don’t know. I don’t feel like partying, to be honest.”

“But you won’t be partying. You’ll be . . . What did Griffin call it last night?” she mutters to herself. “Networking!” she adds, in the way of eureka!

“Griffin’s going, too?”

“By default, I think. He wasn’t named on the invitation, but Ivy was kind enough to extend it to include him. To be honest, I’m not sure what he’s still doing here. He’s never stayed with us this long.”

“Doesn’t he think of Kilblair as his family home?” He seems to treat it like it is. Though it’s kind of ironic I’d be shocked. It’s not like “home” represents anything positive to me. Well, apart from the people who live there. Kennedy and the rug rat are the only things I love in Mookatill.

“It’s not truly his home,” she replies, taking the tissue box from my lap. She places it back on the coffee table. “Griffin didn’t live here as a child or even visit. He grew up in the Home Counties with his mother and the man he thought was his father. Both he and his sister.”

“Oh.” Such a small sound with so many implications.

“We were as surprised to find out about them as they were us,” she adds brightly. “Possibly just as pleased.” Her expression falls a touch. “It all came out in our father’s will. It turns out he was quite the profligate.”

Which is a nicer word than the one I’d use. It strikes me how Griffin was the one to tell me they were half-brothers back on the night I showered Dylan Duffy in haggis bonbons. Alexander has never referred to him as anything but his brother in my hearing. He’d never made the distinction, at least, not to me. He’d never made him sound any less than family. That says a lot about his character, for sure.

“Yes, well,” she begins again, “what’s done is done, and Griffin isn’t around very often.” Thankfully, she doesn’t say, but I hear it anyway. “Think about it at least. The invitation, I mean.”