The Princess Finds Her Match - Page 62
“Thank you, Julian,” she sniffed, “for this,” she held up the monogrammed and probable thousand-plus thread count handkerchief she just had soiled with her royal snot, “and for this,” she said tremulously, waving and indicating vaguely at the interior of the luxury car. In her distress, she could not even remember the vehicle’s make or color. “You don’t have to bring me all the way to Seirenada. I do fly commercial, you know.” She attempted levity but failed.
The Duke smiled comfortingly. “I have been intending to visit Seirenada for quite some time now. Stefan is quite eager to show the developments he has made since my last visit. And besides, we have some business to discuss. We will make better time if we use my jet.” His tone had turned grim and his jaw hardened.
“I won’t let Stefan give in to Butler,” Lexie blurted out fiercely. “I know Stefan has misgivings about the man and wants nothing to do with him. I have heard rumors about his questionable business ethics. They are rumors, but I trust my brother’s judgment, Julian. Please convince him that I don’t need protection. If the photos are leaked, I can live with it, but I can’t have it on my conscience if Stefan is forced to associate with that man just to protect me.“
The Duke stared at her with something close to admiration in his green eyes. “When did you become so grown-up, Lexie?”
She shrugged, a very typical Seirenadan gesture she hadn’t been permitted to do since she was seven. “You have to discuss that with Stefan. I think he believes my mental age was arrested at twelve.”
Julian glanced at her askance with a wry smile on his lips. “That’s pretty forward thinking of Stefan. I think Maggie’s stopped at eight.”
Lexie smiled, as she knew Julian had intended. “You big brothers are all the same!”
The smile never left his lips, but his eyes hardened. “Yes, I think we are. We keep our sisters safe and never let anyone hurt them.”
Lexie folded her arms tightly across her chest as she felt the bite of the cold air inside the vehicle. All the way to the private airstrip they remained quiet, each lost in their thoughts.
* * *
“I had nothin’ to do with it, Nic,” a terrified Tansy quailed when he stormed into the Butler’s mansion, his aggression emanating from him like a living thing. He caught a glimpse of himself in an ornate mirror hanging above the huge spindly-legged console table and felt primitive satisfaction at how his disheveled, unkempt appearance was making the right impact on Tansy. “I swear, it wasn’t my idea to go through your phone.”
Tansy herself looked like she had just rolled out of bed. Her long hair was scrunched up in a messy ponytail, and her dressing gown was haphazardly tied. She was so far removed from the heavily made-up society butterfly she tried so hard to be that Nic almost didn’t recognize her. She wrung her hands in agitation. “Lucia,” she barked to a maid who was hovering by the side of a swinging door to the extreme right wing of the foyer. “Where are my cigarettes?”
The maid scampered to do her bidding. Nic believed her. Tansy might be petty, but she didn’t have the brain power to think of something this devious.
“Where’s your husband?” When she didn’t reply, Nic took a menacing step forward.
“He’s at the Polo Club,” she squeaked, clutching her throat.
“If I don’t find him there,” he threatened darkly, “I’ll be back for you.”
Tansy made an indiscernible sound of fright and distress as he tore out of the foyer. His mind was so preoccupied with finding his former patron that he failed to notice an unobtrusive sedan peeling off the curb as he shot out of the gates of the mansion.
Nic had played in the Los Angeles Polo Club several times even under his old team and was waved through security without trouble. Apparently, word had not yet gotten out that he and Butler had gone their separate ways, for some members, lounging desultorily in the clubhouse, correctly guessing he wanted to see the capitalist but not guessing the reason why, had pointed him in the direction of the tack room in the stables. If they found his less-than-polished sartorial appearance odd, they didn’t say anything. He was a foreigner after all and entitled to some fashion quirks. Some of the younger twenty-something female set of the club giggled when he passed by. He studiously avoided eye contact. He was not in the mood for small talk, autographs, or snapshots.
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