No Ordinary Gentleman

“Because she’s worried about you.”

“I’m sure I’ve given her cause for concern many times, but I don’t recall her seeking your advice.”

“And the Duke of Dalforth sees himself as God,” he intones as though narrating the soundtrack to the story of my life. “Omnipotent. All-seeing. The supreme being rules over us all. Or so he likes to think.”

“Van, answer the question. Are you and my sister—”

“Do you think if the answer were yes that this would be how you would come to know? That I’d tell you over the phone?”

“No. I suppose not.” Van would have the balls, the decency, to come to me first. Probably. “Although Kilblair does house a weaponry.”

“But it’s mostly ancient.”

“An ancient mace works as good as a new one. Probably better. And there is any number of guns. We might have us an old-fashioned hunting accident.”

“Not with a mace.” He chuckles.

“No,” I agree. “There are tidier ways to kill a deer.”

“And a friend? But back to your woman troubles.”

“I don’t have woman troubles. Or I won’t. Not if you bring me one.” Van has his employees sign airtight NDAs. I wouldn’t risk asking him otherwise. I certainly wouldn’t go elsewhere. “Just be a good friend.”

“And procure you a woman? What’s wrong with Portia?” he adds in a rare sign of frustration.

“I need someone who can act. Someone who can pretend to like me.”

“That does exclude her. She did only like your title.”

“Are you done playing, or should I bend over so you can really fuck me?”

“You’re not my type. But you know who just might be?” For a moment, I think he might say Isla. And then we’d really have a problem. “Holland.”

I manage a dry laugh even as my lunch turns to cement in my stomach. “Very funny.”

“Isla says she’s worth ten of your usual type. That she’s genuine.”

“Isla says, does she? Of course, she must be right.” I rake a hand through my hair. I didn’t expect the conversation to go this way. “So what sage advice did my sister issue? That I should just get on my knees and profess my ardent admiration? Let me tell you, I have been on my knees”—I fucking worshipped her—“and it didn’t help.”

“Perhaps you need to use your words, not just your mouth.”

“Let me handle my own life. You’re going to the Duffys’ party, so bring me a fucking girl. In a fancy dress. I promise I won’t even touch her.”

“If you’re paying for her, you can touch her.”

“But I don’t want to touch her,” I explain patiently. Or snap. I’m not really sure.

“Paying for it will be all that’s left if you do this. Women don’t like being played.”

Neither do men. Neither do dukes.

But that hasn’t stopped Holland.

“You’re going to fuck this up and let this girl slip through your fingers. I guarantee it, Aleksandr.”

The way he says my name sounds more Russian than it ever has.

“I don’t need relationship advice from a degenerate,” I snap.

“At least I know how to enjoy life, and I’m not frightened to live it. To take chances.”

“You live in an ivory tower. Rarely do you deign to join the rest of the world.”

“More and more lately, I find myself doing so. Living, I think it’s called. Taking a little something for myself.”

“I don’t need this existential bullshit.” Almost jumping from my seat, I stalk over to the window for the fifth time this afternoon. When Isla had let it slip that Holland had taken the boys for a picnic, I’d expected to be able to see them from this window. Perhaps like some bucolic scene from a bygone era. A picnic rug under the shade of the cedars, Holland in a sundress, and my brother lounged out like some petulant aristocrat. There would be no footmen in striped waistcoats or tea served from silver pots, but there would be a show. After all, Holland was to be its director.

But there has been no sign of them, and the afternoon is almost over. Perhaps their plans changed, and they didn’t picnic at all. Holland might’ve come to her senses and decided an afternoon with my brother was a fate not worth the payoff.

And if I’m so sure it is all pretend, why am I so agitated?

Because she’s not yours, my mind whispers, and you don’t trust him.

Because Holland is a prize you want to keep, not spoil.

“Existential. Exactly,” Van replies, bringing me back to the phone call. “I have found myself to be out of touch with the world, which is why I’ve sought to re-join it. So, who knows. Maybe I will find out for myself.” His tone is like an incitement.

“Find out?”

An incitement to violence, judging by his next words.

“What all the fuss is about.” The heavy pause allows my mind to fire up a dozen scenarios, and none of them pleasant. “Why your sister speaks so highly of her. Why you’re so keen not to tie yourself to her.”