Chapter 7
7
I ’m standing on the patio beside an oversize potted plant, talking to John Cushing, when I see her.
Despite his tendency to use phrases like quantum mechanics and discuss properties of matter, I enjoy speaking with John. Respect his dedication to learning about the industry he’s involved in rather than just signing checks. And when I reintroduced myself, I was also impressed he’d remembered our conversation last summer.
But focusing on understanding the jargon John is using becomes impossible once the Kensingtons arrive.
They’re part of a large group, eleven in total. Hanson Ellsworth walks in front, conversing with a dark-haired, middle-aged man. Two women—one who appears close to Hanson’s age (his wife, I assume) and the other a blonde who looks a couple of decades younger—are behind them. Scarlett and Lili are next, followed by another man who bears a striking resemblance to the adult Hanson is conversing with. A younger generation trails last, their ages ranging from teenager to early twenties and their expressions varying from resigned to polite.
Lili’s wearing sunglasses and a hat today, so I can’t tell where the woman who took three tries to remember me is looking as she talks to her mother.
Georgia guilted me into coming today, complaining we hadn’t gotten to spend enough time together during my short visit. Tomorrow is the Fourth of July, and I’m flying back to London the following day.
Since my mother is the least maternal woman I’ve ever met, I’m suspicious her insistence on my attendance had more to do with how she wanted to show me off at Derek’s country club than any quality time.
Unlike my sister, I’ve rarely held our mother’s lack of affection against her. She was barely older than Blythe when she married our father—a cold man ten years her senior. And Georgia thrives under attention. She needs to be flattered and admired and coddled to keep from wilting like a neglected flower. She married my father for his title and his money and couldn’t have been more miserable.
I have sympathy for her. More since my father died and I learned how privilege could double as a prison. She kept up appearances for twelve years, trying to supplement the lack of praise from my father with parties and maybe even motherhood. We moved from a London flat to Newcastle Hall—my family’s ancestral seat—just before my tenth birthday. A grand manor, surrounded by twenty thousand acres of gardens, farmland, and woodland.
After we moved, my mother locked herself in her wing of the house for two months. One day, she left and never looked back.
Watching her smile and laugh, flitting between the groups clustered on the patio like a true social butterfly, I’m glad she escaped. But I understand Blythe’s resentment, too, better than anyone. Blythe was only five when our mom fled. Her strongest memory is of Georgia’s absence.
John excuses himself to grab a fresh drink, and my mother seizes the opportunity to call me over to where she’s standing.
“This is my son, Charles,” my mom explains to yet another female friend, gesturing in my direction as I approach. Beaming at me like we’re best friends or two members of one big, happy family.
I’m sympathetic, but I share Blythe’s resentment toward Georgia too. Today especially, when it feels like she’s taking advantage of my presence and using it as a prop. I had to make this trip to New York, and seeing my mother while I was here felt … necessary. A way to prove I was unaffected by her abandonment or that I was different from my unforgiving father. Coming to the city and avoiding her felt juvenile. Right now, I can’t decide if that was the correct decision.
“Pleasure to meet you,” I say politely.
The woman fans a hand toward her face, which is mostly blocked by the broad brim of her hat. “My goodness. What a lovely accent!”
I force my friendly expression to remain fixed in place, relieved when their conversation moves on from me to discussing a party tomorrow.
I tune out their chatter as they talk animatedly, surveying the crowd on the patio instead. My wandering gaze lands on Lili. She’s seated at one of the circular glass tables toward the opposite end of the patio, talking to a blond man. His back is to me, one of his shoulders and the umbrella stand blocking Lili’s face.
“Charles. Charles .”
My mom’s bright smile has dimmed. It’s drawn tighter, webs of wrinkles no injection could combat cracking her enthusiastic expression.
“Yes?” I keep my tone pleasant, but there are traces of exasperation close to the surface.
I’m awfully tired of playing parts. Since I inherited the title, I’ve been the impervious duke. Now, I’m also stuck with acting like the dutiful son.
“Katherine was asking if you’ve enjoyed your visit?—”
A loud shout of “Hannah!” cuts Georgia off.
The blonde woman who arrived with the Kensingtons pauses a couple of feet away, aiming a polite smile at my mother’s friend.
“Hello, Katherine,” the woman—Hannah—greets.
“I didn’t know you would be here this weekend.”
“It was last minute,” Hannah explains. “Oliver had a work trip get canceled, so we decided to come for the holiday weekend. Didn’t want to miss the Red, White, and Blue party.”
“ Of course not.” Katherine rapidly nods in agreement. “Is the whole family here?”
“Yes,” Hannah confirms. Then glances at my mother and holds out a hand—a gesture that makes Georgia immediately perk up. Whoever this woman is, she’s a person my mother cares about impressing. “I’m Hannah Kensington. It’s nice to meet you.”
My drifting attention moors as soon as Hannah’s last name registers. I should have assumed she was a Kensington based on who all she arrived with. She must be married to Oliver Kensington, Lili’s uncle and the current CEO of Kensington Consolidated.
“Georgia Marlborough-Barclay,” my mom replies sweetly.
I’ve never asked why she kept my father’s last name after their divorce and following her second marriage. Mostly because I’d like to think it was Georgia’s way of not turning her back on me and Blythe entirely, not that the Marlborough name carries weight in certain circles.
“And this is my son, Charles Marlborough.”
I shake Hannah’s hand as Georgia introduces me, wondering if I’m imagining the way Lili’s aunt pays closer attention to me than she did to Katherine or my mother. Maybe Asher Cotes mentioned my name. The way Lili made it sound at the restaurant last night, he’s practically part of the Kensington family.
“Nice to meet you, Charles,” Hannah says.
“You too,” I respond.
Hannah gets called over to another group of women a minute later. I spot Ellis and excuse myself as well, strolling over to where he’s slouched next to the bar.
“Wassup, Duke?” my cousin greets me with a tilt of his full glass and a familiar smirk—I’m not sure if it’s familiar because he’s drunk or because we’ve spent more time together the past few days than in our entire lives combined.
“Not much.”
I order a water from the bartender, ignoring Ellis’s exaggerated eye roll.
“Doubt that’ll help,” he mutters.
It’s a little cooler by the bar, the green-and-white-striped awning shading the twenty or so feet of patio closest to the building. I sip my water and stare straight ahead, past the patio. Tennis courts are visible to the left, and the polo field is located on the right. Beyond all the manicured grass, the vivid blue of the ocean fades gradually into the sky’s lighter horizon.
“Are you gentlemen enjoying yourselves?”
I stiffen involuntarily as soon as I hear Derek’s voice. Georgia’s husband—technically my stepfather—has never been anything except perfectly pleasant toward me. He’s jovial yet quiet, usually nodding along agreeably to whatever my mother says. I don’t know what Georgia has shared with Derek about her past, how she explained my existence or our estrangement. All I know is, it’s strange, seeing my mother with a man who’s not my father. He’s a reminder I’m not as over the past as I’d like to be.
“Course,” Ellis answers. “I fucking love this place.”
Derek appears unfazed by my cousin’s profanity. Or just very used to it. Ellis seems to spend a lot of time with him and Georgia. His mother moved to Philadelphia, and his sister goes to college somewhere in the South. And, as I learned a few days ago, his dad isn’t around.
Expectantly, Derek looks at me next.
My grip tightens on the condensation-covered glass I’m holding. “It’s very nice,” I tell him. Then add, “Thank you for the invitation,” because Derek’s attention is still aimed at me and my father drilled what he deemed gentlemanly conduct into me.
This might be the one instance he would have made an exception for though.
“No invitation necessary,” is Derek’s response. “You’re family.”
The sentiment is … thoughtful, I suppose. Generous even. But his matter-of-fact delivery is almost comedic. The people I consider family are all on the other side of the ocean I was just staring at.
Thankfully, Derek gets drawn into a different conversation before I have to conjure a reply.
“You doing all right?” I ask Ellis, who’s plowing through the contents of his glass. It’s half full now.
“Fucking fantastic.” Ellis nods to the left. “Open bar. And hot, rich girls everywhere.”
He flashes a smile at a redhead passing by. She giggles and flips her hair.
I roll my eyes, but my cousin is still focused on the redhead and misses it.
“I meant with your dad.”
Ellis sobers a little, stuffing his free hand into the pocket of his trousers. “I’m fine.”
“Is that what you told him? Maybe he doesn’t realize you’re upset—that the trip is important to you.”
“He called. I didn’t answer. We’ll talk … eventually.”
“Don’t assume there will be an eventually,” I advise. “Life is bloody short.”
Ellis says nothing in response, but I catch a couple of rapid swallows out of the corner of my eye and know he heard me.
I return to surveying the crowd. Lili is still talking to the same blond guy, and that bugs me for some reason I choose not to analyze. But I do decide to test Ellis’s brag of knowing everyone here.
“Who’s the bloke talking to Elizabeth Kensington?” I ask.
He glances in their direction. “Callahan Winston.”
I don’t recognize the name, but that’s true of most people here. I barely follow British society, let alone who’s deemed relevant in New York.
“Have you met him before?”
“Nah. Just seen him around. He spends a lot of time here.”
I let the topic drop as Georgia approaches. This is the first time I’ve seen her alone. Since we arrived, there has been an endless stream of people she simply had to catch up with.
She requests a paloma from the bartender, then smiles at me and Ellis standing together. “I have to take a photo for Arizona. Our two boys, all grown up.”
Ellis makes an amused sound in the back of his throat, but he indulges my mother, taking a step closer to me and slinging his left arm over my shoulders. We pose for a few seconds as she takes what seems like dozens of photos to share with my aunt.
“Perfect,” she proclaims. “Something to remember your visit by, Charles, until next summer.”
I’m bothered by Georgia’s assumption that I’ll be the one visiting her—again. “We can remember my visit when you come to Newcastle Hall.”
The smile evaporates right off my mother’s face. “Oh.” Her laugh is light and breathy and fake. “I’m not sure that’ll work out.”
“Why not?”
Ellis starts tapping his finger against the side of his glass. Tap , tap , tap . Counting each second as Georgia searches for an excuse.
“I’m really not keen on flying,” she tells me. “So many awful accidents these days.”
“You and Derek flew to Hawaii for your honeymoon.”
“Yes, well … that was for a special occasion.”
“And seeing your daughter for the first time in sixteen years isn’t one?”
“ Charles .” Georgia’s glancing around rapidly now, no longer thrilled about being amid people whose opinions she cares about. “Please don’t make a scene.”
I press my lips together as she scolds me like a misbehaving child. Disciplines me the way she did when I was a misbehaving child.
Unlike Blythe, I have memories of our mother being a mother, and I’m not sure if my sister or I got the worst deal. You can miss something you never had, but I think you miss what you had and lost more.
Ellis is no longer tapping his glass, but he’s shifting his weight between his feet uncomfortably. He might act carefree and cavalier most of the time, but he’s not oblivious to the fact that my family’s dynamic is as messed up as his—if not more than.
I walk away from the bar before I can say anything I might regret. As I’m waiting in line at the buffet, a couple, who introduces themselves as Olivia and Andrew Spencer, strikes up a conversation with me. John Cushing reappears and includes me in a discussion with several of his business associates. And then Ellis waves me over to the far edge of the patio. I hand my empty plate off to a uniformed waiter, then head in his direction.
There’s no sign of Georgia, but a young guy, who looks to be a similar age to Ellis, is standing next to my cousin.
“Polo match is starting soon,” Ellis tells me. “We’re headed over there, if you want to come?”
“Sure,” I reply.
I’ve never attended a polo match I wasn’t playing in before, but a change of scenery sounds nice.
“This is Bash Kensington,” Ellis says, nodding to the bloke beside him as we head toward the field.
Lili’s brother .
It’s disconcerting how I diminish the famously wealthy family down to their association with her. Asher Cotes—a potential investor—is her godfather. Oliver Kensington—CEO of the company I’m hoping to work with—is her uncle. And now, I’m searching for facial similarities in a stranger she’s related to.
“Charlie. Nice to meet you.”
“Yeah, you too,” Bash responds. “Ellis talks about you a lot.”
A funny prickle appears in the back of my throat. I avoid looking at my cousin as I clear it. “How do you two know each other?”
“Golf mostly,” Bash answers. “Not my best game, but not much else to do around here.”
“Not your best game?” Ellis repeats. “You shot eighty-three the last time we played.”
Bash shrugs modestly. For all their privilege, the Kensingtons I’ve met seem surprisingly grounded.
We reach the edge of the polo field. Spectators and players are already gathering, several horses standing on the grass as riders make final adjustments to their tacks.
“This isn’t a professional match,” Bash tells me. “Just a meetup between members.”
“These games are more entertaining,” Ellis adds.
They continue toward the white tents set up on the sidelines. I step over the short picket fence surrounding the field and head toward the blond man Lili was talking to earlier.
“Handsome horse,” I say, stopping a few feet away.
Callahan Winston turns, an easy smile spreading across his face. “Thanks, man.”
I dislike him instantly, and it definitely has something to do with how I recognize his horse as the same gelding Lili was stroking last summer.
“How much would you want for him?”
There’s no way I’d ship a horse I don’t have time to ride back to Newcastle Hall, even if I still had frivolous spending money. But Callahan doesn’t know that, and I have some strange impulse to make certain he considers me as rich as everyone else here.
He shakes his head, still smiling. “Lexington isn’t for sale. Had this guy since college.” Callahan notches the girth, then lets the saddle flap fall with a smack of leather and grabs the reins. He sticks a palm out. “I’m Cal Winston.”
“Charles Marlborough.” I shake his hand more firmly than is really necessary.
Cal’s eyes widen, but I don’t think he’s reacting to my tight grip. Sure enough, “I was wondering, with the accent and all. You’re the duke everyone’s talking about.”
“I am.”
“Figured you’d be … older. No offense. Duke just sounds ancient to me.”
“We come in all ages,” I respond, not mentioning that I’m the youngest in centuries.
“How many dukes does England have?”
“Thirty-four,” I answer.
A horse with a mounted rider approaches. I squint upward, the sun’s glare making it impossible to distinguish any details.
But I have no problem recognizing the voice that says, “You forgot his martingale, Cal.”
“What are you doing, Lili?” Cal asks.
“Exactly what it looks like,” she replies. “The Carmichael twins didn’t show up, so I volunteered.” Lili nudges her mount forward without acknowledging me at all, transitioning to a trot.
Cal mutters something beneath his breath.
“Is she a bad rider?” I ask, already knowing the answer. She’s handling the horse expertly.
“No,” Cal says grudgingly. “She’s just … she’s making a scene. Women don’t play in the charity matches. Or any matches at the club. It’s just … not done.”
So? I want to ask.
Maybe it’s a side effect of growing up with an über-independent sister, but I’ve always been sensitive to small-minded views of gender norms. For all of his convictions about societal roles and obligations, my father never allowed Blythe to believe she was inferior to a man in any way.
“Tripp!” Cal calls to a guy lounging on the sideline. “We need an extra.”
Tripp raises the glass he’s holding. “Fuck no. I’m relaxing,” he calls back, prompting scattered laughter.
“I’ll play,” I say impulsively.
Cal’s gaze returns to me. “Really?”
“As long as you’ve got gear and a horse.”
“Yeah. Yeah,” he repeats, warming to the idea. “Hey, Ezra.”
A passing groom pauses. “What’s up?”
“Can you show Charles here to the locker room, saddle up one of the club’s polo ponies, and”—he glances at the rider now cantering in circles—“bring me a martingale for Lexington?”
“Sure thing,” Ezra replies, then nods at me. “This way, man.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m back on the field, atop a chestnut mare named Amarillo. In addition to a borrowed horse and clothes, I was lent a helmet, knee guards, and a polo stick. All brand-new, top-of-the-line equipment.
The look on Lili Kensington’s face when I ride up beside her is one I never want to forget. The color of my borrowed shirt doesn’t match hers, which is fine with me. I’d rather play on opposing sides.
“What the hell are you doing?” she hisses at me.
“Exactly what it looks like,” I reply, parroting the line she gave Cal earlier.
I can hear her teeth grinding as she eyes the 3 on my navy shirt. Her green one has a 2 on it.
I nudge Amarillo forward, adjusting to her rocking gait. My feelings toward riding are complicated. Most memories feature my father. Atop a horse is where I feel his presence most keenly, expecting to glance over and see him riding alongside me.
The two teams line up, and then one of the mounted umpires tosses the ball down the middle. I tune out the commentary on the loudspeaker as Amarillo canters forward, focused on the green shirt with possession of the ball. I can’t tell if he’s someone I’ve been introduced to, and I don’t care. Amarillo pulls up even to his horse, and I prepare to ride him off.
It’s been several years since I last played polo, but my muscles remember exactly what to do. The game is a welcome distraction from … everything.
Whoever the green shirt is, he doesn’t put up much of a fight. Less than a minute into the chukka, I score the first point.
I look at Lili as soon as the ball rolls through the goalposts. In time to see the annoyance flash across her perfect features.
It’s immensely satisfying. On the surface, all of our conversations have been completely civil. But there’s always been something simmering beneath, and it makes me feel a little saner to see that it’s not just in my head. To learn that she’s affected too.
The umpire throws the ball again. I scan the field for an opening, now headed in the opposite direction. Amarillo’s hooves hammer against the lush grass, probably carving a few divots that spectators will get to stomp later. My grip on the mallet tightens as I drop the stick. My muscles tense as I prepare to swing.
Another mallet appears seconds before I make contact with the ball, hooking the end so I miss the angle. I know it’s her before I read the 2 . I have to yank the right rein to swerve back toward active play. Amarillo responds immediately, but it’s not fast enough. Cal has possession, the 1 on the back of his shirt stretching tight as he bends over Lexington’s withers.
I’m no longer distracted by Lili. I’m hell-bent on beating her.
An hour and a half later, the match ends. The navy jersey I’m wearing is sticky with sweat. White froth drips from Amarillo’s mouth, her brown coat dark with sweat and her sides heaving against the stirrups.
I dismount, unbuckling the girth and tossing the leather strap over the saddle’s seat before one of the grooms approaches to take the reins. I pat the mare’s shoulder one last time, then pull my helmet off and run a hand through my damp, flattened hair.
There’s a brief awards ceremony.
When I approach Lili afterward—holding my shiny little trophy because I’m a bit of a wanker like that—she’s talking to the guy in the green 2 jersey, who I scored against at the start. He doesn’t seem to be holding a grudge, flashing me a wide grin as I near. As soon as Lili sees me, a scowl appears.
“I’m Charles. Just wanted to say, good match.”
I hold out a hand to the guy, and his smile widens.
“Conrad Randolph. You’re one hell of a player.”
Lili’s glower remains.
“Thanks.”
Conrad glances at Lili. “Have you met Eliza?—”
“We’ve met,” I interrupt before Lili can say a word.
The naked disdain on her face makes me think she’d claim we’d never met once again if given the opportunity.
It’s entertaining—and confusing.
Our conversation at the restaurant last night was almost friendly, and I was perfectly polite to her flirty friend. I can’t come up with any reason for her frostiness, unless she’s that sore of a loser.
Conrad shifts his weight between his boots, clueing in to some of the tension hovering in the hot air. “I’d never seen you play before, Elizabeth. You’re as good as Cal is.”
Lili barely reacts to the compliment. She stares straight at me as she says, “Thanks. Some people think I’m just a vapid heiress whose only skill is spending daddy’s money. You know, unimportant .”
Conrad frowns. “I’m sure that’s not true. You’re, uh—” He looks uncomfortable and confused, fumbling for something polite to say.
Me? I’m frozen, an icy realization trickling down my spine.
She heard .
She heard what I said to Ellis about her last summer. I’m not sure how, but she did.
Except I wasn’t talking about her . I was talking about the women who’d been circling me earlier that afternoon. The ones who’d perked up when they heard my title and contributed little to the conversations except blatant flirting. I had no idea I’d met Elizabeth Kensington when I went off on Ellis.
Somehow, I’m certain Lili won’t consider that much of an apology.
“Remarkable,” Conrad concludes, finally finishing his sentence.
I clear my throat. “Elizabeth, I?—”
“Have a wonderful afternoon, Conrad,” Lili says, then turns and walks away.
I no longer feel victorious.