Chapter 14
14
“ W hat do you recommend?” I ask, squinting at the menu and then taking a generous gulp of the wine the waitress advised ordering.
Charlie stuck with just water, keeping the grand total of times I’ve seen him drink alcohol at zero.
“What do you mean?” Charlie replies.
I tap the paper menu. “To eat. What do you recommend eating here?”
“I’ve never been here before.”
“Well, what do British … people usually eat?”
The corners of Charlie’s eyes crinkle. “Food,” he deadpans.
I roll my eyes.
I could tell him .
The thought surprises me because it’s always been a last resort. My group of friends all found out about my dyslexia in elementary school, when it was impossible to hide. I haven’t told many people about it. I know it’s not my fault, know I should think of it as a challenge, but not a weakness.
I allow myself to feel inferior anyway. Let doubts creep in about my own intelligence whenever reading or writing is involved.
I’ve found ways to cope with it at work and in most aspects of my daily life. But trusting others with that vulnerability has never gotten easier, so I reserve it for situations when I have to.
Cal is the only guy I’ve dated who knew about my reading disability, and I wasn’t the one who told him. He figured it out because of the teacher’s aide who started following me around school when we were seven.
I set my menu down and sip more wine. Glance around.
I’m impressed by Charlie’s choice of restaurant. It’s not austere or overly formal, but cozy and welcoming. A former bank vault, he told me when we arrived, thick brick walls the only evidence of that former use. Candles cast a soft yellow glow over the open space.
“Why haven’t you been here before?” I ask.
He hasn’t teased or challenged me once since we arrived, and it has me at a loss for what to say to him.
“I’ve been meaning to come,” he replies. “But it’s not that close to Newcastle.”
“Newcastle?” I repeat. “Is that a town?”
“It’s my family’s estate.”
“How far is it from here?”
“About an hour and a half.”
I nod. “That’s not … that far.”
My plan for tonight was to annoy Charlie until he regretted his choice of dare. All while looking hot enough that he’d also regret walking away last weekend.
But Chloe was right earlier. If I hadn’t wanted to come tonight, I wouldn’t have. I hadn’t signed a binding contract. Even if I had, my family has a veritable army of attorneys.
I want to be here, with him, and it has me second-guessing every word out of my mouth.
I play with a piece of hair, now loose from the braid Charlie pulled it back in. The pink hair tie is on my wrist, nestled between silver bracelets. I rub at the reminder of that softer moment. I’ve been attracted to Charlie since the first time I saw him. But that’s different from wanting to spend time with someone. To know them.
Charlie tosses his napkin on the table. “I’ll be right back.”
I watch him cross the restaurant and head down the hallway that I assume leads to the restrooms, and I’m not the only one. I’m not sure if people are staring because he’s a gorgeous guy or because he’s a duke.
Once Charlie’s out of sight, I slouch back in my seat and blow out a long breath.
It seems like he’s regretting asking me out, and that doesn’t fill me with the sensation of success it was supposed to.
“Can I get you anything else?” Our waitress, Ivy—a young woman with a short blonde bob—stops beside the table, two dirty plates piled in one hand.
She glances at Charlie’s empty seat, then back at me with visible sympathy.
My cheeks burn. “We’re all set for right now, thanks.”
Ivy nods and keeps moving, leaving me to stew alone.
I’m on my last sip of wine when Charlie reappears. I swish the half inch of pinot grigio around in my glass as he approaches the table, searching my mind for something witty to say. Should I joke about being worried he left me here? Or would that sound too close to the truth?
He speaks as soon as he sits down, before I’ve decided what to say. “I’m having the steak. But the chef recommended the brined cod, if you like fish. Do you like fish?”
I stare at him. “You asked the chef what I should order?”
Charlie reaches for the napkin he left on the table, avoiding my gaze as he spreads the stiff cotton in his lap. “It came up while we were talking.”
“You know the chef here?”
He nods. “He was a friend of my father’s.”
I bite my bottom lip. “I-I’m sorry for your loss,” I say awkwardly. “I heard he passed away recently.”
Charlie’s expression hardens into granite as he nods again. “Thank you.”
I take a deep breath, then forge ahead. “Did—did a lot change when he died? I mean, I know you became a duke, but I don’t really know what that means.”
No response.
“We, um … we don’t have to talk about it.” I reach for my wineglass, utilizing it like a security blanket as I drain the last bit. “Tripp wants to know where you learned to drive like that.”
Charlie still says nothing. He studies me like he’s making a decision, and I have no clue what the outcome will be.
“My whole life changed,” he finally states. “I lost my father … and I had to become him.”
I’m frozen, afraid breathing might be enough for him to change his mind about confiding in me. And at some point—I’m not sure exactly when—I became someone who really wanted to know more about Charles Marlborough.
“It’s not a job you can turn down,” he continues. “It becomes who you are. Your whole identity. All my other plans … they had to change.”
“What were your other plans?” I ask.
“I was halfway through medical school when my dad died.”
“You were?”
He smiles at the naked surprise in my voice.
I relax some at the sight, relieved to see the seriousness erased.
“That was my dad’s reaction too. I played rugby for a while. When I was seventeen, I had to get knee surgery. I couldn’t play anymore after that, and … and there was a doctor who got me through the disappointment of finding that out. Guess I got the idea I could do the same for someone else. Make their terrible day a tiny bit better.”
I stare at him, at a total loss for what to say. This guy who learned how to braid hair to help his little sister and was on the path to becoming a doctor because of an injury he’d suffered as a teenager … none of it fits with the cocky, calculated aristocrat.
“Wasn’t meant to be, I guess.” Charlie exhales, settling into his chair a little more.
“I wanted to be a veterinarian when I was little,” I tell him. “Made up this fictional vet clinic and everything. I kept a notebook, tracking all my patients. When my dad got home from work, he’d sit with me on the living room rug and ask for updates on every animal. My family still teases me about it sometimes. Whenever anyone we know mentions needing a vet, they suggest my fake clinic. It’s extremely embarrassing to explain.”
He’s smiling as he asks, “Why didn’t you become a veterinarian?”
“I, uh …” I scramble for an answer that doesn’t include dyslexia. Not only because I haven’t decided if I want to share that with him, but also because I care—a little—about Charlie’s opinion of me, and I’d rather not admit that I decided a career that required another four years of graduate school felt like too much to tackle. “My parents adopted a golden retriever before I was born. They always called Teddy their first child. He had to be euthanized when I was thirteen. That’s the only time I’ve seen both of my parents cry. And after that day, working with animals didn’t sound as fun. It was the right—humane—thing to do. But it still sucked.”
Charlie nods.
“I also, uh … my family, they’re overachievers. My mom and dad—yeah, they both inherited a lot of money, but they work harder than anyone else I know. I was so proud of being Crew and Scarlett Kensington’s daughter. Whenever I told someone who my parents were, they looked so impressed. Awed almost. At some point, I guess it occurred to me that I’d have to try to live up to that legacy. I couldn’t think of anything that would. Still haven’t, honestly.”
“You said landscape architecture is what you wanted to do.”
I’m taken aback by the realization he remembers what I do for work. “Yeah, it is. I enjoy it. But I know most people think it’s silly, and I care about their opinions more than I should.”
“I don’t think it’s silly.”
“Would you tell me if you did?” I challenge.
He barely hesitates before answering, “Yes. I only care about two people’s opinions.”
“Blythe’s?” I guess.
Charlie nods. “And my grandmother’s.”
“Are you ready to order mains?” Ivy reappears, her gaze lingering on Charlie longer than me.
I relax back into my seat. I didn’t realize I’d leaned closer to Charlie until right now. He tracks the movement, sharp eyes missing nothing.
“I’m ready, Ivy,” I say, glancing at her and then back at Charlie. “Are you?”
He nods. “Ivy, have you ever been to the Sunken Garden near Notting Hill? With the fountain and the?—”
“Walking paths?” Ivy nods enthusiastically. “Was there with my mum and my sister-in-law a couple of weekends ago. Beautiful with everything in bloom.”
“What would you say if you met the person who designed that garden?”
My stomach swoops as I follow where he’s going with this.
When I’ve confided fears about my inadequacy to friends before, it was met with “Your opinion is the only one that matters,” from Bridget or a joking “Tripp doesn’t even have a job,” from Hugo.
But no one has ever tried to prove me wrong.
Ivy taps a pen against the notepad she’s holding. “Tell them it’s bloody brilliant probably.”
I’ve never been to the garden Charlie is talking about. But there’s a flicker of warmth in my chest, as if I were single-handedly responsible for its creation, hearing that assessment of a project that sounds similar to the one I just completed from a stranger’s perspective.
Maybe someone in Chicago would say the same after visiting Claremont Park.
That’s part of my problem, I think. No matter how happy I am with a completed job, it’s not something I created for me . I want to leave something behind that matters to other people, that makes the world a more beautiful place. I’m always too invested to see it objectively, and the opinions I hear are from people who care about preserving my feelings.
Charlie nods as if he knew Ivy’s answer before she spoke it.
I wonder what he would have done if she’d called the park a waste of space.
“I’d like the rib eye, please,” he requests.
“And I’d like the cod,” I say, then hand her my menu. “Thanks.”
“Excellent choices. They’ll be right out.”
Ivy walks away, and the butterflies are back in my stomach. Flapping around and making their presence known.
I feel like I should thank Charlie, but I’m not sure how to vocalize it. So, I take a sip from the wineglass Ivy just refilled, then ask, “Do you bring your dates to restaurants closer to Newcastle?”
“I don’t date much,” he answers.
“Lack of options?” I make a sympathetic face.
He smirks before leaning forward on his forearms. “What about you? Do you date much?”
“It … varies. I travel a fair amount for work. My last project kept me in Chicago for almost a year. That can make relationships challenging.”
“So, you’ve never been in one?”
“Wow. You’re not going to ask what my favorite color is or something first?”
“I don’t care what your favorite color is,” he replies. “No offense,” he tacks on as an afterthought.
I roll my eyes.
Charlie waits expectantly.
I clear my throat. “I’ve been in a few. One was serious.”
“Callahan Winston?”
I nod. He’s astute, not that it’s much of a surprise. His intelligent gaze reminds me of a hawk’s.
“What happened?”
I exhale, rubbing my index finger against the stem of my wineglass. It’s thin. Breakable. Fragile in an obvious way. That’s how I feel about baring my soul.
Charlie is staring at me steadily, not allowing any opportunity to hide or look away. His blatant lack of boundaries is jarring. Most people treat me with deference.
His unwavering stare makes it clear the only way we’ll avoid this subject is if I insist on it—something no one else has done.
I can’t decide if I resent or respect him for it.
“We dated for almost two years, right after I moved back to New York for college. I’d started at Yale, then transferred to Cornell when I decided to focus on landscape architecture. Cal had stayed in the city, attending Columbia. We’d grown up together, had the same friends forever, but never really hung out just the two of us before. It was like falling. It just … happened, gradual and easy, like it was supposed to all along. And we became that perfect couple everyone assumed was meant to be and would last forever.”
Charlie says nothing, waiting for me to finish, his expression completely neutral.
“I gave Cal one of my favorite books, one I thought he’d like, for his twenty-fourth birthday.” I swallow, holding Charlie’s gaze and praying pity won’t appear there. “His parents had rented out a back room at a restaurant. All our friends were there. Anyway, he opened my gift, laughed, and said ‘ A book ? Babe, you’re a billionaire.’”
A muscle in Charlie’s jaw twitches, but that’s his only reaction.
“He was drunk. We all were. But it stuck in my head. The Winstons were—are—rich. Cal had already gotten a new Rolex and a huge pile of expensive gifts for his birthday. He’d expected me to spend a lot of money on him simply because he knew I had it. It made me second-guess our relationship. Second-guess myself. I’d thought money was something I didn’t have to worry about with Cal. I always assumed he wanted me … not my net worth.” I play with my napkin. “And that probably sounds naive because I’ve known my whole life what most people think when they hear my last name. That some guys see dollar signs when they look at me. But I’d convinced myself Cal was one of the few who didn’t care, and I panicked when I realized that maybe he did. I broke up with him a couple of weeks later.”
“Did you tell him why?”
“Not entirely. I said we were moving too fast, which wasn’t a lie. Everyone was speculating that he was going to propose soon. Cal was the only guy I’d seriously dated, and I was just starting my career. It wasn’t that I knew I didn’t want to marry him; it was more that I wasn’t sure if I wanted to marry him. And then, once we broke up, I felt lighter. Freer. I felt terrible for hurting him. Guilty for putting our best friends in the middle of our breakup. But also … I think I’d used him as a life preserver, after moving back to the city and changing majors. He felt familiar and safe, and I needed that security at the time. I realized, when we broke up, I could swim on my own, I guess.”
I stop talking abruptly, wondering why I’m telling him all this. Sharing details and thoughts I’ve never said aloud. It’s cathartic, talking to someone who didn’t witness any of it firsthand.
Rather than appear bored by my monologue, Charlie’s focus is still intent. Like he paid close enough attention that he could recite every word I said back.
“What was the book?”
“Huh?”
“The book you gave your ex . What was it?”
My brain is still stalled from the unexpected question. I don’t know what I expected Charlie’s response to be, but it wasn’t that. I’m also hung up on the way he emphasized ex .
“Uh, Middlemarch .”
Charlie smirks.
“What?” I ask, even though I have a good idea why he’s amused.
“Your favorite book is set in England.”
“I said it was one of my favorite books. And so what if it is? It’s a compelling portrait of social and political life.”
His smile only grows.
“Have you read it?”
He shakes his head.
Ivy reappears, setting our dinner plates down with a silent flourish. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
Charlie thanks her before I can.
A simple gesture I rarely see. Most of my social sphere is so used to being catered to that the service is expected. Unremarkable. I would have expected the same from a duke , but it’s not the first time Charlie’s surprised me.
“What about you?” I ask, spearing one of the crispy potatoes that came with my cod.
“What’s one of my favorite books?”
I roll my eyes. “No. Have you ever been in a relationship?”
“No.” Charlie’s answer is immediate yet sincere.
I tilt my head, more interested in him than my steaming plate, even though the food smells incredible. “Why not?”
“ Why not ?” His small smirk transforms into a full smile. “Coming from the woman who acts personally offended by my company?”
I assume he’s referring to the multiple times I pretended not to know him.
“Well, other women seem to find it … tolerable.”
The smile stays on Charlie’s face. “Tolerable,” he muses, rolling the syllables around as he saws through his steak.
For some reason, I think the lilt to his tone means he’s thinking about the hallway … incident, which was more than tolerable .
“That almost sounded like a compliment, Kensington.”
It doesn’t bother me when Charlie mentions my last name. That fully registers for the first time.
During our previous conversations, I was already stuck in a perpetual state of annoyance. He says Kensington in a way that’s almost taunting but also familiar. A tone that reminds me of Dad’s, when he calls Mom Red . In a way that doesn’t feel like he’s referring to anything—or anyone—except me.
I shrug. “Not everyone has good taste.”
Charlie makes a quiet sound of amusement in the back of his throat. “Mmhmm.”
“So?” I press. “What’s the reason?”
An explanation feels fair since I bared my heart to him.
He looks bemused—and amused—by my persistence. Then sobers. “I was a prat,” he states baldly.
I lift both eyebrows. I’ve heard the term before, but it’s not part of my vocabulary to the point that I know precisely what he’s saying. “Meaning …”
Charlie chuckles under his breath. “You’re so American.”
I know he means it as an insult. But there’s the same edge to his voice as when he called me Kensington. A twist that’s light. Almost … affectionate.
“We won the war,” I jab.
“Claiming personal credit for that, are you?”
I roll my eyes. God, he’s good at deflecting. Or maybe I’m just easy to distract. “What does prat mean?”
“It means that I drank too much, partied too much, and didn’t bother to learn most girls’ names, let alone spend enough time around them to end up in a relationship.”
He holds my gaze, like he’s reading my reaction to that statement.
Most men I know try to hide their vices, not own up to them. I’m oddly unsurprised that Charlie falls into the second category. He doesn’t have that type of showy personality. He’s the very definition of old money . Charlie’s privilege is intrinsic. He doesn’t need to wear the expensive watch or drive the flashy car. It’s written in the ease of his posture at this elegant restaurant. The casual yet complete command of his surroundings that makes it obvious prestige was already earned. That he’s a man who gets listened to. Who issues orders rather than follows them.
Important people never have to announce their importance. You can just tell. It’s an aura. Particles in the air.
“Are you still a prat?” I ask.
“Not in that sense. I grew up rather than just getting older.”
“Because you’re a duke now?”
A shadow passes across Charlie’s face, like a cloud crossing the sun, as soon as I mention his title. It makes me wish it were possible to pluck the words out of the air and shove them back into my mouth.
“Because I’m all Blythe has left.”
“How old is she?”
“Twenty-one. She has a year of university left.”
“Twenty-one. Is she a terror?”
He smiles. This one is softer than the smirk I’m used to seeing. Warmer. “She’s unpredictable.”
“I was unpredictable at twenty-one too,” I tell him, taking a bite of my cod and nearly moaning out loud. It’s one of the best things I’ve ever tasted, salty and flaky and tender.
Charlie raises one eyebrow. “Only at twenty-one?”
I cut another bite. “What do you think?”
“I think I could handle it.”
I think he could too.