Chapter 21
21
C heerful chatter fills the lobby as I step out of the hotel’s dining area with a paper Costa cup in hand. The sunny noise does nothing to improve my sour mood.
Lili’s friends were waiting in here when we got back last night, including a worried-looking Theo and Chloe. They all thanked me for going with her—even Tripp—before escorting a yawning Lili upstairs. I’m positive at least one of them stayed with her all night.
There was absolutely no reason to think she wouldn’t be fine, but I spent most of the night staring at the plaster ceiling, concerned anyway.
Lack of sleep, paired with irritation about why I couldn’t sleep, has trimmed my temper down to a short fuse.
Theo is standing by the lifts, talking with a group of his family members. He grins and heads this way when he sees me.
“Good morning,” he tells me.
Unlike me, Theo appears well rested, which is a surprise. Last night was his wedding night.
“Morning,” I repeat, substantially less cheerful. “And congratulations.”
I didn’t have a chance to talk to him after the wedding or before leaving with Lili.
“Thanks. I’m really glad you could make it, Charles.” Theo’s smile dims a little. “Especially with Lili’s accident. Taking her to the hospital and everything. That meant a lot. To me and to Chloe.”
I shift uncomfortably. The praise is unwarranted. And unnecessary.
“Not a problem,” I tell him.
Theo nods, his smile back in full force. “We’re headed to Saint-Tropez later today. Chloe’s family has a place down there, where we’re spending the week. Jasper’s talking about a trip to Monaco while we’re in France. I know we sort of lost touch after university and after …” He clears his throat. “Would be nice to catch up, if you want to come along.”
He’s being generous. Fig basically foisted his friendship on me, and Theo would tag along occasionally. I’m not a friend he owes any obligation or outreach to.
“I appreciate the invitation,” I reply. “But I can’t.”
This weekend was an escape from everything, but I can’t keep running from my responsibilities. I have to make my next move with investors. Decide how much I’m going to share with Louis when he visits. Check in with Blythe.
And if I tell Theo I’ll be in Saint-Tropez in a few days, he’ll ask why, and I’ll have to lie or draw attention to the truth.
“I get it,” Theo says. “If you change your mind, it’s an open invitation.”
“Open invitation to what?”
I spin as soon as I hear her voice, ridiculously eager to see Lili.
Aside from the white bandage on her left hand, she looks like her usual self. By usual, I mean beautiful. Her silk blouse covers her shoulder, and her thick hair hides the lump on her head.
The rest of her friends are clustered by the reception desk, a huge pile of luggage beside them. They’re checking out. Heading to France.
“I was seeing if Charles wanted to join us in Saint-Tropez,” Theo answers. “Unfortunately, he can’t make it.”
Lili looks disappointed.
I hate that I notice. Care.
So, I speak without thinking. “Not all of us can take weeks off of work.”
It’s one of the—if not the —worst things I could have said. I know Lili is sensitive about her job and how people perceive it. And I basically just announced I consider my role more important than her career.
Theo chuckles, oblivious to the regret I’m swamped with. “No kidding. I had to work Saturdays for the past two months to get this time off.”
He’s a barrister at a high-powered firm.
“Good luck with your work, Charles.” Lili smiles politely after using my full name—another sure sign she’s pissed. “I’m sure there’s a jousting tournament or two that requires a duke’s attendance.”
Theo says nothing this time, finally clueing in to the tension.
I swallow. “I didn’t mean?—”
“We’re ready to go, Theo,” Lili says, then turns away.
She’s leaving. Leaving the lobby. Leaving England.
And I’m not planning to visit New York before next summer, if then. This could be the last time I see her for another year. For … ever .
Panic surges through me, the sudden force of it debilitating.
“Lili—”
She turns quickly, like she was hoping I’d stop her, but her expression says Fuck off . “What?”
I run my tongue along the backs of my teeth, trying to come up with something to say. Stopping her was an impulse, not a well-thought-out decision. “You should put some ointment on the cuts once they start to scab. They’ll heal faster. Itch less. And if you get a headache or?—”
“If I need medical assistance, I’ll call a doctor .”
I hide the flinch, but the verbal lash stings anyway.
This time, when Lili walks away, I don’t try to stop her.
Theo punches my shoulder lightly. “Made a right mess there, mate,” he says. “Take care.”
I grind my molars, nod, then continue walking toward the lift to head upstairs and pack.
Thanks to traffic, the trip back to Newcastle Hall took close to two hours. I drop my duffel bag and my garment bag—of course my suit showed up this morning, after I no longer needed it—on the floor of my room unceremoniously, along with the laundry sack provided by the hotel. My suit jacket from last night is on the very top. Lili gave it back to me before she headed up to her room last night. I yank it out, studying it. It smells like Chanel perfume.
The matchbox I took from the restaurant is still in the pocket. I move it to the drawer of the small table beside my bed, still not sure why I grabbed it on our way out. I just wanted something I could look at and remember that night, I guess. Some memento that would last.
My suit jacket gets tossed on the armoire in the corner of the room.
There’s a knock on the door as I’m unpacking clean clothes.
“Come in,” I call out.
Conrad appears a few seconds later. Gray-haired and stoic, he’s lived at Newcastle Hall longer than I have. Along with his wife, Martha, who’s the cook. Two more people relying on me to keep everything afloat.
“Was it a good trip, sir?”
I gave up on getting Conrad to call me Charles years ago. It’s Your Grace, Mr. Marlborough, or sir. He’s known me my entire life. Even before we moved here full-time, we’d spend summers here.
I’m the third Duke of Manchester Conrad has served.
“It was fine,” I answer.
Conrad nods briskly. “Do you need anything?”
“I’m all set. Is Blythe here?”
“Lady Marlborough is at the London residence, I believe.”
“Did she say for how long?”
“She did not, sir.”
Typical. Blythe is technically an adult, but she still feels like my responsibility. She was supposed to return from Saint-Tropez yesterday, but she rarely sticks to a predictable schedule.
Conrad picks up the laundry bag from the hotel. “I’ll take this to be laundered.”
“Thank you.”
“This too?” He reaches for the jacket.
“No. Leave that.”
It’s another memento.
Conrad nods, then disappears back into the hallway, shutting the door with a soft snick .
After I finish unpacking, I change into riding clothes, then send a quick text to Blythe, checking in. There are several new messages from Ellis and a photo of him on a boat with a blonde woman, the Statue of Liberty visible in the background.
My leather boots thud as I descend the main staircase and cross the tiled floor of the front hall. It’s overcast out, but warm, the air heavy and sticky.
I follow the left path, in the opposite direction of the gardens surrounding the right wing, toward the stables. It’s a large stone structure, close to the pond Blythe and I used to swim in when we were younger. The entrance to the barn is curved brick, which echoes my steps louder than the stairs did. I stop to snap a photo, then send it to Ellis, along with a short response to his messages.
Only two stalls in the stable are occupied. I sold Churchill, my father’s prized stallion, shortly after he died. The fox hunter was only three years old, too boisterous and virile for the limited attention I had to give him.
My black gelding is almost twenty, happy to graze all day and amenable to the occasional canter. He came with the name Kensington—after the palace in London, not the family—and this is the first time I wish I’d changed it. Reminders of Lili are not what I need right now.
Blythe’s horse came with the name Windsor, but she changed it to Gilbert for some reason.
I feed Gilbert an apple, then start saddling Kensington. He bloats his belly when I tighten the girth—a trick he’s done since my father bought him as a yearling. He’s only fooled me twice—and not in more than a decade.
A flock of sparrows startles from the branches of the huge oak that shades half of the pond as we start off at a slow amble. Kensington snorts once, his gait remaining even and steady.
Churchill would have been halfway to the property line by now. Selling the stallion was in his best interest. But it was the first item on a long list of changes that followed my father’s death. I keep losing more and more, it feels like. And that would be a lot easier to accept if I knew an end to it was approaching.
I let Kensington walk with little direction from me, content to inhale deep lungfuls of fresh air and enjoy the peaceful quiet. Watery sunshine peeks out occasionally, warming my face.
Eventually, the stone rectangle appears ahead. Most rides, I end up coming to the cemetery, so it’s not surprising that this is the way Kensington went.
I slide off his back when we get close, leaving him to graze.
Grass has finally grown around my father’s grave. It sat bare for most of last summer, and then winter killed any progress off.
My grandfather is buried here too. Same with my great-grandfather, all the way back to the second Duke of Manchester. One day, my bones will rest here too.
It’s a depressing thought.
The graveyard is a depressing sight.
Not just morbid, although it’s that too. There’s little to it—a stone wall that stretches about four feet high, enclosing the plots of land, marked with heavy slabs of rock with neat letters hewn into the surface. The closest tree is a few dozen feet away.
My father’s grave is the shiniest, my grandfather’s—the second-newest addition—noticeably more weathered. I pause to grab a fistful of wild primroses before I open the wooden gate to enter through the narrow opening in the stone wall, letting them scatter like uneven drops of rain.
I used to come here just to glower and gripe, but I guess I’ve moved past—or through—the anger stage of grief.
I can’t remember which step comes next, but I know I haven’t reached acceptance yet. Not of my father’s death exactly—that feels very real and very permanent—but of everything else that’s changed since he died. The role that I knew I would step into since I was a kid, but assumed I wouldn’t inherit until decades from now. The burden that’s so much heavier than I expected.
My father always used to say that challenges reveal someone’s true character.
If that’s true, I’m not sure what the past year says about mine.