Chapter 35
35
T here’s a knock on the door of my study. Rather than accomplish anything productive, I’m striking matches on the box I took from the restaurant I brought Lili to on our first—and really only—date. I moved it from the drawer next to my bed to my office when I got back from New York, wanting some reminder of her to stare at.
“Come in,” I call out.
Conrad appears a few seconds later. His nose wrinkles, smelling the smoke lingering in the air. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir.”
“What is it?”
“We appear to have a trespasser,” Conrad replies.
“A trespasser?” That catches my attention.
Conrad nods gravely. But there’s a glimmer of something in his expression that’s different from his typical stoicism.
“On the property?” I prompt. “Are you sure they’re not just … lost?”
Buckleby is a small town. Hardly a crime hotspot. And Newcastle Hall sits on twenty thousand acres. You could be wandering on the surrounding property without realizing so for a while.
“She’s standing in the gardens, sir.”
I spin in my chair and glance out the window.
For a few shocked seconds, I can’t move. Then, I stand so fast I nearly knock over my chair. “I’ll take care of it, Conrad.”
I make it downstairs and into the gardens in record time.
She hasn’t moved, still staring up at the cherry tree. Most of the stone fruit is gone, thanks to the thieving birds.
My heart is pounding so fast that it feels like it’s trying to beat out of my chest.
“You could have called,” I say.
Lili doesn’t turn around, continuing to look up at the leaves instead. “I don’t have your number. I deleted it, remember?”
She could have easily gotten my number the same way I did. I don’t say that.
“But you had my address?”
“I asked the car service to bring me to Newcastle Hall. Saw your convertible and knew I was in the right place.”
Lili spins to face me, wearing a navy blazer and a neutral expression. Her hair is perfectly straight, strands of it almost copper in the sunlight.
My gaze goes to her forehead first. There’s a pink line that’s about a half-inch long above her left eyebrow. The only evidence of how the gala two weeks ago ended.
“What are you doing here, Lili?” I ask softly.
She glances away at a starling that’s landed on a nearby bench. “I was in the neighborhood.”
“Buckleby?”
“Fine, vicinity. Ireland.”
“You got the job,” I infer. “Congratulations.”
“Yeah. They offered it to me while I was there. I haven’t accepted the position yet. They gave me a few days to decide, even though I had to push the second interview because of—” She clears her throat delicately, gesturing toward the thin scar. “Well, you remember. And since I was on this side of the Atlantic, I thought … I wanted to see you.”
She practically whispers those last five words.
“It didn’t seem like you wanted to see me in New York.”
“I did ,” she insists. “You just—I mean, I just—you caught me off guard.”
“Good thing I’ve had months to prepare for your arrival.”
She blushes. “You’re right; I should have called. If you want me to go, I will. I didn’t mean to intrude or?—”
“I don’t want you to go.”
That’s the one thing I’m certain of. Everything else is murky.
It’s bizarre that she’s here, standing in the sprawling gardens of my childhood home. A backdrop to her beauty I didn’t think I’d ever witness.
Elizabeth Kensington has an exhilarating, exasperating habit of stripping me down to the most basic of impulses. Of removing all the layers of my careful control.
She never reached out to me after the gala. And I’ve been especially busy negotiating a deal with the company Asher put me in touch with. Between that, checking in with Blythe, visiting with my grandmother, and overseeing everything else I’m responsible for, I didn’t even realize two weeks had passed. Doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about her—a lot—as the matchbox in my office could attest to.
I thought her silence meant we were done.
But now, she’s here, smiling tentatively like she’s not sure what to say either, and I’m confused again.
“Do you want a tour?” I ask.
Lili glances—very deliberately—at the moors that stretch until they meet the horizon. Grass interrupted by the occasional stretch of stone wall or shadow of an oak and nothing else.
“Of what?” she asks.
I snort. “Stable’s this way.”
Lili follows me out of the garden and around the front of the house. She gazes up at the strands of ivy clinging to the crumbling brick as we pass the exterior, her expression unreadable.
I have no idea what her childhood home looks like, but I could make a good guess. In California, probably one of those fancy, modern, minimalistic white mansions right on the beach with lots of glass. In New York, probably the top floor of one of the coveted buildings overlooking Central Park.
Newcastle Hall is stately and majestic, but it isn’t new or expensive. It has creaks and aches. Locks that stick. Stairs that squeak. The upstairs taps take a full minute to start running hot water.
I’m not embarrassed of this place, but I’ve never been more aware of its flaws than I am right now. My entire life, I’ve assumed I’d marry a woman who saw my title as a selling point. I didn’t have the same fear as Lili—that it’s all someone would see—but I assumed it would be a factor. A positive factor.
And I developed feelings for the one woman I’ve met who sees my title as a disadvantage.
So, the fact that she’s here, seeing all this from a perspective and a background so different from mine, is strange. Makes this part of my life seem like a larger section of who I am.
Kensington sticks his head out as soon as we enter the horse barn. Gilbert ignores us, chomping on some hay.
“This is the famous Kensington?” Lili asks, coming up beside me.
“I never called you famous,” I tell the horse.
“He’s beautiful ,” she says, rubbing his nose.
I smile. Kensington bobs his head.
“See? He likes it.”
“Uh-huh.”
I glance across the aisle. “And that’s Gilbert. Blythe named him.”
Lili nods. “Like Anne of Green Gables .”
“Like what?”
She rolls her eyes. “Never mind.”
“Do you want to go for a ride?”
Lili’s face immediately lights up. “Yeah.”
I show her into the tack room, pointing to a pair of Blythe’s boots she can borrow.
Ten minutes later, we’re riding side by side, away from Newcastle Hall’s looming shadow.
I’m shocked by how comfortable it is. How it feels like this was a planned visit, not a total surprise. How easily we talk as the horses trot along.
“What’s that over there?” Lili asks once we’re about a mile from the manor.
I follow her gaze to the stone wall that encircles the graveyard filled with my ancestors. “The cemetery.”
I wasn’t intending to bring her here as part of the tour, but it’s the route I’m accustomed to taking. And there’s not much else to see, as she already pointed out. Past the next few fields, the forest starts.
Lili urges Gilbert ahead rather than guiding him away.
We dismount in tandem, like we’ve come here a thousand times together.
The horses grasp on to the opportunity to graze on the lush grass as I follow Lili toward the wooden gate that leads inside. A distant grumble sounds, so I cast a concerned look up at the sky. It’s gloomy now, not just overcast, dimming like a dying light bulb.
“Is it okay to go in?”
“Sure. Not much to see though.”
I hold the gate open for her, then follow her inside. The gardeners maintain this place the same way they mow and maintain around the main buildings on the estate. The grass around the graves has been trimmed short, stone slabs the only interruption in the stretch of space. No flowers or benches or mausoleum.
Lili walks toward my father’s headstone first. The last in line with the shiniest surface.
The flowers I scattered last time I was here are gone. Decayed, same as the bodies buried in the earth.
“Do you come here a lot?” She has to ask because there’s no evidence I come at all.
“Define a lot .”
She smiles, but it’s a sad one.
Sympathy from Lili feels different. Makes me feel safe and supported rather than pitiable and alone.
She revises her question to, “Do you come here?”
“Yeah.” I nod once. “My father had a low tolerance for others’ input. There’s a lot I never said to his face … things I say to this stone now.”
“Do you think he can hear you?” There’s no judgment in her voice, only curiosity.
“No,” I answer. “But I’m not really talking to him. I’m letting it out of me, if that makes any sense.”
“It does.”
There’s another rumble in the sky. Louder … closer.
But I don’t move or suggest we leave. I come here alone, always. To vent and curse and rage. To expel some of the stress sitting on my shoulders. It’s my shooting range, not a sanctuary.
Standing here with Lili is unexpectedly peaceful.
“I’m named after my grandmother,” she tells me. “The original Elizabeth Kensington. I never knew her. She died when my dad was really young, so he never really did either. He doesn’t talk about her very often, and neither does my uncle Oliver. And my grandfather never talks about her. Grandpa and I are really close, but I don’t dare ask him. I can just … tell it’s off-limits.
“When I transferred to Cornell to finish my degree, I had to do a site analysis project in one of my classes. I chose the cemetery where my grandmother was buried. It had been designed by a French landscape architect. There are sculptures and ponds and bridges … it’s a beautiful place. The first time I visited, there was a man already standing at my grandmother’s grave. I wasn’t sure what to do, and then he looked in my direction, and I realized it was my grandfather. He didn’t say anything. He set down the flowers he’d brought, kissed my cheek, and left. We’ve never talked about it. I never told my dad.
“But I’ve gone back to her grave a few times, and there are always fresh peonies on it. She’s been gone for forty-five years, and he brings fresh flowers to her every week. My grandfather isn’t a religious man. Not sentimental either.
“My point is … there’s no right or wrong way to grieve. You don’t have to come here because you feel like you should. You don’t have to think he can’t hear you because that’s the logical assumption.”
I don’t come here to grieve my father. I’m still too angry to grieve him the way a son should mourn his father.
And right as I open my mouth to tell Lili that—to tell her why—the sky splits with a jagged flash of lightning. The deafening crash is followed by an immediate downpour, like the crack fractured the bottom of a full bucket.
I grab Lili’s hand and pull her toward the gate.
Another deafening crack of lightning reverberates across the open earth surrounding the cemetery, followed by the sound of thunder.
Kensington and Gilbert have huddled under a nearby tree. I’m grateful they didn’t bolt. It was stupid not to turn back as soon as the clouds thickened.
We’re not that far from the barn, but the ride back is going to feel like an eternity in this weather.
Lili drops my hand when we reach the horses, grabbing Gilbert’s reins and patting his neck. He prances in place, tossing his head anxiously. Kensington is calmer, but still uneasy.
Dripping branches sway overhead. They’re not providing much shelter, but better than nothing.
It’s a temporary respite though. We have to move. This is the stupidest possible place to be standing during a thunderstorm.
“Are you okay to ride in this?” I call out to her.
“I can handle myself, Charlie,” Lili tells me, then hoists herself into the saddle without bothering to find a makeshift mounting block. Not that there are many options out here.
“I know you can,” I respond, vaulting onto Kensington’s back. “But I’m still going to bloody worry about you. Ready?”
Gilbert takes off, and I urge Kensington after him.
The rain hasn’t lightened at all. If anything, it’s falling faster. I’m soaked in seconds, squinting through the sheets at the horse and rider ahead.
I can feel the ground rumbling beneath the horses’ thundering hooves as another roar of thunder rolls overhead.
Lili is crouched low over Gilbert’s neck, her seat steady as she steers him toward the barn. She reaches the stable first. The deluge of rain is enough to keep Kensington moving faster than his normal pace, but he refuses to accelerate into a full gallop.
By the time we reach the main doors, Lili’s out of the saddle, slicking her soaked hair out of her face. She shouts something at me as I dismount.
“What?” I yell back, pulling the reins over Kensington’s head.
“I said, I beat you !”
I roll my eyes, but I’m grinning as we lead the horses inside. A loud crack of lightning splits the sky, the sound making Gilbert shy to the left.
“You got him okay?” I ask.
“I’m good,” Lili responds, leading Gilbert straight into his stall and starting to strip his tack off.
I do the same with Kensington as the rain continues to assault the roof. It sounds like standing inside a drum during a rock concert.
The storm is still raging by the time the horses are untacked, groomed, and happily munching on hay.
Lili walks into the feed room right as another round of thunder shakes the foundation. She tosses the dandy brush she used on Gilbert into the plastic grooming bin. “Are you sure this building is safe?”
“It’s stayed up for three hundred years.” I finish wiping the bridle, then toss the towel away.
Lili’s perched on the table mostly used for mixing grains, studying the row of polo trophies on the shelf. She leans over and picks up the one I won in the Hamptons, shaking her head once before setting it back.
“You can have it.”
“I don’t want your pity prize.” She rolls her eyes, then wraps her arms around herself.
“You cold?”
The fans are spinning at full speed overhead, and her clothes are so saturated with water that they’re dripping.
“A little.”
I reach for one of the Barbour jackets on the row of hooks. When I look back at Lili, she’s in the midst of taking off her top.
“I don’t think that’s going to warm you up much,” I say, shocked that my voice sounds normal.
She’s wearing a black lace bra—so sheer that it’s see-through. Her borrowed boots get kicked off next, and then she’s peeling down her pants. Her underwear matches the gauzy material of her bra.
I toss the jacket on the table and step toward her in a trance, the sudden need to touch her skin my singular focus. My hands land on her hips, sliding over her stomach and then down to cup her ass.
Lili shivers, pressing closer against me. Her hands slip into my hair, shaking errant drops free.
I groan.
Because it feels good, but mostly because it’s Lili touching me. I’m so hard that it’s physically painful, my wet trousers tighter than a straitjacket, but I’m also experiencing a sweet sense of relief.
I missed you , I think.
Her hands slide down my chest, settling on the waistband of my pants.
“I don’t have a condom,” I say. Lust has spread to my vocal cords, my tone a similar consistency to gravel.
Lili says nothing. She doesn’t pull away either.
For a few seconds, all I can hear is the rapid drumming of rain on the roof and the frantic pulse of my heart thumping in my chest.
“Do you … need one?”
I tense.
James mostly stayed out of my romantic life. My sex life really, considering my intention has always been to fuck around until I was forced to get married. But one of my most vivid memories of my father was the evening he called me into his office and hammered the importance of using protection into my brain. Told me women would try to trap and manipulate me, that an “illegitimate” child would ruin the Marlborough bloodline. An archaic view I disagreed with, but I wasn’t interested in a baby, so it was easy enough to nod along. Whenever this suggestion has come up before, it’s been easy to turn down. They were flings with women who were essentially strangers. I barely knew them, much less trusted them.
I trust Lili. I know she’s asking because she wants me .
My entire life, I’ve looked ahead to the day I’d get married and have kids with the enthusiasm of a prisoner headed to his execution. An unpleasant inevitability. A stressful obligation.
Having a kid with Lili doesn’t freak me out.
Is it something I’m ready for now? No.
Is it something I want—with her—someday? Yes.
And the thought of filling her with my cum? It’s even more arousing than leaving marks on her with my mouth.
“Guess so.” Lili’s hands drop, and she jerks free from my grip.
Once again, I waited too long to say what I was thinking. What I want .
“Lili …” I reach for her.
She takes another step back, grabbing the jacket I tossed away and pulling it on. It’s a men’s size, so it hangs to her mid-thigh.
Lili zips the jacket up as high as it’ll go, then crosses her arms. Her hair is wet, and her mascara is smudged beneath her eyes. She’s as beautiful as ever, standing barefoot in a barn jacket.
Her gaze holds mine defiantly, and I can see the hurt swimming in the blue.
My chest aches so strongly that I’m tempted to rub at it.
“I just needed a minute to …” I’m not sure how to explain that my father conditioned me into believing all women were trying to trap me into marriage without sounding like a paranoid prick.
“Forget it, Charlie.”
“I’m not?—”
“Your Grace?” Conrad’s voice cuts me off. “Mr. Marlborough?”
I head into the aisle because his second call was closer, and there’s no way he’s going to see Lili half naked.
Conrad is standing in the overhang, shaking rain off his umbrella. Relief washes over his expression when he sees me striding toward him. “I was worried you’d gotten caught out in the storm.”
“We did. But we made it back fine.” I frown. “You shouldn’t be out in this weather.”
“Neither should you,” he retorts.
“We were just waiting for the rain to ease off.”
Water is still dripping off the edge of the roof, but the lashing sheets are no longer falling.
“Very well. I’ll see you back at the house.”
“I’ll walk back with you, Conrad.”
I turn toward Lili’s voice. She’s changed back into her wet clothes and pulled her damp hair back into a neat bun. She doesn’t even glance at me as she walks past, and my stomach sinks to the concrete floor.
Conrad gives me a questioning glance.
I nod. She wants space, and maybe some distance will help me figure out how to fix this. “I’m going to give the horses their evening grain, and then I’ll be behind you.”
“Very good, Mr. Marlborough.”
“I’m Lili.” She introduces herself as soon as she reaches Conrad. “We met earlier.”
Conrad smiles. “I remember, Miss Kensington.”
“Just call me Lili.”
“He won’t?—”
Conrad cuts me off. “Might I escort you back to the Hall, Lili?”
I glower at my traitorous butler. The only person I’ve heard Conrad call by their first name is his wife. He’s unfailingly formal most of the time. He likes Lili, and he wants me to know it.
“That would be lovely, Conrad.”
Conrad offers her his elbow, lifting the umbrella so it’s mostly covering Lili before they step outside.
“My apologies Newcastle has given you such a gloomy greeting. The estate is quite beautiful on sunny days.”
“It’s quite beautiful on rainy days too,” Lili replies. “Do you get many storms like this?”
“Eh, one or two a summer. This is the worst one since …” Conrad’s voice fades as they walk farther away, swallowed up by the remnants of the storm.
I lean against the open doorway until I can’t see them anymore.