Chapter 36
36
E ntering Newcastle Hall is like traveling back in time. The interior is as palatial as the exterior. Carys Park was renovated and updated, but Charlie’s home has been perfectly preserved.
The soles of the riding boots I borrowed squelch against the tiled floor of the entryway. A sweeping staircase is straight ahead, the wall behind it covered with painted portraits. There’s a shiny Steinway standing in one corner, an impressive set of antlers mounted above it.
“Shall I show you upstairs to get changed?” Conrad asks, pulling my attention from one of the marble busts displayed around the room. “I had your luggage placed in the Crimson Room.”
“Oh.” I waver on what to tell Conrad’s expectant expression.
I brought suitcases here because I came straight from the airport, not because I was intending to spend the night. Because how our last conversation had ended wouldn’t stop bothering me and I had given in to the urge to see him.
Conrad lifts a thick eyebrow as the pause lingers.
“I’ll, um … I’m just going to wait for Charlie,” I tell him.
Conrad casts my wet clothes a disbelieving look, but he’s too polite to comment on my bedraggled appearance. “Follow me,” he says.
He leads me into an opulent sitting room. A massive stone fireplace takes up most of one wall, matching upholstered armchairs angled on each side of the hearth. Another wall overlooks the gardens I walked around earlier. It’s made from a mosaic of glass, framed by ornately carved wood—a dazzling design that reminds me of an ancient church.
Conrad picks up a striped blanket from the back of the overstuffed sofa and hands it to me. “I’ll be back with some tea.”
“You don’t have to?—”
He’s already hurried off.
The blanket is wool but surprisingly soft. I wrap it around my shoulders. I’m not that cold anymore, but it’s cool inside. An earthy dampness similar to being in a basement, like the thick brick walls are entirely insulated from the outside. I haven’t heard any thunder or lightning in the past ten minutes, which hopefully means the storm is dying down. The patter of rain isn’t audible on the roof or windows.
I wander over to one of the paintings on the wall. It’s a young boy on horseback. He’s unsmiling, expression so serious that it’s almost severe.
Footsteps sound.
I glance over, expecting Conrad. Charlie’s approaching instead.
My cheeks warm as soon as I see him, an immediate flush I wish I had more control over. Remnants of embarrassment and lust buzz in my blood, paired with a heavy dose of uncertainty. In the barn, it felt like we were the only two people in the world. We’re still isolated, but it’s no longer as easy to pretend we’re entirely alone.
“Is this you?” My eyes return to the painting I was looking at before.
“Yes.”
“You look”— unhappy —“serious.”
“My mom had just left. My father wanted new portraits to hang.”
Something in my chest splinters. Most people assume I had a happy childhood because I’m rich. That money buys happiness. Charlie’s proof that’s not always the case.
“Here’s the tea, Lili.” Conrad appears with a tray that he sets on one of the tables scattered throughout the room. “Can I get you anything, Your Grace?”
“I’m all set, Conrad. Thanks.”
Conrad nods, then disappears again.
I decide to pour myself a cup of tea. Not my typical drink of choice, but Conrad went through the effort of making it for me. And it also gives me an excuse to avoid looking at Charlie.
“How long can you stay for?” he asks.
I continue stirring a cube of sugar into the flavored water, watching it dissolve while analyzing the sentence structure. It feels like an intentional phrasing. An indication he wants me to stay. But maybe he’s just being polite because it’s obvious how far out of my way I came to see him. Subtle—casual—isn’t showing up at a guy’s house with two oversize suitcases.
“I have a flight out of Heathrow on Thursday morning.”
Today’s Tuesday. I could stay two nights.
“Are you planning to see Chloe while you’re here?”
I swallow, glance at him, then admit, “I don’t know. I didn’t tell her I was coming.”
Surprise flashes across Charlie’s face. He doesn’t ask why, which I’m grateful for.
Instead, he says, “I have a meeting in London tomorrow morning. And then a garden party I’m supposed to attend in the afternoon. You could go see Chloe in the morning and then come to the event with me?”
“I don’t want to … impose.”
I’m expecting a tease about me showing up, bags in hand.
But his earnest response is, “You’re not.”
My inhale is unsteady. Part of me was hoping he’d push me away. Make me feel crazy for coming here even. Anything to make my departure on Thursday easier. To convince myself this visit was a mistake.
“I doubt getting caught in a thunderstorm was on your daily agenda until I showed up.” I take a sip of tea. It’s too sweet—I added too much sugar—but the warmth is pleasant.
“I hate my daily agenda,” Charlie tells me. His tone is somber, his expression as stoic as the one immortalized on the wall.
“Then, change it,” I suggest. “Don’t dukes do whatever they bloody hell want ?”
He cracks a smile at my poor imitation of his voice but doesn’t comment. “Come on.”
I set down my empty teacup, abandon my blanket, and follow him back into the grand hall I entered earlier. Charlie heads straight for the stairs.
I run my hand along the varnished banister as I ascend, my gaze trailing over the portraits on the wall.
On the landing, I stop. “Is this your dad?”
I’m certain it is. There’s a striking similarity between the two men. They have the same nose, a similar jawline. Identical thick, dark hair.
The main difference in their appearances—aside from a few decades—is the harshness the artist managed to capture. It’s like a painting of a sculpture rather than a living, breathing being. A stiffness that’s uncomfortable to look at, let alone be around.
“Yes.” Charlie only glances at the portrait for a few seconds before continuing upstairs.
In the brief time I’ve been here, I’ve realized that Charlie’s feelings toward his father are much more complex than I initially realized. That there’s a lot more than grief there. There’s resentment. Maybe even bitterness.
A long hallway stretches from the top of the stairs.
“Nice house,” I comment as I head toward the rounded opening Charlie is walking under.
An end table with an expensive-looking vase sits to the left. I feel like I’m observing a museum.
He glances to the left, so I can see the corner of his mouth quirk up. “You miss the skyscrapers.”
It’s a statement, but I answer it like a question. “No, I don’t.”
New York is home. It’s familiar. It’s filled with family and memories with my closest friends.
But it’s also the city where my last name means the most. Where the spotlight is brightest and the whispers the loudest. Where I have to walk past the office I could have inherited instead of Kit.
Escaping all that—just being Lili—is really nice.
Charlie stops at a doorway halfway down the hallway. “Conrad had your suitcases put in here.”
I roll my eyes at the emphasis he places on my multiple pieces of luggage. But all I say is, “Thanks.”
The same shyness from earlier is making its return.
I feel like I’m back in Saint-Tropez, sitting at the very edge of the diving board. I’ve put myself out there, and crawling back to solid ground will be uncomfortable and cowardly. At some point—soon—I’ll have to jump.
“I’m just a couple of doors down.” He nods to the right.
“How many bedrooms does this place have?”
“Fourteen.”
“That’s it?” I tease.
He shakes his head once before reaching out and twisting the doorknob open.
The Crimson Room is not the overload of red I was expecting based on the name. The draperies around the four-poster bed are maroon, but the rest of the room is shades of cream and more dark wood. My two suitcases are stacked neatly next to the armoire in the corner. Past it, another doorway leads into an attached bathroom.
“Meet me downstairs when you’re ready,” Charlie tells me. “We’ll grab dinner at the pub.”
“Okay.” My voice comes out quiet, so I clear my throat once. Bob a nod before he turns back toward the hall, then start toward my suitcases.
“Lili?”
I glance over my shoulder.
Charlie has paused in the hallway. The rakish grin he’s wearing has my heart rate accelerating.
“Make yourself comfortable. But don’t plan on sleeping in here.”
He’s gone before I can do more than blink.
An hour later, Charlie drives us into town.
I took pub to mean casual—I’m wearing linen pants and a fitted T-shirt—but Charlie wears his typical slacks and a blue-and-white-striped oxford.
My hair is already pulled back in a ponytail, but I glance down at the pink elastic on my wrist as the wind whips through my hair. I’m not sure he’s ever noticed I still wear it, and I feel a little silly for doing so. Not enough to take it off though.
Buckleby looks like something out of a fairy tale. I don’t think I drove through the town on my way to Newcastle Hall, but I might have just been too nervous about my destination to notice.
Quaint is the word that keeps coming to mind.
Everything’s quaint. The honey-hued stone houses we pass look straight out of a storybook. The main street that’s constructed from cobblestones, lined with clusters of flowers spilling out of wooden boxes.
I wanted to know what was so special about this place. Why Charlie chooses to live here rather than London or New York or any of the other hundreds of places where he could.
I know it’s his childhood home, but that doesn’t mean he has to live here full-time. Based on the conflicted way he talks about his father and the concerned way he mentions his sister and the way he hardly mentions his mom at all, I have a feeling Newcastle Hall isn’t overflowing with fond family memories.
Charlie parks by one of the few wooden buildings, a red sign pronouncing it the practically named Buckleby Inn .
Streaks of brilliant color are beginning to spread against the sky that’s now completely clear, signaling the start of sunset, as we head inside.
It’s noisy in the pub, jubilant cheers and joyful noise, which only grow louder with Charlie’s appearance. They eye him appreciatively and me curiously as Charlie guides me to one of the booths along the far wall.
“I’ll be right back,” he tells me, then heads for the bar top that stretches the length of the pub.
I track his progress—stopping to talk to an older man for a minute, then continuing to where a blonde woman is polishing glasses.
She beams at him, nodding as Charlie says something.
It becomes very obvious, very quickly that the pretty blonde bartender is very interested in Charlie.
He doesn’t encourage her, simply smiling politely, but I’m jealous anyway. And wondering exactly how he’s spent his nights since leaving Saint-Tropez. I haven’t been with anyone else, and I assumed the same was true for him. Maybe he has. Maybe that’s why he hesitated in the barn earlier.
The thought leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
Charlie returns with two full pint glasses in his hands and two menus tucked under one arm. He sets the beers down first, nudging one toward me, then drops the menus.
“What if I wanted champagne?” I ask.
I don’t. I’m off sparkling wine for at least a year. But I’m irritated about the pretty bartender who was flirting with him and in the mood to argue.
“Try it. It’s good.” He takes a sip from his glass.
I try a tentative amount from mine. It’s mostly foam, but I get a strong hit of the malty taste of hops. Run my tongue along my bottom lip.
His eyes are on my mouth now.
“Tastes like … beer,” I announce.
“It is beer.” Charlie drops his gaze and flips open one menu. Pushes the other toward me without glancing up.
My stomach does a mini acrobatic routine. I still haven’t told him about my dyslexia, and I don’t really want to bring it up here. Neither do I feel like squinting at squiggly letters.
“What do you get here?” I ask.
He glances up, twin lines appearing between his eyes. One eyebrow lifts. “You wanted to order your own drink, but not your own food?”
“I was just looking for a recommendation. Sheesh. I’ve never had … pub food before.”
Charlie shakes his head, but I catch the curiosity in his expression. He’s contemplating something. Contemplating me.
I hold my breath, waiting.
“The fish and chips are popular,” he finally says.
“Great.” I suck down more beer. “I’ll get that. Does the flirty bartender take food orders, or do we have to wait for a waitress?”
One corner of his mouth curls up. “You sound jealous, Kensington.”
He sounds happy about it, which I think is a good thing. I was thrilled when he finally stalked across that club in Saint-Tropez.
“I’m not.” I am. “It’s just … unprofessional.”
Charlie makes an annoying humming sound. “A waitress will come over.”
“Great.”
“I haven’t shagged anyone since you, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“I wasn’t,” I lie.
“Right.” He smiles—that annoyingly condescending one that I used to want to slap off his face, but now kind of makes me want to kiss him. “So … how was Dublin?”
We haven’t discussed my trip to Ireland—my supposed reason for stopping by here—and I wasn’t expecting for it to come up at all.
“It was good. I tried Guinness.” I point toward the beer he brought me. “This is better.”
“High praise.”
“The campus is so green. So different from Cornell. And the new buildings they built are really cool. Newer, obviously, than most of the campus, but they were so beautifully constructed. I sent a bunch of photos to my aunt Hannah. She’s an architect. Anyway, they have all these sustainability initiatives they’re wanting to implement, like rainwater capture and filtration. They also want to do a green roof and?—”
“Do you know what you’d like to order?” A woman—not the blonde from the bar—appears next to our table.
Charlie nods to me, indicating I should go first.
“I’d like the fish and chips, please,” I say.
She nods, then glances at Charlie.
“Two of those.”
“Got it.” The waitress ambles away.
Charlie’s staring at me, like he’s waiting for me to continue, but I’m feeling self-conscious.
“It was a good trip,” I conclude lamely.
“I’ve never been.”
“To Ireland?”
He nods. “Fig—you met him at the wedding—and I have talked about a trip, but it’s never happened.”
You could come visit me . I think the words, but I don’t say them because it feels like I’m treading a very fine line here and those would fall to one side.
“How long is the project?” Charlie asks me.
“Three to four months probably.” Not my longest project, but my longest one outside the States. I tilt my head. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“What do you do? I mean, I know you’re a duke. But I don’t really get what that means as far as a job description. Or is there not one? Do you really just get to do whatever you want?”
Charlie cups his glass of beer, and I get the distinct impression that this is a subject he doesn’t really want to discuss. But I’m so curious . Not only to know more about his life, but to also find out what all is holding him here.
“It varies a little,” he tells me. “The Duke of Manchester—that’s me—owns properties throughout England. Some for personal use, like Newcastle Hall or the villa in Saint-Tropez. Others are commercial. Hotels, apartment buildings, office buildings, commercial storefronts. Some of the spaces are leased. Some, like the hotels, are businesses I also own. There are employees in place who manage day-to-day operations for almost everything. But it all runs up through me. I have to sign off on staff changes or building repairs or lease renewals or tenant changes or press features. It’s a huge mountain of paperwork basically.”
“Could someone else do all that for you? If you wanted to do something else, I mean?” Like be a doctor?
“I’m not sure, honestly,” he answers. “That’s never been done before.” His expression twists. “My father would have …”
“Maybe he shouldn’t have a say.”
His nod is slow. Like he wants to agree but isn’t sure he really can.
Our dinner arrives a few minutes later. Crispy cod and greasy fries taste a lot better than I thought they would.
Maybe it’s the company. Or the beer I wash down each bite with, which tastes better with each sip.
By the time we leave the pub, it’s pitch-black out. We walk to an adorable ice cream shop down the street.
I order the chocolate-whiskey flavor. Charlie chooses sea salt, which I tease him mercilessly about until I sample it and discover it’s actually delicious.
He paid even though I tried to.
I’ve never dated a guy who had more money than I do. That would be a very limited list of eligible bachelors. And men have always seemed aware of it, which has made me self-conscious.
With Charlie, I just steal most of his ice cream.
It feels a little like Charlie is trying to show Buckleby off. He points out some of the storefronts as we sit at one of the picnic tables outside the ice cream shop while I contemplate ordering a second ice cream.
“What have you done in New York?” I ask him as we’re throwing our empty containers away.
I’m too full to eat another bite, I decide.
“What do you mean?” he responds as we start back toward the car. It’s still parked at the inn.
“Well, I know you’ve been there. What did you do there, aside from play polo?”
“You mean, win at polo?” he says, sounding like the imperious jerk who flashed his trophy at me.
I roll my eyes, not deigning that with a response.
“Not much. It was partially a work trip.”
“That’s why you were at Kensington Consolidated?”
“Yeah.”
He says nothing else, glancing away, and I get the distinct impression that he doesn’t want to talk about it.
I’m not sure why—because it’s my family’s company maybe?—but I let the topic drop.
Lights are on in all the houses we already drove past once, cozy squares that add to their charm. They fade to darkness quickly, the car’s headlights the only illumination. We don’t pass a single vehicle on our way back to Newcastle Hall.
It’s so different from what I’m used to. You can’t venture out in New York at any hour and have the roads be empty.
Charlie grabs my hand as we walk from the convertible to the house, our fingers entwining naturally. This is our second date, technically, but it feels like our hundredth. Like this is just an average Tuesday night.
I can’t decide if I love or hate that.
We’ve barely walked inside when a woman’s voice calls out, “That you, Charlie?”
“Yes,” he calls back.
I glance at him, unsure. She sounds younger than most of the staff I’ve seen.
“I went to see Granny earlier, and—” A young woman appears. Then stops—moving and talking—as soon as she spots me and Charlie. Focuses on our clasped hands. Frowns. “You have a girlfriend ?”
I wave at her with my free hand. “You must be Blythe. I’m Lili.”
She and Charlie look a lot alike. She’s a shorter, leaner, even more scowly version of him.
Blythe studies me like she’s not sure if she wants to be best friends or mortal enemies. “Where is your shirt from?” she asks abruptly.
I glance down to remind myself what I’m wearing. “Uh, I think it’s?—”
Charlie cuts me off. “You’re not buying any more clothes, Blythe.”
Blythe glares at him. “Well, not now since I found out we’re—” She quits talking abruptly. “I like your shirt.”
“You can have it,” I say impulsively.
I’m a few inches taller than her, but I think it’ll fit her. Or she can tuck it in.
One less thing for me to bring back.
And … I want Charlie’s sister to like me. I’m not above bribery.
“ Really ?” She appears stunned, all the snark suddenly absent.
“Really.”
“Cool, thanks,” Blythe says, then disappears down the hallway.
“That was a really warm welcome—for her,” Charlie tells me.
We’re still holding hands.
I laugh as he tugs me upstairs. “I’m honored.”
A few minutes later, he leads me into his bedroom.
An ornate fireplace takes up most of one wall. A green velvet chaise lounge is angled in one corner. A four-poster bed with a massive matching chest of drawers takes up most of the rest of the space.
It’s cozier than the rest of the house. It smells like him. A pair of running shoes is tossed in the corner. The bag he brought to Wales and France hangs off the closet’s doorknob. Middlemarch sits on a side table, beside a clock, a bookmark stuck about halfway through.
I stare at it. Then walk over and pick the book up. “You’re reading it?”
I didn’t feel like I could ask him about it after snooping around. But it’s sitting out in plain sight.
“Yeah. It’s good.”
“Would you tell me if you hated it?”
“Yes.”
“Because you only care about two opinions?”
“No. Because I wouldn’t lie to you.”
I swallow, flipping through the first few pages. The lines blur, and it’s not only because of my dyslexia.
“It’s really long though. Been reading it for weeks, and I’m not even halfway done.”
“The audiobook was thirty-five hours.” I keep flipping pages, deliberating. “I listen to a lot of audiobooks … because I have dyslexia.”
I hear his steps as he approaches me, but I keep my eyes on the book.
“Lili.”
“Huh?”
“Lili.” He grasps my chin, tilting my face toward his. “I’ve heard of it. What exactly does it mean?”
“It’s a reading disability. I have a bad case of it. Writing and spelling can be challenging, but reading is the worst. Sometimes, it looks like the words are swimming off the page. Or scrambled, so I have to look for a long time for anything to rearrange and make sense. I got diagnosed when I was pretty young and had special accommodations in school. But it was still … hard. I’d feel stupid that my brain worked differently. Kit did well in school, even though he fucked around most of the time, and Bash got straight A’s so easily. My parents probably paid my way into college—both of them. And I’ve figured out ways to deal with it the best I can. But there are still times when … it’s why I wanted you to tell me what to order. Why I didn’t read your text. Most people who know call or send me voice messages.” I exhale. “You don’t have to say anything. I just … I wanted to tell you.”
His thumb moves back and forth against my chin. “I’m glad you did. You are the smartest, most driven, most creative, most passionate person I’ve ever met, Elizabeth Kensington. And knowing everything you’ve overcome … it just impresses me more.”
If I wasn’t already in love with him, I’m pretty sure that earnest response would have done the trick.
“Not compared to?—”
“Compared to anyone,” he says fiercely. “Everyone. I believe that. But you have to too.”
“I’m trying to.”
Trying to stop ranking my accomplishments along my family members’. Trying to stop assuming the opportunities I get are because of my last name. Trying to stop searching for the project that will make me feel like I contributed something important to the world.
“I’ll remind you anytime you want.”
I resist the urge to rub my chest to check on the pang that appeared. Attempt some levity. “That’s going to be hard since you still haven’t asked for my number.”
“You mean, 212-535-1012?” he says, without missing a beat.
I gape at him. “You memorized my phone number?”
“Yes.”
I rise up on my tiptoes to kiss him. Charlie responds instantly, his hands squeezing my hips and then sneaking underneath the hem of my shirt.
I focus on his top lip, sucking it into my mouth. He groans, palms spreading until they cover my entire lower back, then teases the seam of my lips open with his tongue. My breathing has turned rapid and uneven. I can feel my heartbeat between my thighs.
He’s taking control of the kiss, but I’m not ready to cede the power.
I push him toward the bed. He backs up the few steps to the edge of the mattress while managing to keep our mouths fused together, pulling me so close that there’s no space between our bodies at all. I can feel the firm lines of his chest through the fabric of our shirts. The thick bulge of his erection is pressed against my stomach.
Charlie’s hands move higher, lifting my shirt. I rest my palms against his abs, then shove.
He lands on the edge of the mattress. More out of surprise than any superior strength on my part.
“What are you … fuck .”
I sink to my knees between his spread thighs, answering his question.
After that, neither of us does much talking.