Chapter 40
40
T he lawn party is held at an estate outside of London. It’s similar to events I’ve attended before—beautiful floral arrangements, uniformed staff, polite conversation—but feels distinctly British. The food being passed around on silver trays are finger sandwiches, filled with different combinations of sliced cucumber, cream cheese, and smoked salmon. Most guests are sipping on Pimm’s, a fizzy cocktail that tastes like ginger and lemon. Suits are paired with top hats, dresses matched with fascinators. The other big difference is … Charlie.
Because he’s not Charlie here. He’s the Duke of Manchester, and he’s treated like it. From the moment we arrived, he’s been fawned over. Deferred to.
Men give him respectful nods. Women give him admiring glances.
He’s the main attraction. The guest of honor.
I’ve experienced attention by proxy before.
But at least around my family, I know what my role is. My connection to them is clear. Everyone here is wondering what my relationship to Charlie is … and I don’t know the answer any more than they do.
He introduces me to everyone who approaches him. Some people seem to recognize my last name. Many don’t. Or if they do, any interest dims in comparison to the opportunity to talk to Charlie. I’m relegated to the side of conversations, not knowing the places they’re discussing or the people they’re talking about, and I no longer feel like I fit here.
A white-haired woman, wearing a yellow dress with a matching lightweight coat, approaches about ten minutes after we arrive. Her hair is carefully curled, and she’s wearing block heels while carrying a small handbag. Her focus is all on Charlie at first, then slides to me.
A noticeable frown forms on her face, and a trickle of dread chills my chest.
I know who this is, even before Charlie excuses himself from the current conversation and bends down to greet the older woman, pressing a kiss to her wrinkled cheek.
“Hello, Granny.”
I also know his grandmother does not like me.
“Charles,” she acknowledges. “Who’s this?”
I hold a hand out before he can reply, refusing to appear outwardly rattled even though my stomach is churning.
Her opinion is one of two Charlie cares about. I might have won Blythe over, but something tells me his grandmother won’t be as interested in my clothes or my hometown.
“I’m Elizabeth Kensington.”
Her expression doesn’t so much as twitch. I can’t tell if she recognizes my last name or if Charlie has ever mentioned me to her, but my instinct is, the answer to both is no.
“How lovely to meet you.” She makes the simple sentence sound demeaning, her accent turning the words crisp and cool.
“This is my grandmother, Grace Marlborough,” Charlie says.
There’s an undercurrent of warning to his words, and it’s not aimed at me. Grace sniffs, then purses her lips.
“What a beautiful day,” I say, the weather the best—and safest—subject I can come up with.
“We get a lot of rain in England,” Grace informs me.
“Well, it’s not raining today,” I point out.
“How astute, my dear.” The endearment is condescending, not affectionate.
Charlie’s grandmother doesn’t just dislike me. I’m pretty sure she actively hates me.
“That’s enough, Gran,” Charlie snaps.
At least her obvious disdain isn’t in my head. He sees it too.
The thought isn’t very comforting.
“Beatrice!”
I stiffen as soon as I hear the name. Of course the woman who wants Charlie’s title is here. And of course his grandmother greets her like a long-lost friend.
I saw Beatrice at Chloe’s wedding, but only from a distance. She’s even more stunning up close. Her dress swishes around her calves as she approaches—the same appropriate length as all the women here are wearing. My minidress ends just above my knees, and it feels like another strike against me.
“Grace. So nice to see you.” Beatrice bends to kiss her cheek the same way Charlie did.
“You as well, dear. Is your mother around?”
“Yes. Somewhere.” Beatrice smiles at Charlie’s grandmother, then glances at me. Her warmth dims, barely but visibly, before her gaze continues on to Charlie. “Hello, Charles.”
“Hello, Beatrice,” he replies, then rests a hand on my lower back. Both Beatrice and Grace track the movement. “Elizabeth, this is Beatrice Campbell.”
I start when he calls me by my full name. He hasn’t done so in weeks. But it fits better in this formal, awkward atmosphere, like a part I have to play.
“It’s nice to meet you, Beatrice.”
“You as well,” she responds before taking a careful sip from her glass. Even the way she swallows screams elegance. “You were at the Hughes wedding, weren’t you?”
“Yes. The bride is my best friend.”
“The actress, right?”
Chloe would be thrilled about being referred to as an actress. I’m peeved by Beatrice’s airy tone. “She attended London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art, yes.”
“Oh, I see the Burtons,” Grace says. “Come, Elizabeth, I’ll introduce you. You must not know many people here.”
It’s an obvious ploy to separate me and Charlie. To leave him alone with Beatrice.
But I can’t come up with any refusal that doesn’t sound rude, so I nod and say, “That would be wonderful, Grace. Very thoughtful of you.”
Charlie’s hand slides to my left hip, squeezing once before dropping.
I follow Grace over to a couple who appears to be in their sixties. She asks about their trip to Paris, then their grandchildren, before remembering to introduce me. I accept a glass of champagne from a waiter while I wait.
“This is Elizabeth Kensington. A guest of Charles’s.”
I’m surprised she added that second sentence. I wouldn’t have put it past her to imply I bribed my way onto the guest list.
“Nice to meet you, Elizabeth,” the woman says.
“Any relation to Oliver Kensington?” the man asks.
I nod. “He’s my uncle.”
“Well, I’ll be. I don’t know anyone who isn’t looking to make a deal with Kensington Consolidated these days.”
I smile, then sip some champagne.
“I love your dress,” the woman tells me. “What brand is it?”
“Rouge,” I reply.
She nods enthusiastically. “I thought so. I saw their show at Paris Fashion Week last fall and loved everything. Henry”—she elbows the man next to her—“was supposed to buy me some of their dresses.”
“They were sold out, Rosie,” Henry responds.
Rosie raises an eyebrow at me, as if she’s expecting me to fact-check that claim.
I shrug. “It’s my mom’s label, so I’ve never tried to buy anything from them.”
Rosie gasps dramatically. “My goodness.”
Grace looks like she’s sucked on a lemon. She obviously didn’t anticipate my American family would be of any interest to the Burtons, and pathetically, this is the proudest I’ve ever been to brag about my family’s accomplishments.
This is also the most inferior I’ve ever felt. As vain and spoiled as it sounds, I’m accustomed to being looked up to, not down upon.
I excuse myself a few minutes later, sneaking a glance at Charlie before heading inside. Beatrice is still standing by him, but they’re not alone. An older couple—her parents maybe—are there too.
The residence isn’t as large as Newcastle Hall, but it has a more complex layout with lots of narrow corridors. I have to ask two staff members in order to find a bathroom. I pee, wash my hands, then admire the wallpaper.
It’s a soft green, depicting a peaceful oasis of snaking rivers and blooming trees, pink peacocks and prancing horses and proud lions.
I study it closely, the colorful, slightly ridiculous drawings oddly soothing.
There’s a knock on the door.
“One minute!” I call out, then sip some champagne.
Damn it . I was hoping for longer solitude.
“Can I come in?”
Charlie.
I choke a little, bubbles burning my throat. I don’t want him to think I’m hiding in here—even though that’s pretty much exactly what I’m doing—so I step forward and flick the lock open.
He enters a second later, lifting one eyebrow when he spots me standing with a glass of champagne, staring at the wall. I didn’t have enough time to look busy doing anything else, not that there are many options. I could have pretended to wash my hands, I guess.
I hear the lock click back into place before he walks toward me, and my pulse stutters like a pair of paddles just shocked my chest.
“Are you okay?” he asks, stopping a couple of feet away.
“Yep. I just needed a minute.”
“Nine.”
“What?”
One corner of his mouth curls up in the suggestion of a smile that I used to find infuriating and now consider charming. “You’ve been gone for nine minutes.”
“That’s … specific.” I keep my tone light, but there’s a fresh heaviness in my heart.
He didn’t just notice I was gone. He counted the minutes I was missing .
I swallow, forcibly clearing the lump that’s formed in my throat. “I thought you were exaggerating … about the whole duke thing.”
“I know.” Charlie shoves his hands into his pockets. “It’s hard to … explain.”
“Especially to an American, right?”
He frowns. “I don’t care what color your passport is, Lili.”
I glance at the wallpaper again, tracing the curve of the river with my pointer finger. “Your grandmother is feisty. Especially for a woman who just got out of the hospital.”
Charlie sighs. “She told you?”
“Chloe did actually. But the better question is, why didn’t you?”
“I don’t know.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t know. Things between us were getting …”
“Stale?” I supply. “Predictable? Passé?”
I’m proud of how steady my voice sounds.
I have a hundred percent survival rate in life so far. I’ll make it through this too.
“No. No , Lili. It was … intense, and I didn’t know how to deal with it. I had to leave, and I used it as a solution. Or an excuse. I’m used to dealing with things on my own. I’m sorry. I should have told you the truth.”
“It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. You don’t owe me explanations.”
Rather than relieved, he looks angry. “The fuck I don’t.”
“You don’t . I’m leaving tomorrow, remember?”
“I remember. And I don’t see what your departure date has to do with anything.”
“Never seeing each other again seems relevant.”
His anger fades, amusement appearing instead. “I have no intention of never seeing you again, Lili.”
I take another sip of champagne to avoid responding. I knew we’d do this before I left. I wasn’t planning on doing it here .
“You’re upset,” he states.
“No,” I lie, then take another sip.
He grabs the glass out of my hand and sets it on the marble counter so hard that I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter. “Don’t lie to me, Lili. Your honesty is one of my favorite things about you.”
“One of your favorite things, huh? What else is on the list?”
A shameless fish for compliments. Because it’s a nice distraction and because I genuinely want to know.
I’m expecting a crass answer. My mouth or my tits or my ass. Because our relationship has often been centered around sex or attraction, and it’s easiest to keep it there.
Charlie doesn’t reply right away. He crosses his arms and leans against the wall I was just admiring. But I’m no longer paying any attention to the wallpaper. It’s all on him.
“Well, there’s your eyes. My favorite color—Lili blue.”
I try to swallow, but it’s hard.
“There’s also your tenacity. Your stubbornness. Your confidence. Your kindness. Your loyalty.”
He lists each trait as if I invented it. Like it’s mine alone and some incredible accomplishment.
And it makes me want to cry. In a good way … and in a devastated way.
I suck my bottom lip into my mouth. “I don’t belong here, Charlie.”
“Bullshit.” His response is swift. Unequivocal.
“They all want you to marry Beatrice.”
“If by they all , you mean my grandmother, then you’re correct. But I have no intention of letting my grandmother choose my wife. Or any plans to get married soon.”
“We’re … complicated.”
“I’m not scared of complicated, Lili.”
“I don’t know where I’ll end up working next.”
“Pick the project you want, and we’ll figure it out.”
He’s making it sound so simple. And then he’s shoving away from the wall, coming closer, and I’m no longer feeling like an outsider.
That attention that everyone outside has been chasing after? It’s wholly mine, the intensity the brightest, warmest spotlight I’ve ever been under.
“Turn around.”
It’s a command, not a request. I comply, mostly out of curiosity. He was quiet during the drive here, and since we arrived, he’s been the proper, dignified duke I met at Atlantic Crest Country Club. Fully in control.
But now, as I face the mirror and stare at him, he’s my Charlie. The man who challenges me at every opportunity yet also takes care of me like it’s his job.
The man who’s smirking as he undoes his belt and unzips his slacks.
My heart rate accelerates even more, my inner walls clenching around nothing as I grasp at the marble counter. “This doesn’t seem like very duke-ly behavior, Your Grace.”
“It is if I say so. And I can’t watch you drink champagne without getting hard, thinking about that mouth around my cock, so I say it is.”
He bunches my dress up and yanks my underwear to the side, letting out a rough, approving groan when he feels how wet I already am. I moan when he reaches my clit, my grip on the marble tightening and my hips bucking back.
“Do I need a condom, Lili?”
My eyes snap up to meet his in the mirror. “What?”
He hasn’t brought up what happened in the barn yesterday. I haven’t either. It was an impulsive, lust-soaked suggestion with a humiliating conclusion. Whatever his reason for hesitating, it clearly wasn’t a step he was willing to take. We used them last night.
“Do I need a condom, Lili?” He repeats the question a little more urgently.
I can feel his erection pressed against my ass.
“No. I’m on?—”
I can’t finish the sentence because all I’m aware of is the stretch as he fills that empty ache.
I’m expecting a quick, fast fuck. None of the guests will miss me, but I’m positive everyone outside is wondering where Charlie is.
His thrust is swift, but the slide out is leisurely. A slow drag, during which I can feel every ridge and vein on his cock. It’s an entirely new experience.
He keeps that pace—rapid, then relaxed—and it’s driving me insane. I hold his gaze in the mirror, the expression on his face impossible to look away from.
Charlie’s fucking me like he owns me. Like I’m his.
It’s intoxicating and overwhelming. Completely consuming. I feel like I’m floating, no longer anchored to any reality.
Until he comes inside of me.
We lock eyes in the mirror as his dick jerks inside my spasming pussy, filling it with spurts of cum. It’s the first time I’ve ever had sex without a condom, and I wasn’t expecting it to feel any different. Just messier.
But the sensation of warmth? The extra slickness as he keeps pumping into me, prolonging the high? The severe possessiveness on his face?
It all feels different.
It all feels right.
It all feels real.