Chapter 48
Chapter
Forty-Eight
As soon as Lachlan dropped his revelation, one of the new lady’s maids came to fetch me to dress for dinner.
Given our timeline, I almost bowed out of the whole thing, but Lachlan informed me that his mysterious tree wouldn’t reveal itself until dawn anyway. Which meant both more time with him and a final meal with my human family.
Maybe a goodbye seems a worthless thing—Aunt Teddy has always been a bit cruel, and my Uncle Edward indifferent. But I have at least a few good memories of Lizzie and William and his wife, Imogene.
And besides, we do need to eat.
Lachlan and I approach the dining room together, lilting conversation, tinkling glassware, and a child’s screeching laughter bouncing off the walls. I halt outside the arched entranceway.
I think of everything I used to worry about before entering a room like this. What if no one acknowledges me? What if they judge my hair or my dress? What if I call someone by the wrong name or, heaven forbid, the right name, but then cannot think of how to start a conversation?
But I’ve fought for my confidence over the past months in the Otherworld. And given the stakes, worrying about what anyone in there thinks of me just feels so … trivial.
Lachlan sweeps his palm down the bare skin of my back, exposed by the modern dress Lizzie lent me for dinner, then whispers against my temple, “Formidable.”
I square my shoulders, take his arm, and stride into the room.
“Charlotte!” William bounds over with all the energy of a curly-coated retriever and sweeps me into a hug. “Christ, we were all so worried about you.” He pulls back, frowning. “Why didn’t you write?”
Imogene, an elegant contrast to her energetic husband, saunters up holding a sweet little boy with dark hair and a runny nose.
“Leave the poor woman alone, Will.” Her eyes sweep approvingly up Lachlan, who towers absurdly over the group.
“She was otherwise occupied.” She leans in closer to me. “Well done, Charlotte.”
She introduces me to their son, another Edward, but discourages me from hugging the child due to his cold. She hands him off to his nursemaid as the adults take their seats for dinner.
Aunt Teddy has changed up the seating arrangements and instead of a single long table, there are several round ones scattered throughout the room.
At our table of eight are Lizzie and her husband Charles, a rugged man with a deep tan, a broad white smile, and a mop of sun-kissed hair.
He looks as if he’d rather be hunting game in the North Umberton hills instead of trussed up in a tailcoat, but he’s so attentive to Lizzie and so obviously infatuated—holding her hand, playing with her hair, buttering her bread—that it’s hard to find him anything but charming.
William and Imogene are here as well, and shortly after we take our seats, the first course is served: pumpkin soup topped with spiced seeds and a swirl of cream. It’s divine, even compared to the Otherworld’s wonderful dishes; Lachlan eats every drop, murmuring his incredulity.
After the soup course, the two seats between Imogene and me remain unoccupied, and I am wondering how long they—
“Hello, chickadee.”
My stomach drops as my gaze lifts to … God, George looks terrible.
His nose is blotchy, his eyes bloodshot, and his hair limp and greasy. He darts for the chair next to me before Jane—wearing a tight-lipped expression no one would ever mistake for a smile—can get to it first. There is a very awkward moment where they whisper-fight over who should take the seat.
George wins, and I am stuck sitting between my first love and my current …
It feels disingenuous to call Lachlan anything other than my love. But we’ve never talked about any of it. Not how we’re feeling, not what comes after.
Because there is no after for us, I suppose.
The next course—fillet of turbot in a herbed béchamel sauce—is served, and as the group digs in, George leans around me to address Lachlan. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. Who are you?”
An aggressive introduction for someone with George’s bland Bretonnic manners.
Lachlan, bless him, appears supremely unbothered.
He offers George a warm, polite smile. At least, I’m sure that’s how it looks to the rest of the table.
I know what lurks beneath his glamour; those fangs are bared.
“Lachlan Cathal.” He extends a hand over my plate, shaking George’s much harder than necessary.
George winces, and I inwardly cheer. “Charlotte’s husband. And you are?”
George sputters a laugh. “Charlotte’s never mentioned me? We were quite close, you know.”
William lobs a “Get a hold of yourself, man,” which George ignores before slugging back half a glass of gin. Jane grabs his forearm, hissing something too low for the rest of us to hear. He tears his arm away, and his face is so cruel that I feel sorry for her.
This is the man I thought I wanted?
“What do you do?” George slurs, sloshing his drink on the table. Jane hurries to blot it with her napkin.
“I work in personal security for a duke on the continent,” Lachlan says calmly, slicing into his fish.
“Which duke?” George asks, leaning over me and pushing his arm against my breast. He’s trying to make it look unintentional, but I know him better than that. I shrink away, scooting closer to Lachlan. “I have loads of connections on the continent. Perhaps I know your employer.”
“I very much doubt that.” Lachlan bakes enough disdain into his answer to redden George’s already ruddy cheeks.
“Did she tell you I’m an earl? From one of the richest families in Breton. You seem a bit of a downgrade.”
Imogene stares daggers at George while Jane slumps into her chair and tosses down her fork.
“George,” I start, testing out some of the authority I’ve earned in the Otherworld, “you are being incredibly—”
He barrels over me, increasing his volume to drown me out, “How did you two meet?” Beneath the table, his fingers dig into my thigh, and I yelp. “How long after you met did she spread her legs for you? Bet it wasn’t long, the little tramp. She’s a great lay, though, isn’t she? Best I ever had.”
Scandalized gasps overtake the table, and poor Jane chokes out a miserable sob.
But the vocal commotion is buried beneath a jangle of glassware and cutlery as Lachlan pushes back from the table and slams George into the wall.
At a normal human pace, thank goodness, though I know he could have done it far faster.
Lachlan holds George by the throat, expending no effort whatsoever as George scrabbles at his arm, feet kicking uselessly.
Several of the household staff rush over to intervene, but William stops them. Lizzie’s eyes sparkle with mad glee, and I have the most intense urge to hug both my cousins.
Lachlan calmly picks his teeth with a pinky, dislodging a speck of parsley and examining it instead of George’s purpling face. “Disrespect my wife again and I will rip out your intestines, then use them to fashion you a new cravat.”
He flicks the parsley away, then bolts his eyes to George, whose entire face slackens as a stain spreads down his trousers. “Is that clear?”
George nods furiously, and Lachlan drops him to the floor. One of my uncle’s valets whisks George from the room, Jane scurrying away behind him. I feel terrible for her. I cannot believe I ever envied her.
The thunderclouds lift, and the rest of the meal passes in easy conversation. No one remarks on George’s behavior—nor the things he just revealed about us—and I am, for once, grateful for the Bretonnic tendency to sweep unpleasantness under the rug.
William and Imogene share hilarious stories of little Edward’s misadventures, and it is obvious the entire family unit adore one another.
Over dessert—a raspberry meringue so airy it melts at first contact with my tongue—Charles describes the architectural plans for his and Lizzie’s new home, spending a particularly long time detailing the four wardrobes he designed specially for her, one for each season.
She beams at him, and he seizes her hand, pressing a long kiss to the back of her palm.
Even Aunt Teddy comes over to grill Lachlan about his financial status and land holdings and plans for the future.
She’s being just as overbearing as she’s always been, and maybe it’s the food or the drink or the company, but I see it differently now.
Less an act of control and more a means to ensure my safety in a world that can be dangerously cruel for women.
Throughout, Lachlan drapes his arm over the back of my chair, twirling my hair through his fingers or stroking my neck. The casual intimacies of two people who belong to each other. I can hardly bear it. Because I never want him to stop.
The evening ends, we say our goodbyes, and the lie tastes bittersweet when I promise we’ll visit again soon.
Still, I am glad we had time for this. I feel settled in a way I never expected.
That night at the inn, I am so exhausted from the past two days and the altercation with George and the impending sadness of never seeing my family again that all I manage is to let Lachlan strip off my dress, carry me to bed, and fold me up in his arms.
I bury my face in the crook of his neck and am asleep in seconds.