SIXTEEN
After the open view, the dimness of the wood was nothing but vague purple and brown shadows. He could hear Evie on the path behind him, mercifully silent for once, except for her feet on the leaves, the occasional swish of a small branch.
What a total fuck up. Why had he come up this path with Evie, of all people? Just to escape Liv for a moment, her increasingly unsubtle attempts at flirtation. The more he resisted, the more obvious she became, until even Domnall noticed, even George. That was all he needed, losing Domnall, losing his job, just because he’d resisted Liv for the first time in his life.
Even you, Aubrey, deserve better.
Humiliating to have Evie spell out so clearly what he’d known already for sixteen years. He knew it. He’d just never been able to act on it. That’s what he hated. Evie realising how weak he really was.
He heard Evie’s foot slip, the sharp breath she took. He turned, but she had already caught her balance, holding onto one of the young trees at the path edge.
She met his eyes for a moment. He continued onwards.
Dinner to get through. The night to get through. In the morning he’d be on the way back to London, and thank fuck for that.
They reached the opening at the edge of the wood and headed in silence down the pasture together, feet leaving long dark marks on the dew-damp grass. There were a few late midges in the air, sheep in the distance, the smell of old, greasy wool tangled in the scattered gorse, dried dung. It was all less magical seen up close. Much more real.
He thought of Evie, pale and trembling at the edge of Trafalgar Square, traumatised by what, to anyone else, was simple childish fun. It ought to be funny, but he felt dismally sad instead, despairing at such a heart, amazed it had survived the world at all—survived this house and her father.
God! Her father! He wanted…he didn’t know what. But if he could be assured that Evie would never have to hear her own father talk about her like she was trash in front of another man, that would go a long way towards improving his mood. “How is this…choice…meant to reassure me of your competency?” And Evie, who would fight for the rights of a goddamned pigeon, standing there, saying nothing, telling him she was used to it! He ground his teeth, enraged in much the same way he suspected Evie often was: a surging, inchoate rage, impossible to salve because it was due to one of those ancient, unfixable wrongs: bad men doing bad things.
“Sorry,” she said now, slightly out of breath. He realised how quickly he was walking and slowed his pace.
“What for?”
“Saying that stuff up there. You’re right. I don’t know what it’s like. Being in love like that.”
He took a moment to think up a reply. Discarded them all and settled for: “I’m not angry with you.”
“Really?”
Her obvious surprise made him smile ruefully.
“No more than usual, at least.”
He looked at her—pale face catching the setting sun, gold painted on her cheeks, sparking off the blue of her wide-open eyes—and suddenly he wanted to laugh. Maddening woman. He barely knew himself around her, wondered if this was what madness felt like, all the sudden surges in mood, the flashes of impulse, because as tight with fury as he had been a moment before, his heart suddenly now soared, like coming up onto that view all over again, everything spreading out vast and open. Breathtaking…
“I’m not angry with you, Evie,” he said again. And he took her hand, although the house was still far distant, and surely no one was watching, and pulled her into a run down the hill.
Aubrey dressed slowly. Black-tie tonight. A formal dinner, to do respect to the first of the season’s birds. Bizarre, brutal countryside traditions. Or perhaps it just belonged to this house. Perhaps it was just George continuing his English Country Estate theme park act for Domnall’s benefit.
He didn’t really care. There was a certain comfort in knowing exactly what clothes to wear. A sort of persona he could put on at the same time as the starched, thick white shirt, and the black vest, the tie, the tailed coat. He could look the part and play the part and it would be a million miles away from windswept hill tops and the horror of speaking one’s mind.
It was dark enough outside for the window at his side to act as a second mirror to the one he stood before. He glanced at his more distorted reflection, wondering whether Evie would be twenties beauty or sleek assassin. What would she wear? He left his room, walked down the hall, and knocked on her door.
“Come in.”
She was sitting at her dressing table and looked up in surprise when he walked in.
“I thought you’d be Amy.”
“Sadly not.”
“I’m nearly ready.”
“Don’t rush.”
He sat on the end of her bed and watched her—both the real-life back of her, and the reflected front. She was in scarlet tonight. Dressed for murder. Dressed to kill. The back of the dress was low, showing her long neck, the line of her spine, her short hair pinned up. She caught his eye in the mirror, swept lipstick onto already-perfect lips. She blotted, sprayed perfume, then stood, and he saw what the low back of her chair had been hiding: the zip of her dress open to the base of her spine.
“Would you?”
“Of course.”
They both knew he didn’t need to. It was only a short zip—closed the dress up to the nip of her waist, the rest of her back left bare in a deep V. But they had both put on personas now, were for once apparently playing the same game.
He went over, stood behind her, his eyes on hers in the mirror for a moment before he dropped his gaze to the zip, the expanse of smooth pale skin. No bra. She didn’t need one. Just this slip of red between him and her. He took the zip, pulled it slowly up, knuckle brushing her spine. He lingered for the barest moment, fighting a dozen impossible urges, then stepped back.
She looked at him in the reflection again, smiling slightly, then turned, real eyes on his now, real mouth, suddenly very close.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
They heard the door, Amy bundled into the room, shoes in one hand, hair brush in another. “I’m here to help you— Oh. Sorry.”
“It’s OK,” Aubrey said. “I was just leaving. See you downstairs.”
It didn’t really surprise him that Liv was waiting for him at the base of the stairs, pretending to study a picture. A depressed horse. Or just bored. Only Evie knew the difference.
She smiled at the sight of him. “A man who was made to wear a tux. I swear they created them with you in mind—all suits, really. You were designed in a fashion designer’s sketchbook. Every proportion perfect.”
He made no reply. She only ever got like this when she wanted something.
“Where’s the lovely Evie?” Liv asked, coming to stand right in front of him, head tipped to one side as she looked up, the devil in her eyes. “I imagined you descending the steps together, prom king and queen. Seems about right, given she’s basically a schoolgirl.”
“Twenty-four,” he corrected calmly.
“Still a bit young for you, though, don’t you think? And the boss’s daughter, too.” She laughed lightly. “Not choices I imagined Aubrey Ford ever making. But I was surprised to find you were dating at all. I heard rumours that you didn’t.”
“I imagine that delighted you.”
Her smile grew. “Yes. Made me feel rather irreplaceable. What women wouldn’t want that?”
“One who cared for my happiness, perhaps.”
She laughed again. “Yours wasn’t the only heart touched. Surely you know that? You’ve always had a claim on mine.”
“Along with everyone else.”
Her smile fell into a soft frown. “No. None of them ever reached my heart, Aubrey. You’re the only one.”
His own foolish heart gave a skip at that—it had waited long enough to hear it. But maybe too long. It was only a reflex action and faded as quickly as it came.
“You’re still there, you know?” Liv said quietly, reaching out and touching his chest. She ran her fingers along the black edge of his jacket where it lay over his heart, following the smooth curve of it to the low button. “I still love you.” She toyed with the button, thumb rubbing over it, fingers curling under the silky black jacket lining. “I still want you.”
Aubrey looked at her, mind curiously quiet. He could see that she was lovely—lovely to look at, at least. The thick auburn hair and the peach-cream skin, the curves and the way he knew they filled his hands. But it was all echoes. It only made him feel a little sick and sad. He had no desire to touch her. Wished, in fact, that she would remove her hand.
“Domnall listens to me,” Liv said, a coaxing murmur in her voice as she lifted her eyes to his. “He more or less does what I tell him. You and George have spent this entire weekend keeping him sweet, but perhaps I’m the one you should be focusing on.”
He met her smile with a blank look. “Fuck you and you’ll secure Domnall for us? Am I getting the gist of it?”
She scowled, pulling her hand away. “You used to be more civilised, Aubrey.”
“I’m only what you’ve made me.”
As soon as he said it, he regretted it, hearing the truth of it for the first time—the power it gave her. She’s still controlling your life. She’s…she’s amputated it. Cut it short.
Evie was right. It still controlled him, this damned heartbreak, this fear of it ever happening again. But as he watched the smug glimmer of triumph creep into Liv’s smile, he realised it was unlikely to be her that broke him for the third time. She might have made him this way, but she’d have no say over his future.
“As disturbing as the offer is, Liv, I think I’ll have to decline.”
She studied him, smugness fading, knowing him too well not to see the resolution hidden under his light tone. “Do you actually like her? I’m starting to think you do. You must, to choose her over me.”
“It’s more a case of not choosing you, Liv.”
But she wasn’t deterred, was still watching him sharply, wheels turning in that lawyer mind of hers which, regrettably, missed nothing.
“I thought you were playing a game at first,” she said. “Starting a relationship with her of all people—the boss’s weirdo tree-hugging daughter—just to provoke me. But is it true?” She laughed. “You actually like her? What do you even talk about? Does she drag you along to protests, braid daisies in your hair?”
“You probably won’t believe me, but I’ve never once wished you ill, Liv. But if you keep talking, I might change my mind.”
She laughed outright, eyes wide with glee. “Oh my God, you do! Look at you, getting all furious and flying to her defence! I never thought I’d see the day. You actually really like her.”
Then her mirth faded and she shook her head, taking it in. “Do you love her, Aubrey? Is it as bad as that?”
“Of course I don’t,” he snapped, only just stopping himself from adding: I can barely stand her half the time. But Liv was awful when she felt she’d got hold of a secret, especially one that she thought might annoy him, no matter how unfounded. She was like a rottweiler with a bone, and he was suddenly suffocating at the thought of having to defend himself from her barbs all night, ridiculous as they were. Tomorrow could not come soon enough.
A movement caught the corner of his eye and he looked up, finding Evie paused halfway down the stairs. She had one hand on the banister rail, ivory pale against the scarlet of the dress and the black of her hair. The floor-length skirts of her red dress were split up the left leg almost to her hip. The thin straps and the plunging neckline left the thin shoulders, the line of collarbone, the curve of neck all bare, fabric skimming the small breasts to the long, lean stomach. Aubrey met her eyes, and couldn’t think of a single damned thing to say.
“Oh my God,” Liv breathed, delight mingled with disgust. “You do.”