Chapter 44
EVIE
Am I the stupidest woman in the world?
Could he just not help himself? I can’t believe it—I want to believe none of it, to put it down to coincidence and the ramblings of a teenage would-be anarchist.
My stomach knots as I set out to find Oliver. I need to hear him deny it, to listen as he explains why he didn’t tell me about Lucy. I need to hear that he loves me, that this isn’t some sick kind of payback.
As I move from room to room, my skin feels as though it’s burning, yet my blood feels like ice water as it pumps through my veins. There’s no sign of him in the ballroom, or any of the places where people gather. In the long gallery, outsize portraits of Mandy’s ancestors witness me freeze.
“A little bird says,” a woman’s voice trills.
I don’t recognize the plummy accent, but my stomach still sinks. A journalist?
“Who’d bid on that?” asks a second female voice.
My gaze shifts left, and I take in the tables running along the wall; this is where the silent auction is being held. I edge my way to the nearest lot as though interested, though my aim is to listen in. A plastic stand holds the details of one of the auction lots, blank tickets scattered across the table to detail bids for ... a balloon ride over Northaby . I move to the end of the table, edging closer to the voices as I pretend to consider bidding on an ugly painting this time.
“Haven’t you been keeping abreast of the news?” the first voice demands.
“That thing in Whitehall?”
“No one is interested in the government, Caro. I’m talking about the feud between Oliver Deubel and that slice of naughty, Mitchell Atherton. His love rival.” She draws the latter out salaciously, not giving a damn who might be listening. “It’s all been rather scandalous, not that I usually follow such things.”
“No, of course not.” Her companion doesn’t sound convinced or much interested.
“A love triangle, I gather.”
I’m pleased someone is enjoying my drama-filled existence.
“Who’s the lucky girl?”
“Screw her! It’s the other two I’m interested in. Oliver especially.”
“Oliver ...” The second woman draws out his name as though rifling through a mental Rolodex. “Oh! That wicked-looking dark-haired beast? The one with the eyes!”
Yes, bitch, he has two of them.
“Yes, that’s the one. He looks like he could break a girl in two.”
“And make you say thank you.”
I turn my head, but I can’t see who’s speaking for a stupid statue and the crowd of people milling around in their stupid evening wear.
“But what has a bird to do with it?”
The first woman tsks. “Just look at lot sixty-eight.”
“‘Tea at Claridge’s and then a night in the West End with the Earl of Bellsand.’”
“God, not that one.”
Sounds like a good time to me.
“It must’ve been lot sixty-nine,” she adds with a smutty snicker. “A Little Bird is the awful gossip column I’ve been following. It’s been bleating on about him being head over heels in love with some American vet. It sounds as though they’ve been tweeting up the wrong tree, so to speak, because take a look what’s on offer.”
“A night in London with Oliver Deubel,” the other woman says. “Drinks, dinner, and an evening in his hotel.”
“If that’s not an invitation to fuck him, I don’t know what is.” The pair cackle like witches over a cage full of chubby kids.
I drop my head, muttering a litany of insults under my breath. But I have to see this for myself. As I edge closer to the table, the PA system squeals, and I wince.
“My lords, ladies, and gentlemen,” Mandy’s voice booms. “And the rest of the riffraff at the back.” The crowd chuckles. “Thank you for taking time from your busy schedules to grace us with your presence. If you could just stick around long enough so we can relieve you of the contents of your wallets, that will make me, and my menagerie, very happy.” More laughter, but I can’t look as I edge my way to the next table, slipping around the statue. “It’s all for a good cause. Northaby’s animal kingdom, of course.” A round of applause. Then, “And I have some very, very exciting news about the safari park’s future coming soon.”
I block it all out. I feel bad enough about my lies of omission, but I suddenly feel more than complicit. Did I try my best, or did I just not do enough? Those poor animals. Will Oliver screw them over too?
“Excuse me,” I whisper, moving against the tide of guests heading away from the makeshift stage. “I just need ...”
No, not this. Oliver does have an entry in the silent auction.
He is the entry.
A heavy weight drops to my chest, the discomfort somehow appropriate. It reminds me to breathe, at least, because this is too much. What’s real and what isn’t? It’s hard to tell, because each breath is a trial, each thought a memory. A truth. An untruth. Oliver kept telling me he was no good. Did I ever really believe him? Should I believe him now?
“... introduce my special guest, our kind patron of the evening, Oliver Deubel.”
Mandy’s voice pulls me back to the moment, to applause and a crowd that suffocates.
“Good evening.”
My stomach turns over at the sound of Oliver’s deep tenor.
“If I could beg your indulgence for a moment. Eve?” His gaze skims the crowd, but I don’t respond. I can’t. “I know she’s in here. I’m sure I saw her tiara sparkling.”
Laughter swirls around me as I become aware once more of the gold and diamonds on my head. A gift so very special, though not because of its value—its dollar cost—or even its provenance. But because I thought he understood me.
“Eve Fairfax, could you make your way to the stage, my darling?”
The crowd starts to shift, one or two people looking in my direction. People he introduced me to earlier, I realize.
So, maybe this is where I get the booby prize. The award for most gullible goes to Evie Fairfax. Maybe this was his endgame all along. One final humiliation before he gets what he wants and puts the whole matter to rest. Only, he doesn’t look like a man up to his neck in nefarious intrigues as his gaze finds mine. And Mandy is looking on with such fondness.
Is this . . . no. He can’t be about to . . .
A realization drops inside me like a bomb.
He’s going to propose.
I want to believe the events of tonight are one jumbled misunderstanding. That maybe he kept Lucy from me out of some misplaced sense of responsibility, that Duggan is an idiot, that the auction entry is someone’s idea of a sick joke. And the way he’s looking at me, I could believe all that and more. But this feels wrong. Too much like another manipulation.
No more lies. No more power games. No more railroading. These were what we agreed.
Part of me wants to heed the warning and run, but the other part is both sickened and stirred as I find myself at the base of the metal steps. As I hear the clink, clack of my heels. Feel eyes burning holes in the back of my fancy dress.
Just like last time.
I don’t fit in here. I never did. I should’ve remembered my mantra. The rich care for nothing but themselves. Yet my leaden feet still cross the stage, and I allow Oliver’s arm to slide around my waist. He presses a kiss to my cheek and whispers a soft greeting I can barely make sense of. His arm tightens as he turns to the audience, their faces obscured by the glittering chandeliers.
“As Mandy says, there’s to be an important announcement concerning Northaby and its animal kingdom. But first I’d like to take this opportunity to ... well, it’s rather personal, but something I find I want to shout from the rooftops. Short of that, you lot will just have to do.”
How can he understand me if ... How can he do this?
Time slows as he turns to me, the audience sucked away as though by a sudden vacuum. A look crosses his face, and for a moment, I’m in Garrard, on that damn sofa again, my heart lifting as my brain cells shift into negative numbers.
“Eve,” he says huskily, as his hand slides into his jacket pocket. He pulls out a tiny velvet box, the light catching its tiny golden clasp.
“I almost did this a few weeks ago. I’m not sure if you noticed.” Uncertainty flickers in his expression, but it’s so fleeting, it might be a trick of the light. “I saw before me the first in a lifetime of moments—shared laughter, loving, living. Hand in hand. And then I chickened out.”
Canned laughter. A hoot of encouragement. My chest feels hollow, my heart pounding like the warning beat of a drum. He moves to open the box.
Chocolate and peanut butter, umbrellas held over my head in the rain. His jacket over my shoulders, his strong arms wrapped around my waist. Tiara dress-ups and thrift shopping for tight leather pants.
I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.
I tried to fight my feelings, didn’t I? I think, as a sense of something washes over me. It’s not déjà vu. At least, not in the traditional sense. More like an insight.
My heart just ran ahead of itself.
I’m not the slow-boiling frog this time. I jumped into the steaming pot with my eyes wide open. I threw myself into the idea of him, the idea of us. We love, yes, but this feels wrong. How can his heart choose mine if this is how he would seek to tell the world? This is not a moment to be shared as part of a business deal.
“Eve, my darling.” The lid pops, diamonds glitter, and my apprehension tilts to certainty.
This isn’t like before, because it hurts . I need to trust myself. Trust him. But how can I?
This is a mistake I can’t risk twice.
“Stop.” My voice surprises me, ringing out, my fingers curling against his shoulder. “You’re making a mistake,” I whisper.
The collective inhale seems almost familiar.
“Eve?” Oliver’s brow furrows. That flickering expression from before? It settles this time.
“I can’t marry you.”
“Darling—”
“No. I can’t.” This is not honesty. This is not our moment. “I’m sorry,” I say, turning away. Sorry for Mandy. For the animals. Sorry for making Oliver look at me that way. “Check out lot sixty-nine,” I say as I step away. Something wet trails down my cheek. “Bid big, ladies. Oliver Deubel is a heartbreaker, but he really will show you the time of your life.”