52. Isabel
For all my concerns about the staff shunning me, it was a bit of an anticlimax when everyone still treated me the same as before. There was a slight shift in the dynamic, and I had a hunch Emily had laid down some rules for them.
On the way to the coffee room, Nelson shoulder-bumped me with a Cheshire grin. “A little hint would’ve been nice, Isabel. Here I am trotting around in a cloud of ignorant bliss.”
That drew a giggle from me. “What was I going to say… Oh by the way I’m spooning the boss, please pass me the sugar and cream?
Nelson laughed. “We know a different Roman than you do. His reputation as the scary lone wolf, swinging the scepter at Belmont Trust, is well known. No woman has ever been romantically associated with him, and here you are, living breathing proof that he has a beating heart. I like this Roman. You’ve brought hope back to this house.”
A glimpse of heartfelt sincerity flitted across his features and it triggered a pesky knot in my throat. Nelson dismissed his emotional confession with a wave. “I can’t wait to tell Albert the whole story,” he said. “He’s going to be over the moon. And he will without a single doubt take some credit for this whole affair.”
“I’d like to meet your Albert and thank him for his part in all of this. I’d also like to ask him what he thinks of Rick disappearing off the face of the earth in The Walking Dead, and leaving us all in the lurch.”
“Oh dear, don’t get him started on The Walking Dead. But fine, rather you than me. If I have to hear about that show one more time, God help me, I swear.”
“And Nelson, if you can do me a favor and not take Roman a pastry with his coffee this morning, I’d appreciate it. He already had two in the car over here.”
Nelson stopped and narrowed his eyes at me. “And how do I explain to him why he’s being deprived of another pastry?”
“Tell him I said so, and because I want him to live forever. And that if he eats the whole salad I’m making him for lunch, we can talk again.”
We resumed our walk. “Rather bossy of you,” Nelson chuckled. “But I’d bet Roman doesn’t mind. Some men in power find it very attractive to be told what to do.”
A split second after we entered the staffroom, Emily dragged me to a corner, delicately sipping from her cup of coffee. “It would probably be best if you showed Sophia how to make the French pastries from now on since you won’t be doing it anymore.”
“But I don’t mind,” I protested. “In fact, I love doing it.”
There was the tiniest raise of her eyebrow, making it clear that resistance would be futile.
I relented. “Fine, I’ll teach her.”
“And today we will have lunch in Henry’s room at twelve,” she went on, “I’ve already checked with Roman and he’ll be in a meeting. That means it will be you and me alone, which makes it an excellent opportunity for you to ask any questions regarding table etiquette.”
A euphemistic way to say this would be my first lesson in learning blueblood table manners. I bit a smile. Emily was serious when she declared me her protégé.
“Please tell me we’re not reliant on Mrs. Sheldon’s cuisine to nourish us though,” I whined. “I could whip us up—”
Emily interrupted before I could close out that thought. “There will be no whipping up this lunch. I requested a five-course meal that one of the chefs at the Belmont Hotel will prepare, so we’ll have the complete table setting of a formal meal. But not to worry, I can’t imagine we’ll need to do it more than once.”
My mouth opened and closed. This woman wasn’t messing around, hurling me into this new role. And I’d better play along because if there was any one person I wanted in my corner, it was Emily. “So I’ll be learning not to stab my amuse-bouche with the wrong fork,” I said.
Emily smiled. “There will be no stabbing anything, Isabel. And yes, you’ll be learning not to use the wrong fork with your amuse-bouche. That’s to say it isn’t served in a spoon.”
I squared my shoulders, ready for the crash course. “So I take it the protégé thing has formally begun.”
She delicately dabbed her mouth with a small serviette, and tilted her head. “It has. And hopefully you’re looking forward to it as much as I am.”
I texted Roman on my way to Henry’s room.
Me:My training to become a well-mannered lady has officially begun.
Roman:As long as you don’t bring those lady manners to our bed.
Me:You know what they say: a lady in company, a chef in the kitchen, and a slut in bed.
Roman:I’m in a meeting and now all my thoughts have been derailed. Thank you for that. Expect repercussions.
I smiled all the way to Henry’s room. And with the Beatles already chanting and fairy lights blinking, it felt merrier than ever inside. All we needed now was for Henry to wake up.
We started our day reading from the novel, Rebecca, and it was at a pivotal point where the second Mrs. de Winter meets Mrs. Danvers, the housekeeper of Manderley. I tittered and glanced at Henry. “Red flag right there, when the housekeeper still has a super soft spot for the dead psycho first wife, and treats you like a fly in their soup.”
Someone cleared their throat behind me and I instinctively knew who it was. Oh just great.
Steven strolled past me like a well-clad cat and stopped on the other side of the bed, facing me, his expression deadpan. A bead of cold sweat tumbled down the back of my neck and I involuntarily hissed out a sigh. “Oh God, what now.”
“I don’t mean to intrude,” he said in what could pass for a congenial tone. “But if I can have a moment of your time.”
“I’m a little weary of you at this point, Steven… Can I call you Steven? So if we could just cut to the chase here, please…”
The faintest trace of a grin clawed its way through his grim visage. It was painful to watch this man try to smile. “It seems we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot,” he grumbled.
I could have snorted, but I didn’t. “If that’s what you want to call it, sure.”
“And I want to apologize.”
My jaw might have scraped the ground. Steven apologizing? I glanced out one of the many French windows to see if there were any pigs flying by.
“But it is also important that you realize I was just doing my job,” he added for emphasis.
So, not really apologizing.
“You should have stopped at the apology,” I said tersely. “Adding that pesky ‘but’ shows that not only are you avoiding responsibility, but you’re also suggesting it might happen again…because you’re just doing your job.”
This earned me a real chuckle. “Point taken. And also, George is back from vacation and will drive you wherever you need to go. Feel free to message me anytime.”
As he headed for the door, I stopped him. “Wait a second. Who sent you to apologize, Roman or Emily?”
“No one,” he said. “I am capable of realizing when I’ve crossed the line. Besides, your presence seems to have a good effect all around. I’ll leave you to your reading now. Have a nice day.”
As stealthily as he appeared, Steven vanished. I peeked at Henry. “Can you believe this guy? What a piece of work. But what’s strange is that I kinda like him now? He looks after Roman very well, even if he is a little fanatical. And I’ll tell you this, he would make an excellent assassin. Just saying. I wonder what his story is.”
We continued reading Rebecca until the staff came in to lay the table for lunch, and talk about elaborate. I braced myself for a very formal affair. But in the end lunch with Emily turned out to be just peachy. A couple of hiccups, but nothing too serious, and Emily was extremely patient with my endless faux pas.
So the first surprise was that slathering a dinner roll with a shitload of butter and tearing into it, and making appreciative noises while chewing, wasn’t exactly protocol. In my defense, for all their lack of pastry-making talent, the Belmont Hotel had excellent food. Apparently you broke the bread into little pieces and used a tiny amount of butter for each piece. Whatever.
Also, you’re supposed to cool your soup by stirring it gently in your bowl, and definitely not by blowing on it like a Category 5 hurricane just swept into town. And let’s not forget that you didn’t have to clean your plate until you could see your face in it. It was polite to leave some food behind. (I call it waste, but okay).
As Emily sipped coffee from the dainty cup after lunch, she studied me. “Now that you’ll be busy with creating a new dessert menu for the Belmont Hotels, we should interview some potential readers for Henry, what do you think?”
My flabbergasted expression might have been a tip-off that this was so not going to happen. “We are definitely not doing that. I will be perfectly able to handle it all. Besides, Henry is going to wake up soon, and the last thing we want is a nervous stranger by his side when he does.”
She gave me her Emily smile, the one that made me feel all cherished and dear. “I’m glad you feel that way,” she said. “And you know what, I think Henry is going to love you as much as all of us here already do.”
Having dinner with Roman that night, I realized it was the first time we ate a proper dinner with knives and forks. And I had to say his table manners were effortlessly superb, even if he was wearing only boxer briefs.
Suddenly I really appreciated Emily showing me the finer details of table etiquette, because I wanted to impress Roman, even if I was wearing only panties. It was a tad impossible to cut all the juicy meat from the chicken wing with a knife and fork, and when I finally gave up, Roman leaned across the table with a glint in eyes. “My Lady Isabel, since it’s only me, feel free to grab that wing with your fingers, and go to town. I really don’t mind.”
“Well then, thank you Lord Belmont, your generosity exceeds my expectations. I will now proceed to make this chicken wing my bitch. Please don’t tell Emily.”
He laughed softly, then he picked up a chicken drumstick and ripped it apart with his teeth like a goddamn savage, and the challenge was set. We ate the rest of our meal like two ruffians trying to outdo each other with boorish etiquette. And for the well-mannered elegant gentleman he usually was, Roman killed it.
Between the occasional growling and voracious mauling of the chicken, he took it to a whole new level. By the time we were finally done I was light-headed from laughter and trying to catch my breath. “We probably need to shower before you yell at the executives,” I said, trailing my foot up his leg and planting it in his lap.
He hissed with pleasure and folded his hand around my foot, gently rubbing the sole over his very hard cock. “I think I should just do the meeting now,” he said. “Like this. Nothing inspires confidence like a slightly intoxicated CEO in his underwear, with a hardon and dinner stuck to his hair … Then again it’s nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow. Let’s go take that shower honey badger, I want to wash you from your toes up and back down again.”
Much later, in bed, Roman wrapped me in his arms, a mist of sweat covering us both. He buried his face in my hair and whispered in my ear. “I love you, honey badger. You have no idea how much.”
I crawled deeper into him. “And I love you, Roman. God only knows how much.”
Needless to say, one night at Belmont Manor turned into two, and then turned into three, and by the fourth day Sergei had decided to let bygones be bygones. I was still in the king-size bed, barely awake when I received a flood of texts from him, one after the other.
Sergei:When are you coming for dance practice?
Sergei:I’m thinking we do Bolero for next comp.
Sergei:Competition is in two weeks, where are you malishka?
Sergei:WHERE ARE YOU???
Me: Was a little busy. Sorry.
Sergei:What’s keeping you so busy, malishka? The capitalist?
Me:Don’t start.
Sergei:Fine.
Me: We can dance tonight. And I’d love to do the Bolero.
Roman sauntered out of the bathroom, still wet from his shower. “Let me guess, the Russian.”
I stretched my naked self out languidly, hoping to distract Roman from revisiting his grudge with Sergei. He appreciated the view but started to get dressed anyway, and I just knew it wasn’t the end of that topic.
“So, was that the Russian?” he persisted.
“We have to start practicing for the next competition,” I said, trying for matter-of-factly. “This time we’re doing the Bolero.”
Roman buttoned up his crisp white dress shirt, and every button he closed I wanted to unclose. I sat up in bed, watching him. “So, I’ll go home tonight, have dance practice for a couple of hours and spend some time with Meg.”
“Did you just say you’ll go home?” Roman asked. “This is your home, Isabel.”
The tone in his voice suggested he would not be challenged on this, which I chose to ignore.
“I’ll make you dinner, and leave instructions for Gladys on how to warm it up. And tomorrow I’ll be back.”
He tucked his shirt into his bespoke pants and shot me a determined look. “And if I want you back here tonight?”
This was my cue to wiggle myself out of what could only be the start of an argument. I threw on one of Roman’s shirts and strolled toward the kitchen. “I made a frittata yesterday. Let me warm it up for you and put on some coffee so you can have breakfast before you go.”
“Come back here, we are not done talking about this,” his voice boomed behind me, cutting my stroll short.
I swiveled around, leaning against the glass wall, and crossing my arms in defiance. “Why are you so obsessed about me dancing with Sergei?”
Roman went into his dressing room to get a tie. He came out with two. “Which tie do you like best?”
I closed the gap between us and picked the one he’d tied me up with a few days before. I took it from his hand and slipped it around his collar. “Let me do this for you,” I said. “I’ll do the Windsor knot. Self-releasing and symmetric. For the dashing man on the go.”
He arced his head down to study me close-up. “Let me tell you why I’m obsessed. It’s because you share a kind of intimacy with Sergei that you don’t with me.”
My hands worked quickly tying the knot. “Roman, I’m here, in your life and in your bed. I could be wrong but it doesn’t get any more intimate than that.”
“It has nothing to do with sex, Isabel. When you dance, you trust with all your heart that Segei will catch you and not let you fall. I don’t know if I have that trust from you, and I hate that he does unequivocally. That’s more intimate than any sex two people could ever have.”
I finished the tie and Roman’s fingers felt around the knot.
“This is perfect,” he said, smiling. “Is there anything you can’t do?”
My cheeks warmed. “Yes. Apparently it’s impossible to convince you that there’s only one man I want. And here he is, standing right in front of me.”
His lips grazed the shell of my ear, chasing goosebumps down my spine. “I’m sorry my sweet. I’m sorry. Go dance with Sergei. Have fun with Meg. All I ask is that you come back to me tonight.”
I nodded and crushed my lips to his and it was a kiss that told him I was his, and his alone. He groaned and slipped his hands under my shirt, cupping my breasts. The kiss turned into a frenzy, the air practically sizzling with heat.
“You’re going to be late,” I murmured against his lips.
This time he removed my shirt and pushed me backward toward the bed, his fingers slipping between my thighs. And the fire inside me became a blaze as I realized Roman was going for the power move, ravaging me while dressed in his bespoke suit. The one he’d be wearing for the rest of the day.
A commanding smile carved itself into his features. “Let them wait. The king is worshipping his queen.”