Chapter 14
Fourteen
Damien
Following the events of yesterday, I can’t think of anything less advisable than spending six hours in an enclosed space with Blair Porter.
After my last, feeble threat, neither of us exchanged a single word as we strode, side by side, out of the woods and back toward the house.
I’m not sure I even could have spoken, too shocked and horrified by what transpired to enter one of the verbal sparring matches that communicating with Blair so often leads to.
Since it happened, I’ve gone over the incident too many times to count, hardly able to recognize myself in my behavior.
This isn’t like me. None of it. I could sooner understand the motivations behind a stranger’s actions than my own since I arrived at Thornhurst, and every day I spend here only seems to muddle things more.
Or, more likely, it’s her.
Even if she drives me mad, even if I find her attractive, I’m a grown man. A professional.
In theory, I should have no problem controlling myself in her presence.
In reality… well. Spending the better part of an hour in the shower yesterday, scrubbing mud from my body and beating off to the memory of her warm body pressed against mine, doesn’t exactly speak to my possessing much in the way of self-control.
It was all getting to be too much. I needed time—space—and resolved to find ways to minimize our interactions over the next week.
Unfortunately, I won’t be getting either. Not today, anyway.
When the email came in, I stared at it for an entire minute, reading and rereading the brief message at least four times, searching for some way out of it, while battling the impulse to quit on the spot.
Mr. Mallory,
I apologize for the last-minute notice, but Miss Porter is needed at a campaign event in Wyngate City tomorrow, October 22nd. Below, please find a full itinerary for your day’s travel. Be advised, Lord Porter has requested Blair not be left unattended at any point during the day.
Best Regards,
Candice McCauliffe
Executive Assistant to Lord Albert Porter
6:30 A.M. - Depart Thornhurst Estate
Approx travel time: 3.5 hours
10:15 A.M. to 12:15 P.M. - Blair @ LaBelle Ette Salon (199 High Street, Wyngate)
Appt with Stephanie for makeup, haircut and color touchup
12:45 P.M. to 1:45 P.M. - Blair @ Century Boutique (2769 2nd Street, Wyngate)
Appt with personal styling department
Pre-approved wardrobe selection will be pulled
2:30 P.M. to 3:00 P.M. - Blair @ Porter Campaign Headquarters (52 Gate Street, Wyngate)
Brief meeting, to provide details and guidance for event
3:30 P.M. to 5:30 P.M. - Blair @ Wyngate Women’s Shelter
Meet & greet between Porter family and shelter leadership
Alba & Blair to assist staff in nursery while Lord & Lady Porter engage in more serious sit-down with leadership and Cedric assists building new bunkbeds with volunteers.
Entire family to help serve dinner
Photo-op with staff and residents
6:00 P.M. to 7:00 P.M. - Porter family dinner @ Rose Hill House (3909 S. Williams Avenue, Wyngate)
My being at the receiving end of some twisted form of karmic justice is beginning to seem more likely by the day.
No matter how I thought about it, I couldn’t find a way around a direct order from my employer and spent most of the night tossing and turning, dreading what the morning would bring.
Having nearly a month’s worth of experience in the challenges associated with getting Blair out of bed before the sun rises, I’d hoped her laziness would be the downfall of the whole thing. It wouldn’t be my fault if she overslept by three hours and missed half the day’s appointments.
It was a futile hope, and one that is crushed nearly the moment I pull the estate’s Land Rover up to the front door of Thornhurst at exactly the time Porter’s assistant specified.
A day at the spa, shopping, and smiling pretty for the camera must be much more appealing than running, because I’ve barely stepped out onto the drive—intending to knock as quietly as possible—before the front door bursts open.
“Road trip!” Blair sings, all but skipping toward me with a tumbler of iced coffee in one hand and a large purse swinging from the other.
She’s dressed up for the occasion and looks more polished than I’ve seen.
Her hair, which ordinarily has a slight wave to it, has been straightened.
My mouth goes dry when I lower my gaze and see that she’s swapped out her typical ensemble of loungewear with a short, black velvet dress.
She was even up early enough to put on a full face of makeup, and her green eyes look wider than usual.
Questioning Blair’s choice of attire might be pushing it a little, but I still find myself frowning as she draws closer, far more focused on the unnecessary length of her stocking-clad legs on display than I ought to be.
For fuck’s sake.
The purpose of this visit is to visit a homeless shelter. I read the schedule over enough to remember the Porters will be spending the afternoon in clear view of the press, serving hot meals to some of Stelland’s least fortunate.
What is she thinking, dressing like that?
It’s safe to say her wardrobe for the event falls firmly under the umbrella of none of my god damn business, however, and my renewed resolution to keep things between us as professional as possible is put to its first test as I bite back my scathing comment on the dress.
She stops beside the back door but makes no attempt to get inside the idling vehicle, blinking up at me expectantly.
My temples throb as, knowing what she’s waiting for, I grit my teeth and reach down to open it for her.
Blair beams, tossing her curtain of glossy hair over her shoulder as she folds herself elegantly into the darkened back seat of the car. I feel her eyes on me as I push it closed, a touch harder than I ordinarily would, and round the front of the car to the driver’s seat.
“It’s a perfect day for a drive, don’t you think, Diable?” Blair asks cheerfully, almost as soon as I’ve buckled my seatbelt. “That’s devil in French, in the likely event you aren’t cultured enough to be aware.”
Every ounce of self-preservation I possess is bellowing at me to flee.
Willingly locking myself in an enclosed space with this woman for the better part of the morning seems like a recipe for disaster, and yet I have no choice but to put the car in drive and pull away from Thornhurst’s front steps.
“Yes,” I agree at last, and a nerve in my jaw twitches as the smell of her perfume invades my lungs. “A great day for a drive.”
Only twenty-four hours ago, I was covered in mud and pinning her to the forest floor, trying to decide whether I wanted to scream in her face or fuck the brat out of her right then and there.
There was no disguising what it did to me, no pretending I wasn’t hard as stone from having her under me like that, and the worst part—the part I couldn’t help but relive over and over again in the day since—was that I wasn’t the only one turned on by it.
I’d seen the pretty pink flush spreading over the parts of skin not covered in dirt.
I’d heard the way her breath caught when she realized what she’d done to my cock.
I’d felt the way she squirmed and pressed herself against me.
For the briefest of moments, the defiant, stubborn little brat had submitted to me in a way she’s resolutely refused to otherwise, and even the memory of it has me hard all over again before we’ve made it past Thornhurst’s front gates.
Fucking hell. I need to get it together.
“I want to make some extra shopping stops while we’re in Wyngate,” Blair informs me from the back seat. “Schedule permitting.”
“No.”
Even without looking, I know exactly the way she’s pursed her lips at my denial.
“It was my mother’s idea, actually. Alba and James’ engagement party is coming up, and I suspect there will be even more events like these as the election approaches.
She agrees it’s absolutely vital that I look presentable. ”
“It’s more vital for you to behave yourself. How are those studies going, by the way?” I retort, my mouth twisting as I throw out the tried-and-true pressure point that I know will get under her skin.
Slowing the car to a stop, I roll down my window and reach out into the cold October morning to input the six-digit gate code into the box. The black iron gates open smoothly, and I drive through, trying to ignore my mounting sense of dread as I do.
Blair sighs, as if I’m the most wearisome man on the planet. “Fabulous, actually. I’m top of my class.”
I don’t have the mental capacity to call her on the lie, so I keep my mouth shut and my eyes on the road as we pull out onto the country lane.
A quick Google search confirmed that, since Blair was recalled to Stelland, there have been numerous “charitable appearances” just like the one we’re headed to.
From what I could see, they’re typically attended by Lord and Lady Porter, sometimes accompanied by either or both of their two older children.
Blair being added on to this one so last-minute seemed significant.
It suggested that the reporter who turned up at Thornhurst had been sniffing around elsewhere, too, and as I suspected, an article was published only yesterday which noted the absence of their youngest daughter from the campaign trail.
When I’d discussed the particulars of the job with Lord Porter the day we met at his club, he’d seemed convinced the time away from the spotlight would do his daughter good.
It’s infuriating that this determination to keep Blair out of sight for her own safety evaporated with a single gossipy article.
The foul, threatening letters have only just stopped arriving.
Now, barely a month into her “period of improvement,” the Porters have decided that trotting her out in public to quell rumors would be worth any renewed risk to their daughter’s safety.