Chapter 15 #2
That I was wrong-footed that night is abundantly clear to me now.
Wrong-footed and morally outraged and impossibly conflicted.
I am not a man who walks away from a beautiful, wanton young woman, on her knees in supplication, with her breasts spilling out and a galaxy of promise within the O of her open mouth.
I am not that man at all.
I inhale sharply through my nose and fix Ma with a smile as pleasant as it is firm. I intend to fully lean into the unfair and inaccurate perception she has that I will, all too soon, be the head of the household and therefore someone to whose authority she will fully expect to bow.
‘Ben and I met Ivy when she was serving at a function,’ I say crisply. No need to mention that the function was an almighty bash in the next room. ‘We got talking, and I found her to be a very… competent and impressive young woman.’
What a godawful choice of words. Further down the table, my brother’s eyebrows wing up in amusement.
‘I took her details in case we needed further catering staff in future,’ I lie smoothly, ‘and when the topic of finding someone to assist Flora with acclimatising to life in London came up, Ivy sprang to mind.’
Ivy ‘springs’ to mind far too often for my liking, except that she usually has my cum all over her tits when she does.
‘Having checked out her credentials with several of her employers in person’—the caff owner and the sex club owner, to be precise—‘I felt confident that she was the perfect combination of trustworthy and streetwise and could be of great assistance to Flora.’ I smile tightly at Ma, signalling that pushback will be unwelcome at this time, even if I know how fully she will be sizing Ivy up and finding her lacking in her own opinion.
Ma’s smile is even tighter as she looks from me to Ivy. No one is bred for passive aggression like we are. ‘Well, how lovely. I’m sure you girls will have a marvellous time of it, taking London by storm.’
‘How’s Lady Andromeda’s ankle doing this morning, Ma?’ my brother pipes up with the false cheer at which he’s so bloody good. I silently telegraph my thanks to him.
Ma sighs and lays down her soup spoon. Lady Andromeda is her favourite mare, not least because she’s an excellent breeder.
‘She’s still in a little pain. The vet says it’s nothing a few days’ rest won’t fix, and I jolly well hope he’s right, because she’s going down to the Sullivans’ next week to be covered. ’
The Sullivans are a wealthy Irish family in Newmarket who run the most successful stud farm in the country. New money, of course, but the daughter who manages the stud farm is very good at what she does.
The swollen ankle and imminent covering of the beloved Lady Andromeda kick off a lively conversation between Ma, Benedict and Flora, leaving Ivy and me excluded.
‘Do you ride?’ she asks me, toying with her soup. I swear she gets thinner every time I see her. Her eyes keep flickering to the wall behind Ma, for some reason.
‘I do, of course, but I’m not as horse-obsessed as that lot.
Here.’ I pick up a platter of pork pie slices and scotch egg halves.
‘Please, take some. I can’t promise they’ll hit the spot like that obscenely good fish-finger sandwich, but they’re from a local rare breed butcher, so they’re pretty good. ’
‘Thank you.’ She looks around wildly, no doubt wondering how to get the goods off the platter and onto her plate.
‘Here.’ Using my fingers, I proceed to put half a scotch egg and two slices of pork pie on her plate. ‘It’s all very informal at lunch.’
A little laugh bursts out of her. ‘Yeah, totally. I can see that.’ She raises her eyebrows as she looks pointedly around at the grandeur that surrounds us. ‘This spoon is silver, and there’s an actual Dürer on the wall, but we can use our fingers. Makes complete sense.’
Ivy smiling, laughing, is a sight so addictive that I can do nothing for a second but sit there dumbly, platter suspended in midair as I stare, captivated. Behind her, the sunlight streams extravagantly in, backlighting her so that her beautiful hair is a veritable halo.
Under the charged weight of my gaze, her laugh falters, and I clear my throat.
‘You know Dürer? That’s a good spot.’
Her smile turns embarrassed. ‘I’m not clever, but I know art. And that’s gorgeous. I thought he only painted one hare—the famous one.’
‘He only painted one hare that’s in the public realm,’ I say conspiratorially, and she opens her mouth like she fucking loves this piece of insider information.
Usually, she’s on the back foot with me, and I decide I really like this semi-banter.
It’s a vast improvement on our previous—non-sexual—interactions.
‘Wow. I don’t know what to say.’
I push on. ‘What kind of art do you like?’
‘Mainly landscapes, really. Old-school. I’m pretty classic when it comes to art.’
I’m not sure why this surprises me. Ivy is… quirky, I suppose. I thought perhaps she’d be more contemporary in her artistic tastes.
‘So, if I told you we had a nice little Constable in the drawing room, that would interest you?’ I sound like I’m bragging, when really, I just want to keep that smile on her face.
If this is the type of stuff that lights her up, then I will serve up every priceless treasure we have to feed her artistic soul.
She freezes. ‘Oh my God. Stop it. Seriously?’
I grin. I’m enjoying this. At the sight of my grin, her face softens. She stares at my mouth. ‘I am. Lovely little bucolic scene—a water mill, in fact.’
‘Say less.’ She finally, finally picks up a piece of pork pie. Good. She needs to eat more than just some soup.
‘I’ll take you through after lunch. Then maybe we can head out for our walk before you get down to painting.’ I drop to a whisper and jerk my head in the direction of my sister. ‘Have a chat about how it’s going with you-know-who.’
She puts the pork pie slice down again. For fuck’s sake. Her expression turns downright steely. ‘Definitely. I need to have serious words with you about that.’
What the hell is that supposed to mean?