Chapter Sixteen
“So how do you know my aunt?” Victoria, the Duchess of Stratford, held a gin and tonic in one hand and a healthy dose of skepticism
in the other as they settled around the dining room table. The words were innocent enough, but the tone made it sound like
no one would voluntarily spend Christmas with Eleanor Ashley unless there were something in it for them.
“Oh... I...” No one should have been looking at Maggie, not when Ethan was three feet away, but the duchess had already
sized up the outsiders and determined that Maggie was the weak antelope. This was how she got weeded from the herd.
“As I told you, Victoria, Maggie, Ethan, and Sir Jasper are my guests,” Eleanor said from her place at the head of the table.
Her gaze was sharp, but her tone was overly indulgent. “I’m a great admirer of their work. Besides, it seemed we were going
to have more than enough room this year.” She shook out her napkin. “Tell me again why your boys couldn’t make it?”
The question was just innocent enough to disguise that it had teeth. Victoria smiled but took a sip of her drink, leaving
the duke to explain. “Switzerland. Skiing. Couldn’t miss it.” He gave a nervous chuckle. “Simon’s new girlfriend is thirty-seventh
in line for the throne, you know,” he added, like he didn’t want to brag, but, really, how could Eleanor compete with that?
“Well, I hope you don’t want me to plan thirty-six murders. I could make ten look like accidents. Twelve at the most,” Eleanor
said, and Maggie could have sworn the duke looked disappointed. “And... oh hello.” Eleanor turned to Dr. Charles like she’d
just laid eyes on him for the very first time. “And who are you?”
“This is Dr. Charles , Aunt Eleanor.” Rupert’s voice was a touch louder than it needed to be, emphasizing every few words as if she might not know
which ones were important. “Kitty’s friend from her days at the hospital . He didn’t have anywhere to go for the holiday so you suggested he join us. Remember?”
“No, I don’t remember.” For a moment, Eleanor looked like the woman by the windows, distant and melancholy and... homesick.
She looked homesick in her own house. But then her gaze turned sharp again. “Probably because it didn’t happen.” Rupert cut
his eyes at the doctor. “But any friend of Kitty’s is welcome, Doctor. Lord knows we have the room. I’m glad to have you.”
Dr. Charles gave a warm smile. “Thank you, ma’am. It’s an honor.”
“Aunt E...”
“That’s not her name,” Victoria muttered, but Cece went on as if she hadn’t heard a word.
“Are you cold? Should I get you a shawl?”
“I own a shawl?” Eleanor sounded surprised. “I must be older than I thought. Mr. Wyatt?”
“I left my shawl upstairs,” Ethan deadpanned and Eleanor’s lip ticked up, fighting a grin.
“You know, I like to do my research, but I’m afraid I could find very little about you.”
Honestly, Maggie was impressed that Eleanor had found anything at all. As far as Maggie could tell, Ethan Wyatt had been born
five years ago, a six-foot-two-inch baby in a leather jacket. No résumé. No bio. Just a runaway bestseller and a jaw that
could cut glass.
“You were born in Germany, I believe?” Eleanor asked.
Most people would have missed it, the split-second gap in Ethan’s facade—two film reels that didn’t quite line up and if you
replayed the moment in slow motion, you could see the place where he was spliced together.
“I am a citizen of the world, ma’am.” His voice was low and rich, but for one brief moment, Maggie could have sworn she saw
his hand shake.
“But you’re American?”
“I am.”
“And your background? Your training?”
“Oh...” He chuckled. He smiled. He did everything but wink and ask Eleanor if she came here often. “A bit of this and that.”
And so it went. No matter where the conversation meandered, it always came back to a game that Maggie liked to call What’s Not to Love About Ethan?
After two hours, they’d been through a soup course, salad course, main course, and cheese course and were waiting on dessert
while the Duke of Stratford snapped his fingers and tried to find the words—
“What are those chaps called”— snap, snap, snap —“the dolphins?”
Ethan bit back a grin. Probably because no one could take the full force of his smile without protective equipment. It was
like looking at the sun. Or handling nuclear waste. “They’re called Navy SEALs. And no comment.”
“Marine sniper!” Cece guessed.
“No comment.” Ethan gave her a wink.
“Army Ranger?” Cece guessed again.
“No comment.”
“International assassin!” Dr. Charles tried, but Ethan simply shook his head, slow enough to be a bit dramatic.
“No comment.”
“CIA?”
“I could tell you, Duchess, but I don’t think you’d like what I’d have to do next.”
And then everyone laughed and laughed and Maggie wondered how hard it would be to kill a man with a dessert fork.
Eleanor would know. Maggie should ask. But their hostess was quiet, watching, lips turned up in something that wasn’t quite
a smile while her blue eyes twinkled in the candlelight. She looked... amused. Not with Ethan, but with the night. Like
they were at the start of one of her favorite scenes and she was trying not to shout spoilers.
“The truth is...” Ethan rested a forearm on the table and angled closer, like they were all friends now. He might as well
let them in on a secret. “I’m not vague about my background because of some marketing ploy. I don’t keep people guessing because
it sells books... though it does.” He flashed a self-deprecating grin he probably practiced in a mirror every night before
bed. “I don’t talk about my past because I’m not the star of my books. Ultimately”—dramatic pause—“ my characters have to speak for themselves .”
Maggie had heard him use that line a thousand times. It was his bread and butter, tried and true. She watched the people at
the table absorb those words like the first drops of water on parched earth. They were all getting sucked into the Vortex
of Ethan—swirling, drowning—but then Maggie shifted and her chair squeaked and Sir Jasper seemed to remember she was there.
“What say you, Ms. Chase? What brought you to our humble profession?”
Maggie suddenly wanted to go back to five seconds ago when everyone had forgotten she existed. That was vastly superior to
the feeling of ten sets of eyes turning and settling on her.
“I... Well... uh...” Her foot banged beneath the table and her chair squeaked again and she started wondering if
it would be possible to just walk back to New York. The Atlantic had to be iced over by that point.
“I liked to read.” Maggie’s cheeks flushed. “Her.” She pointed at Eleanor and, instantly, Maggie wanted to pull the words
back. It was like she’d said way too much and also too little and the awkwardness descended like a fog.
It reminded Maggie of her engagement party and the three—count them, three —different society matrons who had kissed Emily on the cheek and asked to see the ring only to be told that, no, Colin was
marrying the other one.
Maggie was the least famous, least successful, least charismatic author at the table, so she looked at Ethan, willing him
to tell another story or show off his abs, but he stayed silent for the first time in his hot guy life and Maggie felt personally
betrayed.
“Lovely,” the duchess said dryly, then drained her glass of wine.
“Speaking of which”—Eleanor pushed back from the table and reached for her cane—“you must excuse me. I’ve written five hundred
words before bed every day for fifty years. I’m afraid tonight cannot be an exception. If you need anything, James or Cecilia
will see to you.”
She was almost to the door when she stopped and lingered for a moment, looking over the assembled group. There were people
who were related to her and people who worked for her and people who wanted to be her ( Maggie. Maggie wanted to be her. ) But as Eleanor took in the people at the table, Maggie realized that not a single one of them had introduced themselves
as Eleanor Ashley’s friend.
She’d written nearly a hundred books. She was wealthy and famous and powerful. But she was also an old woman with a bum leg
and a drafty mansion.
And she was alone.
So perhaps she was a little bit like Maggie after all.