4. “Why Do You Love Me” Charlotte Lawrence
“Why Do You Love Me” Charlotte Lawrence
My mother has outdone herself tonight. By that I mean I’m slightly afraid to walk through my own house for fear of knocking over a centerpiece or upsetting the balance of her carefully constructed universe.
She habitually goes above and beyond what is considered normal for these kinds of highbrow events.
The fish will be halibut, not peasant food like salmon, and no, we won’t skip the sorbet course, because “image is everything, Celia, everything.” I don’t have hard evidence, but experience suggests she has also measured the distance between each table setting like she’s Mr. Carson from Downton Abbey.
But tonight feels different. I peek into the dining room to gauge what we’re dealing with and—is that an ice sculpture?
The official occasion for this party is Bea’s homecoming—not that Rosalind ever needs anything as vulgar as a reason to entertain—but even that doesn’t seem significant enough to warrant the giant swan perched in the center of the long table, water dripping from its frozen beak.
I move to the drawing room, where several dozen guests are mingling. I spot Lord Rosenbaum near the fireplace, but he’s deep in conversation, so I scan the room for the only other person I’m interested in seeing tonight.
Beck isn’t hard to find, standing a head taller than everyone else. His face is drawn in fascination, brows pulled together, head tilted forward as he concentrates, and I know whomever he’s talking to is receiving his full attention.
Ten years from now, he will be one of the top legal advisors to the Crown, with his straightlaced, buttoned-up advice and knowledge about all things law.
Even gravity can’t keep someone like him from rising in rank; loyalty and dependability are trophy-winning racehorses.
He will drive a newer model of his current Volvo—still a frosty silver—and every other week, the interior will be meticulously cleaned by an acne-ridden teen at the detailing shop, whom he’ll tip more generously than necessary.
While he waits for them to finish, he’ll call me to ask if he should bring home chicken biryani from our favorite Indian take-out, and after we tuck our two kids into bed and let the dog out and empty the rubbish bins, we’ll end the day on the couch binging a historical TV show that’s just come out.
It’s the best kind of beautiful.
I’m startled from my reverie by the sound of something shattering. Lady Colette has dropped her goblet, and pieces of broken glass glint like diamonds on the floor. Before anyone else can react, Beck steps over the mess to pull her away. She can’t stop babbling apologies.
One of the waitstaff appears beside me with a broom. Beck walks over and takes it from her. “I’ll clean up.” Then he turns to me and brushes a kiss across my lips. “Hello, lovely.”
He’s gone before I can respond, sweeping the shards into the dustpan and bringing it back to the girl still waiting in the doorway.
After she takes it from him, he grabs both my hands in his.
In their largeness, they completely engulf mine, and warmth spreads through me.
I become the recipient of that trademark smile I love, the one that makes his eyes shine and crinkle at the corners, making you feel like you’re sharing an inside joke.
“Four more months,” he says, “and you’ll be Mrs. Harrison.” He snags a drink from a nearby tray and hands it to me.
“Chapman-Payne-Harrison,” I correct.
He gives a mock frown and adjusts the delicate chain around my neck until it lies straight. “You don’t think three last names is extravagant? We wouldn’t want anyone to think you were pretentious.”
I smile and take a sip of wine. “My aim is always to be as pretentious as possible.”
We’ve agreed that since my father had no sons, one of the best ways to honor him is for me to keep his names in addition to Beck’s. Our children will share them as well.
“You still haven’t told me where we’re honeymooning,” I say.
“I have no intention of doing so.”
“How can I prepare if I don’t know where we’re going?”
“You mean, how can you make sure everything is perfect?” Beck’s eyes sparkle like the glass he just swept up.
“I promise to behave,” I tell him. “No spreadsheets, no research.”
“None?”
“None.”
“How will you survive?”
I pinch him lightly through his jacket. “I’ll be fine. Just tell me. Please.”
“You really want to know?” When I nod, he says softly, “Croatia.”
Images of Roman ruins, walled cities, and sienna-tiled roofs dance across my mind in a mini theater production.
I squeeze his hand and grin. “Croatia sounds amazing.” I can already see us exploring Diocletian’s Palace, spelunking the various caves, hiking through national parks.
“Do you already have the activities planned?”
His face falls. “Celia, you promised. No research.”
“I won’t! But I need to know what to pack.”
He sighs and shakes his head, but he’s still smiling. “I thought we could stay on the beach. Eat seafood, read, drink martinis in the ocean. Relax after the stress of the wedding.”
A tiny pebble of disappointment—it’s minuscule, really—drops into my stomach.
Normally I would show Beck how much more the place had to offer, but I promised.
This is his project. I am planning every last detail of the wedding, and he’s taking care of the honeymoon.
If he wants to spend it getting fried to a crisp on the beach while ignoring the ancient ruins and natural wonders behind us, I will eat all the bloody oysters he wants me to.
“I can’t wait.” I rise up on tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips. I will trust him with this.
Bea’s words from earlier come back to haunt me.
She thinks I’m with Beck because he always lets me get my way.
If that were true, I’d be trying to convince him to change his plans, to do things the way I want.
Of course, there’s always the possibility of subtly dropping hints between now and then.
But my sister is wrong. I am perfectly capable of accommodating others, especially the man I love.
My mother’s ambitions for me have always been much higher than my own, and I know she was disappointed in my choice, even if she’s too well-bred to say as much.
Beck isn’t titled, and his job as a solicitor will never provide more than a comfortable lifestyle for us.
But even she now agrees that he and I are meant to be together.
We met through an online dating app that gathers in-depth details from its users, including results from various personality tests.
When I came across Beck’s profile, I was stunned by how high our compatibility was.
He’s been married once before, to a superficial woman who didn’t appreciate what she had.
But I can’t hate her too much. After all, her loss is my gain.
“Have you met Bea’s date?” I ask Beck, scanning the crowded room for anyone who seems like he’s trying to get into my sister’s pants.
“I don’t think he’s here yet.” He tugs at the cuff of his jacket. “And where is our lovely Brit?”
“You know Bea. Arriving late makes a bigger splash.”
“I assumed being abroad for six months would be splash enough.”
“Thou can never attract too much attention when thy name is Beatrice.”
Above the murmur of the room, a faint knock can be heard from the front hall.
“That must be the date. I’ll be right back,” I say, and slip into the foyer to answer it.
I can’t believe my good fortune. Bea’s not down yet, so I can interrogate this “older, more mature” man alone.
With luck, I can drive him off before dinner even begins.
The wind has picked up outside, and the front door pulls heavily. But instead of the investment banker with slicked-back hair I’m expecting, I find Henry standing on the portico, looking dangerous in a navy dinner jacket.
“What are you still doing here?” I frown. “I thought you left an hour ago.” I scan the path behind him, which is turning inky now that the sun has set. Bea’s date is even later than she is. Major red flag.
He holds up several bottles of wine in each hand. “I told your mum I’d get the wine from your car.”
I ignore the guilt that niggles at me. “I thought you had a date tonight.”
“I do. That’s why I’m here.”
“What are you talking about? My mother is hosting a dinner—”
I take in his fancy jacket again, the velvet lapels looking soft in the light from the house. Rosalind’s strange obsession with this party becomes crystal clear. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Will you just let me in?” he says.
“You are not dating my sister,” I hiss.
“Celia! Don’t keep him waiting outside.” As if summoned by our words, Beatrice herself floats down the stairs and over to the door like the ballerina she used to be. She has the keen ability to always sense whenever she’s the topic of conversation.
She squeezes past me and drags Henry into the house. Her bubblegum nails wrap around his arm like he’s a prized trophy. Adoration flows from her face as she beams at him, then swivels to me. “Were you surprised?” To Henry, she says, “I’ll bet her jaw hit the floor when she opened the door.”
He does his best to affect a laugh, but the air is cardboard. His eyes meet mine as she presses a kiss to his cheek. Bile pools in my stomach, and there’s no longer any space in my lungs. I’m going to be sick, and Rosalind is going to murder me for ruining her party.
Out of deference for my mother, I will not wreck anything right now. But give me two more hours, and then I kill him.
In true Rosalind fashion, the seating arrangement prevents couples from sitting next to each other, even though this practice is as outdated as landlines, which she also still swears by, claiming cell phones are too personal.
“Imagine if the prime minister called me while I was in the bathroom!” I didn’t bother pointing out that the prime minister hasn’t yet had a reason to call her, in the bathroom or otherwise.
In her efforts to put her best foot forward, which I now know is all part of a plot to help Beatrice land the crown prince, she has staggered the men and women, putting me between Lords Havensport-Barton and Poast. I’m acquainted with both, but the conversation is so dull even the middle of the desert sounds like paradise right now.
The most intriguing thing happening is the storm rolling in, which causes the lights to dim several times and coaxes manic giggles from several of the women.
Rosalind’s eight courses drag on, until finally the pudding is served and the end is in sight.
I glance across the table to find Henry’s eyes on me.
He’s spinning a fork between his fingers, and the flick-flick-flick is arresting.
I narrow my eyes, and the faintest hint of a smile lifts his lips before he looks away.
When dinner is over, we move to the drawing room again for yet more obligatory small talk, but this time with the companions of our choice. I’m torn between discussing my petition with Lord Rosenbaum and saving my sister—who is currently super-glued to Henry’s side—from destruction.
“What is she doing with him?” Beck says next to me, following my line of sight. His dislike of our future monarch matches my own.
“What do you think?”
Beatrice radiates under Henry’s attention, and I know she’s misinterpreting it as something it will never be.
He leans close and whispers something in her ear, which teases giggles from her lips.
Why can’t she see that he flirts like this with every woman he’s with?
Then he chooses a new victim the very next day.
It’s an age-old story. Bea thinks she can change Henry, tame him. She hopes she’s different enough to be the one to turn the bad boy into a good boy. But it’s futile. Henry cares about no one but himself, and Beatrice will simply be collateral damage.
My petition can wait. My sister’s heart may not be able to.
“I have to do something,” I say to Beck.
It doesn’t take long to catch Henry’s gaze. I flick my eyes toward the doorway, and after a few seconds, he detaches himself from Bea’s grasp.
When he walks into the hall, closing the door behind us, I pounce. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Calm down. We’re just friends.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down. That’s my sister!”
“Fully aware.”
“How dare you drive me home and not say a word?”
“I thought you knew. You asked me for a ride.” He holds out his hands like an innocent little boy, but the last thing he is is innocent—or little.
“There’s no way in hell you thought I knew.”
“Okay, fine,” he says. “I had my suspicions when you didn’t jab your stiletto into my eye. But what was I supposed to do? Bea practically begged me to come tonight.”
“Because she thinks she’s in love with you!”
“She’s not in love with me.”
Part of me is relieved to hear his nonchalance. But when I talked to Bea a few hours ago, she was far from nonchalant. How can he brush aside her feelings so casually?
Because this is Henry we’re talking about, that’s how.
“That doesn’t mean your intentions are anything but despicable,” I say.
“I didn’t realize you were so well-acquainted with my intentions.”
“The entire world is aware of your reputation. I won’t stand by while you tear my sister’s heart to shreds.”
He gives me an unnerving smile. “I told you, we’re just friends. She asked me to come tonight, and I felt bad saying no.”
“We all know how hard it is for you to say no.”
“Believe it or not, I’m not quite as desperate as you think.”
“What makes you think I’ll believe anything you say?”
He runs his fingers through his hair, tousling it into a roguish heap. “We used to be friends.”
“Yeah, well, we’re not anymore, are we?”
“Celia.”
I ignore the pain in his voice. “Stay away from her, or I will kill you. With my stiletto.”
“You can’t protect her forever, C.”
I know that. But it doesn’t mean I won’t try.