CHAPTER 5
Benedict
New Year’s Eve.
D-Day, even.
Although no one is storming the beaches to come and bail me out, that’s for sure.
My brother stands before me and slaps me on the cheeks.
He’s shared a champagne toast with me and our great mate Pieter, his—now my—best man, but I can tell he’s itching to get on the road to London and track Ivy down.
He hasn’t spoken to her since they went their separate ways before Christmas, and I know he’s desperate to go to her.
Pulling out of his own wedding was the big, brave move.
I’m hoping Ivy accepts him with open arms once she knows what he’s been willing to do for her.
Alas for him, she blocked his number after they said goodbye, which has only added to his anxiety.
‘I can never repay you,’ he tells me, his hands framing my jaw. ‘Never.’
I shoot him my cockiest smile. ‘Luckily, you don’t have to. I’m repaying you, remember?’
I’m referring, of course, to the time he saved my life when we were little boys, dragging me out of Belvedere’s lake when I went under and got tangled in the blasted reeds. The reference isn’t lost on him, because he frowns.
‘I’m serious, Ben.’
‘So am I. I’ll be fine. Looking forward to my wedding night already.’ I give him a wink, and he shakes his head in amused disbelief.
‘There’s no way Selena will put out this quickly. I’d rein your expectations right in.’
My expectations, as it happens, are as low as can be.
I know there’s no question at all of my bride putting out tonight.
I may be a cocky fucker, but even I can’t expect Slinky to want to shag me tonight when she was gearing up to marry my brother less than a week ago.
Still, I can’t resist ribbing him. ‘Maybe not for you, but for me, she will. Now go on, get out of here. Go get your girl.’
He gets me in a headlock and hugs me hard.
We stand there for a moment, our arms around each other, before he plants a smacker on my cheek.
Our parents may leave a lot to be desired, but I have the best fucking brother and sister in all the land.
It’s about time Xav followed his heart and not the rule book Ma and Pa laid out for him so long ago.
‘Seriously,’ he says, releasing me. ‘Thank you.’
His face has gone red. I think he might cry. This is all getting a little too real. I’m far too sober for this level of emotional earnestness. ‘You can thank me by not fucking this up,’ I tell him, waving him away. ‘Now, clear off.’
Pieter raises a blond eyebrow at me once he’s left. ‘How are you doing?’
The van Praag brothers were at Eton with us and boast a heritage stretching back to the days when the Netherlands were a part of the Burgundian Empire, Pieter’s ancestors having fought alongside Charles V in his attempts to sequester most of Europe.
Pieter was in Xav’s year at school, but the three of us were in the same house.
Our friendship has endured, helped, no doubt, by the infinite funds on both sides that have allowed us to fuck our way around the Med every summer.
I should say that Pieter and I did the majority of the fucking. My brother was more discreet in his endeavours, out of respect for his high-profile engagement.
A high-profile engagement that is now my secret one.
I take Pieter’s question for what it is: a genuine inquiry into my state of mind. He’s concerned, and he should be, I suppose. I’m not known for my impulse control, but only a nutter would pull a stunt like this.
I tell him the truth: ‘I’m trying not to think about it too much.’
‘Ah, yes.’ He nods sagely. ‘Abject denial. Excellent plan.’
‘Got any better ideas?’
‘Yeah. Run for the hills.’
‘Not happening. I’ve made my bed—now I have to go lie in it, even if my bride won’t want to lie in it with me anytime soon.’
I attempt a laugh. The truth is, the last few days have been rough.
I’ve kept up a brave face for Xav, but I’ve been struggling with the enormity of what I’ve seemingly taken on.
The initial part was fun: the knowledge that I was doing the right thing by Xav; the warm glow of Ma and Pa’s approval; the endorphin rush of pulling off a crazy stunt.
But now, as the adrenaline has faded and reality has seeped in like a cold, ominous mist through an open window, I can’t shake the feeling that my decision to save the day in a single swoop was rash at best and catastrophic at worst.
On Xav’s stag night just before Christmas—the night, incidentally, he confessed to me that he was in love with Ivy—I said something to him to the effect that he seemed far too focused on getting through his wedding and not focused enough on getting through the next fifty years.
But I get it now. Contemplating the lifelong impact that my decision will have is frankly too large and unwieldy—and terrifying—to compute.
I suspect he was right.
I suspect focusing on getting through today, and then taking the rest of it one day at a time, is the only way to navigate this shitstorm.
At the mention of my wedding bed, Pieter’s mouth curves into a smirk. ‘I bet you can’t fucking wait. At least you want her. You’ve commented enough times how you want to bend her over and wipe that—’
Nope.
I hold up my hand. ‘Not okay. That’s my wife you’re talking about—or it will be in a few hours. We’re done with that kind of talk.’
He shrugs, unbothered. It would take a lot more than a sudden bout of pearl clutching on my part to bother Pieter. ‘If you say so, mate.’
‘I do.’ I survey myself in the huge, gilded mirror that hangs above the mantelpiece in Belvedere’s study.
The fact that I had a new morning suit ready to go as Xav’s best man has been a blessing.
My suit is grey, my waistcoat buttermilk, my shirt the palest blue and my tie sky blue.
I think I scrub up pretty well, actually.
I wonder what my bride will think when she sees me.
My bride.
It’s a head-fuck of the highest order to think that Slinky will walk up the aisle to me. That we’ll slide a ring onto each other’s fingers, and gaze into each other’s eyes, and promise ourselves to each other for the rest of our lives.
On one small matter, Pieter is correct, and that’s the one of my having wanted to rail my brother’s fiancée for as long as I can remember.
It’s a combination, I think, of her stunning looks and her froideur, for want of a better word.
God knows, I’ve fucked plenty of women who’ve thrown themselves at me, but Selena keeps herself apart.
Keeps her walls up. I strongly suspect that dismantling them, brick by brick, orgasm by orgasm, will be a project of immense gratification.
She tries so bloody hard to hold herself together, bless her, that being the man to finally undo her will surely be a privilege.
Knowing my future wife, it may also take me years to do.
The original plan was to have a rowdy, pre-ceremony groomsmen’s lunch at an ancient and excellent wine bar in the centre of Oxford.
But my showing up in the groom’s place would, of course, let the cat rather spectacularly out of the bag.
I trust Xav’s—my—groomsmen about as far as I can throw them.
So we quietly cancelled it, citing my wish to have a quiet bite with my dying father instead.
No matter how uncouth our mates are, there’s not much they could say to that.
In the end, Pieter and I enjoy a ploughman’s and some soup in the drawing room, courtesy of Cook.
Lunch with a man who’s now nil by mouth isn’t really an option.
I must admit, I can’t get much down except for the soup.
I’m in a state of stomach-churning nerves and not a little existential angst over my upcoming metaphorical sky dive.
But I do head upstairs to see Pa before we leave for the church.
Ma is, mercifully, over at Millbrook with Flora, indulging in all things bridal.
While I feel for Slinks, having two mothers to deal with, I’m glad to have mine out of my hair.
The events of the past week have challenged even her stoicism, and I’ve found her relentless cocktail of excitement and anxiety exhausting.
At least she and Constance Wentworth can drive each other mad over a ‘medicinal’ sherry or two.
Pa’s room is giving ducal splendour mixed with hospice—and the result is depressing as fuck.
The idea that I might be expected to move into this huge, creepy room once he’s…
once I’ve succeeded him is laughable. No thank you.
I’m sure Slinky will have a strong view on where she wants us to sleep, and I’m happy to roll with that, even if it means moving from my childhood bedroom.
Because the idea of my wife and I continuing my parents’—and my ancestors’—habit of separate rooms is equally laughable, and I hope Slinky knows that.
Pa is dozing. As I take my seat on one of the uncomfortable chairs at his bedside, I allow my mind to wander.
I’ll fall asleep and wake up next to Slinks for the rest of my life.
That kind of physical proximity must act as a form of icebreaker, surely?
It’s not that I’m expecting to wake up one morning with her hand having accidentally wrapped itself around my dick—though a man can dream—but surely, as we sleep next to each other night after night, we’ll grow more comfortable with each other? More familiar?
I’m more apprehensive about this side of things than I’d like to admit. I meant what I said to her the other day. I expect this marriage to be real. But the only thing worse than an arranged marriage is, presumably, an arranged marriage where the wife you fancy the pants off won’t put out.
I’m not especially concerned that she won’t find me attractive.
She likes me, that’s for sure. She has fun with me.
When I took her for a few spins around the dance floor at Xav’s birthday party (an attempt to keep her occupied while he went off to enjoy his birthday present a.k.a.
Ivy), I could tell she was into it. Her skin grew flushed, and I found her staring at my mouth a few times. She was definitely digging it. Me.
But I’m all too aware that this is an epic head-fuck for her, and I’d do well to remember that all this upheaval is likely to be a major stressor.
If I know Slinks, and I do, she’ll retreat even further inside herself while she processes finding herself married to the wrong brother over the coming weeks and months.
So I’d do well to shelve my sneaky little fantasies of her blowing me later in her wedding dress.
I sit by Pa’s bed for ten minutes or so, wondering what to do. The nurse tells me he’s been in and out of sleep all morning and that I might want to try alerting him to my presence. He’s right. I can’t sit here all day. I have a wedding to attend and a cathedral full of guests to scandalise.
‘Pa,’ I say softly. ‘It’s Benedict.’
He stirs, his purple-veined eyelids fluttering.
He looks positively ghoulish. This is a fucking miserable way to die.
If I ever get like this, I’ll ask Slinky to put a pillow over my face and put me out of my misery.
Then again, I haven’t spent my life smoking forty a day, unlike him, so there’s hope for me yet.
‘I’m off to the church in a few minutes,’ I clarify. ‘For the wedding.’
His eyelids ratchet open bit by bit. ‘Ah, yes.’
‘I’m marrying Selena. Instead of Xav.’
‘Excellent.’
I wait, though I’m not sure what I’m waiting for, exactly. Some parting words of wisdom? A little appreciation for the fact that I’m throwing myself under the bus for my family?
He looks straight at me. ‘Well, what are you waiting for, boy? A damned Victoria Cross? Be gone with you.’
I recoil in my chair as if he’s slapped me.
I don’t know why the nasty dismissiveness of his words makes me feel stricken.
Ma and Pa expect each of us to roll over for king and country, family and title, without a word of complaint.
I just thought that, perhaps, Xav’s ballsy move might have put things into perspective for them.
And by ‘things’, I mean not only the assumptions they make of us, the sacrifices they ask, but the fact that I’ve stepped up to this challenge with zero notice.
A few days isn’t nearly enough to get your head around marrying a woman you haven’t chosen for yourself.
‘Right,’ I say, pushing to my feet. ‘See you, then.’
I know he’s in a whole world of pain. I know the morphine has him addled.
But Jesus Christ, does he have to be such an ungrateful cunt?
You’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t in this family.
Makes me wonder if Xav was onto something by coming to his senses and marrying whoever the fuck he wanted.