Chapter 20
Selena
‘Selena,’ Xavier says to me in that infuriatingly proper manner of his, ‘you’ve met Ivy. Ivy, you’ll remember Selena from Harry’s party.’
Ivy, you’ll remember that I reneged on a lifelong promise to Selena five fucking days before our wedding, and that you’re the reason for it.
Sometimes I hate our uptight British social conventions. Sometimes I want to know what would happen if I threw my toys publicly. Had a hissy fit. The idea is mortifying, of course, but wouldn’t it be liberating to say exactly what I mean, even once?
Worse, Xavier has his arm wrapped protectively around Ivy in a side hug, as if I may not be responsible for my actions, and worse yet, Ben’s not even here, damn him.
He’s helping his mother with something in her new home.
So the power dynamic stinks even harder than it should, because everyone in this room knows that, where Xavier is concerned, I lost and Ivy won, except none of us can say it out loud.
And it’s stupid, because it shouldn’t actually be a contest, and it shouldn’t have to be this linear, but with the three of us standing here like muppets, it really is.
I mean, he dumped me and chose her, and the humiliation, the mortification, of it hits me all over again.
Bloody Ben, not being here for this excruciating moment.
If he was, then I’d feel like the winner, because Xavier and Ivy may be stupidly loved up, but I had two orgasms last night, and with Ben’s arm around me, it would be far easier to remember that I did win.
I ended up with the brother who makes me happier by far.
I’m ashamed to admit I’m almost grateful for Ivy’s stepmother’s recent passing right now, because it acts as a kind of social centrifuge, refining all the myriad ways this reintroduction could go to soap-opera-level shit into the only acceptable tack to take, which is:
‘I’m very sorry for your loss.’ I step forward and offer her my hand, which she takes after the briefest hesitation. I think I’ve surprised her with my civility.
‘Thank you,’ she says, her voice soft and quiet.
I study her with interest—after all, this is the woman who blew up my life in spectacular style, albeit inadvertently.
Last time we met, I didn’t give her a second glance or a second thought.
Today, she’s taken on a significance in my brain that borders on obsessive: she’s the anti-me, and the anti-me won Xavier’s heart when I couldn’t, and that leads one to ruminate in the most endless, circular ways.
She’s undeniably stunning; that much is true.
She really does resemble that Yellowstone actress, with her huge blue eyes and bee-stung lips.
In a black polo neck and jeans, she also looks notably more respectable than she did at the party.
Her figure, I notice, is insane. Great boobs.
She fills out that sweater in a way I’ve always wanted to.
And she’s little—can’t be more than five-four.
But her hair is the most striking piece of the puzzle (the puzzle being: who could possibly make Xavier de Vere lose his head and burn down nine centuries of duty?).
It’s an astonishing sort of burnished strawberry blonde, shoulder length and choppily cut with a messy fringe that I suspect is actually how she rolled out of bed. Very Bardot-esque, if I’m being honest.
A part of me is genuinely impressed that Xavier had the gumption to go and find himself someone so indisputably sexy and inappropriate and surprising.
While he’s always been heralded as a great catch, I suspect Ivy is far cooler than him in that streetwise Londoner way that his cosseted upbringing could never have provided.
I have no idea what to say to her next. The elephants in the room are stomping on every last one of my social niceties with their enormous hooves. Besides, if I did say anything nice beyond offering my most basic sympathies, it would sound seriously phony.
‘Did you just get here?’ I enquire finally. It’s all I can muster.
‘Yeah,’ Xavier says, dropping his arm from Ivy’s shoulder. Clearly, he’s deemed me relatively safe. ‘Rose and Lily—Ivy’s sisters—are in the dower house. They’re already unpacking their bedroom.’
It makes sense. No caravan of moving vans accompanied their arrival up the driveway; just one sad, lone rental that Xavier commandeered the family chauffeur, Charlie, to drive up from London while he drove the Land Rover.
It’s a stark reminder that Ivy and her family have, as Ben told me, very little in the way of material goods.
This is a starting-from-scratch situation, but the thought of those orphaned girls putting their measly belongings away in their lovely new bedroom hits me harder than I’d like, and I’m suddenly glad I insisted that vases of fresh flowers be put in every room.
I nod. ‘There should be some things in the fridge, but if you need anything, please come and help yourselves, obviously.’
‘We got the groceries,’ Xavier said. ‘Thanks for sorting that.’
‘Of course.’ I may feel a certain level of ill humour towards both of them, but decency is decency and family is family, and I’m not exactly going to let Xavier turn up at his own home to a bare fridge and empty shelves. I’m not a monster.
‘Look,’ Ivy says, taking a step forward. ‘I just wanted to say—how sorry I am about how everything… turned out.’
Oh, God, no. We are absolutely not having this conversation here, not with me standing by myself like the jilted lover.
Where the fuck is Ben and his relentless PDAs when you need them?
‘We really don’t have to talk about it now,’ I say tersely.
Or ever, ideally. ‘It’s all fine, honestly.
’ It’s not, but I’d rather stew for all eternity than air this particular brand of dirty laundry.
‘Okay.’ She steps back hesitantly. ‘If you’re sure.’
Time for a swift subject change. ‘Flora got back last night. She’s down at the stables with her friend Cait, but I’m sure she’ll swing by later.
’ Cait and Flora were inseparable when they were younger.
Cait’s mum, Annie, runs the de Vere family’s stables, and her daughter is also home from uni this weekend.
Ivy’s face brightens. ‘Yeah, she mentioned it. I’m so happy she’s come up.
’ It’s an unpleasant reminder that my own sister-in-law is far chummier with my usurper than she is with me.
Xavier hired Ivy to act as a kind of streetwise companion for Flora last term.
She was living all alone in the family’s enormous Little Venice villa and was struggling to acclimatise.
Where Xavier actually found Ivy, though, remains the unanswered question.
I really must make more of an effort with Flora, starting this evening.
I’ve invited her to join me and Ewan for our night in watching the Grosvenor finale.
This is to be the last season, and there are strong rumours circulating that the original duke and duchess from the first season, who are married in real life, will be making an appearance.
I have the wine fridge stocked with champagne in anticipation. I can’t bloody wait.
Even better, Ben and Xavier are taking their mum out for dinner in town, so I can go fully feral, which is what Grosvenor does to me.
Xavier wraps his arm around Ivy again, glancing down at her briefly before he looks back at me. It’s surreal to see him like this: affectionate and openly besotted. ‘Flor mentioned to Ivy that you guys were watching Grosvenor tonight,’ he says. ‘You don’t mind if she comes over, do you?’