2. “I Knew You Were Trouble” - Taylor Swift
“I Knew You Were Trouble” - Taylor Swift
My father is to blame for my love affair with this country.
She does that to a person, sneaks up behind you and steals kisses like a forbidden lover.
Beyond her gorgeous surface—sloping emerald hills, craggy cliff faces, icy crystal waters—her heart runs as deep as the precious gems mined from her core.
She’s a witch’s brew of the red-hot passion of an Irishman, the elegant sophistication of a Frenchman, the traditional reserve of a Brit, and the powerful ambition of an American.
Who could help but love her?
I turn off the principal street leading out of the city and onto one that leads to my family’s estate. The roads around here seem to be shrinking over time while the cars only get bigger. I’ve often wondered what will happen when the two finally become the same size.
My car sputters a sigh, and a thin wisp of white steam rises from under the bonnet.
I smack my palm against the steering wheel.
“Not tonight.” I try coaxing it to go just a bit farther, and it obliges by taking me another mile before finally groaning to a stop, depositing me too far from the main road to attract help and much too far from home to walk.
I manage to steer to the side, but between the narrow strip of asphalt and the steep bank, I’m still taking up half of the lane.
I slump into my seat and press my eyes shut.
Stupid, stupid car. Maybe it’s an easy fix, a loose cap or something that I can tighten and then be on my way again.
It’s a ridiculous thought, considering my complete lack of knowledge about engines, but I climb out anyway.
Steam is still hissing from underneath the bonnet as I fumble for the release and lift it.
The hot vapor smacks me in the face, and I jump back, losing my grip on the metal, which slams shut with a loud crash. That’s what I get for thinking I could fix anything.
The only thing to do is hire a car to take me home.
I root through my handbag for my phone, then pull up the ride-sharing app.
Because I’m in the countryside and the closest thing to a town is a coastal village to the west with a population of roughly sixty, a driver will have to come from the city to pick me up.
Terrific. That means waiting at least thirty minutes for their arrival, on top of the thirty it will take to get home from here.
My phone pings with an incoming message. It’s from my mother, right on schedule.
Mum: You didn’t forget about the party tonight, did you?
Me: No, Mum, I didn’t forget.
As if that was ever an option.
Mum: And you got the wine?
Me: Wouldn’t dare come home without it.
As I lean against the side of my car, the sunshine-flushed metal warms me through the thin fabric of my trousers. I accept the ride that will get here the fastest and ignore the cost. Avoiding one of my mother’s guilt trips is priceless.
Mum: How soon will you be here?
Me: TBD. My car broke down. Waiting for a ride. x
I imagine how irritated she will be as I stick the phone into my pocket.
Lifting my face to the sultry afternoon sun, I let its rays seep into me.
The scent of saltwater floats on the breeze, and I inflate my lungs with it.
If I squint hard enough, I can almost make out the jagged coastline in the distance.
A bank of dark clouds hovers over the horizon.
When you live in the middle of the ocean, storms that pop up out of nowhere are as much par for the course as pimples before a big date.
Wesbourne sits between the United States and the United Kingdom like a mid-Atlantic taunt. Both neighbors have tried to add our small nation to the United in their names at one point or another, but they underestimated the extent to which a Wesbournian will fight for what he wants.
The purr of an engine running much smoother than mine shakes me from my thoughts.
A sleek black sports car careens down the hill toward me.
A quick glance at the app confirms my driver hasn’t even left the city yet, and my fear wrestles with my desire for help.
I’m all alone beside the road, with no one even remotely close enough to hear my screams. And it’s too late to hide now.
The car slows to a stop behind mine, its windows too dark for me to see inside. Then the door swings open, and a familiar figure steps out. My heart plummets. No. No, no, no. I try bargaining with the universe for an ax murderer instead.
The waning sunlight highlights the jawline Buzzfeed recently dubbed the most attractive in the world.
I’ve always wondered about the kind of person who has the inclination to evaluate things like that.
Do they take anything else into consideration when coming up with those rankings, or are we liable to find Ted Bundy under “Men with the Sexiest Eyes” next?
Henry is literally Prince Charming, and I don’t mean that in the postmodern way ignorant people use the word “literally” to mean “figuratively.” He is next in line for the throne of Wesbourne, he’s obnoxiously good-looking, and his charm triggers the gag reflex if you get too close.
“Celia.” He shuts the door and makes his way toward me. “Car trouble?”
“No, just enjoying a picnic.”
“Interesting shoes for picnicking.” Grinning at my heels, he swings my car bonnet up. No face full of steam for him, the bastard. He fiddles around with a few things, then steps back. “It’s overheating, which caused a host of other issues. It’ll have to be towed.”
“And I should believe you because . . . ?”
He shrugs. “Suit yourself. Have fun on your picnic.” He slams the hood and heads back to his car.
I watch him walk away. He might be my only chance of making it home on time.
I glance down at my phone again. The blinking dot that represents my ride is still in the city, and it’s not moving.
Is there a red light? I wait a few more seconds, but there’s no further progress.
What if there’s been an accident or something else holding up traffic? Damn it.
“Henry, wait!”
I run after him, my heels wobbling on the loose gravel. He continues walking but spins around at the last second. I have to catch myself to keep from crashing into him.
“Are you accosting me, C?” He pushes his sunglasses into his hair and stares down at me.
“Of course not.” I grit my teeth. “I need a ride home.”
He squints at the horizon and winces. “I don’t know. I’ve got a date tonight, and I don’t want to be late.”
“Henry, so help me god—”
He grins, which reveals the small gap between his front teeth, the result of not wearing his retainer after his braces were removed. I’ve worn mine religiously every night, but I’ll still never achieve that megawatt smile.
“Hop in,” he says.
After I collect my things from my own car, I slide into Henry’s luxurious coupe. A cocktail of leather, vanilla, and amber hits me. He flicks down the volume on Elvis’s voice pouring from the speakers, and the car becomes quiet except for the whir of the engine.
“I don’t know why you insist on driving one of those,” he says as we pass my vehicle.
“They’re not that bad.”
He snorts. “They were ranked the second-most unreliable cars in the world, right after Chrysler. Let’s face it: Wesbourne’s future does not lie in car manufacturing.”
“At least I’m willing to support my country through thick and thin.”
“How many times have you had it in the shop in the past three months?”
“Zero.” The real answer is two, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“God, Celia. You are too dedicated for your own good.”
“Rich, coming from someone who professes an allergy to the word dedication.”
“Hey, I can be dedicated. Have you seen my whiskey—”
I hold up my hand. “Please stop talking.” I cancel the ride on my app, leave the driver a generous tip for their trouble, and slide my phone into my bag.
My eyes fall to the console between Henry and me, where a slim leather wallet is wedged.
I don’t need to touch it to know just how soft it is. My stomach clenches as I turn away.
Of all the people to be driving by—on a mostly deserted road, at that—it had to be him. The anticipation I felt earlier is sucked away. The car throbs with a sickly silence.
He slices through it. “How’s your fiancé?”
“Fine.”
“And wedding plans? Coming together well?”
I shoot him a look from the corner of my eye. “Yes. My mum helps a lot.”
“She approves of him, then?”
“What are you driving at?”
“Just that if he has Lady Rosalind’s stamp of approval, he must be pretty great.” Henry raps his fingers on the steering wheel. “But I wonder—is he really everything you want?”
“Implying what?”
He gives me an exaggerated wince. “Just questioning whether you’re ready to spend the rest of your life with the same person.”
“You just insulted my level of dedication. I should think the answer would be obvious.”
“We also addressed your inability to choose a reliable car.”
“For your information, Beck is everything I’ve ever wanted. He’s incredibly smart, he has strong values, he’s loyal and kind. Responsible.”
“Sounds like a job resume.”
“At least he has a job.”
Henry’s laugh is abrupt. “Yeah, he works for me.”
“He doesn’t work for you. He works for the Crown. There’s a big difference.”
“There’s a slight difference. And I have a job too, by the way.”
“Last I checked, seducing women and partying all night weren’t considered jobs.”
He pulls a package of gum from the console and offers it to me. When I shake my head, he pops a piece in his mouth. “Sometimes there’s more than meets the eye.”
“And here’s me thinking your looks paved your way through life.”
“Nope. That would be my sick dance moves.”
“So you’re admitting that partying is your job?”
“No, that’s what I do for fun. You should try it.” He blows a tiny bubble with his gum and snaps it. “Fun, that is.”
“One doesn’t need to drink half a dozen shots and hang out in a strip club to have fun,” I counter.
“Fine. Fun that doesn’t involve a spreadsheet or a book.”
I open my mouth to reply, but he holds up a finger. “Or anything to do with history.”
“Just because my version of fun doesn’t make the front cover of People magazine doesn’t mean I don’t have it.”
“Ah. So you think I do it for attention.”
“No, I just think you’re selfish.”
The car begins the trek up the long, paved driveway of my family’s estate, over one hundred acres of gorgeous Wesbourne countryside.
Maison de Lierre has been in the Chapman-Payne family for more than a century, and when my father died nine years ago, it became mine.
Primogeniture laws were updated retrospectively a few years before his death, allowing the oldest child, regardless of gender, to inherit their father’s estate and title.
If he had died three years sooner, everything would have passed to his first cousin.
In the distance, the three-story manor’s white stucco gleams in crisp contrast to the slate-gray shutters flanking the windows, which are lined up like soldiers.
A row of columnar trees border the path to the double doors.
The house looks like the love child between an antebellum mansion in the American South and a French chateau in Provence.
The estate is beautiful but expensive. It should have enough capital to sustain itself, but the money vanished years ago, into thin air for all I can make out.
My mother, sister, and I all have our own trusts, but they’re small.
My father’s life insurance policy and my income from the Historical Society allow us to live comfortably but not lavishly—proof that titles don’t equal money, and old estates often take more than they give.
Regardless, I love this place and wouldn’t trade it for all the wealth in the world.
Henry’s voice is hushed. “Everyone’s selfish, C. Some are just afraid to admit it.”
“Don’t insult others just to make yourself feel better.”
“I’m not trying to insult anybody. It’s the truth. We’re all selfish. We only do something if there’s a clear benefit for us.”
A brittle laugh bubbles up in my throat. “Speak for yourself. I doubt Nelson Mandela held his ‘selfishness’ responsible when he was sentenced to life in prison.”
“He felt better fighting for his country, even at the risk of punishment, than sitting back and doing nothing.”
“So by your reasoning, Mother Teresa was selfish too?”
“To a certain extent, yeah.”
“You get more despicable with age.” Just a few more seconds and I can get out of this car.
“There’s an endorphin rush, isn’t there? When you do something good for someone else?” Henry shakes his head as if trying to find the right words. “All I’m saying is that ultimately, we do the things that make us feel good. It’s how we’re wired.”
When we pull up by the front entrance, I don’t wait for him to open my door. As soon as the car stops, I jump out and march to the house. My mother would berate me for my lack of manners, but some things demand a break in protocol.
Henry happens to be one of them.