by Alexis Hall
“OMG, you are the dorkiest.” He kissed me again and I felt his smile against my lips. “But I know what you’re at.”
“Maybe, but I came here for you, not to talk about my sister.”
“And still at.”
His expression was serious as he met my eyes. “Would it really be so terrible, Arden, to let me? I understand you care about Ellery, but she is not the only person who has been hurt today. And this is certainly not the afternoon I envisioned for us. With your consent, I would very much like to salvage it and celebrate your latest accomplishment.”
I wanted to say yes. And Caspian was certainly doing everything in his power to make it super tempting. Except I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. It would have meant accepting things that I was no longer comfortable accepting.
Not after everything that had happened between us.
I shook my head. And gave him a little push, knowing how responsive he was to that sort of thing. Sure enough, he let me go at once.
Gazed at me in obvious dismay. “Arden…”
“I’m sorry. The thing is, I can’t keep ignoring how much you keep from me.”
“My relationship with my sister has nothing to do with you.”
“I know. But”—I swiveled sideways on the sofa so I could see him better, even if it was his profile—“I have something to do with you, don’t I?”
“Of course you do, but there are simply some things I don’t wish to talk about. Surely you can respect that?”
Great. Now I looked totally unreasonable. If the carnage with Ellery had shown me anything, it was that Caspian was good at winning arguments. Maybe because he saw them as something that could be won.
Or, perhaps, had to be.
“Yes,” I said. “I can’t make you tell me stuff. And I wouldn’t want to. I just wish you felt like you could.”
His sneered with Ellery-like contempt. “One of the many toxic facets of modern psychology is the way it teaches us that sharing is inherently beneficial. When often it is selfish, hurtful, or otherwise self-indulgent.”
“Okay, but if you’d told me about the nature of your relationship with Nathaniel, then I wouldn’t have pushed you so hard over the room and probably…” Urgh. He wouldn’t thank me for mentioning what had happened that night “…I wouldn’t have made you feel so bad.”
“Well, if you hadn’t been so determined to pry, then the whole situation would not have occurred in the first place.”
Yep. This was definitely verbal Carcassonne. And I was definitely losing. And there was nothing I could do about it, short of running out of the castle and being attacked by wolves, necessitating a rescue from Caspian that would lead to us eating soup together and playing in the snow and then he’d give me a library and—wait, that was something else.
I tried a different tack. “Look, you told Ellery I was your partner because you wanted to hurt her. Not because it’s how you see me or how you treat me. That’s really fucked up.”
“I’m trying, Arden.” And maybe I was better at Carcassonne than I thought, because he sounded genuinely shaken. “I want to be a partner to you. I want to make you happy. But at some point you’re going to accept that this is who I am.”
“No. It’s who you say you are. That’s not the same thing.”
He turned sharply. “What do you mean?”
“You’re not asking me to accept you as you are. You’re asking me to accept the way you see yourself. Which I can’t do.” I had to curl my hands in my lap to stop reaching out to him. “Because that’s not how I see you.”
Caspian surged off the sofa, obviously frustrated.
“I’m sorry, Arden, but how many times must we have this conversation? Reach this same impasse? You’re looking for something that isn’t there. You must understand. And ultimately decide for yourself if this—if I—can be enough for you.”
Wow. What? No.
How had we got here?
I stared at him in horror. “You can’t just dump the whole responsibility for our future on me. There’s two of us involved here.”
“Yes, but I’m not the one who’s unhappy.” It was his gentlest voice. The voice that often cut me deepest. “I’m doing my best, but I’m tired of disappointing you, Arden.”
“You don’t,” I cried. “You aren’t. All I’m asking—”
“Is for things I can’t give.”
There was a long, nasty silence.
“I should go,” said Caspian, finally. “You need time to think. Text me if you still want to be my date tomorrow.”
I was too stunned to even try and stop him.
Chapter 25
Saturday dawned shittily. I hadn’t slept well, and I’d done exactly zero preparation for the phenomenally posh birthday party I would have to attend, whether I went with Caspian or not.
Urgh. Caspian. What had I done?
I mean, maybe he was right. Maybe I was asking for the impossible. He’d told me about Nathaniel. He’d trusted me with his nightmare. It wasn’t my job to fix his relationship with Ellery. It wasn’t even my business.
Back in Kinlochbervie, he’d promised to try, and I’d promised to be patient. And only one of us, really, could be said to have kept their side of the bargain.
Clue: it wasn’t me.
I’d been greedy, and pushy, and demanding. And not very kind. And Caspian had stuck with me, supported me, done so much for me, both practically and emotionally. And, in return, I’d made him feel like a failure. Like he couldn’t make me happy.
When he did. He so did.
Obviously, what we had together wasn’t perfect. But what was? I didn’t know how to do relationships and I was starting to get the sense he didn’t either. But we were trying. Faltering and fucking up, but definitely trying.
Well, except for the bit where I’d told him that wasn’t good enough.
And what did I want, when it came down to it? A fairy tale? A happily ever after as smooth as glass? Or something real and messy and occasionally painful? With the complicated, damaged, fascinating man I was pretty sure I was falling in love with?
I groped for my phone, and texted Caspian: I’m sorry. You couldn’t disappoint me if you tried. Please pick me up. I would love to be your date for the party.
As ever, Caspian’s reply came quickly: I think you’ve forgotten that I am capable of accomplishing almost anything to which I bend my attention. I could disappoint you comprehensively if I so desired.
I didn’t deserve to be joked at. But I laughed and felt better. Accepting Caspian’s comfort because he’d offered it and I needed it.
Still had to deal with the damn party though. In the end, I googled the closest branch of Moss Bros and forked out fifty quid to hire a tux and all the fixings. Of course, everyone else was probably going to be in bespoke designer shit, but at least I was in the vicinity of appropriate. I didn’t have a mask either, but anything in my budget wasn’t going to work for an event like that.
Basically I’d be Kaylee in that episode of Firefly where she goes to a party in the best pink dress in the ’verse. But everyone is all sneery because it’s off the rack instead of custom made by poor people.
Then, as I was sloping moodily home past the Mac concession on the ground floor of Debenham’s, I had a eureka moment. I didn’t need to buy a mask at all—I could use makeup. That way it could be as extravagant and unique as I wanted, and people would go “oh, isn’t he arty” rather than “oh, isn’t he cheap.” I stocked up and raced back to the flat.
It took a bit of practice, some diligent eyebrow shaping, and most of what was left of my afternoon but I was pleased with how it turned out. I’d managed to give myself butterfly wings: dark pink at the inside corners of my eyes, blending into blue and yellow and pearly green as the design unfurled across my cheeks and brow. The colors seemed especially vivid against the austerity of my hired formalwear and I felt, honestly, a little bit…magical.
Needless to say, I did what anyone would have done under the circumstances and I
selfied the living fuck out of myself.
And was therefore so late that Caspian had to come up and get me.
“Did you change your mind?” he asked, stepping softly in the living area. “Are you all right?”
I yelped, nearly dropping my phone. “No, I mean yes, I mean I haven’t changed my mind sorry.”
“What are you doing?”
As it happened, what I was doing was working a MySpace angle but there was no way I was admitting that. I lowered my arm sheepishly. “Just, um, trying to get a signal.”
“Clearly.” He sounded very dry. “I sent you three texts.”
“God. Sorry.” This was the problem with having two phones—it was double the opportunity to miss things. Closing Instagram down, I turned hastily and—
Wow. Oh wow. Caspian.
He was immaculate in full black tie. Effortless, too, nothing imprecise or overdone: just fiercely fine tailoring and the subtle sheen of matte silk from the reverse and buttons of his classic, one-button peak lapel jacket. His mask was a single strip of black satin that I could already tell would make everyone else look too ornate and tacky by comparison. And it seemed so completely miraculous right then that this man, so steeped in wealth and power, who could have anything in the world he wanted…wanted me.
My heart twisted itself into a knot so tight and tender I could hardly breathe.
Then he crossed the room and drew me into his arms. Turned my face up to his and gazed at me in a manner I’m sure Jane Austen would have described as ardent. “You’re enchanting,” he said. “I want to kiss you, but I’m afraid I’ll smudge it.”
“Err.” I was good to take the risk but words weren’t working so well. Despite the fact that a couple of minutes ago I’d been fearlessly broadcasting how hot I looked to the whole internet, his compliment had flustered me. And was probably undoing all my hard work because I hadn’t factored being bright red into my mask design.
“This will have to suffice for now.” He caught my hand, drew it to his lips, and kissed my knuckles. All soft and gallant and unexpectedly sweet.
I just about swooned. “How about we ditch the party?”
“I don’t think Eleanor would ever forgive you.”
It was the only time he’d ever spoken of her in a way that suggested he had any understanding of what she might care about. Or interest in it. And he was right too—as much as I’d have liked to unwrap and eat Caspian like a Godiva Carre, it would have been a shitty thing to prioritize on Ellery’s birthday. “I don’t think she’d be massively happy if you didn’t show up either.”
“On the contrary, I think she’d be quite pleased.”
Had he even been in the same argument I’d witnessed yesterday? I made a whingey noise, wanting to protest, but also not wanting to start another fight with him about something we’d never agree on.
“And you’re sure about tonight?” The question was casual enough, but his eyes were so intent on mine he might as well have been saying are you sure about me?
“Yes. Definitely.”
Holding my hand tight to his chest, Caspian bestowed another of his fleeting kisses upon my nose, and then let me go. “Then come on. Fashionably late is one thing. Late is quite another.”
We traveled mostly in silence. The car took us right into the heart of Kensington—past on-site security and into a leafy boulevard literally behind Kensington Palace itself. A street of private mansions, delicately illuminated by Narnia lampposts and patrolled by armed guards.
It was hard to process really…the existence of a place like this, right in the middle of England’s capital, where the land values were unthinkable. Even One Hyde Park, with all its aggressive opulence, had been obliged to build upward. Not these languorous, three-story homes, with their wings and gardens and stable blocks. There was a quietness of conviction here, an unshakeable expectation of wealth and its advantages that was frankly kind of scary. How did you get the balls to own a place like this? To believe you deserved it?
The houses themselves, though, were just a little bit incongruous. The ornate stucco frontages, all pillars and porticos and wedding cake molding struck me as something I’d have expected to find in a Henry James novel. Status symbols of people called Vanderbilt. Not English old money.
The car drew to a halt in front of one of the mansions and I scrambled out, feeling dazed and floaty. Caspian, of course, strode straight through the swung-wide gates, past the fountain (the motherfucking fountain) and up the steps to the house, which was lit up and shining like a medieval vision of heaven. Or the Disney castle if it had been a touch more Rothschild.
Even in the moments I wasted dithering, a second car pulled up—another black Maybach—and disgorged a small collection of glamorous people, all of them masked, the men aloof and interchangeable in black tie, the women aloof and marginally less interchangeable in their designer frocks. Laughing, their voices entangling, they glided past me, and I realized that if I didn’t catch up sharpish I was going to lose Caspian in the flow of the fabulously dressed.
I scampered after him. Clearly starting the evening as I meant to go on: looking like an idiot. And caught up just inside the entrance hall, somehow managing not to go arse up, face down on the highly polished marble floor.
Holy fuck, that house.
I mean, yes, it had an entrance hall, for starters. It was that sort of place. Full of stately rooms that didn’t seem to be for anything. At least, nothing that normal people did like watch TV or wander round absentmindedly while chain-eating Pringles. It was all ornate plasterwork and inlaid panels, curlicues and chandeliers. Those really tall vase things that did nothing except proclaim that your house (and wallet) were big enough to accommodate them.
It all left me slightly dizzy. Too much light glinting on too many surfaces. And the inescapable truth that the only circumstances in which people like me were expected to visit places like this was with a National Trust membership card.
And Caspian had grown up here. This was his.
Shit. I was having a Pemberley moment.
I looked around desperately for Ellery. But unless she was wearing a particularly distinctive and Ellery-ish mask, or a name badge, maybe, I had no way of recognizing her among the guests. It wasn’t a horrible crush or anything—people sort of spilled very naturally through the spacious rooms and the atmosphere was at once lively and refined (dear God, I was in a Jane Austen novel). But there was no getting away from the fact I’d blithely turned up at a gathering where I didn’t know a fucking soul. And where the whole point of the evening was making basic interaction as difficult and obtuse as possible.
Suddenly, Caspian—who, I guess, hadn’t abandoned me after all—seized my hand. I hadn’t expected him to get all PDA-ey and I would have been gratified except he was holding me so tightly that I felt my bones creak in protest.
A man and woman had disengaged themselves from another couple and were now coming toward us.
She was just…lovely. This willowy, honey-and-roses beauty and an ageless, English elegance, everything about her exquisitely simple, from the smooth caramel twist of her hair to the midnight-blue folds of her gown. Her mask was a swirl of silver filigree over navy brocade. Impossible, in the presence of such grace, not to be self-conscious about my off-the-rack tux and my visit to the Mac makeup counter. I swallowed, trying not to succumb to profound despair. Attendee commits seppuku at high society event.
“Caspian.” She leaned in to kiss his cheek. “I’m so glad to see you.” Her voice was familiar. Its rhythms and intonations—that hint of a Fanny Ardant purr.
He gave a tight little nod. “Mother.”
Oh wow. I suppose I should have figured that out. I probably had. But…from the whole art auction thing and the way Caspian and Ellery talked about her, I’d convinced myself that Mrs. Hart would be a grim and heinous witch. Not a woman whose smile cut a deep dimple into her cheek and made her eyes crease at the corners.
She was smiling that very beautiful,
very real smile at me now. “And you must be Arden?”
“Uh, yeah,” I replied suavely.
“And this our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.”
My mum loved those lines. I could remember her whispering them to me, holding me tight, on the nights when—I realized with hindsight—she was waiting fearfully for my father to come home.
I nodded helplessly. It was either that or burst into tears. Vomit my life story onto Mrs. Hart’s Jimmy Choos. Weirdly, I almost wanted to. For some reason, part of me was convinced she’d be really super nice about it. Her golden-hazel eyes were so full of warmth.
“Arden.” Caspian’s voice sliced the silence. “This is my mother, Gertrude Hart.”
“Please, call me Trudy.”
“O-okay.” Fuck. Worst. Guest. Ever.
It wasn’t so much a sense of movement but a sense of stillness that reminded me she wasn’t alone. Weird, because the man at her shoulder wasn’t normally the type of person you wouldn’t notice. He was impressively tall and impressively attractive, in a steely, corporate kind of way, not entirely dissimilar to Caspian. Except older and sort of…more somehow. His mask was very plain, one side ungleaming black, the other a deep, heavy gray, almost the same shade as his eyes. It was testament to just how much I was Caspian’s that, apart from a mild and largely curious stirring of my libido, I wasn’t that into him.
“It’s been a long time, Caspian.” He spoke much as he presented himself: with an air of cold command. “Won’t you introduce me to your friend?”
Caspian’s hand was sweating in mine. “Of course. Arden, this is Lancaster Steyne. He was my father’s business partner.”
Steyne had barely glanced at me, which I discovered I was actually pretty glad about. He was fashioned to hit all my yes please buttons, but the sexy to scary ratio was a little too far toward scary for my comfort. Of course, I was into discomfort too, but I knew my own limits. I might fantasize, sometimes, about men like Lancester Steyne doing terrible things to me. But I didn’t want him to actually do them.