by Grey, R. S.
I peer at Nicholas and it’s clear she’s just given him something akin to a death sentence, yet he doesn’t leave.
I open my mouth to protest myself, but I realize it’ll go over better after Cornelia leaves. We just need to wait her out.
She steals a blueberry tart off the tray, shoots me a wink, and flutters out of the room, not looking half as tired as she claims to be.
Once she leaves and closes the door after her, I stay standing, and so does Nicholas. Clearly, neither one of us is sure how to proceed.
I start to talk at the same time he does.
“You don’t have to—”
“If you’d rather read—”
I laugh and shake my head, trying to break myself out of this shell of self-consciousness I’m trapped in any time I’m in his presence. It’s the most ridiculous thing. I start by looking at him while he walks over to a side table to pour himself a small shot of amber liquor from an antique decanter, and I convince myself he’s just a man. Tall and intimidating, sure, but no less mortal than the rest of us.
“Will this be a waste of time, do you think?” I ask, cutting through the bullshit. “If you’re standing there with the same opinion of me you had a few weeks ago, I’d rather save my breath.”
He laughs and tosses back the liquor before pouring himself another shot, this time sipping on it slowly as he turns to glance at me over his shoulder. His dark eyes hold me captive.
“Do you want a glass?” he offers, holding up his own.
“No thank you. I don’t drink hard liquor this early in the day.”
It’s meant as a barb, and he takes it as one. “I don’t either, except when I’m locked in a room with a feral cat.”
I narrow my eyes. “You see that’s rude, don’t you? You can’t expect me to like you when you say things like that.”
He chuckles under his breath and shakes his head, turning toward me fully as he makes his way back to his spot on the couch. “Yes, well, you struck first with the insinuation that I’m an alcoholic, so neither of us has clean hands here.”
I refuse to admit he has a point. Instead, I walk over to the side table to pour myself a small serving of the same liquor he’s drinking, realizing I might need it. It’s hardly a shot’s worth, but still, when I take the first small sip, I know I won’t be able to finish it.
“That’s horrible,” I hiss as it burns its way down my throat.
“It’s thirty-year-old single malt whiskey. My grandfather’s favorite.”
Good thing he can’t see the face I’m making or he might be insulted.
“Were you close with him?” I ask, venturing into polite conversation. We might as well try.
“Extremely. I spent more time with him and Cornelia than I did with my own parents.”
“Oh? Why’s that?” I ask, walking back across the room to take a seat on the couch facing his.
“Because, like you, I lost my mother and father when I was a young teenager.”
“How?” I frown and lean forward, curious to gather pieces of humaneness from a man who seems to have so little.
His reply is issued with a clipped tone. There’s no sentiment behind it. “Cancer took my mother when I was thirteen, and my father returned to England that same year.”
“So he’s still alive?”
“Yes, but we haven’t spoken in years. To me, he’s as good as dead.”
His words rub me the wrong way.
“Spoken like someone who has a choice in the matter,” I point out.
“Of course, compared to your position, it must seem cruel of me to say so, but our situations are entirely different. From what I understand, you were close with your father. I never had a relationship with mine, and what tenuous bond we did have disintegrated completely when he abandoned me to move back to England after my mother’s death.”
“You could have gone with him.”
“I wasn’t invited,” he replies curtly before taking a sip of his drink.
My stomach churns thinking of Nicholas at the age he was in the portrait upstairs. A young man with no parents, not so unlike me.
“Was he upset about your mother?” I venture. “Is that why he left suddenly?”
I know people make poor decisions when they’re grieving. It’s not exactly an excuse, but maybe it’s a reminder that we’re all just humans trying our best.
He laughs, and it rings out harshly through the room. “Not in the least. My mother was a dollar princess. Have you heard the term before?” His bold dark eyes seek out mine, and I find I can’t look away. “Her marriage to my father was arranged for very specific benefits. The Cromwell wealth kept the Hunts’ English estates afloat, and in exchange, my mother became a countess. Cash in exchange for a title.”
“How sad.”
His gaze pierces mine. “It happens every day. Don’t delude yourself.”
I sit back, wounded by his sharp rebuke.
He sighs and looks away to clear his throat, seemingly remorseful, though he doesn’t say so. “Anyway, my father was glad for the freedom. No pesky wife and kid holding him back anymore.”
“I’m sure he loved you in his own way.”
“I gave up that naive hope a long time ago.” He drains the rest of his drink. “And no matter. I had more family than I knew what to do with, my grandparents and everyone here at Rosethorn. I didn’t miss him all that much.”
“How lucky for you.”
I didn’t share the same luxury, and no doubt from his conversations with Cornelia, he knows it. Realization seems to dawn on him, and he glances back to me. For a moment, we sit silently staring at one another, and for the first time since we met, I feel like there’s a tether within reach if only one of us would grab it.
He frowns, his eyes holding mine captive.
“I can’t figure out who you are, Maren,” he says, tipping his head to the side. My heart hammers painfully in my chest as his eyes search mine for answers. “Are you a con artist with a devious plot or an innocent lamb continuously thrashed by unfortunate circumstances?”
I know which way he’s likely to lean. Too many people have come before him, expecting the worst of me. I don’t have tolerance for it anymore.
I stand and give him a sour smile. “The wonderful thing about my situation here at Rosethorn is that it doesn’t matter who you think I am. Your opinion is of no consequence.”
Then I turn and leave the room.
16
Nicholas
Before dinner, I go out on my boat to clear my head. It’s a futile endeavor. The wind doesn’t take me far, and I still have energy to burn when I return to the marina. I drive fast on the way home, taking Ocean Drive around the long way, angry with tourists for keeping me from speeding along the winding road. It takes me a long time to get home, but I’m no more satisfied with myself as I loop my car into my parking spot and charge in the back door.
Rich smells waft out from the kitchen, and I’m reminded that I’m likely running behind. I still need to shower before the meal, so I take the stairs two at a time and head straight for my room.
Bruce has already pulled out a dark blue suit for me to wear, hanging it on a hook outside of my closet with an accompanying white shirt. No tie tonight.
I fly through my shower and take the time to shave my five o’clock shadow, knowing my grandmother will appreciate the extra effort. I comb my hair back and slip on my jacket, staring at my harsh expression in the mirror.
It seems my afternoon with Maren is bleeding into the evening. I wonder if she’s still upset from this afternoon, but I’m not left with the question for long. We run into each other out in the hallway on our way to the grand staircase.
She’s wearing a tight off-the-shoulder dress that’s the exact same shade as my suit. It hugs her body and draws my gaze down her curves to the slit that cuts up and exposes one of her tan legs.
I hold out my arm for her to take. It’s the polite thing to do. We’re both going down to dinner, a
nd if she were anyone else, I’d offer the same gesture.
She reluctantly accepts.
“About this afternoon—” I begin to say as we start to walk, but she cuts me off.
“I hope you’re not about to apologize, because I have no intention of accepting a peace offering from you.”
“I wasn’t going to offer peace,” I say, dropping my hand over hers on my arm to keep her in place beside me as we turn toward the stairs. Her hip brushes against me and I’m aware of it on a molecular level. Her scent is so strong. I think it’s her shampoo and I’d like to find out, to inhale a deep breath and get a chest full of it.
“Good, so we’re on the same page? It’s war from here on out?” she asks, and it almost feels like a game. “I’d like to know so I can stay armed.”
I stifle the urge to laugh for fear that she’ll move away from me. Her hand on my arm is barely there as it is, and I’m worried she’ll withdraw it if I say the wrong thing.
“Are you two coming down any time soon or do I have to stand here forever?” Rhett asks, drawing my attention to where he stands in the foyer.
Crap. I forgot I invited him to dinner tonight. Rhett’s my closest friend, but I can’t say I’m glad to see him, especially when his gaze shifts to Maren and his eyes widen with intrigue.
I can’t even begin to unravel my reaction to him. I tug Maren an inch closer. I don’t even smile when he looks my way again. I even consider, for one second, marching right to the front door, throwing it open, and telling my oldest friend to get lost. It’s absurd.
“And who might this delicate flower be?” Rhett teases, beaming up at Maren as we descend the final few stairs together.
“His name is Nicholas,” Maren quips, stepping away from me. I have no choice but to let go of her hand. “Be careful though—he’s not a delicate flower. More like a Venus flytrap if you ask me.”
Rhett barks out a laugh. “I like you. You’re Maren, aren’t you? You have to be.”
“Yes. And you are…?”
“Rhett,” I answer for him. “My oldest friend, who surely won’t forget where his loyalties lie.”
Rhett extends his elbow to Maren so he can pick up where I left off. “Do you hear something, Maren? An annoying gnat?”
“Nothing at all.”
Rhett throws me a grin over his shoulder, and I do him one better by flipping him off.
My grandmother sees and tells me to mind my manners. Then she turns up her charm to greet our guest.
“I’m so happy you could join us for dinner, Rhett. I’ve been anxious for you to meet our dear Maren.”
“I’ve heard so much about her,” he admits, escorting her to the seat to the left of my grandmother. Before he can pull out the chair beside her, I yank it out myself—a tad too hard. Three pairs of eyes fall on me as I sit down and scoot my chair forward with an audible screech.
“You needn’t be such a brute about it, Nicky,” my grandmother says. “I was going to ask Rhett to sit on my right. Your seat beside Maren was never in contest.”
I feel the closest thing to a blush I’ve felt in twenty years.
“If Nicholas is anxious to sit by me, it’s only so he can keep a close eye on me during dinner,” Maren assures Rhett. “To make sure I don’t steal any of the salad forks.”
He laughs and turns to me.
“So she knows you’re suspicious of her?” he asks, a twinkle of excitement in his eyes. He looks absolutely delighted by tonight’s turn of events.
I groan. “If I am suspicious…or was suspicious,” I say, correcting myself because I’m not certain which one is more accurate at this point. “It was for good reason.”
“Oh heavens, I need a glass of wine,” my grandmother says, looking back at Bruce, who hurries to fulfill her wish.
“Nicholas thinks I’m a con artist,” Maren says, turning to me with a thoughtful brow. “Is that what you called me this afternoon? I can’t remember. I try so hard to forget every word as soon as you say it.”
“Maren,” my grandmother chides, but there’s no need. I don’t need her help fighting my own battles.
I lean in close to Maren, to be sure she’s listening. “That’s not what was said and you know it.”
She shrugs and turns away to accept the glass of wine Bruce just finished pouring for her. “Close enough. You insinuated it was a possibility.”
“Let’s change the subject, shall we?” Rhett asks. “Maren, do you have a boyfriend?”
I scowl at him, but he doesn’t pay me any attention.
“Not at the moment. Why, are you in the market?” she teases.
“Are you three going to go on like this through the entire dinner?” my grandmother asks, fanning her face. “I feel faint already.”
“Believe me, Maren,” Rhett says, grinning from ear to ear. “I’d take you up on the offer in an instant if I didn’t think Nicky would lop my head off with that butter knife.”
To his credit, I am gripping it a tad too hard. I drop it back on the table as a gesture of goodwill. See? I won’t kill you, Rhett. At least not in front of my grandmother.
“I ask because I heard you and Barrett Knox went out on a date last week,” he continues. “I was curious to hear your side of it.”
“Why does it sound like you’ve already heard his side?” Maren wonders, sounding coy.
Rhett laughs and leans back in his chair, trying to dig himself out of the hole he’s put himself in. “Yeah, well, Barrett isn’t one to keep quiet about a pretty girl.” He holds his hands out quickly, to nip in the bud the line of thinking we were all heading down. “Not that he’s been spreading intimate details or anything. As I hear it, the two of you just went to get a drink before Tori’s garden party.”
What the hell? Why am I just now hearing about this?
“That’s absurd,” I interject. “Barrett’s too young for her.”
“We’re the same age,” she points out with an amused smile.
That can’t be possible.
“Yeah, well, let’s just say you’re a lot more mature than he is. I worry for any woman who seriously considers dating him.”
“That’s rude. I had a good time.”
“I agree with Maren, Nicky,” my grandmother adds. “I think you judge Barrett too harshly. Sure, he has a bit of growing up to do, but I was here, watching, when he picked Maren up, and he was very gallant about it. Reminds me of when boys used to come here to take your mother out.”
“You allowed her to go out with him?”
“I didn’t just allow it—I encouraged it. Since when do you have an issue with Barrett anyway?”
Since this moment apparently.
Maren turns to Rhett. “Now you have me curious. What else has Barrett been saying about me?”
“Oh, you know, just the telltale signs of new love. He thinks you’re the prettiest woman he’s ever laid eyes on, yada-yada.”
She laughs as if it’s absurd.
It’s not.
I could use a drink, something a little stronger than this wine.
“And what about Barrett? Do you find him handsome?” my grandmother asks.
“Of course. What’s not to like?”
“I prefer blondes myself,” Rhett adds, no doubt referring to himself.
She laughs and shakes her head. “You know, actually, Nicholas,” she says, turning to me, “if you and I hadn’t gotten off to such a rocky start, I think I would have found you very handsome.”
“He looks just like his grandfather,” my grandmother says with a proud smile.
“But now?” I ask, forgetting we have an audience.
She shrugs. “It doesn’t matter.”
Bullshit.
I’ve never wanted to draw the truth out of someone more. I want to touch her chin and turn her head toward me and look into her eyes for signs of denial.
It does matter.
Salmon tartare is served as the first course, and my grandmother tries to steer the conversation towa
rd upcoming restoration work at Rosethorn. She doesn’t succeed.
“Nicholas broke a lot of hearts when we were growing up,” Rhett tells Maren, continuing the game they’re playing at my expense. “He’s a tough nut to crack, but that didn’t stop girls from trying. In fact, they only tried harder.”
“That doesn’t surprise me at all,” Maren says, as if she has me completely pegged. “I’m sure he loved it. Did he take them out on his sailboat? Woo them on the open seas?”
“Only a few girls were that lucky.”
“Lucky?” Maren teases.
I toss my napkin onto the table and screech my chair back to stand. “Maren, could I speak with you out in the hall?”
I’m already yanking her chair back, so she doesn’t really have a choice in the matter.
I almost expect my grandmother to speak up in protest, but she must recognize something in my expression because she stays perfectly silent as I step out into the narrow side hall, opposite the grand entry on the other side of the dining room. It’s dimly lit compared to the rest of the house, a small passage we rarely use.
Maren follows a beat after me with her head held high, fury reigning in her eyes.
My heart races in my chest and the overwhelming urge to reprimand her and leave her there in the hall feeling like a petulant child fades once she and I stand eye to eye.
“Am I in trouble?” she asks, cocking one delicate brow.
I step closer and lower my voice, aware that we haven’t gone that far from the dining room.
“That’s enough.”
“Oh c’mon, even your friend is—”
“You’re encouraging him.”
“I’m teasing. I think it should be allowed, don’t you? Dinner would be so boring without it.”
“You’ve made your point. You wanted to punish me and you have.”
She laughs and steps closer to me to ensure I’ll hear her whispered words. “I highly doubt that. You, the great Nicholas Hunt, champion of your house—you’re inherently unpunishable. You wear so much armor I doubt I could say a single thing that would hit your heart.”