by Kara Isaac
“Don’t be obtuse.”
“I’m not.” It was his turn to get a bit short, which wasn’t entirely fair. He probably should’ve given her some warning of all this. “You asked who I was. I told you.”
Emelia gave a half roll of her eyes. “Fine. Who is your father?”
“William Carlisle. Also known as Viscount Downley.”
With a click, she’d undone her seat belt and had her head between her knees. Of all the reactions he’d anticipated, this was not one of them.
“You okay?” His shoulder ached from the abrupt stop.
“Give me a minute.” Her words were muffled, directed at the passenger’s foot well.
A horn sounded behind them, and he realized the car had stalled when they’d slammed to a stop.
He restarted the engine and pulled the car over to the side of the road. Fortunately, no one he knew was behind the steering wheel. Emelia’s head remained wedged between her knees, the back of it almost clipping the glove box as he bumped over the grass verge.
Finally, he couldn’t take the silence anymore. “Do you hate the peerage, is that it?”
At that Emelia levered herself up and leaned back against her seat. “No. I don’t hate the peerage. What is a viscount, anyway?”
“It sits between a baron and an earl. Small potatoes in the hierarchy.”
Emelia made a show of looking all around them, finishing with the house. “Call this what you will. But it is not small potatoes.”
“Touché.”
She pressed fingers to both temples. “Sorry for my reaction. I just . . . I was nervous enough meeting everyone. Then you suddenly spring this on me. It’s a bit overwhelming. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Peter shrugged. Why hadn’t he? It wasn’t that he was ashamed of his lineage. Quite the opposite. But he just liked being an ordinary guy. When people found out his background, it always changed how they saw him. As per Exhibit A, sitting right beside him. “We weren’t born into this. It was never meant to be ours. It landed on us through a combination of early deaths and titleholders without children. Dad inherited the title from his cousin when I was ten.”
Emelia heaved out a breath, gathered her hair in a pile behind her head, and then let it fall. “So, what do I call your parents? Am I supposed to curtsy?” A panicked look crossed her face. “I don’t even know how to curtsy. You could’ve at least given me a warning to learn!”
He laughed. “No, definitely no curtsies. If it makes you feel better, feel free to call them Viscount and Viscountess when you meet them, but they’ll tell you to call them Bill and Maggie. They’re even less into titles than I am.” Unlike his brother, who threw “the Honorable” around like it was cheap currency. “If it’s really that overwhelming, we can turn around and I’ll take you home.” He meant it as a lame joke, but she seemed to actually consider it for a few seconds. His heart thumped against his ribs. What if she said yes?
What was he even hoping for? Emelia didn’t share his faith. He’d always told himself that was one line he wouldn’t cross. He’d watched the reality of how that played out his whole life. His parents had a good marriage. But there was no missing the wistfulness in his mother’s eyes when she left for church on Sundays, leaving his father behind. Or her hopefulness every Easter and Christmas when he deigned to attend. Or her attempt to conceal her hurt when his father made it clear saying grace was an impediment to be suffered through to get to his meal. And those were only the things he saw.
He wanted more than that. But he wanted the girl sitting beside him too. And for the first time in his life, he understood how what looked black and white could be so easily blurred into gray.
“Peter?” She was staring at him quizzically. She’d obviously answered his question while he’d been lost in what-ifs.
“Sorry, what?”
“I said I’m good. Let’s go.”
Twenty-Four
THE MINUTE PETER HAD SAID “Viscount Downley” out loud, Emelia had thought she was going to have a stroke. It wasn’t possible. Except it was. Of all the guys she had to meet. The only time she’d ever been taken home to meet the family, it had to be this one.
This guy, who made her feel like maybe an ordinary, boring life could be possible, was also intimately linked to the web of her past. A past that managed to still reach out with its sticky threads and wrap them around her in a different country, a different life.
Stupid peerages, with their differing names and titles. If Peter’s last name had been Downley, she would’ve broken her stupid vow and been researching him in a second. Would’ve made the connection in two. Would’ve known to never set foot in his life ever again.
But nooooo, she had to go and put herself on a Google fast to kill her old reporter’s habit of prying into other people’s lives.
Peter started driving again, the wheels crunching over the stones on the narrow road. The huge redbrick house loomed closer and closer.
Before they got there, she needed to confirm one final nail in the coffin of their non-relationship. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t worked it out when he’d talked about his cousin who had died last year. Yet again, another flamingly obvious answer staring her right in the face that she didn’t see. She cleared her throat. “So is your brother a rower too?”
If Peter thought it was a strange question, he didn’t show it. “Yes. He was in the Oxford Blue Boat crew.”
A tingling feeling started between her eyes. How had she not seen him in the line-up of rowers in the boat? How had she missed his face all over TV screens?
Act normal, Emelia. Your only chance of getting through this is to pretend Victor is a stranger to you, if he’s there, and to hope he plays along.
“He goes to Oxford?” Was his title just as handy for charming his way into one of the world’s most prestigious universities as into the beds of LA party girls?
“He’s in his first year of a PhD in philosophy.”
Peter couldn’t have shocked her more if he’d said Victor was studying midwifery. Emelia barely managed to keep her jaw from unhinging. She forced herself to focus on the imposing house. “Wow.”
She forced herself to breathe. What was she going to do? She’d come to Oxford because she couldn’t stay in LA after Anita’s death. Couldn’t live with the person she’d become. Oxford was meant to be a fresh start and the Fates had sent her headlong into the girl’s cousin.
The whole situation was so insane she had to squash the hysterical laughter rising up inside as Peter drove around the circular drive in front of the house and parked near the front door.
And the poor guy next to her thought she was overwhelmed because his father had a title and owned some land.
“Well, here we are. You’ll be great.” Peter sent her the kind of smile that ordinarily would’ve raised her pulse. The car shifted as he got out and strode around to open her door.
Peter was right about one thing though: he and his brother were nothing alike.
Her door opened, and Peter held out his hand. Like she hadn’t been getting out of a car by herself for the best part of three decades. It was horribly old-fashioned. It was totally adorable. And, for one second, it distracted her from the mission at hand.
“Thanks.” She stepped out, her wedges sinking into the gravel. Game face, Emelia. It wasn’t like she hadn’t spent years perfecting a poker face facade as Mia. But when she’d left the US, she’d planned to leave that behind.
But plans changed.
“Peter!” The front door opened, and a petite blonde came half tumbling down the steps. “You’re late! I was beginning to worry.”
Peter laughed. “We’re not late. I said one-ish and it’s like twenty past.”
His mother reached him. He dwarfed her. Emelia dwarfed her. Mother and son looked nothing alike. She had blond hair and the same gray-blue eyes as her eldest son, which meant Peter had to have gotten his looks from . . . yep, the man who appeared at the top of the stairs. Same ginger hair, same t
owering height, same honest-looking face.
“Mother, this is Emelia.”
Oh, drat, what was she supposed to do again? “It’s lovely to meet you, Viscountess.” She bobbed into something that was a peculiar mix of curtsy, bow, and poppet-on-a-string.
She looked up to see Peter smothering a grin. Oh, right. No curtsy.
His mother appeared startled. “Please, just call me Maggie. Whenever someone says ‘Viscountess,’ I have no idea who on earth they’re talking to. Surely Peter told you we’re purely accidental blue bloods.”
Peter’s father came off the bottom step with a broad smile and twinkling green eyes. She liked him already. “And I’m Bill.” He shook her hand. A good, strong handshake. “Lovely to meet you, Emelia. Welcome to Highbridge Manor.”
Emelia’s response was cut off by crunching footsteps behind them. “Bunny, you made it.”
Emelia flinched. Out of the corner of her eye, she observed Peter doing the same. Interesting. And Bunny?
She shaped her face into an expression of polite interest.
Remember, Emelia, you have never met this man before in your life. He’s merely the brother of the guy you’re not dating. He was drinking at the ball. Maybe he doesn’t even remember you were there.
“Bunny?” She murmured the question under her breath at Peter. A pathetic attempt at delaying the inevitable.
He glanced down at her. “Don’t ask.” His voice was all resignation, no humor.
Peter turned around, forcing Emelia to follow.
“Of course I made it. I was hardly going to miss Mum’s cooking, was I?” Was she the only one who caught the forced cheer in his voice?
Victor stopped still at the sight of her, a strange look across his face. Her heart stopped too. Was this it? The moment that her whole crazy plan blew up in her face?
“Well.” He dropped an expletive. “Bunny brought a girl home. Who would’ve thought?”
“Victor!” It was impressive how much censure Maggie could fit into six letters.
Emelia waited for an apology, even a token “Sorry, Mother.” But none was forthcoming. Awkward silence reigned, accented only by the sound of birds chirping and tree branches bending in the wind.
Victor was the same in broad daylight as he had been in the shadows. Same blond mop, flinty gray-blue eyes, strong jaw, and sardonic smile. None of which could distract from the angry red scar that wound its way up one cheek.
Finally, Peter cleared his throat. “Victor, this is Emelia. Emelia, my brother, Victor.” His voice was strained.
“Hi.” She nodded. She certainly wasn’t going to shake his hand.
He gave her a nod back. His gaze piercing, a smirk playing on his lips. He knew exactly who she was. “Emelia. Interesting name. Had it for long?”
She forced a clueless smile. “Just my whole life.”
“Right. So, let’s go inside. Get a cup of tea, shall we?” Bill’s words softened the tension, but nothing could soften the dark looks the brothers were giving each other.
This was going to be an interesting afternoon. The perfect family Emelia had conjured up was not so perfect. At all.
The only reason Peter hadn’t bundled Emelia right back into the car and driven away was because of the hurt it would have caused his mum.
It was like being sucker punched twice in quick succession. First with the mocking childhood nickname he’d always hated. Then with the caustic reminder of what a failure he was when it came to relationships. Like it hadn’t been obvious their entire lives that he was neither as smart nor as good-looking as his brother.
Fortunately Victor, having achieved his goal of total humiliation, had lost interest and taken off in his car, promising he’d be back for lunch. Watching him careen down the drive even made the air smell sweeter.
“Peter tells me the two of you are hoping to plan a charity ball? To help SpringBoard?” His mother addressed her question to Emelia as they entered the house’s main door.
“We are. It will be our one big event of the year.”
“We haven’t been having much luck with venues.” Peter draped his arm around his mother’s shoulder. “Any chance the house is free the first Saturday in December?”
“I’ll have a look at the booking schedule, but I can’t think of anything off the top of my head.”
“On that note, want a tour?” He turned to Emelia, who looked remarkably composed considering what he’d landed on her in the last half hour.
“Sure.” Emelia looked around the atrium they’d entered, her gaze trailing over the many doors and large staircase leading up to the next level.
“Do you want to come?” He directed the question at his parents. Out of courtesy, not desire, though it was fifty-fifty whether they’d pick up on that.
His mother shook her head. “Oh no. I’ll go check the calendar, and I need to finish the pudding.”
“I can—” His father got cut off by an obvious elbow to the torso from his mum. “I just need to do a few things and, um, stuff.”
“So, we’ll leave you two to it.” His mother smiled sweetly.
“Okay then. We won’t be too long.”
His father disappeared back out the front door while his mother headed toward the kitchen with a rustle of trousers, in a cloud of floral perfume. Peter touched Emelia’s elbow to steer her into the front parlor.
“How long have you lived here?”
“Not long, in the grand scheme of things. Like I said, we never dreamt in a million years Dad would inherit the title, but as life would have it, his uncle died without having any children, so it passed to his brother, then Dad’s cousin inherited it. He was the only son and only had daughters. So when he died in a car accident when I was ten, the title came to Dad. He was an army man. In fact, when he inherited, he was serving in Iraq. So things were a bit crazy until he finished his tour and got discharged.”
Emelia spun around, taking in the bookcase-lined wall, the large oriental rugs covering hardwood floors, and the gleaming windows overlooking part of the garden. “I can’t believe you had us checking out all those venues when you had the perfect thing right here.”
“I wouldn’t call it perfect. It’s a decent drive from Oxford and we still don’t know it’s available.” And if it hadn’t been for her heartbreak over Rhodes House, he never would have said anything about it. Not having to wonder if someone was his friend because of his sporting accomplishments or his aristocratic connections was liberating. “We should go look at the ballroom.” He steered her out of the parlor and across the main hall toward the double doors.
“Still, you owe me.”
“What?”
“Hmmmm.” She pursed her lips, pretending to ponder, but she didn’t even need to think about it. “I want the story behind Bunny.”
He groaned. “Seriously? How about something else?” Anything else.
She grinned. “Nope. Bunny.”
“It’s actually not very exciting.” Far from being exciting, it laid bare the animosity that had existed between his brother and him since before he’d even been born. She was a smart girl. She’d be able to read between the lines of even the most concise version.
He sighed. “Victor was two when they found out they were having me. He wasn’t thrilled at the idea of having a sibling, so, as a way to placate him, they told him he could help name me.” Clearly his normally conservative, predictable parents had been drunk or something that day. They still couldn’t explain what had possessed them to offer up naming the baby to their two-year-old as some kind of sibling consolation prize.
“Peter Rabbit was his favorite story at the time, so he decided to name me Peter. But from the day I was born, he called me Bunny.”
They would never know if the nickname had started as one of endearment, but for as long as Peter could remember, it had only been used to mock and torment him. And mockery had turned to outright disdain on the day that had changed everything.
Emelia studied him for a second, p
robably seeing on his face everything he hadn’t put into words.
“This is the ballroom through here.” Turning the cool brass handle, he opened the door and stepped back so Emelia could enter first.
“Wrrrreeeeoooow.” The sound registered as something flew through the air and landed on Emelia’s head. She screamed. Her hands flapped in the air as she reached up to her head, only to jerk away when an angry hiss resounded.
Oh, dear. He’d completely forgotten about Reepicheep.
Twenty-Five
ONE SECOND PETER WAS EXPLAINING how he’d come to be named after a rabbit and the next something sharp had landed on top of her head and latched there.
Emelia spun in a circle, screaming and trying to dislodge whatever type of creature it was while it gripped her hair and hissed.
“Stop moving!” Peter’s authoritative tone cut through her hysteria, and she stopped midspin.
“Is it a rat?” Please don’t let it be a rat. If there was a rat in her hair, she’d probably puke.
“It’s okay, Reep.” Peter’s voice was soft and soothing. And it wasn’t directed at her. He stepped closer and reached out toward her head. “Come to me.” Her head got lighter, but the feeling of her hair being pulled with it caused her to cry out.
“Shhhhh.”
He had so better not be directing that at her.
She could feel him trying to untangle her hair from something. He was so close, she could smell his woodsy cologne.
“There we go. Good boy.” The weight lifted from her head as Peter stepped back, taking the thing with him. “Emelia, meet Reepicheep.”
In his hands was the ugliest runt of a cat she had seen in her entire life. “Cat” was almost too kind a description. His fur was calico. Where one ear should have been was a half-jagged edge. He was fat, but with stumpy little limbs. If there was ever a contest for the world’s ugliest cat, he would be a sure winner.
He glared at her with evil little cat eyes. He clearly rated her about as highly as she rated him.
“Reepicheep after the mouse in Prince Caspian?” He couldn’t be serious. This insult to cats around the world couldn’t be named after one of Lewis’s best creations.