“So, if I marry Clara, you’ll agree to leave the estate intact?”
My father looks at me patiently, as though I’ve somehow forgotten how things are done around here. I’ve forgotten nothing.
“Her parents are holding her dowry until she marries and produces a natural heir.”
“You yourself just said we have mere months before the HMRC seizes the estate.”
He thins his lips.
“Doesn’t matter what I do, does it? You’re still going to sell off the parcel regardless.”
“Unless you’re willing to give me the equivalent of her dowry now.”
“How generous of you, Father, to leave it up to me to select which life I destroy.”
“Hard choices often have to be made to preserve the lineage. Do you think that Gwendolyn was Robert’s first choice? Hardly.”
Silently, I resolve to warn Clara of her parents’ designs on her life, ensure Beatrice is properly cared for, and put in a request with my barrister—the one I hired outside of my family’s influence—and have him make an offer on Adrian’s property. From there I can put it in a trust for Adrian’s family.
I’m just grateful that my brother has already seen himself clear of this place, and I will do the same. If it weren’t for Bea, I’d let the estate go in a heartbeat.
“With that settled, we need to discuss Beatrice,” my father says, assuming my compliance. “She, too, must come to an understanding of her responsibilities. The Shrewsburys also have an eligible son, which would make things quite convenient for us.”
“Have you approached the Shrewsburys about this secondary deal?”
He steeples his fingers, dipping his head like some wise patriarch. “They are amenable, though we’ll need to negotiate terms, of course.”
“Of course.”
My father adores an audience, so I let him speak, listening as he details the stomach-churning plan to strip my sister, Clara, and Clara’s brother of all autonomy so that he can keep this facade of British aristocracy going. My mind begins to spin, and by the time he’s finished, I know exactly how to outmaneuver him.
Time to find my man and get the hell off this island.
12
GAEL
Beatrice presses her finger to her lips as she approaches the door to the dining room. Quietly, she opens the door a sliver.
“…and you should not have come here, on Christmas, with a little Mexican boy. Really, Ptolemy. I thought you had more taste than that.”
Beatrice inhales softly, shaking her head. It’s certainly not the first time I’ve heard someone say my nationality like a racial epithet, but something about hearing those hateful words in that deep, posh cadence makes me feel one centimeter tall, like maybe I do have something to be ashamed of.
Fuck that, obviously. But the thought is still there. Worse, Tolly doesn’t immediately defend me. That hurts just as badly.
“You are right, bringing him here was a mistake,” Tolly says, sounding like a robot again.
Beatrice’s eyes widen.
“That is the first sensible thing you’ve said all day.” His father’s reply is chilling.
I shake my head, not sure what I’ve heard. I grab the door, ready to… I don’t know? Defend myself? I stop cold, though, when I hear mention of a dowry, and then Tolly say, “So, if I marry Clara, you’ll agree to leave the estate intact?”
I step back, numb as they coldly discuss the fate of an unsuspecting queer woman in a stately Mancunian accent. I hear something about marrying off Bea as well.
I am the world’s biggest fool, declaring my love for a man I’ve met in person five, maybe six times. I let our chemistry and the fact that he’s helped out a few kids blind me.
He bought that property next door,I reason with myself.
