As I study the portraits, their lifeless, judging eyes seem to follow my movements. I wrinkle my nose without realizing and Max gives me a small nudge. Quickly, I smooth my expression while Alexander continues.
“This house is suffocated by tradition. I want to breathe fresh life into these walls, which is precisely why I began donating pieces from my collection to public institutions.Art shouldn’t be hoarded for selfish enjoyment. Art should be shared, appreciated, even debated,” he says.
I must admit, for a prude, it’s refreshing to see someone with so much privilege and entitlement appreciate art that would make the older generation clutch their pearls.
Alexander’s expression softens. “I find great joy in supporting emerging artists—those voices who might otherwise be silenced by the establishment if it weren’t for those with the ability to help them speak. It’s liberating.”
The staff member returns with a silver tea service that I assume costs more than my car, setting it down before us on an antique table. I thank her, lifting the floral teacup to my mouth and taking a long sip.
Alexander watches as my lips hug the rim of the cup. The way he watches me is so intent it feels like a physical touch.
I chance a quick peek at Max. He’s glaring at our host.
“Sir,” the staff member says. “Lady Harrington is on the phone and wishes to speak with you.”
“Please tell her I’m busy,” Alexander says.
“Sir,” she insists, nervously fidgeting with her hands as her gaze bounces between the three of us. “It’s regarding Ms. Freya Larsen.”
The shift in the air is immediate. The young lord’s nostrils flare as he inhales a deep breath, his face painted with irritation. There’s a story there. Who’s Freya Larsen?
He gives us a curt nod, standing abruptly. “Please excuse me. Natalie here can show you where my collection is, select as many as you wish—I have plenty more. Stay as long as you like. I’ll meet up with you later.”
And with that, he leaves the room.
Once the door closes behind him, I turn to Max with a raised eyebrow. “Well, that was interesting,” I say.
“He wants you,” he says bluntly.
“He’s only human.”
“He’s engaged to be married.”
My eyebrows shoot to my hairline. “What? To who? How do you know?”
“Grayson told me.”
“Is that who the woman is?”
“Freya Larsen, yes. She’s a Dutch heiress.” Max’s voice drops lower. “It’s an arranged marriage.”
“An arranged marriage? Why?”
He adjusts his cuff links, leaning in closer and lowering his voice. “From what Grayson gathered, financial necessity.”
My eyes widen. “What do you mean? The Harringtonsclearlyhave enough money.”
Max nods. “All this? It’s expensive to maintain. The estate, the staff, the collections—it costs a fortune to keep up appearances. And word has it Alexander’s father had quite the gambling habit.”
“Gambling?” I gasp, leaning in. “The plot thickens.”
“Yes. But that’s not the only reason the marriage would be beneficial. The Larsen family has something more valuable than old money,” Max says.
I roll my eyes. “I’m hardly into guessing games—just spit it out already.”
“A renewable energy empire. Wind farms, solar technology, green shipping fleets—they’re all worth billions and are positioned perfectly for the future economy,” he says, his gaze flicking toward the door Alexander disappeared through. “The Harringtons have the land, the social network, and political influence. The Larsens have the cash and the cutting-edge technology.”
I scrunch my nose. “So, what? They’re selling off their children like cattle for a bunch of windmills and butlers? That’s pretty bloody bleak.”
