“Seriously?” Her eyes widen. She leans out the window to get a better look. “I was kidding. Gabe, this place isridiculous.”
That we agree on.
As we drive along the avenue of oak trees, the pristine lawns open out around us into neat rows ofparterres– flowers constrained into boxes, nature snipped and clipped and tidied away. A stone outer wall circles the hill, winding through terraced gardens and snow-dusted fields where thoroughbred horses meander. Signs next to the drive explain that the castle is off-limits, but direct visitors to the parking area where they can enjoy the gardens.
We pass under the portcullis. Even Noah Marlowe – who makes a habit of not being impressed by anything – gapes at the enormous medieval courtyard and high stone walls. Unlike the crumbling ruin we visited in Germany, this castle has been occupied by my ancestors for over five hundred years, and it’s immaculate. Not a stone out of place, ready to withstand a long siege.
It suits my father perfectly. The man believes he’s King Arthur, ready to save England from the barbarians.
I park the Jag beside a grotesque Victorian fountain of maenads dancing, with water splashing over their bare feet. As I pull up, a solemn figure emerges from the steward’s entrance and approaches us.
“Master Blackwich, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”
“You don’t have to lie to me, Harold.” I grin at our family butler. Harold doesn’t acknowledge my remark. If he ever had a funny bone in his body, working for my family for forty-five years has withered it away. He opens the car doors for Claudia and the guys.
Claudia nudges me. “You have a butler? He’s wearing a penguin suit and everything.”
“Oh yes. Harold’s family has served the Blackwiches for centuries.” It feels crass to talk about Harold while he’s standing right here, but he won’t answer questions about himself in front of my friends. It’s amazing how quickly I’ve stepped back into my role as master, lording it over others as if I’ve actually done something to deserve their respect.
Dylan is turning in his grave.
Harold snaps his fingers, and two valets appear from nowhere and whisk our bags away. We follow Harold beneath a second portcullis and into the vast inner courtyard.
“What the actual fuck?” Claudia’s neck must be getting a crick from the impossible angle she has it bent to gaze up at the turrets and buttresses. The sun sparkles off the stained glass of our family chapel, and a pair of peacocks strut across the paving. It’s actually kind of cool seeing this place through her eyes. It’s not quite enough to erase the shadows, but it helps.
“Where are the duke and duchess?” I ask Harold as we enter through the armory. Claudia’s eyes light up as she takes in the displays of swords and daggers collected from across the world that fill every square inch of wall space.
“Her Ladyship is expecting you in the drawing room for tea. His Lordship is attending some business and will return shortly.”
Of course. Father wouldn’t deign to put off the business of the empire for a visit from his only son who he hasn’t seen in three years.
I can navigate this house with the instincts of a zombie hunting out brains, but I fall in step behind Harold as he escorts us to the drawing room. The years peel away from me like dead skin. By the time we reach my mother’s drawing room, I’m a petulant fourteen-year-old once again.
My mother stands as we enter the room. It’s been three years since I saw her last, and the caked-on makeup and stylish hairstyle can’t hide the fact she looks old, worn out.
“Gabriel.” Her tone is warmer than I expect. She steps forward and extends her arm to me. I bend to kiss her knuckles, trying to stop myself from shuddering at the feel of her waxy skin. She leans forward and kisses my cheeks, her cloying perfume wafting over me.
I can see Claudia and Noah exchange a glance. I know what they’re thinking. After all the history between us, this formality seems forced, pointless. And it is. But that’s the British way.
It’s why every moment I lived in this house felt like being slowly suffocated to death under hyacinth perfume.
I step to the side to make introductions. Mother’s face remains impassive, but I see her darkening eyes she regards my friends as nothing more than mud tracked inside by the servants. “This is Noah Marlowe, and Eli Hart.”
“Richard Marlowe’s son?” My mother’s gaze swoops to Noah, reprocessing her earlier opinion of him now she knows he’s rich and influential. “We’ve had some dealings with your father through our charity work. He says you’re bound for the Olympics.”
Her tone is innocent, but I know my mother too well. Her head is a living Rolodex. She knows she got Noah mixed up with his dead brother. She’s deliberately trying to get a rise out of us. She wants to show that she’s in control, which can only mean one thing.
She’s afraid.
I’ve got her and the duke running scared because they haveno bloody ideawhat I’m going to do next. I know from the tabloids that the police came sniffing around Blackwich estate after Dylan’s death, and that cost the duke some parliamentary bill he wanted passed.
I may be back in their home, but I’m no longer under their thumb. I can burn this castle to the ground with nothing but a sex scandal, and they know it. For the first time in my life, I stand in this room wielding all the power.
I stand a little straighter.
Noah’s body stiffens as the duchess’ words wash over him. The temperature in the room drops two degrees. “That was my brother, Felix. I’m the other son.”
“And this is Mackenzie Malloy.” I wave my hands at my girl with a flourish, hoping to distract Mother from Noah’s penetrating stare.
