My mother knows about the Malloy controversy. She’ll have made it her business to know, but she does not acknowledge it. I’ve made my move, and it’s stalemate. She kisses Claudia’s cheeks and beckons for us to sit. Claudia takes the spot on the sofa beside me. Eli chooses an armchair closest to the door, as if preparing himself in case he needs to run. Noah stands by the window, looking out over the grounds. In this fussy room, his bulk seems obscene.
Join the club, mate.
I never fit here, either. Too loud, too creative, too emotional. The only person I ever felt comfortable with was Dylan… and look where we ended up.
I open myself up to people, and the darkness pulls them under.
Mother rings a bell and a line of staff trot in, wheeling trays piled with afternoon tea. Claudia’s eyes widen as she takes in the tiered cake stands.
“Okay, so there are some things I miss about Old Blighty.” I grab a scone from the stack and bite into it. A glob of cream sticks to my nose and I deliberately don’t wipe it away.
“Gabriel, please. Your crumbs.” The duchess holds out a cake plate. I debate not taking it, but it seems a deliberately antagonistic move, especially since we still need to find out why I’ve been summoned here, and she’ll be more amenable than the duke. I set the plate on my lap, but I wipe my fingers on the sofa cushion just to spite her.
“This tea is lovely,” says Claudia, taking a loud sip. I wonder if she’s too in awe of this place to be on guard, but then I catch a twinkle in her icicle eyes, her mouth cricking up at the edge. She’s playing this game with me. She can sense the fear in this room like a shark seeking out a drop of blood in the water.
“It tastes like shoe polish,” Noah mutters from the window.
“So, what’s going on, Mom?” My mouth is half-full of cucumber sandwich. The duchess flinches in horror, but she manages to retain her grip on her teacup.
“The estates are in good order. Your father’s newest horse will race in the Grand National this year, so he’s busy tending to that. Harold’s overseeing some work in the rose garden that—”
“I mean, what do you want with me? I came all the way from America to see you, and we’re going to talk about roses?”
“Our business can wait until the duke gets here.” She takes her tea with dainty sips. That’s how my parents refer to each other – by their titles. Because status is the only thing that matters to them.
Although… I glance over at Claudia, who’s shoved an entire cucumber sandwich into her mouth and has a dab of clotted cream on her cheek. She’s my queen, and I’m not afraid to say it. I want to shout it from every rooftop.
“Gabriel.”
That voice stabs through my chest.
I stand as my father strides into the room. As much as I loathe him with every fiber of my being, my back automatically straightens and my heels click together, just the way he taught me.
I’m surprised by the gauntness of his features, the way the skin on his cheeks sinks against the bone. I suppose I’ve imagined him immortal, like a vampire. Being in the same room as this guy sucks all the personality from the air.
He does not offer a hand to shake. We glare at each other from across the cakes. I hate that I see my own reflection in him – the same strong jaw, dark eyes, and sharp cheekbones that grace my album covers stare down at me like he longs to crush me beneath his heel.
Seeing him again is like staring up at an impenetrable fortress from the wrong side. I’m supposed to be inside his walls, warm and protected. Instead, I’ve spent my whole life throwing myself against the rocks of his indifference. Now I hurl myself against his battlements once more, my body battered and bruised, a war machine that’s been worn out from overuse. The blood pounds in my ears. I’m so certain I’m on the right side of this war, but so is he, and he’s the one with the high ground and the smug smile. I’m left wallowing in the mud.
The power I hold in this room is sucked away into the vacant depths of his eyes.
“Your Grace, I’ve poured your tea.” The duchess holds out a cup.
“I don’t want tea.” He shoves her arm away. “I want my son to return to England.”
“It’s lovely to see you again, Dad.” I’ve never called him Dad in my life. It’s always ‘Your Grace’ or, privately, ‘that wanker.’ I can tell from the curl at the corner of his lip that he doesn’t like it. “Yes, I’ve been having a grand old time in America, thanks for asking. I’m so happy you’re here today to meet my girlfriend and show her a little British hospitality.”
“Girlfriend?” The duke looks momentarily flummoxed. To be fair, he knows my reputation from the tabloids.
“Mackenzie Malloy, of the Californian Malloys. It’s an honor to meet you, sir.” Claudia extends her hand.
“Your Grace.” He stares at her palm with unveiled disgust.
“Huh?”
“The correct way to address me is not ‘sir,’ but ‘Your Grace.’”
“Um… sure.” Claudia glances at me, and I can see she’s trying not to laugh. “If you say so,Your Grace.”
