Chapter 16
William
Iendured an evening meal at the Dower House with Mum and watched the England v France match on her couch with Bramley, then he and I dragged the only surplus mattress not riddled with carpet beetles up to the belvedere at the top of the folly. He fussed about for a while—making beds, muttering about biscuit crumbs and falling standards.
“Bramley, I hope you realise you’ve ruined my carefully curated Wallowing Bachelor Aesthetic,” I scolded him on his way out the door.
Freshly showered and finally alone, I found myself pacing anxiously about the folly, waiting for Petey Boy’s arrival. It was gone 10:00 p.m., and I was the kind of nervous where if I went for a poop, it’d tumble out in cubes.
“Read,” I said to myself, and plucked my well-thumbed copy ofThe Broken Crownoff the coffee table. My buttocks had barely grazed the fabric of Dad’s old armchair when I heard the click of the door downstairs.
“Petey Boy?” I called down casually, as if I hadn’t been on tenterhooks for an hour.
“Is it all right?” His voice sounded unsure.
I stood at the top of the stairs. “Of course, come on in! This is your home now. Welcome to the pyjama party!”
My fake fiancé pulled the door closed and kicked off his shoes. He looked tired but as beautiful as ever.
“Cup of tea?” I offered.
Petey turned to look up at me, his eyes suddenly on stalks. “Uhhh, you should probably…” He waggled his finger at me, and I realised he could see straight up my boxer shorts.
“Oh! Right. Sorry.” I bounced down the stairs. Petey didn’t take his eyes off me the whole way down. “Left my dressing gown upstairs in the belvedere, I’m afraid. I’ll try to remember for next time. Was that a yes to tea? Have you eaten? I could boil you an egg.”
“I ate at the catering truck.”
As I bent over the gas ring, Petey started unbuttoning his pink boiler suit. He had a white vest on underneath, and I kept sneaking glances as his fingers worked lower and lower. When he got to his waist, he tied his sleeves together in front of his groin. Then he flopped onto the bed.
“You look exhausted,” I said.
“Tough day. Armando’s affair with Ellie came out. He’s a lord and she’s a servant, so according to the rules, she had to be dismissed.”
“Sounds a bit brutal. What does that mean, in practice?” I reached for a couple of mugs from the kitchenette.
“She’s currently in the Travelodge with the aftercare team, and she’ll be on a train back to Essex in the morning. The cast is a mess about it. It’s our first dismissal.”
“Golly, I didn’t realise that was a thing. What happens to Armando?”
“Nothing. He’s a lord.”
A laugh barked out of me, my mind flickering to the envelope upstairs.
“Oh, for a world where a title meant no consequences.”
Petey Boy was leaning back on the bed—the slender length of him, the porcelain skin, the pink of his nipples showing through his vest. He was breathtakingly handsome. I pointed at the kettle.
“This thing takes ages. Why don’t you have a shower to wash away the day, and I’ll take these up to the study?”
Petey Boy shook his head. “I think I’ll hit the hay. I’m sapped.”
“Oh,” I said, failing to hide my disappointment. “I was hoping we could, you know, get to know each other.” And I winked, for good measure. I don’t know why. The mood came over me. Seemed the friendly thing to do.
Petey Boy blinked, his eyebrows bouncing. Then his eyes sparkled through the tiredness, a glorious grin widening across his face.
“OK, sure, why not. We’re engaged, aren’t we?”
A warm tingle flushed through my body.
