She doesn’t argue. She continues to focus on the road, looking vaguely amused. Amused. Not pissed off. Not hateful.Amused.How wonderful.
“You’re doing the face again.”
“I’m not!” I laugh, but I know I am.
I was mostly dreading the drive to the station. Lady Meade insisted in front of everyone that Cordelia give me a lift so she couldn’t exactly say no when she had nothing else to do and we were supposed to be giving the impression of being the best of friends. As much as I appreciated Lady Meade attempting to give us more bonding time, I was worried that it wouldn’t be a pleasant journey, but so far, so good.
Even after what had happened on the green, Tom offered me a lift back to London but I insisted I should take the train because, I explained, I already had my ticket and lots of work to do. The real reason was that I didn’t trust myself around him and I really didn’t like lying to him. Avoiding him as much as possible is the only answer.
Today was… well… great. He was funny and charming and kind. It was so easy to talk to him. He got my sense of humor. He was laid-back and interesting. There was a serious danger of me actually liking him. As in,likelike. I’ve been desperately repeating to myself over and over and over that Icannotfall for this guy. It’s inappropriate on so many levels. First, it would be incredibly unprofessional. Second, he doesn’t even know my real name. And third, he’s the future Marquess of Meade.
He’s practically part of the royal family. The closest I’ve come to royalty is when I met a Labrador whose grandmother had been bred in the Sandringham kennels.
The whole idea is absurd. He could be with anyone he wanted. He wouldn’t in a million years be interested in me if he discovered I wasn’t one of Cordelia’s posh friends, that I was a nobody who was paid to be there. He’d think I was pathetic.
And, anyway, he makes girls fall head over heels in lovewith him all the time. I’ve seen the evidence. All those stories and photos in the press of him over the years with a different woman on his arm at every event he’s ever shown up to. Who wouldn’t want to date him? He’s handsome, rich, and part of the British aristocracy. Essentially, he’s a modern Mr. Darcy. Without the grumpy, brooding persona. So, even if he did like me a little, which he didn’t, surely it would be for just a few minutes until a better option came along. What about that American pop star he was all over in the club the other night or whatever?
He is not for me. He is my client’s brother. That’s it.
Suddenly Cordelia’s voice jolts me from my thoughts. “You look confused.”
“Huh?” I shake my head as we turn onto the narrow, bumpy lane down to the station. “Oh, I was thinking about… something. I was thinking about the invitations.”
“What about them?”
“Just hoping they go out on time and reach everyone,” I say, making it up as I go along.
“I hope they don’t reacheveryone,” she says pointedly.
“What do you mean?” I ask carefully.
I already know she means Annabel. She had another argument with her parents today about inviting the Porthouse family—I overheard them talking about it in her father’s study earlier this afternoon. She pointed out Annabel’s behavior at dinner, claiming that if she was a member of any other family, she’d have every right not to invite someone so malicious about her and her wedding.
But her parents held their ground, gently but firmly reminding her of the consequences should Annabel not be invited. Not only would it be a great scandal, but it would also cause problems with the Earl and Countess of Derrington, who would find itgreatly offensive. Cordelia needn’t talk to her on the day, her mother insisted. There would be so many people, she could easily be avoided.
I didn’t listen to any more as I didn’t want to be accused of snooping but, judging by Cordelia’s furious expression when she joined us outside afterward, I assumed she’d lost the argument.
“Nothing,” she says, as we approach the station. “Forget I said anything.”
But I can’t. If she’s brought it up like that, maybe she wants to talk about it with someone. Maybe sheneedsto talk about it.
“Do you mean Annabel?” I ask. “What happened between you two?”
“Nothing.”
“I know you used to be friends and then she mentioned an incident. And when we broke into the wedding-dress studio, you said something about her betraying you and—”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she snaps, her expression darkening.
“Did she say something to the press or—”
“I said it was nothing.”
“I’m only wondering what exactly she did to—”
“God, what iswrongwith you?” she yells, her voice so full of venom it makes me recoil in my seat. “Don’t you ever just mind your own fucking business? I said I didn’t want to talk about it!”
“OK, I was—”
