Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
“Unless?” I prompt.
“You or Maryanne could write it,” she whispers with an uncharacteristic, beseeching look at both of us.
“Sure,” Maryanne says. “I’ll do it.”
“No. I should do it. I’ll expand on the eulogy I did for his funeral. Shall we order lunch?” I ask, wanting to change the subject and feeling uncomfortable at my mother’s unusual display of emotion.
* * *
Rowena picks at her salad while Maryanne chases the last of her omelet around her plate with her knife and fork.
“Caroline said she might be pregnant,” I announce as I take another mouthful of chateaubriand.
Rowena’s head comes up quickly, and she narrows her eyes.
“She did say they were trying,” Maryanne adds.
“Well, if she is, it might be the only chance I get to have a grandchild and for this family to secure the earldom for another generation.” Rowena casts an accusing look at both of us.
“That would make you a grandmother,” I say dryly, disregarding the rest of her comment. “How will that go down with your latest cute conquest in New York?”
Rowena’s propensity for young men, sometimes younger than her youngest son, is renowned. She glowers at me as I take another bite of my steak, but I hold her glare, daring her to say anything. Strangely, for the first time ever, I feel as though I have the upper hand with my mother. It’s a novelty; so much of my adolescence was spent striving and failing to gain her approval.
Maryanne scowls at me. I shrug and slice another piece of delicious steak and pop it into my mouth.
“Neither you nor Maryanne shows any sign of settling down, and God forbid that the estates should pass to your father’s brother. Cameron’s a lost cause,” Rowena grumbles, choosing to ignore my insolence. My encounter with Alessia Demachi springs unbidden into my head, and I frown. I glance at Maryanne, and she’s frowning, too, and staring at her uneaten food.
Oh?
“What about the young man you met when you were skiing in Whistler?” Rowena asks Maryanne.
* * *
It’s dusk when I return to my flat. Drained and a little drunk, I have endured a forensic cross-examination from my mother on the status of all the estates, the London leasehold and rental properties, and the apartment refurbishment in Mayfair, not to mention the value of the Trevethick portfolio. I wanted to remind her that it’s none of her fucking business, but I feel a novel sense of pride that I was able to answer each of her questions in detail. Even Maryanne was impressed. Oliver Macmillan had briefed me well.
As I flop down on the sofa in front of the large TV in my spotless, empty flat, my mind wanders as it has all day, back to the conversation I had this morning with the dark-eyed daily.
Where is she now?
How long will she be in the UK?
What does she look like without the shapeless housecoat on?
What color is her hair? Dark like her eyebrows?
How old is she? She looks young. Too young, maybe.
Too young for what?
I shift uncomfortably in my seat and click through the TV channels. Perhaps my reaction to her was a one-off. I mean, she looked like a nun. Maybe I have a thing for nuns. I laugh to myself at the ridiculous thought. My phone buzzes, and it’s a text from Caroline.
How was lunch?
Tiring. The Dowager
was her usual self.
I’ll be the dowager if you get married!
Why is she telling me this? Besides, I have no interest in marrying anyone. Well…not at the moment. My mother’s tirade about grandchildren comes to mind, and I shake my head. Kids. No. Just no. Not yet anyway.
That’s not happening anytime soon!
Good.
What are you doing?
Home watching TV.
Are you OK?
Can I come over?
The last thing I want or need is Caroline messing with my head or any other part of my anatomy.
I’m not alone.
It’s a small white lie.
You’re still whoring, I see. :P
You know me well.
Good night, Caro.
I stare at the phone waiting for her response, but it remains silent so I turn my attention back to the television, only to find there’s nothing I want to watch. I switch it off.
Restless, I sit down at my desk and open Mail on the iMac. There are a few e-mails from Oliver about various estate issues that I don’t want to deal with on a Friday evening. They can wait until Monday. I check the time, and I’m surprised that it’s only 8:00 P.M., too early to go out, and the thought of a crowded club doesn’t appeal to me right now.
Feeling cooped up but reluctant to leave my flat, I wander over to the piano and take a seat. A composition I’d started weeks and weeks ago sits neglected on the rest. I follow the notes, the melody sounding in my head, and before I know it, my fingers are pressing the keys and playing the tune. The image of a young girl in blue with dark, dark eyes that strip me bare pops into my head. New notes form in a flurry, and I continue to improvise, playing beyond where my composition had stalled.