My laugh is sudden, harsh, wiping out my concern over his outburst seconds before. ‘We’re not that close. I think my stepmother fears I might lead him astray.’
I shake my head and brush her away from my mind.
‘Why would you say that?’ he asks.
Why? There are so many reasons why—starting with my mother and ending with me. ‘Because of my mother...who she was, what she did for a living.’
‘What does it matter what she did or who she was? You are you.’
I don’t miss the fact that he doesn’t question what my mother did, that he already knows. He’s more aware of my family than I would ordinarily expect for a typical guy. Which explains why he knows of that magazine article too. But I won’t hold it against him. Why shouldn’t he know what the press are so quick to dish out?
‘If only it were that simple,’ I say.
‘I can’t imagine what life must have been like for you, growing up with a stepmother who sees you in that way. It must have been lonely.’
He reaches over, his hand soft upon my shoulder, his thumb gently caressing, and I lean into the comfort he offers, grateful for it.
‘It would’ve been if not for Granny.’
And it will be again when she’s gone.
The pain hits me full force and I take a shuddery breath, trying to let it go.
‘You’re very close?’
I nod, struggling to talk. ‘She’s been good to me. Life...life isn’t going to be the same when...when...’
I can’t finish the sentence, let alone the thought.
My fingers shake as I raise my glass to my lips and blink back the tears that threaten. ‘She has only weeks—maybe two months at most. The doctors don’t seem to know.’
His hand reaches around me, drawing me in, and his other hand takes my glass from my unresisting fingers to place it on the side.
I don’t realise I’m properly crying until I’m against his chest, the dampness of my tears seeping into the fabric of his shirt.
My body shudders with the sobs I’ve kept trapped inside for so long, and the heaviness eases as I let go. I breathe in his scent, his warmth, his comfort, tuck my hands beneath my chin as I curl into his lap.
Granny’s words—stiff upper lip, girl; never show people you’re weak or they’ll flock like vultures—run through me, mock me. But being with Ash isn’t part of a show, an act. It’s real, I’m real and it feels good.
I snuggle down deeper against him and just let go...
If he’s a vulture, I’ll happily build an aviary to keep him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I HOLD COCO to me, one hand smoothing over her hair, the other on her back. My heart pounds in my chest, so hard I fear she’ll hear every beat for what it is: my guilt, my deception...and something more.
I care about her. There’s no use denying it. It’s as real as she is in my arms.
I’m starting to get answers too. I’m willing to bet that the Duchess’s imminent death is the reason Philip Lauren is so desperate to discredit his sister. It’s clear the standard to which Coco believes she has to live her life, her grandmother demonstrated it by example and the slander Philip is after will pull her apart in the eyes of the Duchess. Heaven knows what would happen then. Whether the Duchess would, or indeed could, put family ties—love—over reputation and title.
I want to dig deeper, ask Coco more questions, but I can’t just yet. The way she’s sobbing suggests she hasn’t cried in a long while, and this I can do: hold her while she lets go.
‘We’re not supposed to be talking about me.’ She sniffs eventually, and then gives an unladylike snort that makes my lips quirk.
I bow my head and press a kiss to her hair, the scent of her shampoo teasing my senses and calming my pulse. ‘No? What are we supposed to be talking about?’
She wipes her eyes with her sleeve and looks up at me, her big green eyes glistening and wide with so much emotion that it reaches inside me.