“I think you’ll find that’s Griffin’s job,” the duke’s deep voice rumbles, though he sounds as though he doesn’t care either way.
Isla’s gaze moves to Griffin, doubling back as she realises I’m still standing where he left me. Where Alexander’s gaze has cemented me.
Like a damn mannequin.
“Griffin, get Holly a drink, would you?” She takes my arm and leads me to the sofa opposite Alexander.
“What’s your poison, Hol?” Griffin calls across the room.
I lick my lips as I refuse to look at my poison of choice.
I’ve given up things that are bad for me.
“Let’s have martinis,” Isla announces, answering the question on my behalf, possibly intuiting my pattern of thought.
Martinis are made and served by the butler, Mr McCain, who materialises in the room like magic. He avoids my gaze as he proffers me my drink from a silver tray. The first one goes down too quickly to notice the taste, but the second is crisp and deliciously dry. The boys are engrossed in their respective iPads and no help to the stilted conversation as they are completely oblivious to the pre-volcanic atmosphere. Meanwhile, Isla flaps around the room like a nervous bird. At least until Mr McCain announces dinner.
This is . . . kind of unexpectedly fancy. The family dining room is set as though to accommodate an intimate dinner party, not a family dinner. A flower arrangement sits at the centre of the dining table covered with white linens. Candles are lit, and the lamplight is low.
I know the family doesn’t dine like this every evening. Dougal cooks when he’s here, sure, but Mr McCain doesn’t stand on ceremony and serve. Seriously, I’ve eaten with Isla and the kids at the kitchen table on nights when everyone was expected to load their own plate into the dishwasher afterwards.
Griffin holds out my chair, Hugh valiantly beating his uncle to do the same for his mother before the meal begins. And still, Mr McCain keeps his gaze from mine as the first course is served. He’s disproving, I guess. I’m sure it won’t be long until the rest of the staff hear how I’m with Griffin now. They’ll hate me, I’m sure, and not just because he doesn’t have much of a fanbase at Kilblair. But they’d no doubt hate me more if Alexander had gotten his way.
If I’d stayed on in the capacity he’d wanted me to.
“This is really delicious,” I murmur, then glue my eyes to my plate to stop them from wandering his way. I stick my fork—one of three on the table in front of me, and snaps for me because I know what each is for—into the shell of a North Sea crab, the meat of the crustacean seeped in koji butter, so I’m told. Not that I have any idea what that is. I heap a little onto a delicate sliver of sourdough and take a bite of the decadent deliciousness.
“Oh, Sandy.” Isla rolls the deliciousness around her mouth as she looks to the other end of the six-seater table—she sits to my left, Griffin to my right, and the boys facing me—“I think I might need to steal Dougal.”
“There’s no need,” he drawls. I can still feel his eyes on me. “I have no plans to be anywhere else but Kilblair currently.”
Was that a threat?
“Are you looking forward to the Duffys’ party?” Looking up from the crab shell, I try (not for the first time) to engage him in conversation.
Try for normal. Aim for amiable.
“Not particularly.” His words are cool and dismissive, yet the way his eyes roam over me is wholly contradictory.
“Sandy’s not especially big on parties,” Isla adds.
“On account of him almost being a geriatric, I should imagine,” Griffin mutters only for my ears.
“He wouldn’t even let me hold one for his birthday.”
Griffin uses the moment to slide his hand between my shoulders where he rubs. The fact that I have to fight the instinct to rebuff his touch is something he seems to understand. And ignore. “You okay there, babe?” he asks in a tone that’s a little too sickly to be sweet.
“I’ve seen Babe,” Archie pipes up. “It’s a film about a talking pig.” He glares across the table at Griffin. “You shouldn’t call Holly a pig. It’s not very polite.” The kid’s solemn expression morphs as his attention swings to his mom. “Mummy, why do think writers write but fingers don’t fing?”
“Because the English language is a strange and wonderous thing,” she answers without missing a beat. “Eat your fish cakes, Archie.”
The boys are dining on a somewhat adapted menu. They’re missing out because this crab is yum.
“You’re sure you’re enjoying that?” Isla murmurs, sliding me a concerned glance.
“Yes. It’s delicious.” I shoot her a quick smile. “I guess I’m not very hungry.” On account of every mouthful feeling like a lead weight as it hits my stomach. I wish I could manage it because it really is delicious. Light and delicate, and flavoured with dill.