“I hope you piss blood for weeks,” he mutters, his chest heaving as he props himself against the marble vanity.
“Fuck.” I clutch my side, my other palm flat against the wall as the pain radiates up my ribs and down my flank. “I probably will.”
“Good, you deserve it.”
“Probably.” I begin to straighten slowly, then pass the blue dress to the woman in the shower with a murmured apology.
As the hammering on the door picks up again, Griffin bellows back, “Oh, do fuck off.”
“Oof.” The pain worsens as I approach the vanity and slide my hand through my hair.
“You’re going to find her then?” Griffin’s voice sounds harsh, but if it’s any consolation to him, I also feel ill.
“Yes,” I answer. “I’m going to try to.” Try to make her see sense.
“Well, she’s not interested in me, but if she’ll have your arse at all,” he says, pulling himself straight and holding out his hand, “I hope she makes you fucking miserable.”
And that’s something we shake on.
44
Alexander
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on between you and Van?” I try not to wince as I lead us into a turn. I’ve seen snippets of Holland since I’d dragged my sore body from that bathroom, avoiding the gazes of the gawkers in the hallway. I’m sure it’ll make for good gossip within the Duffys’ circle. The stuffy duke and the barrister behaving like adolescents over a girl.
A girl who’s still avoiding me.
“Van is a good friend,” my sister answers, keeping her eyes studiously over my right shoulder. Her feet following the rhythm of the music as a singer croons low-pitched words from a nearby stage, words that tempt lovers to run away in the night.
Van as a friend? I used to think so.
“He’s not the man you think he is,” I mutter repressively as my sister’s gaze seeks mine.
“It’s not like you to speak ill of an old friend.”
“There are things I could tell you about him that—” I start as Isla increases the pressure on my shoulder in warning.
“Then don’t. I have no intentions of discussing him with you, Sandy. But you don’t have to worry. Not about this.”
“What else do I have to worry about if not you?”
“How about the state of your love life?”
“A state indeed.”
“Well, you were stupid enough to bring that girl. Beautiful though she is, she’s extremely vapid. Where is she, by the way?”
Fuck. It even hurts to shrug.
But I suspect Van sent Jessica to a hotel. Maybe he even went with her. Though given the way this conversation is going, that could be a case of wishful thinking.
“Holland brought Griffin,” I find myself muttering defensively.
“Did she? I thought she travelled here with me.”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
“Yes,” she agrees. “But do you see them together?”
“That’s not the point.”
“No, that’s exactly the point. Well, along with the fact that you were stupid enough to think bringing someone else would send her into a jealous fit, and then your arms.” Isla sighs. “Honestly, Sandy. Did you really think it would help?”
“The night isn’t over yet.”
“Just confess. Tell her you love her.”
“What was that?”
“Don’t, Sandy. I know you better than you know yourself. You know, I don’t know if you remember, but you behaved nothing like this with Leonie.”
“Leonie was different.” Very different. I don’t even remember why I proposed, if I’m honest. Perhaps we seemed like the perfect match. Nothing so mundane as jealousy or monogamy for us.
“You know, I remember asking if you loved Leonie. It was before your engagement. Do you remember what you said?”
“No. Nor do I want to.”
“Don’t frown,” she says, smoothing her hand over my brow. “You’re not the man you were then.”
I’m not frowning because of that. I’m frowning because my side throbs. And my head. And while I feel some relief in the knowledge that Holland isn’t fucking Griffin, I still can’t get her alone for five fucking minutes.
This time, my sister gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
“Go on, then,” I reply. “What rubbish did I spout?”
“You said, ‘I’m a Dalforth.’ ” Isla’s tone drops in to some approximation of my voice. “ ‘Feelings were bred out of us before Henry chopped off his first wife’s head’.”
“But he didn’t chop off his first wife’s head.”
“Exactly.”
“Ah, the folly of youth.”
“And now you’re an old man, and you should know better than to play silly games. Throw her over your shoulder, Sandy. Take her to your bedroom.”
“That’s not part of the problem,” I answer, less than sanguine.
“Just don’t let her out again until you’ve made sure she’s yours.”
“Really, Izzy?” I chastise. “And you’re a supposed feminist.”
“I’m a sister first, and it breaks my heart to see how ridiculous you’re both being.”
Oh, God, how I laugh. I laugh so hard my feet refuse to keep in time with the music.
“Look, there she is. Dancing with someone who isn’t you. Let’s cut in.”