I wouldn’t say frogmarched. Is that what my desperation to kiss her looked like?
“It was a misunderstanding,” I murmur blandly, wondering what on earth would possess him to bring up such a thing, along with how is it possible he doesn’t realise the same girl is sitting at this table, in a dress the colour of summer clouds at sunset? Dark, luxurious hair piled on top of her head, she wears no jewellery but a thin chain at her wrist and the thick silver band at her thumb. A band she twists nervously.
“Americans,” he asserts. “That’s who you want working for you. American service is second to none.”
“But she had an American accent,” his much younger wife offers up in an annoying squeak as she declines the first course with a lift of her skeletal hand. “I’m on Dr Newman’s thirty-day reset,” she explains with a mildly condescending smile.
“You’re sure?” her husband asks, turning a little violently to her before swinging to me.
“Yes, Dr Newman said—”
“The girl?” he demands. “She was American?”
Griffin glances down the table, looking like a bastard holding all the aces. The analogy probably extends to the four spare ones he’d have shoved up his sleeves. I force myself to glare back as I picture myself knocking out his front teeth. I sincerely hope McCain’s mind-reading skills are sharp tonight because I’m going to need alcohol. Lots of it.
“All of his grace’s staff are from the local village,” Portia curiously answers on my behalf.
“I’m unsure what would possess you to say so,” I murmur, not sparing her a glance. I know I’m being rude, but I can’t help it. I feel like whipping up her chair, carrying her down to where Holland sits, and exchanging the pair. Which isn’t fair. I make a mental note to add Portia to my list of people requiring an explanation tomorrow.
Isla, Chrissy, Portia, Holland. Not necessarily in that order.
In Portia’s case, more than an explanation is necessary. We need to have a conversation about ending things. Though how you end something that never truly began, I’m not really sure. It’s not you, it’s me. But she knew that from the start. I didn’t pursue her. Quite the opposite. And I’ve always told her there was no future in this.
“I just meant—”
“McCain is from Edinburgh,” I say, cutting her off wearily. “George is from New York. Should I go on?”
“I just meant at the castle, darling.” I stare down to where she presses her hand over mine. Since when have I been her darling? She has certainly never been mine. “Of course you hire internationally,” she placates, as though speaking to an idiot. “You merely don’t have any American staff here on the estate.”
“What about Holly here?” Griffin calls up the table.
As I lift my gaze, my blood runs cold. As Portia’s hand rests over mine, so does Griffin’s over Holland’s, her eyes anywhere but meeting mine.
“I don’t think I’ve met Holly,” Portia says, picking up her glass.
“This is her,” he says, lifting Holland’s hand from the table.
I grit my teeth hard, foreseeing a trip to my dentist in the not-too-distant future. I begin to push back my chair, acting on instinct, not intellect. Portia’s hand tightens infinitesimally on mine, halting me in my actions and blessing me with some clarity. Portia would be why Holland refused to look at me. My hand holding darling, I think cynically. But she is right about one thing; to leave the table now would be wrong. It would be to play into his hands.
“She’s Archie and Hugh’s nanny,” Griffin offers happily. His gaze swings to Isla with a nod as though to encourage her confirmation. He and I both know he’s just making a circus of the whole thing. The server who is a nanny, the nanny who is a guest at the duke’s dinner table, sitting next to Griffin so serene and demure refusing to look at the duke who earlier dragged her out of the room. The duke, meanwhile, throws down drink after drink and glare after glare while his bastard half-brother plays at ringmaster.
It’s not Holland he’s trying to embarrass but me. Not that this makes me feel any less sorry to have put her in this situation. However, it could be that she may need to get used to it because I’m not going anywhere, and it looks as though neither is Griffin.
HOLLY
“Her name’s Portia,” Griffin whispers, bringing his mouth to my ear. I know why he does it; why he makes the moment between us look intimate. And I know why I don’t stop him. I don’t like being manipulated, but I find I like it even less when I look up to see the man who, not two hours ago, professed to a desperation for me sitting with another woman.