The way my abs felt like I’d spent the night doing crunches.
The way the duvet lay barely on the bed.
The detritus of my clothing scattered across the floor.
The smell of her perfume and the unmistakable aroma of a night spent fucking.
It was real. So very real, I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face.
The only downside I could see was the fact that Holland wasn’t with me.
So, I’d shot out of bed, the sheets parachuting behind me as I’d made my way for the quickest shower imaginable, determined to find her this morning. Determined that we come to some kind of understanding of where each of us stood.
Next to each other, preferably. For as long as we both can stand it. If last night did anything for me, anything that is apart from reminding me I need to incorporate more abs-centric exercises into my workout, it was to prove that I can’t stay away from her. Hopefully, she feels the same way.
I’d headed for the main kitchen, gathering from Archie that she could sometime be found down there. She wasn’t there, though Chrissy was, but I was in no mood for a scolding or an interrogation. I’d promised I’d return later for the former, once I’d done what needed to be done. As for the latter, no one interrogates a duke, not even the woman who had a hand in raising him, no matter how I might’ve suggested I’d stand for it last night. My efforts frustrated, and given I had no idea where Holland might be or what room she might be staying in, I’d decided to try the kitchen in the family apartments.
“There’s only porridge or toast to eat in here,” my sister says coolly, falling into step with me. For much of our childhood, Isla was the taller of us. My father used to delight in saying she’d stolen the nutrients from our mother’s body, leaving me the weaker of the two. He’d taunted that she should be the duke, and I’m sure in many ways that might be true. But that’s not how inheritance laws work. Besides, I’m sure she’s much happier without the Dalforth millstone around her neck. As it was, our father changed his tune the year I turned sixteen, and I grew to tower over her. And him. But I got to disappoint him in lots of other ways, thankfully.
“I’m not hungry,” I reply. “I just need coffee.”
Breakfast this morning will be served in the dining room, as always after a formal dinner with guests. But I’m not ready to face the horde and their speculative looks, not that I particularly care what they think or feel the need to explain myself.
One of the perks of being at the top of the family tree.
Isla pauses at the entrance to the family kitchen, effectively blocking my way. “Portia keep you awake last night?”
“You know better than that.” With a sigh, I fold my arms. Portia was in a room far, far from mine; Chrissy never was very fond of her. Not that she’s in her room now because after breakfast, I was informed she’d left Kilblair already but had left a note. The note was, understandably, terse and informed me that after I disappeared last night, she’d asked John to take her home this morning. So her apology, and final goodbye, will need to be postponed for a while.
“Are you going to let me pass,” I say next, “because when I say I could kill for a coffee, I’m not entirely sure it’s a hyperbole.”
Her gaze flicks over my face. “You haven’t shaved,” she announces with a frown.
“I’m aware.” I run my hand over my bristled chin. “When in Scotland . . .”
“Fine,” she retorts in an irritable tone as she pivots and thunders her way into the family kitchen.
I might be at the top of the family tree, but that’s not to say everyone agrees with me.
“You’re not joining our guests?” she asks, or more likely suggests. I shake my head as she turns to the sink, sliding her retort over her shoulder. “Why? Are you worried you might find another of your conquests in there, wearing an apron?”
“That’s unfair, Isla.” I know she doesn’t like Portia, but I sensed no animosity towards Holland last night. And she knows I’ve never dallied with a member of staff before. It’s not a question of it being “them and us”. I just respect the status quo and value their help far too much.
Well, that and I’d never met Holland before now.
I wonder what would’ve happened if we hadn’t met in London first.
“If you aren’t going down to breakfast, why should I?” she retorts, patently ignoring my rebuke as water explodes from the tap. She begins to rinse a cup as though it owes her money.
“Because you have a much better sense of decorum,” I answer carefully as she turns and thrusts the dripping cup at me. Shaking the excess water from it, I slide it under the spout of the coffee machine.