Lady: Impossible (53 page)

‘Yes, that’s what I’m saying.’
 

I turn away, resting my head on the windowpane. ‘The thing is, we did connect. It’s not a wholly fraudulent set-up.’

‘But the prospect of seeing him again has put you in this mood?’

How I wish I could tell her about Blair. I’ve never felt this strongly about anyone, and he’s the real reason I’m so unsettled. If I’d never met him, I’d be fully focused on Oliver and certain of the match.

‘Oliver is wonderful. I just…’
 

‘Do you think we’re just panicking?’

‘Maybe.’ I bite my lip. ‘I don’t know.’

Mentally exhausted, I don’t offer any more explanations or theories. Mother, too, remains silent. Soon we’re pulling into our street, the sight of the house and proximity to Blair making me want to jump out of the moving vehicle so I can sprint up the street and reach him.
 

‘You’ll forgive me if I retire to bed without having tea?’ Mother asks as we come to a stop outside the house.

‘Yes, that’s fine.’

We disembark wearily and the cab driver helps me with my luggage. The majority of the cash I have in my purse is foreign, so my mother pays for the fare. Really, it doesn’t make a difference anyway. Whether I hand over money or not, it’s either hers or Father’s.

‘This should go without saying, but try not to bother Blair,’ she says as we walk up the path.
 

Nerves take hold of me. I’ll be tracking him down as soon as she gets upstairs.

‘I can serve my own tea.’

Seemingly believing me, she nods and opens the front door. ‘Welcome home, Millie.’

‘Hmm.’

I stand in the main hall, letting memories wash over me. The nostalgia is nothing compared to the distress I’ll feel when I return to Silsbury Hall, but that’s hardly a comfort to me now. Mother trudges up the stairs, eyeing me with concern as she ascends. It’s not until she’s almost disappeared from view that she speaks again.

‘Stay indoors if you’re upset. The last thing I need is a call from Lady Beresford telling me Eliza is worried about you.’

Again, I make a non-committal noise. I had five missed calls from Eliza when I turned my phone back on. ‘I have bigger problems than what the Routledges think of me.’

She snorts, amused. ‘That’s my girl.’

As soon as her footsteps fade, I make a beeline for the kitchen, even though it’s unlikely Blair is there, if he has a headache. It’s the only place I can check while my mother is still awake. I’ll mark it off my list and then prepare to sneak up to the attic. At least this way I can have a few minutes to think about what I’m going to say. God knows I’ve been going over the words in my mind for hours on end, but God also knows I’m prone to saying the wrong thing, or even the right thing in the wrong way.

What starts off as a hurried walk slows into a cautious prowl as I get further down the hallway. If I had a migraine, I would stay in my room with the curtains closed and a cool flannel on my forehead. But even then I’d need food at some stage, so it’s possible that Blair could be in the servants’ quarters.

I can’t balk now. It would be disastrous to leave yesterday’s phone call as the last word. I descend the stairs at a steady pace, stopping at the bottom when I think I hear a sound.

I wait a while but all is silent, so it must just have been the groan of old pipes or the breeze rattling a window. I step forward, seeing that there’s no one in the servants’ hall and no one in the kitchen.

Then I hear the sound again, a muffled banging followed by a scraping noise.
 

The laundry.
 

Adrenalin must be coursing through my veins at double-speed, because this feels like the epitome of a fight-or-flight situation. As dramatic as that sounds, there’s no denying that I haven’t been faced with this type of risk before. I actually care about the outcome here. If I was to tally up the care factor of all my flings and entanglements, the value would be nowhere near to the sum total of my feelings for Blair. Yes, it’s all happened very quickly, but that doesn’t automatically mean I have to doubt myself.

I take one step after another, rounding the corner and seeing that the laundry room door is ajar. There’s a strange yellow glow coming from the room, giving the impression that it’s lit by a broiling cauldron or a mad scientist’s experiment. After finally making it to the door of the most tucked away room in the house, I raise my hand and knock tentatively, before swinging the door open and revealing myself.

Blair stares at me from behind the ironing board. Already I can tell that he’s pained – the clenching of his jaw and the furrow in his brow both classic indicators of his unhappiness. Seeing him like this is heart-rending. With his jacket off and sleeves rolled up, he appears masculine and commanding. He’s even had a haircut, likely prompted by his sister’s birthday. Yet here he is in a room with nothing but an old lantern illuminating his workstation while he irons and folds the washing. Domestic duties aren’t demeaning per se, but for a man like him with a brain and a reliable work ethic, it just doesn’t seem right.

He clears his throat, setting the iron down on the board. ‘Good afternoon, Lady Emilia.’

I step forward, undeterred by the curtness in his voice. ‘I screwed up yesterday. I didn’t mean to hurt you, but I did.’

‘With all due respect, m’lady, if it’s not related to an errand, I’d prefer it if you didn’t speak to me.’ He levels a glare at me. ‘I’m sure you understand.’

Momentarily, I’m frozen to the spot. I knew it was coming. This is where I have to change things, convince him.
 

I walk up to the ironing board and stand directly opposite him. Like every other room in this house, there’s a lot of space, which is fortunate as the last thing I need is to feel trapped. Emboldened, I reach for his hand, only for him to jerk it back in disgust.

‘Don’t,’ he says.

I withdraw my hand and try with words instead. ‘I called you because I was worried my mother would relay the story and give you the wrong impression.’

‘Yeah? And what impression would that be?’
 

‘That I didn’t care about how you felt. I do care. I care a lot.’

He shakes his head, bending down to retrieve a garment from the clothes basket. ‘I’m not discussing this with you.’
 

Finally, I snap. I come around to the side of the ironing board and kick the clothes basket out of the way, lunging toward him and taking hold of his arms, shaking him twice. He needs to listen to me. Wide-eyed, he drops the t-shirt and stands stiffly, his nostrils flaring with outrage.

‘What is wrong with you?’ he asks.

In a manner of speaking, I completely lose my shit, raising my voice and shaking with emotion. ‘Listen to me! I have been a wreck the entire weekend. I was so far away from you, with a man I thought would run away once he found out I had money troubles. But then I told him and he was okay, and then I wasn’t okay because all I kept thinking about was
you
. I know you think I’m useless and, yes, you said you hated me, but you also said you’d wait for me even if I didn’t want you to. Please. I don’t know what you want, but maybe if you tell me I can stop hurting you like this.’

He grabs hold of me, the tightness of his grip probably a reaction of how-out-of-my-mind I must sound. It all becomes too much. I release my hold on him and start shedding hot, messy tears. And before I can say anything further, I begin to hyperventilate.

‘When did I say those things?’ he asks, his sternness causing me to weep more.

‘When you were drunk.’

He looks at me as if I’m stupid. Maybe I am stupid. Maybe I need to get breast implants and carry on as if I have tits for brains, because I’m not sure if my actual brain works.

‘I don’t recall saying any of that,’ he says, enunciating each word clearly.

‘Aren’t you listening to me? I’m telling you I felt bad being with Oliver. I didn’t sleep with him. I couldn’t. I kissed him and felt like I was cheating on you.’
 

‘You said it was lovely in Dubai.’

‘It was lovely. It’s a nice city, and Oliver’s a great guy, but he’s not you.’

Blair blinks at me, as if he can scarcely believe what I’m saying.
 

‘I’m not lying,’ I add.

For a moment, I think he’s understood me. His expression softens, and he glances down as if considering my confessions carefully. However, seconds later, he looks up again, concern etched in his brow.
 

‘While you were gone, I had time to think.’

‘But you didn’t know what was going on with me.’

‘Let me finish.’

Oh God. This can’t be good. I tense my shoulders, spilling more tears now that I think he’s about to reject me. Again.

‘I lied to you. I told you I just wanted sex, when I really wanted more. For that I’m sorry. I had some grand delusion about eventually convincing you to go out with me. So I guess the best thing for both of us is for you to go back to Oliver.’

A lump forms in my throat. ‘You want to go out with me?’

I must’ve known this deep down, even though I didn’t want to admit it. He wouldn’t have been so angered by the situation if all he wanted was sex.

Blair releases his hold on me, dropping his hands to his sides. ‘Wanted. Past tense,’ he says, sounding more sad than angry. ‘I’m over it. Go and be with him.’

It takes a few seconds for me to register that I’m furious. Blood is pounding in my ears, my entire body pulsating with a charge sparked by his refusal to fight for what he wants.
 

I clench my fists. ‘What do you mean “go and be with him”? You just said
you
wanted to go out with me.’

‘Oh, and that’s an option, is it?’ He takes a deep breath, seemingly struggling against a more explosive response. ‘Are you forgetting about the embarrassment that would come from that? Not to mention the fact I’ll lose my job? Or the fact I can’t afford to take you out or do anything nice for you?’

‘Then why tell me at all? “I want to see you but I can’t, so forget it”?’

‘Yeah, basically.’ He turns and starts spraying starch on the ironing board. ‘I have ironing to do, and I have a migraine, so please, I beg of you, leave me alone.’

This isn’t happening. It isn’t.
 

I wipe my tears away, seething that he’s casting me off. ‘No, you don’t get to dismiss me.’

He laughs bitterly. ‘Why? Because I’m your butler? You should listen to yourself sometimes.’

‘That’s not how I meant it and you know that! You never give me the benefit of the doubt. Never. Which is why I called you yesterday. I’m sorry I upset you. I couldn’t get the right words out. I’m getting them out now, but here you are, running away like a coward.’

He rounds on me, so incensed that the vein in his neck starts bulging. ‘I am not a coward! I’m being realistic.’

‘You know what your problem is?’ I ask, pointing my finger at him. ‘You think you don’t deserve anything good in your life. I don’t know where this complex of yours came from, but it’s bullshit! I tell you I was lost without you and suddenly you don’t care. What? Is the thrill of the chase over? You’ve fucked me enough times, have you? Three strikes and I’m out?’

Jaw clenched, he walks around me to get to the clothes basket, grabbing one of my mother’s shirts as if his duties are more important than the conversation at hand. I side-step my way into his path and shove him in the chest.

‘Answer me!’

This time he snaps back. ‘No, I don’t think I’ve fucked you enough times, but I’m not going to be your whore while you’re being wooed by your fiancé.’

‘He’s not my fiancé!’

I’ve screamed the declaration at him, but if I don’t break things off, Oliver could very well end up my fiancé. Blair knows it. I know it. And I would only break things off if I was sure that Oliver wasn’t the one.
 

Blair and I lock eyes, this stand-off being the most intense we’ve ever had. I’m the one who breaks first, probably because I’m rattled by my own words.

I lower my voice. ‘If you need me, which you obviously won’t, I’ll be in my room, unpacking.’

I storm out, slamming the door behind me. Seconds later I hear what sounds like the ironing board hitting the floor, the rattle of the impact still reverberating as I round the corner and head for the stairs.

***

Predictably, I also cave in first when it comes to breaking the silence. This comes after two hours of listening to music, one hour of trying to psych myself up to call both my father and Abby, ten minutes on the phone to each (I told each of them I was happy but tired, and I’m a hundred per cent sure neither of them believed me), and another two hours of milling about in my room. Yelling at Blair is never satisfying. I may think I’m one-upping him at the time, but in the end I always feel gutted.

I’m lying on my bed now, trying to word a text to him. Logic says it’s bound to come off the wrong way, and who knows if he’ll even answer. If he doesn’t within thirty minutes, I’m going to go upstairs to see if I can check on him. I’ll use my house keys if I have to – I wouldn’t put it past him to lock me out.
 

I’m distraught and need to speak to you. And if you don’t want to speak to me, can I at least sit in the same room as you so I stop wondering how you’re doing? Please.

I pray that he answers. It’s only nine, so if he hasn’t gone to bed because of his migraine, he should still be up.
 

I get an answer within a minute:

I don’t want to talk, but you can come up to the attic and sit with me.

Within seconds, I’m off the bed and out the door. Only when I’m in the corridor do I remember that I’m supposed to be all stealth. Carefully, I climb the attic stairs and make my way up, shutting the main door quietly before quickly tiptoeing to his room.
 

He opens the door just as I raise my hand to knock.
 

True to his word, he doesn’t say anything. He stands in the doorway, clothed in his night wear, and gives me a very obvious once-over – more curious than seedy.