Page 9 of Thrones We Steal

“So you’re already with someone else?”

“We’re not together officially, but it feels like the real thing,” she says and toys with a makeup brush, skimming its bristles across her palm. “I think I’m in love with him.”

There’s a prickle behind my ears. She’s too young, too inexperienced. She still has three years of university ahead of her. She’s not ready for love.

“Who is he?” I say. “Someone at school?”

She shakes her head and her blonde tresses bounce. “He’s older, more mature than a student.” Now doesn’t seem like the appropriate time to point out that she is, in fact, a student herself. I focus on this, instead of older, more mature.

“We were at a party in London and things just clicked,” she says.

I teeter on the edge of composure. “He’s British?”

“Nope, he’s from Wesbourne.” Her face splits into a stunning grin. “See? He’s perfect!”

I’ll be the judge of that. “Are you going to tell me his name or do I have to wait for an introduction?”

“Actually, you’ll meet him tonight. He’s coming to dinner. In fact,” she says and glances at her phone, “he should be here soon. I’m going to finish getting ready in my room. I’ll see you downstairs.” She presses her lips into my hair before walking out. The scent of her honeysuckle shampoo trails behind.

It takes me five minutes to find my phone under my discarded clothes. When I finally check the time, it’s 7:45. Rosalind plans to serve dinner at 8:00, and thanks to Bea’s unceremonious waltz into my preparation and her forthcoming announcement, I completely forgot about talking to Lord Rosenbaum.

But right now, that petition is the furthest thing from my mind. My little sister thinks she’s in love for the first time in her life, and with a man who is the Heathcliff to her Catherine, no less. She expects me to be happy for her, to approve of this man who’s stolen her heart so thoroughly.

We will see about that.

4

“Why Do You Love Me” - Charlotte Lawrence

Rosalind has outdone herself tonight. By that I mean that I’m slightly afraid to walk through my own house, for fear of knocking over a centerpiece or upsetting the balance of her carefully constructed universe.

My mother habitually goes above and beyond what is considered normal for these kinds of high-brow events. The fish will be halibut, not peasant food like salmon, and no, we won’t skip the sorbet course, because “image is everything, Celia, everything.” I don’t have hard proof, but experience suggests she also measured each table setting like she is Mr. Carson himself from Downton Abbey.

But tonight feels different. I peek into the dining room to gauge what we’re dealing with and—is that an ice sculpture? The official occasion for this party is Bea’s homecoming—not that Rosalind ever needs anything as vulgar as a reason to entertain—but even that doesn’t seem significant enough to garner the giant swan perched in the center of the long table, water dripping from its icy beak.

I move to the drawing room where thirty guests (I know this because the dining table won’t hold more than that and the only thing to effectively cut off Rosalind’s guest list is a lack of seats) are mingling. I spot Lord Rosenbaum near the fireplace, but he’s deep in conversation. I scan the room for the only other person I’m interested in seeing tonight.

He’s not hard to find, standing a head taller than everyone else. His face is drawn in mesmerization: brows pulled together, head tilted forward as he concentrates, and I know whomever he’s talking to is receiving his full attention.

Ten years from now, Beck will be one of the top legal advisors to the Crown, with his straight-laced, buttoned-up advice and knowledge about all things law. Even gravity can’t keep someone like Beck from rising in the ranks, where loyalty and dependability are trophy-winning racehorses. He will drive a newer model of his current Volvo, still a frosty silver, and every other week the interior will be meticulously cleaned by an acne-ridden teen at the detailing shop, whom he’ll tip more generously than necessary. While he waits on the valet job, he’ll call me to ask if he should bring home chicken biryani from our favorite Indian take-out and after we tuck our two kids into bed and let the dog out and empty the rubbish bins, we’ll end the day on the couch binging a historical TV show that’s just come out.

It’s the best kind of beautiful.

I’m startled from my reverie by the sound of breaking glass. Lady Colette has dropped her goblet, and shards of glass glint like diamonds on the floor. Before anyone else can react, Beck steps over the mess to pull her away. She can’t stop babbling apologies.

One of the waitstaff hired for the event appears beside me with a broom. Beck walks over and takes it from her. “I’ll clean up.” Then he turns to me and brushes a kiss across my lips. “Hello, lovely.”

He’s gone before I can respond, sweeping the glass into the dustpan and bringing it back to the girl still waiting in the doorway. After she takes it from him, he grabs both of my hands in his. Their largeness completely engulfs mine, and warmth spreads through me. I become the recipient of that trademark smile I love, the one that makes his eyes shine and crinkle at the corners. It makes you feel like you’re sharing a joke only the two of you know.

“Four more months,” he says, “and you’ll be Mrs. Harrison.” He snags a glass from a nearby tray and hands it to me.

“Chapman-Payne Harrison,” I correct.

He gives a mock frown and adjusts the delicate chain around my neck until it lies straight. “You don’t think three last names is extravagant? We wouldn’t want anyone to think you were pretentious.”

I smile and take a sip of wine. “My aim is always to be as pretentious as possible.”

We agreed that since my father had no sons, one of the best ways to honor him was for me to keep his name in addition to Beck’s. Our children will share both as well.

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