Page 124 of False God

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Gran gets released from the hospital four days after she was admitted, refusing my suggestion she come stay at Newcastle Hall while she recovers and insisting her staff in London is capable of caring for her. Dr. Wallace clears the choice, and Elsie tells me privately that Gran already has a full slate of visitors lined up.

Blythe leaves for Florence a day later, informing me on her way out the door that Zara’s family has a flat in the city so the trip will be “basically free.” It’s the first time she’s acknowledged our conversation in the hospital cafeteria, and as irritating as I found her reckless spending before, I hate her worrying about money even more.

I meet with four investors in two days, none of them offering the magic number I’m looking for. The one that will wipe my debts clean.

They know I need the money—there’s no other reason I’d be shopping around—and they’re preying on my position of weakness. But if I can’t clear the debt, there’s no point in selling.

I ride Kensington early each morning—the most exercise he’s gotten in months—hoping I’ll come up with some magicalsolution trotting through the moors. Mulling over Gran’s suggested fix.

I was supposed to have more time. But so was my dad.

I’ll need to get married eventually—unless Ireallywant to disappoint the past seven Dukes of Manchester—and I need money now. Marrying an heiress would be a loan I wouldn’t have to pay back. A safety net for Gran and Blythe.

And I thought I’d made peace with marrying for convenience. Thought I fully understood what my life would look like. But I’m learning there’s a lot more to this role than I realized. I’m so sick of being stuck. Of there being an endless list of tasks, but never feeling any sense of accomplishment.

I also miss Lili.

She’s the main reason I’m balking at the idea of marriage, if I’m being honest.

Getting married to a woman who wanted a title wasn’t just a hypothetical before. It’s what I fully expected to take place eventually.

But now, I’ve experienced what it’s like to be with a woman who couldn’t care less about my title. Whoknowsme in ways I’ve never let anyone else in.

I could call her. I don’t have her number, but I could get it from Theo. Reach out, apologize for how I left, and then …

And then I don’t know what.

I’ve been so consumed by figuring out how to get through this financial mess that I haven’t considered what I’ll do if Idomanage to resolve everything. That feels too preemptive since nothing is.

Mid-week, an invitation to Kensington Consolidated’s annual gala arrives. I spend an afternoon sitting in my father’s—my—office, staring at it.

I don’t think it’s from Lili. Asher Cotes added me to the list, I’m guessing. But there’s a high chance Lili will be there. It’s anexcuse to see her. To talk to her, in person, and at least leave things more resolved than they currently are.

After a moderately productive day of paperwork and a meeting with one of my father’s barristers, I drive to the local village pub for dinner.

It’s close to Newcastle, the trip taking less than ten minutes, but I haven’t been here since becoming the duke.

The sight of it feels like stepping back in time a few centuries. A former coaching inn, the building has been lovingly preserved, original floors and beams intact, rather than renovated, like most of downtown Buckleby.

My arrival causes quite the stir—I figured it probably would, and it’s one of the reasons I’ve avoided this place. I get recognized in London sometimes, but not like here. Here,everyoneknows who I am.

A pretty blonde is drying glasses when I take a seat on one of the stools. She glances at me, does a double take, and then nearly drops the pint.

I groan internally, wishing it weren’t too late to turn around and leave. But it is. Everyone who watched me arrive will also watch me leave.

“Hello, Your Grace.” The blonde’s tone is flirty as she rests her elbows on the counter right in front of me.

She leans forward, her full breasts nearly spilling out of her low-cut top. I look because it’s that view or crane my neck back to stare at the ceiling, then immediately feel guilty.

Next, I think,What the fuck?because interest and appreciation are what Ishouldbe experiencing when looking at a woman’s tits. Not the niggling sensation of doing something wrong.

“Good evening.” I sound stiff, confusion and compunction holding me captive as I try to figure out when talking to—lookingat—a woman who’s clearly interested in me started to feel like a crime instead of a good time.

“Was wondering when you were going to stop by again, Charlie,” she says when I add nothing else.

We’ve met before, apparently.

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