Page 46 of False God

A small nod is the only acknowledgment before she asks, “How is Georgia?”

There’s little love lost between my grandmother and my mother. Unsurprising, considering how my parents’ marriage ended and the years of deterioration leading up to their divorce. Negative feelings toward Georgia might be Blythe and Gran’s strongest commonality.

“She’s fine,” I reply, unwilling to provide my grandmother with any ammunition.

My motherisfine. Our relationship isn’t.

During my visit to New York, she treated me like I was a trophy to show off, not a son she wanted to reconnect with. I want a confidant. Aparentto assure me that everything will be okay rather than a grandmother and sister relying on me to restore the life they’re accustomed to. Hundreds of staff and employees whose livelihood is entwined with the dukedom.

I fill one of the teacups, then announce, “I’m selling the villa in Saint-Tropez.”

“Good. I told James that purchase was a mistake.”

Granny’s unfazed reaction is as predictable as Blythe’s dismayed one was. As far as I know, my grandmother has nevervisited the property in France. She avoids leaving London at all costs. Unless it’s a trip to Newcastle Hall, her outings are purposefully limited to the Chelsea Flower Show, Wimbledon, Royal Ascot, and Christmas pageants at Westminster Abbey. She culls her calendar to accept only the most exclusive invitations.

“You’re attending the Hughes wedding this weekend?” she asks.

I take a sip of Earl Grey rather than answering.

Theodore Hughes was a classmate of mine at Oxford. But I received an invitation to his wedding because I’m the Duke of Manchester. It’s an occasion sure to be attended by many people I’ve spent the better part of a year avoiding, so, no, I had no plans to go.

An answer I know Granny won’t like.

“Charles.” Her tone sharpens, and I brace for the incoming lecture. “The Hugheses are a prominent family. You not attending will raise questions we don’t want asked right now.”

My jaw works as I take another swallow of tea. Easy for her to say. She doesn’t have to deal with the scrutiny reserved for the duke.

But logically, I know Granny is right. I’ve been … hiding, for lack of a less pathetic word. Mourning my father, grieving the end of life as I knew it, and scrambling to fix my father’s mistakes.

I couldn’t afford to drop a few thousand quid during a wild night at a nightclub in SoHo any longer. Dropping out of medical school and moving to Newcastle after inheriting the title were somewhat expected, but my abrupt absence from the social scene wasn’t.

Finnegan Byrne—better known as Fig—is the only friend who still reaches out regularly. He mentioned the Hughes wedding to me months ago. He was good friends with Theo at university and asked me if I was attending.

I responded with a vague “Maybe,” which we both knew meant no.

If I’m recalling right, the wedding’s being held at Carys Park in Wales. Only an hour and a half from Newcastle Hall, but an hour and a half farther than I feel like traveling to spout off a bunch of lies.

“Beatrice Campbell will be attending,” Granny adds, as if that were an incentive to show up.

I have no issue with Bea. But I also have no desire to get married anytime soon, and that’s the reason Gran is bringing Bea up.

In my grandmother’s eyes, my father could do no wrong. I think she’s still processing that he frittered our family’s fortune away.

She let him wait until he was in his early thirties to get married. Approved of his choice of American bride when it couldn’t have been very hard to foresee my parents were a poorly suited couple.

Me? Granny has been dropping names of women she considers well-bred and worthy of the Marlborough name since I was still in university. With more frequency in the past year. I’m not just responsible for keeping us out of bankruptcy. It’s also up to me to father a son before I die so that the Duke of Manchester title doesn’t get passed off to some distant cousin.

No fucking pressure.

“I’ll go,” I say, knowing that’s the only acceptable answer in my grandmother’s mind. At the very least, I’ll have a chance to catch up with Fig. Hardship—even hidden—has a way of revealing true friends, I’ve learned.

Granny smiles, satisfied. “Good.”

We visit for another hour, and then I leave. It’s a forty-five-minute drive back to Newcastle Hall. Unless I encounter bad traffic, I’ll have time to go for a ride before dinner with Blythe.

My mobile buzzes in my pocket as I’m walking down the sidewalk toward my parked car. It’s a New York number.

“Hello?” I answer.

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