Page 14 of Finding Lord Landry

His fingers were long and strong, familiar. Those hands had touched me absolutely everywhere. Had spent hours as devoted servants to my pleasure. Had teased and tormented me until I broke, crying out for release.

Those long fingers had been inside of me, probing, pressing, stretching. They’d tangled in my hair and teased my skin with the barest of caresses.

I stared at them, remembering.

Landry Davis was an incredible lover. In bed, he was kind and generous, attentive and aware. He was hyperfocused and dedicated. He was loving and committed.

But the second we got dressed and back to our real lives, he shifted seamlessly into the flippant, unserious playboy narcissist who treated his past like a state secret.

Which was the real Landry?

Even after all these years, I didn’t know.

At Christmas in Majestic, he’d seemed crushed after he’d made the play for something more than enemies with benefits and I’d politely declined. I’d assumed, for good reason, that his disappointment came from childish annoyance that I’d said no to him. That he hadn’twon.

Now, I wondered whether I’d read the situation wrong. Whether there had been actual feelings involved?—

But it didn’t matter. At least, it shouldn’t. Until Landry Davis figured out who he was and began trusting me with the truth of his past, any chance at a deeper connection was never going to happen.

I shut down my laptop and turned off my phone again.

Which was how I missed the first news alerts.

FOUR

LANDRY

“Dear god. It’s only nine o’clock. Aren’t you supposed to be on American time?”

I glanced up from my laptop screen to see my cousin shuffle into the large kitchen of our family home in Regent’s Park. She gave me an affectionate peck on the cheek before helping herself to the kettle.

“Good morning to you, too.” I sat back and stretched, grinning. “How’s my favorite equestrian prodigy? Planning to reach new heights in the jumps this morning?”

“Not today. I canceled my ride in favor of a lie-in for once.” Her long curls bounced around her shoulders as she reached up to find the tea she wanted in a cabinet before placing the bag in her mug. “Too cold and wet, even for me.”

“No riding?” I asked in mock surprise. “However will a gently bred girl like yourself pass the time, dahling?”

She managed to glare at me and fill her mug at the same time. “I changed my mind. Piss off, Landry. You sound like my mother.”

I laughed out loud.

Though Cora was only a few years older than I was—and had been living here with her mother since I was ten—we hadn’t been particularly close as kids. At first, she was grieving the loss of her father, but then we’d been off at different schools. During all that time, Aunt Lydia had never ceased attempting to micromanage Cora’s education, hobbies, wardrobe, and boyfriends.

Unfortunately for Aunt Lydia, Cora was more resistant to being managed than I was.

Now that we were adults, Cora and I weren’t just friends but allies. Two of the few people on Earth who knew the truth of my father’s condition, not to mention the truth of my identity. And since Cora ran the Davencourt family foundation and I managed the Davencourt holdings, we worked together often on family business, even though most of it was done long-distance.

Cora brought her tea to the old wooden table, scarred and faded from a century of use, and slumped into the chair opposite me with a yawn. “Where is everyone?”

“My father had a doctor’s appointment. Just an eye exam,” I assured her when she looked at me sharply. “He and Nan should be back shortly. Before Reg left for the market, he mentioned your mother was at the salon, preparing for her trip to the Maldives. And I assume everyone else is occupied.” I waved a hand vaguely toward the rest of the house and the office wing beyond, where the small hive of very discreet staff kept the house clean and maintained, the clothing laundered, the accounts tidy, and the schedules under control.

She gave a tiny grunt of acknowledgment before taking a sip of her tea and relaxing in relief. “God, that first sip is so good.”

I studied her for a moment. Faint dark circles were just visible beneath her eyes, if you knew how to look beneath the concealer. “You look done-in. Rough night as a socialite on the mean streets of Mayfair?”

My teasing was a cover for genuine concern, and her amused eye roll said she knew it.

“You mean Belgravia,” Cora corrected, tugging the sleeves of her wool jumper down to cover her hands. “Art auction at the Gagosian Gallery. A lovely evening… for the most part.” She shrugged. “I’d planned to chat with Colin Garner from theTimesabout getting us some good coverage for the Hearts of Hawling Dinner, but he was called away early for a breaking story. Civil unrest somewhere in Ecuador, I heard.”

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