Page 58 of Finding Lord Landry

It wasn’t mature. It wasn’t professional. It wasn’t the ice-cold persona I’d hoped to project.

But it was ten times better than listening to myself make up a new pack of lies to defend the old.

When I made it to my room and closed the door behind me, I finally exhaled.

At one in the morning, I gave up trying to sleep and made my way up two flights of stairs to the home gym. My father had arranged for it to be installed the year I’d left Eton to study at home, even though we hadn’t ended up staying in the city long enough to use it much.

In the years since, I’d managed to make up for it by using the hell out of it. Every time I came through London on the way somewhere, I tacked on a few days to visit, using the gym to stay in top shape as my job had required.

There’d been times over the years I’d paid handsomely to upgrade the equipment or add to the tech, but in the end, it was an old, stuffy room that carried a familiar gym stink.

I started with a warm-up on the treadmill. My headphones were cranked up to damaging levels, and Beyoncé pumped through me, speeding up my stride as the song changed from “Beautiful Liar” to “Break My Soul.” When “Crazy in Love” started, I barked, “Fuck!” and nearly chucked my phone across the room.

Instead, I quickly changed to Eminem’s “Houdini” and moved from the treadmill to the chest press machine. The reflection in the mirror mocked me.

My hair was pulled back from my face and neck by a large elastic hairband, the mashed-up waves causing it to stick out like a lion’s mane. I couldn’t decide if it was fierce or pathetic, but at least my face was clear, and my skin glowed.

How many years had I done an instant inventory when faced with my reflection in the mirror? How was my hair? My skin? My weight? Were there circles under my eyes? What was my muscle situation? My veins? Did I need manscaping? A salon visit?Waxing?

As of a week or two ago, I’d actually thought I was done with all of that.

And now here I was, being thrust back into the public eye. Being photographed. Judged. Criticized down to the length of my fingernails and eyelashes.

I blew out a breath and stood up, moving to the bench to do tricep curls.

Suddenly, I stilled. They would criticize Kenji like that, too.

My stomach twisted.Fuck. I didn’t want Kenji to go through that. What the hell had I been thinking when I’d enlisted him in…?

But I hadn’t enlisted him in anything. He’d been the one to say we were married. Because he hadn’t trusted me to navigate this situation on my own.

Well, fuck him. I’d been born to navigate the British press. And this wasn’t my first rodeo. Not by a long shot.

As I put myself through the paces in the gym and diligently avoided all the Taylor Swift songs in my playlist, I remembered something I’d read in Kenji’s Chaska Inira book.

“When the task feels impossible, remember: you carry the strength of every challenge you have already overcome.”

I’d been in sticky situations before with the media. And I’d learned early on that the key to lowering their expectations and boring them to tears was to act shallow and stupid.

In this particular case, if the world thought Everett Landry Davencourt, Viscount Hawley and heir apparent to the Earl of Davencourt, was a pretty face with nothing behind it, not only would they lose interest in him more quickly, but the powers that be in the British government would stop hoping for him to take his father’s place in Parliament.

I blew out a breath. There was no way I would let my father and my name down by acting stupid on purpose. Chances were I’d act stupid enough by accident.

When I finally made my way back downstairs to my bedroom, I thought I heard a whimper coming from Kenji’s guest room. I raced down the carpeted hall and pressed my ear against the door. As soon as I had confirmation I hadn’t been imagining things, I would open the door to make sure he was okay.

I listened for an embarrassingly long time.

And didn’t hear a sound.

I finally made my way to my own room, took a quick shower, and fell into bed.

But it was hours before sleep finally rescued me from my thoughts.

THIRTEEN

KENJI

After Landry stormed out of the kitchen, Cora and I talked. And talked.

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