Page 86 of Duke It Out
He puts the towel down on the bed beside me and stands up, walking to the window in boxers, his broad shoulders blocking out the shaft of sunlight that I’d been sitting in.
“I didn’t show her. She went through my things. She got into my room when I was—she needed something at the shop and when I got back, she was in my room, and?—”
“What do you mean?” His words are icy, each one like a knife cutting through the atmosphere of the room.
“Exactly what I said. I didn’t mean for it to happen, it just?—”
And just like that he’s gone. Not in person, but emotionally. The warmth drains from him like a tide, leaving nothing behind but cold, polished stone.
“You brought her here.” He surveys me from above and I shift uncomfortably, pulling the towel around my chest.
“You said she could stay,” I shoot back, sounding like a child with her hand in the sweetie jar. I’m not sure if I’m defending myself or begging.
“And you let her go through your notes.”
“I didn’tlether?—”
“Edie.” He laughs, but it’s mirthless and hollow. “Jesus Christ. Is this what it was? All of it? You got exactly what you needed—what did she offer you in return? A joint byline? A cover story?”
I think of her words in the tower. That part is half true. I stare at him, curling my fingernails into my palms. I will not cry. “Do you honestly think I’d do that to you?”
“I don’t know what to think. Apparently, I don’t know anything.” His lip curls slightly, as if he’s disgusted by me, and for the first time I look at him and really see the duke in him.
I can’t speak. Can’t catch my breath. This man – this version of him – he’s not the one who pressed me against the bathroom tiles an hour ago, breathing my name as if it meant something to him. This one is ice and fury, and it’s aimed squarely in my direction, his eyes cold.
There’s a knock at the door. Pippa, his PA.
“Rory, there’s an urgent call for you. Sorry.”
He doesn’t even look at me.
“Tell Anna to pack,” he says, tossing me a robe. “And you, too. I want you gone by midday.”
34
EDIE
I shovethings into my bags, biting my lip, trying not to cry. I will not cry. I won’t allow myself. Not now. I leave my ball dress hanging on a hanger on the bathroom door. I won’t exactly be needing that again. I open the window – it’s muggy and grey outside and the air feels as stale out there as it does in my room.
My heart’s still trying to catch up, like it hasn’t quite processed the last twenty-four hours. One day ago, I was fizzing with excitement waiting for the ball, and now, I feel a horrible dropping sensation in my stomach remembering the way he looked me in the eye, after everything, and threw me out like I was nothing.
Like I’d meant nothing. Like Fenella was right and I was nothing more than a rich man’s plaything for the night, not good enough for anything more than a one-night stand – here or in Manhattan – and discarded without even considering what the truth might be.
I shove my notebook into my hand luggage bag and pause for half a second, just long enough to imagine lighting it onfire and sending the ashes to the bloody Loch Morven Foundation with a note that says,you’re welcome.
I don’t, obviously.
Instead, I hoist my suitcase handle and drag it out into the corridor. Anna, who’s ignored my messages and didn’t respond to my hammering on her bedroom door, is there, standing in the doorway of her room. She’s laughing, as if she hasn’t a care in the world, and she’s fingering Jamie’s shirt collar in a very familiar manner.
“Ede,” she says lazily. “Sorry I missed your messages earlier, I was…” she looks up at Jamie through sooty lashes “…otherwise occupied.”
Jamie’s rumpled, unshaven, and grinning like a tomcat.
“What’s up?” Anna clocks my mood. “Do you need something?” A second later, she cocks her head sideways. “Are you going somewhere?”
“You need to check your messages,” I say, flatly. “We’re no longer welcome.”
“What the fuck?” Jamie takes a step back and runs a hand through his hair so it stands up on end.
