Page 200 of Poor Little Rich Girl

Of course. Father wouldn’t deign to put off the business of the empire for a visit from his only son who he hasn’t seen in three years.

I can navigate this house with the instincts of a zombie hunting out brains, but I fall in step behind Harold as he escorts us to the drawing room. The years peel away from me like dead skin. By the time we reach my mother’s drawing room, I’m a petulant fourteen-year-old once again.

My mother stands as we enter the room. It’s been three years since I saw her last, and the caked-on makeup and stylish hairstyle can’t hide the fact she looks old, worn out.

“Gabriel.” Her tone is warmer than I expect. She steps forward and extends her arm to me. I bend to kiss her knuckles, trying to stop myself from shuddering at the feel of her waxy skin. She leans forward and kisses my cheeks, her cloying perfume wafting over me.

I can see Claudia and Noah exchange a glance. I know what they’re thinking. After all the history between us, this formality seems forced, pointless. And it is. But that’s the British way.

It’s why every moment I lived in this house felt like being slowly suffocated to death under hyacinth perfume.

I step to the side to make introductions. Mother’s face remains impassive, but I see her darkening eyes she regards my friends as nothing more than mud tracked inside by the servants. “This is Noah Marlowe, and Eli Hart.”

“Richard Marlowe’s son?” My mother’s gaze swoops to Noah, reprocessing her earlier opinion of him now she knows he’s rich and influential. “We’ve had some dealings with your father through our charity work. He says you’re bound for the Olympics.”

Her tone is innocent, but I know my mother too well. Her head is a living Rolodex. She knows she got Noah mixed up with his dead brother. She’s deliberately trying to get a rise out of us. She wants to show that she’s in control, which can only mean one thing.

She’s afraid.

I’ve got her and the duke running scared because they have no bloody idea what I’m going to do next. I know from the tabloids that the police came sniffing around Blackwich estate after Dylan’s death, and that cost the duke some parliamentary bill he wanted passed.

I may be back in their home, but I’m no longer under their thumb. I can burn this castle to the ground with nothing but a sex scandal, and they know it. For the first time in my life, I stand in this room wielding all the power.

I stand a little straighter.

Noah’s body stiffens as the duchess’ words wash over him. The temperature in the room drops two degrees. “That was my brother, Felix. I’m the other son.”

“And this is Mackenzie Malloy.” I wave my hands at my girl with a flourish, hoping to distract Mother from Noah’s penetrating stare.

My mother knows about the Malloy controversy. She’ll have made it her business to know, but she does not acknowledge it. I’ve made my move, and it’s stalemate. She kisses Claudia’s cheeks and beckons for us to sit. Claudia takes the spot on the sofa beside me. Eli chooses an armchair closest to the door, as if preparing himself in case he needs to run. Noah stands by the window, looking out over the grounds. In this fussy room, his bulk seems obscene.

Join the club, mate.

I never fit here, either. Too loud, too creative, too emotional. The only person I ever felt comfortable with was Dylan… and look where we ended up.

I open myself up to people, and the darkness pulls them under.

Mother rings a bell and a line of staff trot in, wheeling trays piled with afternoon tea. Claudia’s eyes widen as she takes in the tiered cake stands.

“Okay, so there are some things I miss about Old Blighty.” I grab a scone from the stack and bite into it. A glob of cream sticks to my nose and I deliberately don’t wipe it away.

“Gabriel, please. Your crumbs.” The duchess holds out a cake plate. I debate not taking it, but it seems a deliberately antagonistic move, especially since we still need to find out why I’ve been summoned here, and she’ll be more amenable than the duke. I set the plate on my lap, but I wipe my fingers on the sofa cushion just to spite her.

“This tea is lovely,” says Claudia, taking a loud sip. I wonder if she’s too in awe of this place to be on guard, but then I catch a twinkle in her icicle eyes, her mouth cricking up at the edge. She’s playing this game with me. She can sense the fear in this room like a shark seeking out a drop of blood in the water.

“It tastes like shoe polish,” Noah mutters from the window.

“So, what’s going on, Mom?” My mouth is half-full of cucumber sandwich. The duchess flinches in horror, but she manages to retain her grip on her teacup.

“The estates are in good order. Your father’s newest horse will race in the Grand National this year, so he’s busy tending to that. Harold’s overseeing some work in the rose garden that—”

“I mean, what do you want with me? I came all the way from America to see you, and we’re going to talk about roses?”

“Our business can wait until the duke gets here.” She takes her tea with dainty sips. That’s how my parents refer to each other – by their titles. Because status is the only thing that matters to them.

Although… I glance over at Claudia, who’s shoved an entire cucumber sandwich into her mouth and has a dab of clotted cream on her cheek. She’s my queen, and I’m not afraid to say it. I want to shout it from every rooftop.

“Gabriel.”

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