“Um, no, actually. While I love cheese, cheese doesn’t love me. Gives me the runs, you see. Terrible, isn’t it?”
Before I have time to agree or disagree, he’s off like a packet of crackers, like he was at breakfast this morning. He talks so much, and at such a breakneck speed, that I can’t get a word in, so I end up trailing behind him to the kitchen without my consent. I find myself sitting at the staff table while he helps himself to a handful of Mrs. Thompson’s chocolate chip cookies, two bowls of leftover pudding, and a mug of hot chocolate.
It seems like an awful lot of sugar to consume in the middle of the night, and though I can’t be completely sure, because it’s a subjective matter, I think his midnight feast might make him even more talkative than he was this morning.
It’s clear his dreadful ex-boyfriend has done a number on him, and who can blame him for being upset over that? Running off into the woods and mating with his older brother? What a thing to do.
And telling the little mouse about it on a voice call, not a video call, how utterly beastly.
11
Jensen
It’salmostimpossibletodescribe how much worse my behavior has gotten over a very short period of time.
Initially, Lucien suggested that I walk things back slowly, so as not to frighten the lord. He said I should continue being chatty at breakfast, but should talk a little less each day. You know, rein myself in gradually until some sort of acceptable equilibrium is achieved.
That’s not how it’s played out at all.
The trouble is, the lord is actually quite fun. He has a dry sense of humor that isn’t obvious initially, but once you spot it, you can’t unsee it. He leans forward slightly when I talk, resting his chin on his knuckle and giving me his undivided attention. He bobs his head when I make a particularly good point, and he calls Lucien mybeastly ex-boyfriend, and that fills me with joy. He calls Branson mybeastly brother, and I like that a lot too.
I tuck the phone snugly between my shoulder and ear and hiss quietly. “It’s certifiablynotthat I have a crush on him, Lucien.”
It isn’t. There’s no way I can have a crush on a man I’ve never scented. It’s impossible. It’s just not how it works.
For all I know, I’ve been on the ass end of England for so long, and I’ve been starved of company to such an extent that I’ve accidentally gone ahead and struck up a robust friendship with an odorless nobleman.
Stranger things have happened.
They have. I’m sure of it.
“Shall I put your mail in the study for you, my lord?” Sid asks as he clears our plates.
It’s odd of him to ask because Sid brings the lord’s mail to him at the table every morning after he’s cleared his plate as a matter of course. There’s something a little strange about the way he says it too. Almost as though he’s hopeful. No, not hopeful, nervous about something.
Lord Augustus blasts out a sigh of epic proportions and extends his hand in Sid’s direction in a way that makes it clear the question has annoyed him. Sid rushes out of the room and returns with a silver tray holding a neat stack of envelopes. He keeps his left hand tucked behind his back, his posture very straight, and holds the tray out within the lord’s reach.
Lord Augustus takes the envelopes from Sid and then looks up at the ceiling for a long time. He mutters something that sounds a lot like, “Fuck,” under his breath.
He rips the envelopes open and sighs a little louder each time he opens one. By the time he’s done, envelopes have been scrunched up and hurled around the room, and there is a pile of invitations on the table in front of him. All of them are cream. High-quality cardstock, with tastefully embossed font choices.
For some reason, the mail appears to have put Lord Augustus in an absolute fury today.
“Another fucking fundraiser for the children’s fucking hospital,” he roars, throwing himself back in his chair. “For the love of God, why won’t they just let me make a donation? I’d pay ten times what I usually do if they’d leave me in peace.”
I’m not sure who he’s talking to. He’s yelling in the direction of the dining room door, so I don’t think it’s me. At least, I hope it isn’t me.
Mrs. Thompson appears in the doorway, pink-cheeked and slightly out of breath, and speaks to the lord in soothing tones. “Oh, I do wish they’d stop putting you through this, my lord. I really do—”
He snatches one of the invitations and waves it at Mrs. Thompson. “The viscountess is havinganothermasked ball. It’s the third year on the trot, for God’s sake. Who thinks of these things?”
“It’s awful, my lord,” tuts Mrs. Thompson. “Just awful…but perhaps this year it won’t be as ba—”
“Of courseit will be bad. It will be hellish. It was hellish last year, and it was hellish the year before. Why would this year be any different?”
Mrs. Thompson offers me a shrug and a smile with a little too much tooth. “Lord Augustus isn’t all that fond of formal events,” she explains quietly, “and unfortunately, as a man of his station”—she lowers her voice to little more than a whisper—“he has no choice but to attend at least a handful of them each year.”
“It’s not that I mind formal events, Mrs. Thompson. It’s that I mind the people who attend them,” clarifies the lord.
