I look at him again, a tiny puddle of panic forming as I realize that I have no idea how on Earth to address him. He gave me his first and last name. But surely I can’t call him Alfred? No. I don’t think I’m supposed to do that. I seem to recall something about firstborn sons being referred to by their last name in noble families, but I’m so muddled right now that I can’t remember if that’s something I read, or if I just made it up.
“Please, take a seat,” says Lord Alfred or Augustus with a slightly bored sigh and an open-palm gesture to my chair.
The gesture is infinitely polite…in a practiced way. A way that’s been rehearsed so many times that it comes naturally to him now, even though it goes against the grain of his character. His accent is clipped, precise, and harmonious. His voice is deep and emanates from low in his chest. It travels through muscle and bone to reach me, and all I can say is thank goodness he doesn’t smell how he looks.
I’d be in one hell of a mess if he did.
A man wearing gray slacks, a white shirt, a gray waistcoat, and an exceedingly dour expression, enters the dining room, pours a cup of tea for me, and quietly asks how I like my eggs. I consider telling him I like them with coffee, not tea, but think better of it.
“Poached, please,” I say instead.
Lord Whatever His Name sips his tea at his absolute leisure without so much as a sideways glance at me. He doesn’t have a care in the world, and I can tell he’s so stuck up that he’s barely aware of my presence.
He’s obviously the most dreadful snob.
Other than the odd “please” or “thank you,” I don’t bother trying to make conversation with him. I don’t care how handsome he is. If he’s a snob, I’m not a fan.
I think it’s for the best, actually. I think while I’m here, I’m going to practice saying less in general. I’m going to think things through before talking, and I’m not going to bow to the pressure to fill awkward silences. That’s what I’m going to do.
Though the day starts like a Monday hellbent on following me into Tuesday, it improves dramatically when Mrs. Thompson shows me the library. Holy shit, it’s incredible. It’s the embodiment of my boyhood dreams come to life. My adultdreams too. It’s a double-volume space clad floor-to-ceiling in walnut bookshelves. There are two floors of books, the second floor accessed by a dreamy spiral staircase, and a little wrought iron balustrade that wraps around the perimeter of the entire room. It’s a vintage-velvet-and-antique-oil-painting kind of place. A place where books are happy and reality doesn’t matter.
Or at least, books will be happy here as soon as I’ve laid order to chaos. They’re in considerable disarray at the moment. From what I’ve been able to glean from my interview, and a brief conversation with Mrs. Thompson, the last librarian was an alpha, and she and Lord Augustus—that’s what Mrs. Thompson calls him, so I presume it’s what I should call him too—had the most horrific falling out.
Mrs. Thompson’s eyes stretch wide and glisten when she tells me about it.
“I’m not one to speak ill of people who aren’t here to defend themselves,” she tuts, “but it wouldn’t surprise me if you were to find some evidence of sabotage when you get to work, that’s all I’m saying. She was a right piece of work, that girl…but you won’t hear another word about it from me.”
She shows me to the section of the library where the books that need restoring are kept. It’s a small room off the library. It’s climate-controlled, and thank God for small mercies because one of the first books I spot is a first edition ofPride and Prejudicethat’s seen better days.
“Oh, she thought she knew it all, that Aurelia,” Mrs. Thompson says, shooting me a conspiratorial look. “No surprise, really. You know whatthey’re like.”
BytheyI presume she means alphas. In that case, yes, I do know what they can be like. I had a particularly unpleasant breakfast with a particularly unpleasant alpha this morning, as a matter of fact.
I consider telling her so, but so far, almost everything she’s said or implied about the man of the house has given me the impression that she considers him, if not a god exactly, something damn close.
The more Mrs. Thompson shows me around, the clearer it becomes that the library is in a worse state than I was led to believe. When she’s unable to unearth the ledger, I can’t hold my tongue.
“How, how did it get like this?” I ask. “It must have taken ages. Years. Surely someone noticed it falling apart.”
She clasps her hands together at the base of her throat. “You mustn’t think poorly of us, dear. We’ve all been doing our best.”
“Oh, I don’t think poorly of you, I just wonder how the”—I thought I could make the leap and name Lord Augustus as the main culprit, but it turns out, I can’t—“people in chargelet it get this bad.”
Her head whips around and her mouth forms a small, tight dot. “It’s not Lord Augustus’s fault,” she says, scandalized. “He’s…he’s a very,verybusy man.”
It’s interesting she should say that because, as best as I can tell, this entire household is crawling with people who spend their entire lives doing every conceivable thing for the good lord, barring only wiping his ass for him, though I’m sure if he asked one of them to take on the task, they’d be only too happy to help.
“Really?” I say, keeping my tone as mild as possible. “What does he do that keeps him so busy?”
“Well, there’s the…” her voice drifts slightly, “management of the property. A lot of that falls on him.”
Hmm, I haven’t been here long, but everything I’ve seen so far leads me to believe that Mrs. Thompson and Edmond, the man who interviewed me, do most of the heavy lifting when it comes to managing the property, not Lord Augustus.
Mrs. Thompson continues, wracking her brain to come up with a vaguely robust list. “And the affairs—the household affairs—he manages those…and, and theinvestments.” She seems particularly pleased to have thought of that one. “He keeps an eye on his investments. And, well, mainly, he spends time outdoors. Fresh air does him good. It clears his head.” She smiles proudly. “He goes riding every day, no matter the weather.”
I nod supportively and say, “Ahh, I see.”
I do see. I see that, as suspected, the Honorable Lord Assholeship is spoiled rotten and spends his entire life dabbling in hobbies he calls work and is pampered to within an inch of his life.
