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Another speedboat races past, and with a stroke of genius, I ask him if he’s been to Italy before.
“No.”
One word, and no question in return.
If not for the fact that he invited himself on this walk, I would assume he didn’t want to be here.
Our feet crunch the gravel as we follow the path away from the lake, up along a line of hedges. My skin prickles at the absolute silence that blankets us. Is he thinking of how badly this walk is going, or is his mind on something else?
Again, I can’t seem to decide where my hands belong. Clasped at my back? Wrapped around my waist? Hanging loose and limp at my sides?
It’s unbearable.
We make it up the hedge line, and I suddenly stop. Royce does too, looking back at me expectantly.
“You know what? I just realized I promised my grandmother I’d help her finish unpacking.”
Never mind that this is a total lie.
Royce nods. “Of course. I can escort you back to the villa.”
Dear god no.
“It’s all right. You continue your walk. It’s such a nice day, I wouldn’t want to ruin it for you.”
His brows furrow as if he’s slightly disappointed.
“I’ll come retrieve you and your grandmother for dinner then.”
“Sounds good.”
One more tight smile, then I offer him a weird reverential bow like I’m one of the servants up in the villa before I turn and flee.
Chapter Fifteen
Lainey
Later that evening, I’m sitting in my dressing robe on the chaise lounge at the foot of my grandmother’s bed, watching her get ready.
She’s already in her dinner dress, a rich dark green caftan she’s paired with absolutely massive emeralds dangling from her ears. The stones tug on her earlobes, only emphasizing the carat weight. She’s studying her tubes of lipsticks, having arranged them just as neatly as she does at home.
“When you were engaged to my grandfather, were the two of you good friends?” I ask.
All afternoon I’ve been mulling over my walk—or sort-of walk—with Royce. It’s obvious that something feels off, but I’ve been trying to pinpoint what exactly is bothering me about it. I thought I’d accepted the betrothal for what it is, so what does it matter if he and I can hold a conversation or not? So what if I’m not overly comfortable in his presence? It makes no difference.
“Your grandfather was never a nice man, even less so when he’d had a bad day at the office.”
She lifts a gold tube of Yves Saint Laurent lipstick. It’s a dark berry shade I always love on her. She holds it up, and I nod my approval. She uncaps it and leans toward the mirror to swipe it on.
“So the two of you didn’t get along? Not even in the beginning?”
Her assessing eyes meet mine in the mirror. “It wasn’t a love match, if that’s what you’re hunting for.”
“So you married him for money?”
She pauses her lipstick application. “Elaine Evangeline Davenport.”
I look down at the floor, embarrassed. “Sorry.”
“I married your grandfather because it was my duty. My mother made the match, and I went along with it because I knew it was my responsibility.”
“And did you ever lament not having a choice in the matter?”
I think of her relationship with Margaret, of how different her life might have been had she been allowed to follow her heart.
“Believe it or not, no. I hold no regrets. People view marriage through rose-colored glasses these days. Life is rarely as perfect as it seems in storybooks. Be glad I chose Royce for you and not Mr. Wentworth.”
My jaw drops.
“Mr. Wentworth is nearly seventy years old!”
She rolls her eyes. “Exactly. Now finish dressing. I want to ensure your hair lays nicely once we take it down from those rollers.”
By the time I’m finished applying my makeup and brushing out my curls, there’s still a half hour before we’re expected to be at dinner.
My grandmother, acutely aware of social etiquettes, refuses to let us go down to the dining room early.
I could stay up here and read, but I’ve already done so much reading this afternoon. After leaving Royce on the trail, I came back up and holed up in my room, careful not to wake my grandmother from her nap as I passed by.
“Could I go down to finish my walk? I didn’t make it far earlier.”
She looks toward the window and frowns. “The sun has set.”
“I know, but I’m curious to see what the grounds look like in the moonlight.”
I can tell she wants to say no, but she relents. “Fine. But don’t be late. There’s a five-minute window in which it’s appropriate to arrive for the meal.”
I’m mouthing the words as she continues, having heard her speak them so many times.
“Never arrive early. Aim to be precisely on time, though five minutes late will do as well. However, ten minutes late and you run the risk of offending your host.”
