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But everything about him spoke of ownership. This room had clearly been constructed for people his size, and he fit into it like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle. His shoulders were arched as he shuffled through a few more papers, more focused now that I’d seen him even in the kitchen.
His eyes, however, brightened considerably when they caught sight of Sofia and me entering the room. “There you are,” he pronounced.
“Dad!” Sofia wrested her hand from mine and scampered around the desk to hop in Xavier’s lap. He welcomed her with a kiss, which made her squeal. “Ah, Daddy, your face is scratchy!”
“That’s because Daddy has had a very long day and never had time to shave.”
He shoved back from his seat and, even carrying Sofia, took less than a few seconds to cross the room completely and wrap another arm around me while delivering a quick, yet deep kiss that set my lips tingling.
“We made it,” I murmured with a smile, all resentment about helicopters and failed proposals vanquished.
I was rewarded with another kiss—this one slightly more thorough than the last, though neither of them carried any remnants of the passion of last night.
“Took you long enough.” Xavier released us, setting Sofia back on the ground so he could return to his desk.
“Can I get you anything, boy?” Elsie asked, still standing in the doorway. “Shall I have the cook send up another pot of tea?”
“No, thanks, Els. I’ll be fine.”
She nodded and winked at Sofia before leaving us alone with him.
“Sure you don’t want that tea?” I asked doubtfully. “You look like you could use it.”
“I’ve just had my head in these accounts all bloody day,” Xavier replied with a grunt. “It’s a fucking mess.”
“It certainly is, you poor thing.”
At the sound of a voice I didn’t recognize, Sofia and I turned. In the corner near the far window stood a woman I hadn’t seen when I’d first walked in, considering I had eyes for only Xavier. Now, however, I definitely noticed her. As would anyone, man or woman, when faced with that kind of perfection.
Tall and blond, she looked like she had walked off a fashion spread, dressed simply and chicly in loose cream trousers and a crisp white blouse that perfectly complemented her golden hair, pink lips, and polished nails. Tasteful diamonds sparkled from her ears and around her wrist. Standing by the window, the summer sunlight shone through her hair, casting a golden halo all around her while she smiled.
She didn’t just look like money. She looked like very old money. The kind that announces itself just by existing.
“Oh,” I said, reaching out a hand. “Hello. I’m Frankie Zola.”
“Francesca,” the woman corrected me. On my own name. Kindly, of course, but still a correction. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“You…have?” I glanced between her and Xavier, who was back to fumbling through papers at his desk.
“Yes, yes. Kip’s told me all about you.” She strode across the room and accepted my hand at last with a quick squeeze instead of a full handshake. “Imogene Douglas.”
“Lady Imogene Douglas,” Xavier added wryly with a wink her way. “Gibson won’t stand for informality around here, remember?”
They both tittered at some inside joke before Xavier looked back at me.
“Imogene is Lucy’s sister, Ces. Their father is the Viscount of Ortham. They own the estate next to ours.”
“Oh…” I nodded, half-wondering if I was supposed to curtsy or something else. Or was that only something you did for royalty? After the fiasco with Gibson’s tip, I didn’t want to embarrass myself any more, so I contented myself with a nod in acknowledgment.
“If you can even call it that anymore,” Imogene put in. “Papa sold the last of the paddocks last year, so we’re just down to the house, if you can even call it that. Really, it’s more of a cottage.”
I blinked. I had a feeling that what I called a cottage and what this woman called a cottage were not the same thing.
But another name was niggling at me. Lucy Douglas. Xavier’s once best friend and fiancée, the woman he had originally left me for before she passed away from cancer. This was her sister? Xavier had described Lucy as homely and weak. I couldn’t imagine anyone with that description being related to someone who was a dead ringer for Gigi Hadid.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I told her. “Your sister, I mean. Lucy.”
Was it me, or did Imogene’s lip curl slightly at the mention of Lucy? Either way, it was clear she was surprised to hear I knew who she was.
