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That didn’t mean I was ever going to marry Imogene Douglas, though.
Before I could say as much, the kitchen doors burst open, and my father reentered the room, red-faced and ready for another argument.
I clenched the towel, prepared for battle.
Instead, he surprised me with an olive branch.
“All right,” Rupert said, “you can go to bloody culinary school. I’ll even pay for it. On one condition.”
I glanced at Henry. He shrugged, clearly as curious as I was about what was happening.
“Oh?” I asked. “And what’s that?”
“That you, when you’re finished, you come back here and follow the plan.”
Henry looked at me again as if to say “I told you so.”
I just snorted. He might have imagined that future, but there was no way I was ever marrying Imogene Douglas. Just like there was no law that said the Duke of Kendal had to reside in Kendal.
“Fat chance, that one,” I told him. “Once I leave Kendal again, I’m never coming back. I don’t fancy having another pan thrown at my head or any more of this matchmaking business you and Uncle have been cooking up. No fucking thanks.”
Henry sighed as his brother turned his murderous gaze on to him. But Rupert barely managed to hold in his anger before he turned back to me. The dealing wasn’t done.
“And if you and your smart mouth had a place of your own?” he asked.
I looked up, this time genuinely surprised. “What, you mean a flat in town?” I shrugged. “I can get that on my own. I still have Mum’s, you know.”
“I mean a restaurant,” he said, as if I should have known. “A shabby little pub to do with what you like. So long as you stay here and finish learning the things you ought to.”
I peered at him, wondering what other motive was behind this. There was a time, years ago, when Rupert tried to make nice with me. After he realized I was legitimate, he did try a little, like he said. Taught me to play polo, for fuck’s sake. Well, that part I liked.
None of the rest took. Especially when it was so obvious he’d had to. His wife and stepson were hardly around. And so he was left with one option: a black sheep for his only heir and legacy.
I glanced at Henry to see what he thought. His face didn’t move, but his thin shoulders rose and fell, as if to say, “Why not?”
I turned back to my father. “All I have to do is live in Kendal? And you’ll stop haranguing me about uni and everything else? You’ll let me do what I want? You’ll let me cook?”
I wanted to hear him say it.
Rupert’s face contorted with struggle, but at last, he sighed, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, and nodded.
“Yes,” he said through his slightly crooked teeth. “Come back and stay, and you can cook. But youwillbecome a duke.”
SEVENTEEN
Francesca
Ortham House, where the eponymous Ortham Ball was being held, wasn’t exactly a house. More like another tiny castle, which seemed to be a pattern with the few remaining “houses” still belonging to the upper aristocracy in England. Despite the fact that, as Xavier had explained, the tenant system of land ownership had given way to corporate investments long ago, the remaining families still in position to nab estates seemed to grab them like Monopoly properties. The Parkers had obviously been part of that exclusive club following the Depression and war years, and they had assisted the Douglases as well in their own portfolio management. I was starting to understand why the two families were so deeply entwined—they’d been scratching each other’s backs for generations.
Situated about twenty minutes outside of London, Ortham House would have been an easy enough commute from Xavier’s apartment, but on Georgina’s advice, Xavier agreed that we should stay at his family’s own stately home near Hampstead Heath.
“But isn’t your Mayfair apartment closer to Chiswick?” I had wondered, checking Google Maps as we were on our way to the flat earlier that evening.
I insisted on getting ready there with my own things after weeks of making do with a weekend bag in Kendal, plus the assorted pieces accumulated through Regina. Xavier agreed because he needed to take care of some Parker Group business in town before the party.
“It is, but Georgina had a point,” he had responded as he checked his phone for messages. “These people won’t look for the Duke of Kendal in Mayfair—they’ll call Parkvale. The entire point of attending this circus is to help the family.”
I didn’t bother to mention the fact that said “family” seemed more interested in what Xavier could do for them than Xavier himself. It was what he wanted, and I was determined to support him.
