Chapter 17

SEVENTEEN

Francesca

O rtham 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.

And so it was that Miriam took Sofia to Parkvale while Xavier dropped me off in Mayfair, from where I’d be driven on my own to meet him at the ball when it started.

At the time, the prospect of arriving to a society event on my own hadn’t really bothered me.

Now that I was here, however, nervous didn’t even cover it.

“Frankie?”

I looked up to find that Ben, Xavier’s driver, was standing outside my open door, hand extended to help me out of the Rover. He smiled kindly—one of the few staff members who did on a regular basis (Elsie and Jagger were the others). It was hard to believe I’d been intimidated by him or anyone else in Xavier’s employ when I’d first arrived here. Then again, compared to the Parkers, Xavier’s people were utter salt-of-the-earth types, even agreeing to use my given name instead of “miss,” as if to emphasize my young and very unmarried status.

I took Ben’s hand and allowed him to escort me to the curb before I brushed off my dress and checked that I had my shawl and clutch. People were streaming into the large Victorian house, which was framed by vine hydrangeas growing up the brick exterior and dangling over the large white columns that marked its entrance. Bright lights gleamed inside, from where a chorus of posh voices, laughter, and music emanated into the night air.

“Enjoy,” Ben said, then got into the car and drove off, leaving me to be swept up in the line of glamorous attendees making their way into the house.

The door was blocked by a woman in a sleek silver dress holding a clipboard next to two large security guards. Some things never changed, I thought as I approached. Exclusivity in England looked the same as in New York. Same snooty doorkeepers on power trips everywhere you went.

“Good evening,” I said with a smile. It felt like the polite thing to do.

The woman looked me over with one of those stares that felt like it was undressing you, and not in a good way. “Your name, please.”

Okay, so I wasn’t dripping in diamonds and didn’t have on a freaking tiara. But that didn’t make me chopped liver.

“Um, yes,” I told her. “I should be. I’m here with Xavier Parker—er, the Duke of Kendal and his family.”

“Your name ,” she repeated without looking up again.

I swallowed, then glanced behind me at the other attendees, who were starting to look impatient. “Sorry. Francesca Zola.”

The hostess flipped through a few pages. “Sorry, not on the list.”

I frowned. “Well, if the duke is inside, perhaps you could let him know I’m?—”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible.” She looked around me brusquely at the couple behind. “Ah, Lord Moreley. Lady Moreley. Pleasure to have you this evening.”

I wanted to cry as I was unceremoniously pushed back down the steps in favor of actual peers. I pulled out my phone to call Xavier, though I doubted he would hear anything inside the party. It went straight to voicemail anyway. Great, his phone was off, and I was stranded outside, no better than a stray dog looking for scraps. A gender-swapped version of Lady and the Tramp.

“Frankie?”

I whirled around to find the last person I ever thought I’d see in London staring at me like I was, well, the last person he thought he would see.

Adam Klein, art teacher at P.S. 058…but definitely not the Adam I knew.

“Adam?” I gaped.

Gone were the paint-stained jeans, driver’s cap, and tortoiseshell glasses that marked him as one of the Brooklyn hipster class. In their place was an elegant black tuxedo, contacts, and chestnut-brown hair that had been tamed and slicked back. He looked like he had walked out of the society pages. Or maybe a Bond movie.

He said something to the people he was with, then came to join me on the steps. “Holy shit, Frankie, yeah. What are you doing here?”

“What am I—what are you doing here? In London? At a ball, of all things?” I couldn’t help grinning. It was just so good to hear an American voice at a place like this. Even better that it was someone I knew, even if it was the guy with whom I’d had a sort of disastrous date last spring.

Adam just shrugged. “My dad still works at the embassy here. Diplomat, remember? And we have some cousins in the area who were coming tonight, so they got us an invitation.” He rolled his eyes conspiratorially. “Honestly, it’s a bunch of stuffed shirts, but the food is usually good. What the heck are you doing here, though?”

“Xavier,” I said simply. “His family was also invited.” I looked toward the building, as if I might see him through the shaded windows. “They’re close friends with the Douglases, apparently.”

“Oh…so you’re still with him, huh?”

I didn’t like the surprise in his voice. “Well, I wouldn’t be in London if I weren’t.”

“I just thought you might have…”

He trailed off, and there was an awkward pause.

Adam just looked around. “So, where is he, then? Shouldn’t he be escorting you inside? The security at these things is usually pretty tight, you know.”

“I noticed.” I flailed a hand holding my cell phone. “Xavier had some business before, so we had to come separately. Now I can’t reach him, though, and for some reason, my name isn’t on the list. I don’t even know if Xavier’s in there, but now I’m officially late.”

I checked my watch, then looked around for the Rover, wondering if I could catch Ben in time to drive me to Parkvale, where I could trade this dress for a movie night with Sofia. Unfortunately, the car was nowhere to be seen.

“Don’t worry about it,” Adam said, offering his hand. “You can come in with me. We’ll find him.”

I eyed the hand, slightly wary. The last time I’d interacted with Adam, Xavier hadn’t exactly been friendly. Adam had tried to kiss me, much to my dismay, and hadn’t really taken no as an answer. He’d apologized, and then we’d run into each other a few more times at work and even, oddly, at Xavier’s last restaurant opening. Things were friendly. But I doubted that Xavier would appreciate me walking in like I was Adam’s date and not his.

Adam’s brown eyes blinked kindly, as if none of the previous awkwardness between us had ever occurred.

I glanced back at the doorwoman. What were my choices here? Ben had driven off, I didn’t have his number, Xavier wasn’t answering his phone, and there was no way I could afford an Uber to take me all the way back to Parkvale.

“All right,” I said and allowed Adam to weave his fingers with mine. “Thank you.”

“No problem. And Frankie?”

“Yes?”

Adam’s brown eyes glowed warmly. “If he doesn’t tell you tonight…that dress…wow.”

I blushed. Less than two hours ago, I’d eschewed Regina’s cupcake-pink monstrosity in favor of a dress and some costume jewelry I’d found last minute at Topshop that afternoon. It wasn’t exactly couture, but it was the best I could do on short notice without Xavier’s unlimited budget. More importantly, I felt like me in it rather than some kid playing dress up.

I blushed, relieved to know my efforts weren’t a complete failure. “Oh. Thank you.”

“No,” Adam said eagerly. “Thank you.”

It wasn’t the kind of ball you’d expect to see in an Austen adaptation, but it wasn’t that far off either. Ortham House was appropriately decadent, a nineteenth-century neoclassical manor dripping with ridged columns, bright white millwork, and crystal chandeliers in every room. All the men were dressed in full tuxedos, the women wore floor-length gowns, and a quartet was playing lively covers of pop music in the corner while caterers flitted about the rooms with trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres.

As Adam led me into the ballroom with my hand tucked into the crook of his elbow, it was obvious that people noticed. Not just me, but him too. They were looking at both of us. Together.

“Adam,” I whispered.

“Yeah?”

“You’re not just a teacher, are you?”

He chuckled and patted my hand. “Tonight, I’m just your friend, like I always was. Nothing more.”

“I still think people are noticing you.”

“They’re noticing you, Frankie.” He swiped a couple glasses of champagne from a server passing by and handed one to me. “For one, they probably saw the paper this morning.”

I paused, flute to my lips. Dread burrowed into my stomach. “What was in the paper?”

Adam looked uneasy. “Shit, you didn’t see?” Fumbling a bit, he pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket, then did a quick search before handing it to me. “It’s, um, why I thought maybe you were here alone.”

There it was. Right across the top of the Daily Mail’ s local gossip page:

‘Frankie’s no duchess. Trust me, I raised her.’

‘The truth is, Frankie is the coldest of her sisters,’ said Guadalupe as she dabbed away tears with a tissue. ‘I’m not saying I’ve never made mistakes. Everyone has. But she won’t even let her own daughter meet her abuela. She thinks family is a joke and refuses to even meet my eye when we speak. It’s been like that her entire life, the entire time I raised her. I really think something must be wrong with her.’

I gawked at the article, scrolling down to the end. It was a hit piece, an exclusive interview with the Mail about me, Sofia, and Xavier…given by none other than Guadalupe Ortiz.

“This is—this is my mother.” I shuddered and squeezed my eyes shut.

Seeming to notice that I couldn’t read anymore, Adam patted me weakly on the shoulder. “I know. I’m sorry. Seems like when people get any kind of fame or fortune, they show their true colors. Are you close?”

“No,” I said emphatically. “We are not close at all. Adam, I barely know her! She walked out on me and my siblings when I was practically a baby. She’s an addict—a drunk who would do anything for a bit of cash. Oh my God, Adam, how could they print this without doing a basic amount of fact checking? I mean, how did they even find her?”

Adam shrugged. “That’s the UK tabloids for you. They get a scent of something interesting, they’re like bloodhounds.”

“But it’s not true!” I practically exploded, drawing curious, disapproving stares around us. I lowered my voice, though it was no less frantic. “Oh my God, but all these people have read this. Did you think that Xavier broke up with me because of this?” I shook my head. “They all think I’m this horrible person who has been tricking Xavier and jilting my mother and—Adam, these are lies!”

I couldn’t tell if he believed me or not. His expression was one I’d seen on people’s faces my whole life. Anytime my mother showed up out of nowhere to claim me or my sisters, usually stinking of bourbon with her hair unwashed and stains littering her clothes. When we would refuse to go to her, she’d scream at us from the sidewalk. And before our teachers, coaches, and babysitters understood the relationship, it was always the same look on their faces: pity. Pity and doubt.

“I swear it,” I said again, quieter now. “Adam, we don’t have a relationship. These are lies.”

“All right, all right,” he said, pulling his phone out of my grasp and tucking it away. “Frankie, I believe you. I do. Come on, have another drink.”

I did as he suggested but couldn’t help noticing the gazes still flickering my way from around the room.

“They’re still looking at me.” My face was flushed. “They’re thinking about that story.”

“None of these people care about the Mail . I told you, they’re looking at that dress,” Adam corrected me.

“I’d have to agree.”

At the sound of Xavier’s deep voice, I swung around so fast I nearly spilled champagne all over my chest. Which, I noticed, my handsome duke was now eyeing with an expression between blunt appreciation and possessive irritation.

Okay, so it wasn’t exactly a conservative piece of clothing. You find a floor-length red gown under two hundred dollars, that is. While the skirt did, in fact, cover every inch of my lower body, it also had a generous slit up one leg and clung to my legs and backside in a way that didn’t leave a whole lot of my shape to the imagination. The bodice was even more revealing, reaching only halfway up my back and wrapping around the front, where two thin straps led to a V-neckline that draped down to the bottom of my sternum.

Honestly, it showed about as much as an average bikini top. And fine, on a well-endowed woman, it would probably have been completely inappropriate. Indecent, even. But I was small, and everything was covered up just fine. I thought I looked pretty good, especially with the wreath of cubic zirconias around my neck and the long strings of them dangling from my ears. Not diamonds. But they still sparkled almost as bright.

“Francesca,” Xavier said without a word to Adam. “Shall we dance?”

His hand extended toward me, a slip of tattoo extending beyond his wrist, and didn’t waver. It wasn’t really a request.

I nodded to Adam. “Thanks again.”

He was watching Xavier. “Any time. And I do mean any time.”

Xavier bared his teeth in a very good imitation of a panther but said nothing more as he led me to the dance floor, where more than a few couples were enjoying a casual waltz. Mentally, I thanked Nonna for making us all learn basic dance steps when we were little. At nine, it hadn’t seemed practical to be learning the waltz with my grandmother instead of the latest NSYNC choreography, but right now, I was utterly grateful for the lessons.

“You wore red.” Xavier nodded a greeting toward an elderly man a few partners away.

“I did,” I replied, a bit icily. I was still reeling from the article, but I hadn’t forgotten about being stranded outside. “You were supposed to meet me on the curb.”

“I got tied up.” The hand at my waist tightened. “You look unbelievable.”

“Not like a sponge cake anymore?”

“Definitely not. Still something I’d like to devour, though.”

That familiar excitement zipped through me, but for once, I didn’t respond the way he obviously wanted. Instead, I focused on matching his steps, which were much larger than mine.

He tipped his head toward Adam, who had settled on the periphery of the room, watching us over the rim of his glass while he chatted with another attendee. “What’s he doing here?”

I shrugged. “Here with his family, he said.”

“Tosser. He touches you again, he’s a dead man.”

I sighed. “Why do you have to be like that?”

Xavier looked down at me, honestly shocked. “You forgetting what happened when you let him take you out? He’s a twat who doesn’t know when to stop. And this time, I’m your man, not the babysitter. It’s my right to fuck up someone who doesn’t know the limit.”

I sighed heavily but smiled under the looks we were attracting—obvious curiosity regarding the prodigal duke amongst them. Xavier didn’t seem to care what any of these people thought of him, but I certainly did.

“He didn’t do anything but escort me inside,” I said through my teeth. “And you’re lucky he did, by the way, because they wouldn’t have let me in otherwise. And then you would be in for a nice fight with me when you got home.”

“You in the mood for a fight, babe?”

Something glinted in his blue eyes, like he wanted me to say yes.

I almost did. I almost threw his arms off me right there and told him not to touch me again unless he wanted to be the dead man in the room. I could see it play out perfectly, a game of cat and mouse in this room full of glittering people. I would hurry through the crowd, maybe out to a shadowed part of the garden. He’d chase me out there, just like all rakes do. We’d snarl at each other in the dark, until eventually, it was too much, and then I’d compromise my reputation completely by allowing him to ravish me amongst the hydrangea bushes.

Or something like that.

Xavier tipped his chin, clearly waiting for whatever remark I had for him. “Which novel is in your head now, babe?” He leaned down so his lips brushed the top of my ear. “By the look on your face, I hope it’s a dirty one.”

I shivered. But in the end, found I didn’t particularly like being teased. Not right now. Not here. And not by the only person who supposedly wanted me here.

As the music ended, I stepped out of his arms as gracefully as I could. “I’m thirsty. I think I’ll track down some punch, or whatever they’re serving, that isn’t alcohol.”

Xavier eyed me a long while, like he was waiting for something.

For what, I didn’t know.

“Right,” he said finally. “There’s food through those doors over there. I’ve got to talk to some people anyway. Find me when you’re ready to go.”

And with that, we both allowed the next round of music to play us off the dance floor. In entirely different directions.