Page 50 of Pride and Privilege

It was the former for them: home. Together. Together butseparate. Together as friends. She shook her head, the alcohol buzz making all her thoughts as clumsy as they were portentous.

She wasn’t really drunk. Not really,really. Just enough to make grubby fried chicken seem like a good idea. Just enough to make the man at her side feel as warm and inviting as a real log fire, the picture-perfect ones on Christmas ads. Somewhere you just really, really wanted tobe.

But Roscoe was standing still, face serious, arms folded. He had been a little like that ever since that conversation about his dad, but he’d deflected every attempt she made to return to it. Another time, maybe—another time she would tell him exactly what she thought about George fucking Blackton.

Then she realised that Roscoe wasn’t scanning the menu on the wall behind the till, but that his gaze had shifted to the group of three girls at the front of the queue putting their order in. They were dressed for the office—skirts, blouses, slim dark trousers—and they were extremely drunk, laughing amongst themselves, talking over each other, changing their minds constantly. They were, to be honest, very loud and annoying, and that was probably why they caught Roscoe’s attention—almost everyone in the place was staring at them with varying degrees of irritation as they took forever to order.

But Poppy found herself saying, “I bet women love it, too.”

“What?”

Now that she had his attention, she started to regret it. Because she had hiswholeattention, and the whole of Roscoe Blackton’s attention was always somewhat overwhelming. He was quite a bit taller than her, tall and sleek and strong—a gleaming skyscraper compared to her dumpy little chicken shop—and he was looking down from on-high, his usually mild blue eyes holding her pinned like prey in a falcon’s sight.

“The accent,” she said. “What we were talking about earlier. I bet it makes pretty much everything in life easier.”

She was trying to be funny. Honestly, shesworeshe was just trying to get back to that light bantering conversation from earlier in the night. The one where Roscoe had seemed to be having fun, had looked relaxed and amused. And smiled at her. And told her he liked her voice.

But now he frowned. “Like picking up women? That’s what you’re insinuating?”

“Come on,” she tapped him on the chest. Possibly left her fingers there a half-second longer than she intended. “I bet all you need to do is open your mouth. Flash that Black Amex—”

“Coutts.”

“—casually mention you’re the son of an earl and that you’re Lord…what?—whatisyour title?”

“Younger sons don’t get titles.”

“But your brother’s a viscount!”

He smiled slightly. “Been reading that Wikipedia page?”

“No. Maybe.”

And theTatlerarticle. And theForbesinterview…

“Hugo can call himself Viscount Leighton as a courtesy. It’s one of our father’s lesser titles. If Hugo had a son,hecould use the title Baron Redmayne, which is the next of my father’s titles. But I don’t get one. Not as the second son.”

“That doesn’t seem fair.”

Roscoe just smiled. “I know.” Then he shrugged, his smile turning a little wicked around the edges as he lowered his voice, leaning in slightly. “No wonder I’m so woefully unsuccessful with women.”

Poppy laughed. It was funny because it was so clearly untrue. It wasfunny, she reminded herself forcefully.Laugh, Poppy. Laugh.

“I bet you are, though,” her drunk, idiot mouth said.

“What?”

They were at the front of the queue now. Poppy gave their order, paid, tucked her purse back into her bag—all with Roscoe’s eyes on her.

“What do you mean?” he said again as they stepped aside to wait for their food.

“I bet you’re terrible with women.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”

“Because of the voice and the flashy plastic and the…” She waved a hand up and down in front of him as he kept looking at her, eyebrow creeping up. “The expensive suits.”

“Right,” he murmured. “The suits.”

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