Page 79 of Pride and Privilege

“Like…ridiculously fancy.”

He nodded solemnly. “I know. And I apologise.”

She breathed her own laugh, then lapsed into silence once more, looking out of the window, and the tension that had been there for the last few days began to mount again.

He hadn’t touched her since that foot rub. He couldn’t. It had been wrong, the way he had called her into his office. Compromised her exactly like the sleazy, horny boss he had sworn he wasn’t. Up until then, she had been the one to initiate things. That, and the other stupid rules he had decided to live by, had been the only things salving his conscience. But he had crossed a line asking for her, pinning her to his door, especially doing so at work, where every imbalance between them was heightened further. Ashamed of himself, he had resolutely promised—definitely, for real this time—that he would not start anything. He would hand the power back to her to decide if she wanted to go beyond the bounds of friendship again.

So far, she had kept her distance.

“What’s she like, your Great Aunt Mabel?” Poppy asked.

Roscoe grinned. “Terrifying. But in a good way. You’ll like her, I think. She’ll like you.”

Poppy didn’t seem very convinced by this, so he continued. “She can be blunt. She’s no nonsense. But she…she has a lot of commonsense. Cares about the important things, you know? And she hates my father. Hasn’t spoken to him in years. So don’t worry about her telling him you’re with me.”

Then he winced. Because that definitely wasn’t the right thing to say.

“Right,” said Poppy. “Great.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“No, no. I get it. Too many questions at work. I know.”

And the silence fell again, each moment building up like snowflakes against a wall.

THIRTY-SEVEN

The house was Jacobean,Poppy knew. She’d found the Wikipedia page. Malperton House. Built in the 1600s, Grade I listed. It possessed an Italianate sunken garden that had featured in several period dramas she’d never seen.

Roscoe’s great aunt’s house. Or his father’s house, really. Part of one of three estates belonging to the Earl of Carnford. George Blackton. The man she saw at work who asked her to fetch the glasses. Roscoe’s dad, who couldn’t remember her name.

They turned onto a long driveway and the house became visible beyond lush green lawns and summer-green trees. Sandy-coloured stone, a vast expanse of it with too many windows to count. Then another wing came into view as the drive curved, and another building, stables perhaps, and another—outbuildings and walls, the house itself rising above them all like a mother hen with a wayward brood, its many chimneys ornate and twisting.

Poppy said nothing, tried to summon her courage. Roscoe parked near a long, low building some distance from the house.They got out, he picked up their bags. “She’ll probably be in the garden, or the stables. We’ll check there on the way.”

Poppy nodded and followed.

The grounds were a little scruffier than she’d imagined. Not some picture-perfect wedding-brochure scene, but like a real place, where weeds grew and no one ever had quite enough time to mow the lawns. There were a dozen flowers she didn’t know the name of, trees everywhere. Grass and bees and fucking hell—

“Is that adragonfly?”

Roscoe smiled at her surprise. “Yes. Probably from the duck pond. Or the ornamental pool. Aunt Mabel’s into that sort of wildlife-friendly gardening.”

Poppy tried to look less like a complete citified Londoner. But when had she last been in the countryside? Not for years. Over a decade. Since her grandparents last took her somewhere. The parks and commons of London were her green spaces, and she seldom even visited those.

Roscoe slowed as they passed a building Poppy guessed was the stable, given there was an actual horse looking out of one of the doors. An old woman dressed in faded purple trousers and a thick, grey shirt was tugging some weedy plant out of a crack in the old, weathered wall.

“Aunt,” Roscoe called, stepping forwards and putting down their bags to embrace the tiny, thin lady in a massive hug.

“Squash me, why don’t you, you big ox.”

He laughed, stepping away. “Aunt Mabel, may I introduce Poppy?”

The woman looked her up and down, frank and curious. She must have been eighty years old, but her gaze was sharp.

“Hello,” said Poppy, wondering if that one word betrayed her accent. Her status. She felt as though everything else did—her clothes, the way she stood.

“Hello. Welcome.” Mabel looked up at Roscoe with a lift of one eyebrow. “Well, nevvy. I’ve had two rooms prepared, just as you asked for. For you and yourwork friend. I hope you enjoy the extra space.”

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