Page 43 of The Himbo and the Lord

I could almost feel sorry for her if she’d ever made us feel loved. Not that we didn’t have love, we just didn’t get it from our mother and father. Those who cared for us did a great job, as if they felt the need to compensate for our cold-as-fish parents, so it’s not like we didn’t grow up without hugs and bedtime stories. But it would have been nice, just once in a while, to know we weren’t a burden to our parents.

Leaving my mother in the hallway, I turn on my heel and wrench open the door. I clatter down the steps and climb into my car. I want to get out of here as fast as possible.

I stop suddenly at the end of the drive.

Fenella?

Why her?

I’m certain she wouldn’t have agreed to anything like this, because if there is one thing I do know, it’s that Fenella Dubarry hates me just as much as I hate her.

I continue driving back to my place while I keep thinking it over.

Fenella is one of those people who are just mean. It started when we were kids, at some garden party. She threw mud at me for no good reason, or not one that I could ever fathom. She used to push me over or pinch me. She always did this where none of our parents could see, of course, and the one time I did retaliate, she burst into tears—I’m certain they weren’t real—and went crying to her parents.

I was banished to my room as if I was the bully. I still have no idea why she had it in for me. Nowadays, if our paths do cross, we manage to ignore each other.

Her brother wasn’t much better. Though not openly hostile, he always looked down on Petra and me as if he was better than us. Which is a shame because Xander is extremely good looking, though very straight as far as I know.

Whilst I hate the idea of having to go to dinner tomorrow, I’m intrigued to know why she would agree to this. I’m pretty sure her sentiments toward me haven’t changed, so there must be something else.

There’s one person I can call who might know something—Gabriel Barclay-Sinclair. Gabriel went to Woodcourtt as well, and I wouldn’t call him a best friend, but we’re close enough that I can call him up to ask him. We do meet up occasionally, but I know he’s busy, so it’s usually a catch up if we meet at a function.

The last time I saw him was at the Johnson’s ball a few months ago. He does know Xander pretty well, as they both play polo, though as far as I’m aware they’re not on the same team.

I pull over and punch in his number, then I see another old friend in front of me, and all thoughts of calling Gabriel go out of my head.

“Carter?” I call out the car window.

Carter Din turns slowly. He looks just the same, even though it must be ten years since I last saw him. Another Woodcourtt boy, he left for San Francisco as soon as we’d finished. I’d heard that his parents had passed away a while ago but not that Carter was back.

I get out of the car.

He walks over and throws his arms around me.

“You alright, mate?” I ask quietly, and then hug him back because well, it’s Carter.

“I didn’t know I’d missed you,” he mumbles into my shoulder.

“Me either,” I reply, because it’s true, I have missed him.

“You still living with the lord?” he asks, falling back on the name we always referred to my father by. It’s not as if half the boys at Woodcourtt weren’t titled, but for some reason it was my father who earned that particular name, and it wasn’t meant respectfully.

“No,” I scoff. “I just came by because I was summoned.”

“Well, I’m glad you were.” His face becomes sad and he glances up at the empty house. “I’m here to pack it all up and sell it.”

“I'm sorry, Carter.” It seems an inadequate thing to say, but I mean it.

He nods and takes a deep breath, as if to shake off his sad mood.

“Do you have time to get something to eat? I’d love to catch up.”

“Do you know what?” This is the perfect opportunity to forget about my own troubles for a while. “I do, and I can’t wait to hear all about you. Let’s go.” I tip my head down the road, and Carter smiles. He knows exactly where I’m thinking of—a little Indian place we used to frequent when we were here during our holidays.

He stows his bags inside the house, and locks it up before joining me on the pavement.

“So, what’s going on with you?” he asks as we start walking down the road. I involuntarily grimace, and he shoots me a look.

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