Page 39 of An American in London

I know we’ve done everything we can in the time available, but that doesn’t stop the nerves battling in my chest as we turn into the entrance to the stately home of the Duke and Duchess of Brandon. Luckily my anxiety about being discovered has overridden my nerves about being in the close confines of a car with Ben. Our almost-make-out-slash-practice-touching has long been forgotten, and we’re focused on our objective.

I spent every working hour of the last week trawling through paperwork regarding Ben’s finances. Every houroutof the office I spent revising Ben’s completed—very personal—questionnaire, interspersed with me frantically firing off even more personal questions by text and receiving calm responses and reassurances that everything was going to be fine. My entire life has become about Ben in the last few days. I’ve thrown myself into the role of Ben’s fiancée, and I’m certain I couldn’t have done anything more, but I’m far from confident about pulling off our charade. My anxiety skyrockets as we pass through the gates to the estate.

“It’s going to be fine,” Ben says as we pull up in front of the house. I don’t even need to say anything. My nerves are boomeranging around the car.

“What happens if it isn’t fine?”

“We get thrown in a Thai prison for the rest of our lives and have to come to terms with the fact that life will never be the same.” He speaksin the same tone of voice he always does. Serious and studied, except I know him well enough now to know he’s joking.

My mind flits to our almost-kiss in the kitchen, and I shiver.

“I’m serious, Ben. What happens if they see through our ... act?”

He pulls in a breath. “I’m going to tell you what I’ve told you the last ten times you’ve asked that question: People aren’t looking for holes in other people’s stories; they’re looking for things to make sense. We’re prepared. They’re not going to see through anything.”

I go to object, but he silences me as he raises his eyebrows and adds, “Worst-case scenario, we leave in a couple of days, and the duke doesn’t want to sell me his hotels. And that’s exactly the position we’re in now. You’ll be thirty thousand dollars richer. You have nothing to lose. Just try and enjoy yourself.”

He opens the driver’s door and then comes around to the passenger side, scooping up my hand in his. Our eyes lock at the physical contact, but I look away. Somehow, him touching me neutralizes some of my anxiety. It’s like he’s my shield, my protector, the man who has my back. Like someone’s taking some of the load from me.

It’s such an unusual feeling, it throws me off guard. Before I know it, I’m standing in front of the Duke and Duchess of Brandon, being introduced as Ben’s fiancée.

“Your Grace,” I say as I shake hands with the duke. When Ben explained how I should address the duke and the duchess, I laughed. I didn’t think he was serious, but now I’m here, standing on the steps of this enormous house, it feels entirely natural. Like I’m in a real-lifeBridgertonnovel or something.

The duke is one of those tall, very thin men who always looks like they’re in need of a sandwich. The duchess is slight and impossibly beautiful, with an elegance that can’t be taught, but she’s not haughty or at all standoffish.

“Oh, good, an American,” the duchess says without explanation. “Do call me Verity. And my husband’s George.” She has a kind smileand tiny, tiny wrists. I shake her hand very gently. I do not want to break the duchess’s bones before we’re even through the front door.

I half expected the duke and duchess to greet us wearing tailcoats and tiaras, but both of them are dressed in jeans and blazers. However, the duchess’s hazelnut-size diamond studs give away a little of who she is. Our introduction is short, and I glance over my shoulder to see another couple coming through the front doors behind us. It’s as if the duke and duchess are a stop on a conveyor belt, and we’ve moved past them.

Ben doesn’t let go of my hand as another man, Grant, introduces himself as the butler and guides us upstairs. We’re all meeting in the drawing room for cocktails at six, followed by dinner. The grandfather clock we just passed says it’s a little before four. I wonder if I can chill the hell out between now and then.

“This is your room,” Grant says as he opens the door, stepping aside to allow us in first.

“It’s beautiful,” I say, before I’ve even had a chance to take it in. But as I glance around, it’s clear I was right. Spacious and bright, with duck-egg-blue walls and dual-aspect windows overlooking the undulating grounds of the house. A sumptuous-looking four-poster bed occupies one side of the room, opposite a couch between two long windows, and on the other side, another two large couches sit opposite each other, either side of a fireplace. A bathroom is on the left.

One bed.

“Please let me know if there’s anything you require,” Grant says before giving a little bow and gliding out of the room.

“This is good,” Ben says once the door closes and Grant’s footsteps fade. He doesn’t drop my hand right away, and I don’t slide mine from his. It feels too nice having him close. “A sofa will suit me fine.”

All week Ben has been preempting any anxiety I might be feeling and trying to chase it away. He doesn’t make it obvious; he doesn’t say, “Don’t worry, I’ll take the sofa.” He just constantly walks a little way ahead, clearing my fears just as they start to develop. I’m not sure if it’sconscious or a coincidence. It feels like we’re in sync. I don’t have to ask for reassurance; it’s offered just before it’s needed. Another quality to add to the list that grows hourly.

“It’s a beautiful house,” I say. “It looks familiar. Probably seen it on a Jane Austen adaptation or something.”

“I doubt it,” Ben replies, finally dropping my hand and moving to the window. “The duke doesn’t need the money they’d get from hiring the place out.”

I bend to unzip my suitcase. Maybe one stately home looks a lot like another, but there’s something about the stone steps up to the grand entrance that seemed familiar. “So cocktails and then dinner. You have a preference about what I should wear?”

Ben is facing the window that looks out onto the gardens, his hands in his pockets, his profile lit up like he’s the president. He isn’t just handsome. He’s commanding.

In New York, I can spot a really powerful man by their intangible presence. Ben’s one of those guys.

“Wear whatever will make you feel comfortable,” he says, staring straight ahead. What’s he thinking about? How to approach the duke about buying the hotels? Whether or not he thinks we can pull off being fake-engaged? Maybe he feels out of his depth. Just like me.

“So a thong and nipple tassels are okay with you?”

He keeps staring out of the window. “Let’s keep the nipple tassels for behind closed doors, shall we?”

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