Page 69 of An American in London

“How can I cheer you up?” I ask. “You seem tense.”

“Just be yourself. I’m better now you’re here.”

The idea I could lift whatever burden he carries warms me. “What else can I do?” I push my hand back into his and curl my fingers, locking them together.

“I hate that I’ve had to ask you to do this. I sort of hate that we have to go through this pretense again. I’m not sure ...”

“I offered, remember? I’m happy to come along. I’ll have a wonderful time.” I don’t say it, but I can’t help thinking that we’re not pretending. Okay, so we’re not engaged, but we’re romantically linked. Even if it’s only for the last few days of me being here in London.

“But you should be enjoying London. And I ...” He doesn’t finish his sentence. He releases his seat belt and for a moment I think he’s going to pull me onto his lap or something, but I realize the car has stopped.

“We’re here,” he says.

He undoes my seat belt for me and we get out of the car.

“It’s this one,” he says, nodding at the grand town house in front of us. The imposing black double doors are flanked by white columns, and the stoop is covered in pretty black-and-white tiles. Because it’s a town house, it’s not clear where the house begins and ends, but I can see it goes up about four or five floors. It surprises me a little that it’s right on the street. Surely anyone could knock on the door.

Grant opens the door and we’re shown into a huge formal living room. I can see the duchess’s influence in the room’s pretty feminine details: walls of duck-egg blue with gold-framed paintings hung close together; two huge chandeliers drip with light, emphasizing the elaborate crown molding and intricate plasterwork on the ceiling. As we’re being offered drinks, the duchess arrives. Her hair is swept up in an elegant chignon, and she’s wearing a black, knee-length cocktail dress. What I’m wearing looks like it could have come from the same person’s wardrobe, and I relax slightly. The first part of my role is complete; at least I look the part.

“Let’s have champagne,” she says. “We can celebrate your engagement.” She puts up her hand. “I’m not pressuring you to decide, but I just want to tell you that our offer to host the engagement party or reception still stands.”

My stomach roils for all the wrong reasons. She’s so kind and generous, and both she and the duke have already been so lovely to us I hate lying to them. It was bad enough for the weekend, but somehow it feels worse the second time around. I thought the fact Ben and I have slept together would make it easier, but somehow it makes it worse because the lie feels less necessary. Or maybe the reality of what I’m feeling for Ben and how much I like spending time with him also feels like a lie. I don’t know what’s the truth and what’s for show.

“Thank you,” Ben says. “Honestly, as long as she becomes my wife, I don’t really mind about the wedding.”

Tiny flutters explode in my heart. From his expression and tone, there’s no way anyone could tell he’s lying. He’s entirely convincing. Even to me. But of course, heislying. If he was telling the truth, it would be absurd. We’ve known each other a few weeks, and I’m going back to New York. But there’s a part of me thatwantshim to be telling the truth. The flutters turn to churning. Living a lie—even for a few more hours—is more stressful than I anticipated.

“You always say the right thing,” I say, pulling my mouth into a tight smile.

“Long may that continue,” the duchess says. “It’s exactly the opposite affliction my husband suffers from. Speak of the devil.”

The duke comes through the door, dressed smartly in a gray suit, white shirt, and pink tie. “My apologies,” he says. “That call took longer than it should have done.”

“You’ve got to slow down, darling. I keep saying it to you.”

“How are you two?” the duke asks, ignoring his wife.

“I was just reminding Tuesday and Ben that our invitation to host the engagement party still stands,” the duchess says. “I always say to the duke, us not being able to have more children was such a waste. I would have been a wonderful interfering mother.”

The duke squeezes her arm, and I realize I’ve never seen him touch her before.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, then wonder if I should have pretended she hadn’t mentioned her lack of children. Sometimes it’s difficult to know with the British whether they want to talk about something.

The duchess smiles. “I’ve had a lot of time to come to terms with it. But it is a huge regret in our lives, isn’t it, George? We love to spend time with and support young couples. I suppose that’s how I’ve channeled my mothering.”

“We’re blessed in many ways, my dear.”

“We are.” The duchess puts on a bright smile and nods toward us. “We get to host lovely young couples like you at Fairfield House.”

“I absolutely fell in love with the place,” I say. It’s the truth but I’m also relieved we’re on safer conversational ground. “It has a magical feel. The house, the grounds—it’s all so very special.”

“You must come to our place in France in the summer. We have a number of friends of all ages who will be joining us.” Another generous invitation. I know I should feel grateful, but my gut fills with guilt like a rain barrel in a storm. We’re tricking two lovely people. This isn’t just business. This is personal. “I’m there on and off between June and September, flying to and fro. We’re not far outside Cannes. It’s absolutely gorgeous and more restful than London, which is all go-go-go.”

Grant comes in to tell us dinner is ready, and we make our way into the dining room. It’s a gorgeous room that manages to balance coziness and formality. Dark-blue velvet drapes frame the three huge windows, and a massive chandelier hangs from the tall ceiling over the polished mahogany dining table.

“I know it’s only the four of us tonight,” she says, nodding at the huge table that must be large enough for twenty. “But I love this room. We’ll have plenty of space to spread out.”

“The table looks beautiful,” I reply.

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