Page 27 of Neighbor from Hell
Chapter
Seventeen
LAUREN
This was a bad idea.
Storming here, full of rage. It got me through the manor’s giant gates and past those heavy carved doors, but now? I’m soaked in sweat, like someone dumped cold water on me, and my fire’s fading fast. The housekeeper who introduced herself as Mrs. O’Brien was so coldly formal in a completely un-American way that I almost completely forgot why I came here in the first place.
That I came here to cause trouble!
She gestured me into the foyer, a lofty cavern of gleaming marble floors inlaid with black and gold chevrons, stretching toward a staircase that spiraled up, its balustrade carved with ivy and roses, each glowing curl so intricate and delicate I wanted to touch it. The creamy plaster of the walls was molded into panels of scrolling vines, and up above hung a massive chandelier, its crystals winking like they were alive.
“Please wait here. I’ll let his Lordship know you’re here,’ she said stiffly, and walked away, her back ramrod straight with silent disapproval.
Alone, I wonder where the butler is. Maybe it’s his day off or he’s gone into the village. Five minutes later, my eyes are still darting around the grand ceiling, ribbed with gothic arches, painted in faded blues and golds, like some cathedral. The sheer grandeur of it makes my cottage feel like a shed. I hear footsteps, and it is Mrs. O’Brien. She lifts her chin.
“If you’d like to come with me, Miss Hutton.”
I follow Mrs. O’Brien’s silent back as she turns left into a corridor. Under my shoes, the dark oak polished to a mirror shine is engaged in a herringbone fox trot. On the walls are a kaleidoscope of portraits featuring indistinguishable pale faces above ruffled collars.
We stop, she opens a glass door, and ushers me into a large conservatory full of greenery. My breath catches as sunlight floods my vision, pouring through walls of leaded glass. The diamond shaped panes at the top bend the light into soft rainbows across the flagstone floor. I pause, eyes wide, taking it in. The room feels like a jewel box, airy yet ancient. Its ceiling is a lattice of white-painted metal. The walls are mostly glass, but the stone areas are carved with swirling ferns and tiny birds, centuries old but still sharp. Wicker chairs with cushions striped in sage and cream sit among the rich riot of exotic flowering plants.
“Who takes care of the plants?” my mouth whispers in wonder.
“Mr. Ingram, the head gardener and his team,” Mrs. O’Brien informs formally.
Of course. One person could never take care of all these exotic and lush plants by themselves.
“I’ll send for tea and refreshments,” she says.
I turn around to tell her there is no need, but she is already halfway out of the door. Well, I guess tea would not be so bad. My mouth does feel quite dry.
My gaze skips past the incredible profusion of greenery inside; they are drawn outside. Beyond the glass walls, the gardens unfold, a sea of emerald lawns. There is a rose garden, but it is still too early for them to flower. A gravel path snakes toward a fountain, its spray catching the sun like liquid diamonds, and in the distance, yew hedges clipped into perfect waves roll toward a horizon that feels endless. It’s breathtaking, the kind of beauty that overwhelms you, and makes you feel like such a tiny creature in the great dance of the cosmos.
I have to admit, I am freaking impressed. As I’m standing here, staff in black and white uniforms load a round table with stuff I never asked for—scones with thick cream, little sandwiches, little cream cakes so pretty my mouth waters even though I’m trying to stay mad. I hold onto the thought that I didn’t want any of this. He’s making me wait, probably on purpose, pulling the same trick with this fancy spread as he did with that Tiffany lamp. That’s why I’m angry, isn’t it? He thinks he can throw nice things at me and I’ll roll over.
But man, this house… I can’t stop staring. The whole place is so unreal I want to roll my eyes just to snap out of it. How am I supposed to stay sharp when I’m surrounded by this?
I pace a bit, and my muddy boots sink into a rug so soft it’s absurd. Aubusson probably. I can’t help though, but buzz with some ideas for the cottage and so as soon as the staff are out of sight, I take my seat and pull out my phone. As quickly as I can, I snap a picture of the ceiling—the plaster swirled like a fancy dessert, so detailed it’s ridiculous. I’m caught up, my phone raised, thumb framing a shot of the ceiling’s swirling plaster ferns when his voice hits me, low and smug.
“Hello.”
My heart slams to a stop, a sick lurch that steals my breath, and for a second, the world narrows to that sound—his voice, smooth but edged, curling around me. A pause, heavy as stone, drops into the room. It’s like the air has turned thick and is clinging to my skin.
I put my phone away and turn around to face him slowly as I try to rebuild the fire I walked in with. I find him across the room watching me with those amazing eyes that make my pulse race. My anger flickers weakly, but I cling to it stubbornly, willing it to burn hotter. I am so damn ready to be furious and let the annoyance I’ve been nursing for that Tiffany lamp stunt to explode.
But when I watch him standing proudly like he owns every inch of my sanity, the words clot in my throat and refuse to budge. My breath catches, a sharp hitch I can’t hide, because as much as I hate to admit it, he’s breathtaking. I remember his hair from that first day when he stormed into my cottage—wild and tousled. Now it’s different, damp and swept away from his face in a sleek style. It frames his hard jaw, where a faint stubble dusts his skin, not the polished duke I expected, but something rugged, raw, like he’s stepped out of a fevered dream I didn’t ask for.
My eyes narrow, trying to reconcile the war inside me. Is this the same asshole who offered to buy my home? Because right now, he looks too good, too dangerous, like he’s rewritten himself just to mess with me.
“Welcome to Montrose Manor, Miss Hutton,” he says, his voice curling around my name. He crosses the flagstone floor and extends his hand, a gesture so formal it’s almost a mockery in this charged space. My heart reacts, a clumsy thud against my ribs, and before I can think properly, I stand, my hair brushing my shoulders as I move.
Then my hand is in his.
It’s a reflex I curse the second our skin touches. His hand is warm, firm, and his grip steady, whereas mine tremble. I’ve fucked up, big time. How could I just stand and greet him like he’s not the enemy? I want to bury myself in the ground.
The unblinking intensity in his piercing gray eyes strips me bare as they hold my gaze. It’s as if he’s seeing every crack in my armor. Unshakable calm radiates off him like he’s already mapped out this moment and I’m just catching up. He’s close—too close—and I feel it, the way he towers over me, his height swallowing the space until I’m craning my neck back as my heart hammers and my blood sings in my ears.
