Page 158 of Mexico Can Choke On It
“Yeah, right,” I snort. “The oil heiress and I are practically twins.”
“More than you know,” he says gently. “She was wild, brilliant, and the love of my life. Our romance was a secret we carried for forty-two years. Similar to you and Mr. Sterling, we came from different worlds that society did not accept.”
“We are not—” I start, but Nigel cuts me off with a raised hand.
“I am well aware it was you in the closet. And the entire household staff heard Mr. Sterling’s rather… enthusiastic response to your company.”
I groan into my hands.
“Please, do not be embarrassed. Far worse things have transpired in Casa Cashmere’s auxiliary storage rooms.”
I peer through my fingers. “That sounds deeply disturbing.”
“Indeed.”
A pained expression flickers across his face.
“Her husband was an exceedingly cruel and violent man, many decades her senior. This union was imposed upon her by her family,who urgently needed the alliance to avert financial ruin. Upon marrying into such considerable wealth, she was expected to become the epitome of propriety, but she was not a woman to be tamed. Her husband employed me specifically to keep her… in line.”
“So you were hired to spy on her?
Nigel nods gently. “But I fell irrevocably in love with her from the moment we met. She inquired if the stick firmly lodged up my arse was part of the uniform, or if I had struck a bargain with the devil for such impeccable posture.” His pupils twinkle at the memory. “Lord Von Cashmere never succeeded in breaking what made her extraordinary. Her spirit was too vast, too deeply rooted to be destroyed by a small man who confused ownership for affection.”
“He sounds like a total dick.”
“Without question. Her punishment for not conforming was banishment to Casa Cashmere, the family’s summer residence, while he remained in Europe. This place became her sanctuary. I stayed by her side, maintaining my composure at all times, never exposing our love in the presence of others. If I had, he would have been informed. He would have taken her away from me and this place she held so dear.”
“But why stay if you could never be together?”
“Because she needed somebody who could help her walk the line between defiance and duty. Because someone had to witness her life. All of it.”
“And the dog?”
“Our plan was to wed the moment he drew his final breath,” he continues. “But then she fell ill herself—as if fate was determined to deny us even that small measure of happiness.”
BARK! BARK!
“There’s my precious angel,” he croons, gathering the Maltese in his arms. “Were you feeling neglected, dearest? Forgive me.”
The dog’s tongue darts out, giving his cheek a quick lick, and he buries his face into her fluffy fur.
“I gifted my love this little companion during her final months. She took one look and declared her Miss Muffy Von Cashmere the Second. She found endless joy in choosing tiny outfits, giving etiquette lessons, commissioning custom jewelry—and would spend hours teaching this puppy how to hold court.”
He pauses, vulnerability fluttering across his features.
“She used to jest that Muffy was our child. She couldn’t have any of her own, you see. But she would say that this little creature has our best and worst traits. Regal, feral, disobedient, and loyal to a fault.”
My throat pinches.
“During that time, she devised an intricate fantasy. Elaborate scenarios in which Miss Muffy would inherit her position as mistress of the estate. I would continue my duties exactly as before, serving our ‘daughter’ with the same devotion I had shown her. She would say, ‘Nigel, when I’m gone, Muffy will need you. Promise me you’ll carry on as if I never left. Allow her to sit at the head of the table. Let her choose the wine. I want her wearing my favorite brooches.’”
He pauses for a moment, lost in thought.
“When she became bedridden, I brought her fantasy to life,” he says. “She became particularly animated about teaching the puppy to dance—salsa was our secret passion. So I hired Rosita to come teach us while my beloved was entertained from her bed. Miss Muffy and I would attempt our choreography as she cheered from her quilts.”
I study the portrait, and I can picture it all—this straight-laced butler and a wild-hearted oil heiress, dancing in empty ballrooms after midnight.
“This portrait was her final act of rebellion. She loathed the mask she was forced to wear for society—that cold, disapproving demeanor expected of women of her standing. Thus, she was determined to have the last laugh.”
