“Seventeenth, I believe,” he said, making my desire for him rise again—not that it ever flagged, but I loved the fact that he knew little details like that.
* * *
MILLY WAS A SWEET OLD THING. Her face lit up when she saw me, and she looked like she would burst into tears after Blake introduced us.
“Oh, Blake, my boy. She’s beautiful.”
He went over and hugged her and whispered something.
I remained quiet. Considering how private Blake was, it seemed a privilege just being there.
Blake placed chocolates and magazines on a table.
She smiled sweetly, and pointed at a seat close to her. “Sit here, my lovely, and let me look at you.”
I sat by the window with the million-dollar view of rolling hills and glowing green meadows.
“Blake, you didn’t tell me about Penelope.”
He answered with a faint smile, which was his way of remaining mysterious.
“Should I order tea?” she asked.
I shook my head. “We just had a few cups earlier. I’m fine, thank you.”
“So tell me about yourself,” she said.
“There’s not much to say,” I said, looking over at Blake, hoping he’d jump in with how he fell madly in love with me at first sight.
“So how did you meet Blake? And do make it romantic.” She looked at me with a gentle smile. “I love romance.”
“We met at an art exhibition. Penelope’s a very fine artist.” Blake’s eyes brimmed with pride.
I smiled at him, bathing in his compliment as one would the sun on a fine warm day.
After a little small talk, which didn’t give much away about Blake’s past, we ended up playing cards and giggling over silly things.
Blake was so heartwarmingly caring around Milly that I wanted to cry and laugh at the same time.
That was when I really fell in love with him.
We’d had one very intense month together. There was so much we didn’t know about each other still, and the thought of Blake learning about my life growing up made my heart shrink.
Will he still consider me a rising star?
But Blake didn’t do relationships, I had to remind myself. For all I knew, he would tire of me soon.
Blake rose. “I’ll be back in a minute.” He turned to Milly. “Now, don’t you start gossiping.”
Her little giggle sounded like a child’s. She was so sweet.
After Blake left, she said, “I can’t tell you how lovely it is to see Blake with a girl. He’s not like all the other boys. He’s special. He’s delicate, though.” She turned almost disturbingly serious. “He was close to my beautiful boy.” She drifted off into another dimension, which jarred me.
“Your son?”
She sighed. “Harry was my only child. When he died, my heart broke. I was never the same again.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“There’s that devil Dylan Fox. Watch him. He’s evil. Don’t let him go near Blake.” She leaned forward and grabbed my hand. “Promise me you’ll protect Blake.”
My mouth opened, but nothing came out. A flood of questions choked a coherent sentence and kept it from flowing.
Is she telling me that Dylan Fox killed her son and might do the same to Blake?
The shock must have shown, because she added, “I’m sorry, love, to sound so bleak, but you’re the only friend Blake’s ever brought here. I need to know someone’s looking out for my boy.” She placed her finger before her mouth. “It’s our secret.”
Blake strode back in, and a smile instantly chased away my frown.
He sat down and said, “Do you feel like a walk?”
Milly replied, “No. Tell me all about how you met. Make it as romantic as possible. Exaggerate even.”
I looked at Blake and smiled.
29
* * *
BLAKE
I LOUNGED BACK IN my favorite armchair at the club. There was something about that worn leather smell that conjured up images of powerful men making momentous decisions.
“I’m in love,” said James.
I’d known James for a long time and he’d never uttered those words before. He’d admitted to being in lust, yes, but not in love.
“That’s nice,” I said.
He looked at me. “You’re not going to ask with whom?”
“Lilly.”
He smiled brightly. “We’ve been together every night this week.”
“That’s serious.”
“I’ve asked her to the masked ball.”
I thought of Penelope, who I’d invited to the ball. Looking stunned, she’d asked, “What will I wear?”
“A gown,” I answered. Penelope’s somewhat quirky approach to wardrobe, which I generally admired, came to mind, so I suggested a stylist.
Her face scrunched at that suggestion. “Can’t I choose my own?”