I bask and glow in the wake of Alessia’s whispered “Thank you.” I am ridiculously pleased with myself. I’m finally able to help her with this small gesture. I’m not accustomed to doing good deeds—though I probably have an ulterior motive for my kindness, a motive I don’t want to analyze too deeply right now, as it might confirm I’m the shallow fucking bastard I think I am. Still, I feel good about this gesture, and it’s a novel feeling.

With renewed energy I bypass the lift and fly down the main staircase to the ground floor. I’m reluctant to leave, but I have a meeting with Oliver and various contractors at the Mayfair development. Glancing down at my clothes, I hope they don’t expect me to arrive in a suit. That’s just not my style.

No. That was Kit’s thing, and he had a wardrobe full of bespoke Savile Row suits to prove it.

Outside, I dodge the raindrops and hail a cab.

* * *

“I think that went well,” says Oliver. I nod as we walk through the new limestone atrium of one of the rebuilt mansion blocks. Workmen in high-vis jackets and yellow hard hats go about their business around us as we make our way to the boarded front of the building. The dust in the air claws at my throat. I need a drink.

“You’ve got a flair for this, Trevethick. I think the contractor liked your suggestions.”

“Oliver. It’s Maxim. Please use my name. You used to. Before.”

“Very good, my lord.”

“For fuck’s sake.”

“Maxim.” Oliver gives me a brief smile. “We’ll need to get an interior designer to source everything for the show apartment, probably within the next month. I’ve compiled a list of three that Kit liked to use.”

Kit? Kit was Kit. Why can’t I be Maxim?

“Caroline might be a good idea,” I say.

“Oh? Lady Trevethick?”

“My mother suggested her.”

Oliver bristles.

Oh? What does Oliver have against Caroline? Or is he bridling against Rowena? She often has that effect on people.

“I’ll talk to Caroline, but send me the names of the others and some examples of their work,” I respond.

Oliver nods, and I remove my hard hat and hand it to him.

“Until tomorrow,” he says, and pushes open the rickety door of the temporary wooden hoarding that hides the fa?ade of the building.

The rain has finally stopped, but it’s dark. I pull up the collar of my coat and wait for a cab while I decide whether to go to my club or go home.

* * *

Walking around the baby grand piano, I think about Alessia stretched across it while she was buffing the ebony to a glossy shine. It gleams under the chandelier. Who would have thought I’d be so attracted to a woman in a nylon housecoat and large pink panties?

How could she have worked her way under my skin in such a short time? I know nothing about her, except she’s unlike any woman I’ve ever met. The women in my life are bold and confident and know what they want and how to ask for it. She’s not like that. Demure and totally focused on her job, Alessia seems reluctant to engage with me…almost as if she wants to be invisible. She confounds me. Her shy acceptance of the umbrella comes to mind and makes me smile. She was so surprised and appreciative, and I wonder what her life must be like that she’s so grateful for such a simple gesture.

I sit on the piano stool and read through my first manuscript, recalling her face as she pored over the score. Perhaps she reads music. Maybe she even plays. And part of me wants to know what she thinks of my composition. But I realize I’m just speculating. My only certainty right now is the dull ache in my groin.

Fuck it. Go out and get laid.

But instead I stay at the piano, playing each song over and over in turn.

* * *

Alessia lies on the small folding cot that serves as her bed in a tiny room in Magda’s house. Her mind is churning, she has so much to do—but her thoughts return once again to the green-eyed Mister. She sees him at the piano. His eyes closed, his brow furrowed, and his mouth slack as he feels the music—and later his warm expression as he hands her the umbrella. His hair rumpled and his full lips curved in an inviting smile. She wonders what they would be like to kiss.

Her hand moves down her body, over her breast.

He could kiss her here.

She gasps, embracing her fantasy, and her hand moves farther down, and she imagines that it’s his hand on her.

Touching her.

Here.

She starts to caress herself, stifling her moans, mindful of the thin walls of her room.

She thinks of him as her body builds.

Climbing.

Higher.

His face.

His back.

His long legs.

She climbs further.

His taut behind.

His flat stomach.

She groans as she comes, and, exhausted, she falls asleep.

Only to dream of him.

* * *

I toss and turn in my sleep.

    She stands in the doorway. A vision in blue.

Come in. Lie with me. I want you.

But she turns, and she’s in my drawing room. Polishing the piano.

She’s wearing nothing but pink panties.

I reach over to touch her, but she disappears.

And I wake.

* * *

Fuck.

I’m hard. Painfully so.

Hell. I need to get out more.

I take quick care of myself.

When was the last time I did this? I need to get laid. Tomorrow. That’s what I’ll do. I turn over and fall into a fitful sleep.

* * *

The following afternoon Oliver is taking me through the accounts for each of the estates. Our offices are just off Berkeley Square in a Georgian house that was converted into offices during the 1980s by my father. The building is owned by the Trevethick estate and houses two other companies on the upper floors.

I’m trying to concentrate on the numbers we’re discussing, but I’m conscious that the door to Kit’s office is ajar. It’s distracting. I cannot bring myself to work in there yet. I can almost hear him talking on the phone or laughing at one of my poor jokes or berating Oliver about some transgression. I half expect him to bound in off the street. He was so at ease in this world and in charge of his domain. He made it look effortless.

But I know he envied my freedom.

It’s okay for you fucking your way through London, Spare. Some of us have to work for a living.

I stand over Kit’s lifeless, fractured body with the A&E doctor.

Yes. This is him, I confirm.

Thank you, Lord Trevethick, she murmurs.

It was the first time anyone had used the title….

“So I think we can leave things as they are for the next quarter and then review,” Oliver says, dragging me back into the present. “Though you should really go and visit the estates.”

“Yes. I should.”

At some point…

I am only vaguely aware of the recent history of the three estates, but I know that through the good stewardship of my grandfather, my father, and my brother all of them are profitable. Unlike many of our peers, the Trevelyans are not struggling for money.

Angwin House, set in the Cotswolds in Oxfordshire, is thriving. Open to the public, it has a vast garden center, a children’s jungle gym and petting zoo, a tearoom, and open pastures for the general public to enjoy. Tyok in Northumberland is rented out lock, stock, and barrel to a rich American who fancies himself a lord. Kit and Oliver often speculated as to why he hadn’t bought his own stately home, and now I’m wondering the same. Tresyllian Hall in Cornwall, on the other hand, is one of the largest organic farms in the United Kingdom. John, my father, the eleventh Earl of Trevethick, had pioneered organic farming while all his contemporaries had sneered at his initiative. More recently, to diversify the Trevethick portfolio and increase revenues, Kit had conceived and built a development of luxury holiday houses on the edge of the estate. They are in demand, especially in the summer.

“Now, we need to discuss how you intend to use the estates going forward and the level of staffing you’ll need.”

“Oh?”

My heart sinks, and I struggle to remain engaged as Oliver drones on. My mind wanders. Tomorrow Alessia will be back. She’s the only staff member I’m interested in at the moment, and for all the wrong reasons. This morning’s punishing workout in the gym has done little to lessen my fascination with her.

I’m enthralled, and I don’t even know the girl.

My phone buzzes, and I have a text from Caroline. As I read her words, my scalp tingles and my throat tightens.

I’m not pregnant. :’(

I have nothing of Kit’s.

Not even his child.

Shit! My grief rises from nowhere, ambushing me.

“Oliver, we’re going to have to call it a day. Something’s come up.”

“Yes, sir,” Oliver responds. “Tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Why don’t you come to the flat tomorrow, midmorning?”

“Will do, my—Maxim.”

“Good. Thank you.”

I type out a reply to Caroline.

I’m coming over.

No. I want to go out.

Let’s get drunk.

OK. Where?

Are you home?

No. At the office.

Okay. I’ll join you in town.

Loulou’s?

No. Soho House.

Greek Street.

I’ll know fewer people.

I’ll see you there.