Page 60 of The Spare

Two things are clear.

The de Vere brothers have been operating on a need-to-know basis where I’m concerned.

And what they clearly decided was that I didn’t need to know very much at all.

‘I was a sex worker, yes,’ Ivy says. She doesn’t mince her words. ‘I worked at Alchemy as a host, and I’m not particularly proud of it, but I’m not ashamed of it, either. I did what I did to keep a roof over our heads. Anyway, the night I met Xav was the last night I ever worked for them.’

I can’t help it. I scoff. ‘Why, because you met Prince Charming?’

‘No, because my stepmum was getting put in a home that week, so I couldn’t do night shifts anymore—not without risking social services sniffing around Rose and Lily even more.’

Her younger sisters.

Jesus fucking Christ.

There’s something about the matter-of-fact way in which she states her circumstances that kills me. I far prefer it when situations are black and white and I can put everything into neat little boxes.

What the hell am I supposed to do with all of this?

I don’t hate Ivy; I know that. And I don’t hate how things have turned out, even if my husband has the emotional intelligence of a bowl of custard sometimes.

I just wish I didn’t feel so alone and blindsided and humiliated. I wish Ben had confided in me before now so that I wouldn’t feel so fucking stupid. To make matters worse, everyone’s looking at me as if I’m made of glass, and I feel as though I’m made of glass, but I still hate it. I hate that they’re having a pity party for poor, oblivious Selena, and I hate that I can’t even bask in the undeniable success Ben and I have made in the first few months of our marriage, because in this narrative, I still look like the oblivious idiot, and it has my eyes stinging with unshed tears.

I blink furiously. ‘It must have been a very difficult time for you,’ I say now, because it feels like the dignified, magnanimous thing to say, and believe me, right now I’m calibrating every word I say in front of these three. It’s the only shield I have against all this relentless indignity.

In any case, who the fuck am I to judge her on her life choices as the woman who was prepared to prostitute herself to become a duchess and who married whichever brother would have her?

‘I’m truly sorry for all the deception, Selena,’ Xavier says, steepling his fingers and making annoyingly earnest eye contact. He’s so fucking self-righteous. ‘I really regret that you got caught up in all of this, and I’m not proud of how I handled it. Not proud at all. But for what it’s worth—and I’m not just saying this to let myself off the hook—you and Ben seem incredibly happy together, so hopefully it was all worth it. I hope, in years to come, you’ll thank your lucky stars that we didn’t end up together.’

Right on cue, Ben leans closer, putting his arm around me and sliding his fingertips down my bare arm as he dips his head to kiss my nearest shoulder. ‘Believe me, it was worth it,’ he murmurs against my skin.

His touch never fails to elicit a physical reaction from me, but, given how spectacularly the de Vere brothers have played me, the show of adoration feels like too little, too late.

Jesus Christ.

We are most definitely not out of the woods yet.

CHAPTER 28

Selena

Iwas pretty quiet for the rest of the dinner—or as quiet as my upbringing and good manners would allow me to be, anyway. I made polite, careful conversation, praising Ivy’s cooking (genuinely delicious) and enquiring as to how her sisters were finding their first few weeks at Hartwell House (‘posh but okay’, apparently). Retreating into my carefully crafted shell without coming across as a total bitch was my only game plan.

That, and casually (read: opportunistically) bringing up my intention to put in place a long-term overhaul of Belvedere’s interiors. Ben was disinterestedly supportive, Ivy was enthusiastic, and Xavier looked horrified but didn’t follow it through with actual censure.

Here’s the lovely thing about quid pro quo.

Every little piece of dignity at which he and his brother had chipped away afforded me some currency with them: currency that sat, burning a hole in my metaphorical pocket at that table.

And when I decided to spend it—to redress the balance somewhat with a power move of my own—there was nothing he could do about it.

Nothing at all.

You made your bed, Xav.

You can fucking well lie in it.

Now we’re at a party about fifteen miles away in a seriously nice Georgian stately home. The owners are Jack and Lydia Balfour, Lydia being my bridesmaid Minty’s older sister. She was a year above us at school, and Jack was a year above Xavier at Eton.