Page 17 of Cruel Dynasty

Except, I didn’t. I didn’t know the Holden that Spencer knew. I’d seen glimpses of him, but in the short periods I’d spent in private with his brother, I’d discovered a man far more complicated than anyone seemed to realize. Maybe it wasn’t so out of the ordinary to think he broke hearts as a hobby. He was clearly looking for love.

“It’s fine,” Spencer said, and I got the impression it was more for his benefit than mine. “There are twenty guest rooms. We can avoid him.”

Twenty guest rooms. My eyes widened as I swept over Hensley House and took in the buildings and its lush grounds. The house itself boasted a Jacobethan style that made it appear all the more grandiose. Looking at it, it was impossible to decide if it was hundreds of years old or an example of the revival of the style. The exterior consisted of terra-cotta brickwork broken by arched windows. A few towers rose toward the sky, surrounded by parapets, breaking up the steeply gabled roofs. It was magnificent and intimating all at once, which I supposed was the point. But most of all, it was huge. Half a London city block would likely fit inside the interior. The grounds continued past the house replete with carefully-trimmed shrubbery that blocked a view of what lay beyond the hedges. It wasn’t a country house. It was an estate, and further evidence that the Byrd family had deep roots in old English money. I continued to stare after Spencer helped me out of the car, momentarily distracted from the unwanted third member of the party. At least, until my gaze swept to my left and landed on Holden’s SUV. Maybe Spencer was right and we could avoid Holden for the next two weeks, but I doubted it. Not because there wasn’t enough space, but because Holden wasn’t likely to allow that to happen. He wanted to stir up trouble as often as possible. In truth, Hensley was little more than a large cage that I was willingly stepping foot inside despite knowing that I would be trapped there with two men who brought out the primal instincts in each other.

What could go wrong?

My question was answered within the hour. Spencer showed me inside Hensley with the characteristic oblivion I’d begun to expect from the wealthy people I found myself surrounded by. The interior of Hensley matched the exterior in terms of scale. Plush, Persian carpets the size of small flats were arranged artfully on the polished wood floors like a luxurious walkway. Paintings hung on the oak-paneled walls signed by artists whose names made me gasp. There had to be enough art to open a small museum in the foyer alone.

“That’s the sitting room,” Spencer said, pointing into a cavernous room. Three lonely sofas that looked both posh and uncomfortable were arranged around a grand fireplace with a marble hearth that took up a good portion of the southern wall. Tables and lamps dotted the space, some positioned around more chairs to offer ample seating. It looked like a room one might expect to find walking into a Jane Austen novel. Spencer didn’t seem to notice my quiet awe as he continued, “The dining room. Although I prefer to take my meals on my veranda.”

I nodded, swallowing as I took in the formal table and the twenty or more chairs placed around it. I could see why he preferred to eat somewhere less ostentatious. After that there was a study and a morning room, a library and a game room. I lost track of the dizzying number of spaces and found myself glad when he led me toward the stairs. From the second floor, a balcony looked out over the entry. We continued past it, turning once to head toward the east wing of the house. By the time we’d passed six bedrooms, I was beginning to wonder if I might actually get lost in this house. I didn’t dare mention my fear to Spencer, because Kerrigan Belmond would have been to plenty of such estates in her life. I, however, felt like I’d wandered onto the set of a period drama.

“Holden’s room is in the west wing,” Spencer informed me when he finally paused in front of a door. “We should have our privacy.”

Given the size of Hensley, he might as well have said that Holden’s room was in Scotland. I had no doubt that I wouldn’t hear so much as a peep from Holden unless we were on the main floor.

“The servants are in the basement,” Spencer went on, and I blanched at the term. He noticed and quickly corrected himself, “I mean staff. Old habits.”

Naturally, he’d been born to a family that still used terms like servants but it still left a sour taste in my mouth. Spencer was polite most of the time, but then again, I’d rarely seen him engage with any of the household staff at his grandfather’s London home. I felt certain he employed a cleaning person to care for his flat in the city, but I had never encountered one. The truth was that there was a clear separation between him and those his family employed. I wondered that I’d never noticed it before.

“This is my room,” he said, turning the knob and opening the door. “Or it is now.”

The room wasn’t quite what I expected it to be. A small desk with a Tiffany lamp sat near the window. A stack of newspapers had been left, presumably placed there prior to our arrival. The bed itself was much smaller than the one in Spencer’s flat in London, although it held a plethora of comfortable looking pillows and was covered in plush linens. On one wall there was an antique wardrobe and on the other an unlit hearth. After taking in so much of Hensley, I was surprised at its elegant simplicity.

“We’ll share a washroom,” he said, opening a door next to the wardrobe, “but there are separate toilets and you have your own bathing chamber.”

“My own…” I looked at him with confusion. “Aren’t we sharing a room?”

“We could if you want, but mother thought we should take the master quarters,” he explained. “Grandfather rarely comes up here, and she felt with our engagement…”

I swallowed as I realized that I’d already been promoted within Spencer’s family. “I suppose I hadn’t expected that to happen so quickly.”

“Honestly, neither did I,” he agreed. “It’s a little insane that they still do things like this in old houses, isn’t it? I forget that you grew up without the pleasures of the bloody aristocracy dictating propriety.” He shot me a lop-sided grin that eased my mind a little. Kerrigan had been raised amongst a wealthy family, but this would be a little new to her.

Spencer took my hand and led me through the shared washroom into a second bedroom that was as opposite his room as night and day. His bedroom had been masculine, hewn down to the necessities with an eye for comfort, but my bedroom had been outfitted for a princess. In the center of the room, an oversized four-poster bed was piled with decorative pillows in a variety of golden yellow silks and brocades. Thick curtains were tied to each post and could be drawn for complete privacy. A velvet chaise with an artfully tossed blanket waited next to a marble hearth that held a large vase brimming with white roses, peonies, and other, smaller flowers. The walls were papered in a slightly textured pattern that shimmered with a golden sheen. Under one large window, sat a vanity stocked with expensive face creams, brushes, and a gilt mirror. Under the other window, was a polished writing desk inlaid with ivory.

“It’s beautiful,” I said truthfully, each moment catching sight of some small luxury that had been carefully considered for its mistress. “But am I supposed to sleep in that big bed alone?”

“I’d prefer you didn’t.” Spencer wrapped his arms around my waist and drew me to him. “I believe this particular arrangement speaks to years of arranged marriages.”

I went rigid, realizing why his mother had insisted we use these rooms. It wasn’t a gesture of acceptance. It was an acknowledgement that his relationship with Kerrigan was a contract between two powerful families. There was no expectation of love—not even a shared bed.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Sometimes I forget that we don’t really have a say in our marriage,” I admitted softly. “Everything was planned for us, even this room.”

He was quiet for a moment, and I realized the significance of being given these quarters had been lost on him.

“I wasn’t thinking,” Spencer said, tightening his hold on me. “I should have told her we’d prefer a shared room.”

“It’s fine,” I said quickly. The last thing I needed to do was stir up trouble. Kerrigan wouldn’t. “As long as you sleep in my bed.”

“That I can do.” He kissed the top of my head. “And just think, you can kick me out if I snore.”

“Or if I’m mad at you,” I pointed out.

“Well, now I’m liking this private bedroom thing less and less.” He spun me in his arms. “I think it’s better to go to bed together if we’re angry with each other.”