I stand at the top of the staircase and peek down at the people gathered in the room below. It’s mind-boggling, really, how many people the Winsteads know to invite over for dinner, night after night. I’d be impressed if I didn’t just want to eat Chinese takeout in my pajamas.

“Remind me who they are?” I ask Alistair softly, my hand in the crook of his elbow.

“That’s Colonel Fitzwilliam Hughes and his wife, Mrs. Anastasia Hughes,” he says. “He’s the heir to a shipping fortune and demands that everyone address him by his title, which he almost certainly got because his father paid someone off.”

I don’t point out the irony in that statement — Alistair’s father would certainly pay someone off to get him ahead in life, and probably paid someone to get him into Yale — because we’re actually getting along all right the past few days.

He’s been his charming self again. He hasn’t signed me up for any more galas or changed my travel plans again without telling me, and I haven’t been to the Hound’s Ears.

I’ve wanted to go, but I haven’t. I’ve resisted temptation.

“And she is next in line for the throne, provided about fifteen hundred people die first,” he says.

“Any chance she’ll do it?” I ask.

“Françoise, the British monarchy is an outdated institution that’s little more than a ceremonial figurehead, so there’s no real point in achieving it,” he says.

I bristle at Françoise.

“But if fifteen hundred people are poisoned at a state dinner, I know who I’d look at first,” he finishes.

We exchange a look, both laughing silently.

See? Not so bad, I tell myself.

Of course, everything about this house and his position in society is also an outdated institution that has little to do with the modern world.

But that’s not a discussion for right now. Instead we descend the stairs together, my hand on his arm, both of us smiling like champions. I’m fairly sure that many of the people in this household are perfectly aware that things have been tense between Alistair and me, but right now, we’re putting on a good show.

It’s not just a show, I tell myself. He apologized for getting carried away.

He promised that he respects me, and cares about my opinion, and that he’d make a better practice of consulting me in the future.

Now he just has to do it.

“Alistair, darling,” the elder Lady Winstead says as soon as we reach the bottom of the stairs, reaching toward her son with a hand so crammed with jeweled rings I’m surprised she can lift it. “You remember Colonel and Mrs. Hughes, of course, don’t you?”

I may as well be made of cheese, standing there next to him, but what else is new?

“Naturally,” he says, holding out one hand. “A pleasure to make your re-acquaintance.”

“I’d heard you were back home for a while,” the older man says. He’s got a gray mustache, and even though most of his face barely moves when he speaks, the mustache comes alive like it’s signaling for help and trying to jump off his lip. “Finally come back from the colonies, eh?”

To my credit, I don’t roll my eyes.

“I’m only here briefly,” Alistair says. “With my fiancée, Miss Françoise Strauss.”

The Colonel kisses my hand, and I curtsy or whatever. I’m still not one hundred percent sure what I’m supposed to be doing here.

“Lovely to meet you,” I say, my American accent in full swing.

“Likewise,” he says.

It’s all very civilized.

* * *

Well, until Bridget shows up. I didn’t know she was coming tonight, but I’m sure that Elizabeth and her squadron of impossible, upper-class harpies have some sort of deal worked out whereby they all try to fuck each others’ brothers so they can get titles.

Sorry. I meant I’m sure they’re all looking for love.

Of course she floats over to us, graceful like a ballerina. She’s tall and skinny with long, straight hair, and that total self-certainty and self-importance that I think comes with growing up knowing for a fact you’re better than everyone around you, because they’ve all been hired to serve you.

She’s even got straight, white teeth. We’re in England. That’s the one thing I’m supposed to have over them, but no. They can’t even live up to stereotypes.

And of course, today’s cocktail hour seems to be taking a particularly long time. There’s a slight aura of panic emanating from the kitchen, but it’s not like there’s anything I can do so I don’t worry about it. Bridget and Alistair while away the time by gossiping about the people they know in common, none of whom I know, and I spend the time feeling like a third wheel to my own fiancé.

“Oh, you didn’t hear?” she’s saying, her eyes positively glittering, taking another sip of her champagne cocktail. “Margaret broke off that engagement when he discovered that Phillip—”

Bridget stops and looks at me. She’s sort of smirking, imperious and annoying.

“I ought to tell you secretly,” she says, blinking up at Alistair, putting one hand on his arm. “He would simply murder me if it got out somehow.”

Then she smiles at me, though it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“You don’t mind, do you?” she asks, clutching Alistair’s arm a little harder.

Fuck yeah I mind. Telling secrets in public is just rude, particularly when you’re doing it while practically dry-humping someone else’s fiancé. But if I’ve learned one single thing in the last few weeks, it’s that I just want to get out of here with a minimum of damage, and if that means some dumb British girl whispers about her frenemy in Alistair’s ear, fine.

“Not at all,” I say, taking a swig of my own cocktail.

She pulls Alistair toward her, glances at me, then puts her hand over his ear and whispers into it.

And whispers.

And whispers.

This must be the War and Peace of secrets. After a while she finally comes up for air, giggling and smiling at Alistair.

“I don’t believe you,” he says. “That’s monstrous.”

“Oh, it gets better,” Bridget giggles, then bats her eyelashes at me. “Sorry, one more moment.”

More whispering. Now I’m getting really annoyed, because I’m just standing here, staring around, drinking my drink while these two carry on like school girls.

At some point, mid-giggle, it occurs to me that I’m probably supposed to be jealous. Bridget probably wants me to be jealous, or something.

It’s kind of an interesting proposition, because I’m... not. I’m annoyed that I look like a moron just standing here, and I’m irritated that they’re being rude as fuck, but Bridget is obviously hitting on Alistair right here, in front of me, and that doesn’t really bother me.

It probably should, but I can’t quite bring myself to get to that particular emotion.

The whispering stops again.

“I swear it’s true,” Bridget says from behind one hand. “On my grandmother’s grave.”

“Would you like to share with the class?” I say acidly, getting pretty fucking tired of this.

Bridget just blinks at me, her eyes wide.

“The class?” she asks, puzzled.

“It’s an expression Americans use sometimes,” Alistair explains to her. “In a classroom, when two students in the back are talking to each other and not paying attention.”

“Oh! How charming,” she exclaims. “I did miss out on all sort of things like that, mum and dad always got me private tutors so I’m afraid it went right over my head. Share with the class. It’s precious.”

Yup, I hate her.

“Glad I could charm you,” I say. “Would you like to tell me what’s so monstrous, or...”

“I’ll tell you later, darling,” Alistair says.

I give him a look. An I’m fucking tired of this already look, a we were having such a nice day, and this is how you’re spending my goodwill, seriously? look.

“You could tell me now.”

“You don’t even know Margaret and Phillip, I promise you it’ll take ages just to explain why it’s so funny. Just trust me, won’t you?”

He takes a sip of his champagne and smiles down at Bridget, like they’re both laughing at the secret that they both share. Which they are.

In that tiny, singular moment, the good feeling I had crumbles a little. Obviously, to him, his apologies were just words. He was just saying whatever he thought I wanted to hear, and he was right.

But now, finally, I’m realizing something. Alistair doesn’t actually think his behavior needs to change.

He might never think that, because the minute a chance comes along, he’s treating me like a child again and flirting with this other girl right here, in front of me, like I’m nothing.

That bothers me. It bothers me that I should be jealous and I’m not. It bothers me that he’s not interested in wasting Bridget’s time explaining a joke after wasting plenty of mine.

Just then, Lord Winstead clinks a spoon against a wine glass, commanding everyone’s attention and cutting my dissatisfied train of thought in half.

“Dinner is finally served,” he announces.

* * *

Alistair and Bridget giggle and whisper throughout the whole of dinner. It’s rude. It’s annoying.

I’m seated across the table from Elizabeth, and every single time I make eye contact with her, she smirks. Lady Catherine won’t even look at me, and I’m starting to get the strong feeling that the only person who minds at all is me.

At least then I’ve got the Colonel and his very active mustache seated on my other side, so I get to hear likely-invented-or-stolen stories of great military prowess, punctuated by wiggling facial hair. It doesn’t make me less annoyed, but at least it’s entertaining.

Alistair says four words me to during dinner, then three during dessert. I’m starting to get the feeling that his treatment of me is somehow payback, that he’s trying to teach me a lesson or something after I dared to have a problem with his behavior.

It’s a feeling I’ve gotten a few times lately, that he doesn’t like being questioned or critiqued. To be fair, he never has, but since we’ve been here that aspect of his personality has ramped up considerably, to the point where it’s making me uncomfortable.

After dinner he rises from his chair, pulls mine out, puts a hand on my shoulder.

Ask me to go for a stroll, I think.

Something. Anything.

“Darling, I’ve been invited to play cribbage in the drawing room with Elizabeth and a few of her friends,” he says.

My eyes flick over his shoulder. Elizabeth smirks, and Bridget bats her eyes at me. I have no idea how to play cribbage, and I’ve got the feeling that they’re not about to offer to teach me.

“You’ll be all right by yourself, won’t you?”

I think of a thousand things I could say right now, none of which are very polite, because I’m not annoyed that he’s going to go play cards with stupid Bridget, I’m annoyed that he wants to play cards with her and that he apparently can’t be bothered even teaching me.

“Of course,” I say, smiling at him.

He gives me a quick kiss on the cheek, and before he’s even out of the room, Bridget is holding onto his arm, looking up at him, laughing, and I roll my eyes at them behind their backs before I head up to my suite by myself.

I’m not jealous. I’m not even upset, not exactly, but I think I should be. The thought of Bridget and Alistair laughing and touching and flirting should probably incite some sort of emotion in me, but I’m mostly just tired of it.

In my suite, I pull on jeans and a t-shirt, then my biggest, comfiest sweatshirt, grab Northanger Abbey, and flop down into an armchair to read.

I re-read the same page over and over, because I’m certain it wasn’t always like this. I used to be mad for Alistair, I used to think he hung the moon himself. He used to call me every day at lunch just because he said he wanted to talk to me, and we used to watch movies together on his couch but talk over them the whole time.

And I know that that sort of thing doesn’t last forever, that the honeymoon phase ends, but I keep thinking over everything that’s happened while we’re here, the way Alistair’s been acting toward me. How it fits in with his overall behavior more than I’d like it to, as if coming here and treating me like a cross between trophy housewife and child is the rule, rather than the exception.

He can be so, so charming sometimes. And I know that I can be irrational, overly emotional, especially where he’s concerned, and God knows he never hesitates to point it out.

An hour ticks by, then two. Outside my door I can hear the household quiet down, and now that I’ve read several pages of this book, I’m starting to wonder whether he’s still playing cribbage with Elizabeth and Bridget or whether he’s gone to bed.

It’s late, but not that late.

Pub’s open.

I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t even see Liam after I acted like an idiot during the gala, but it’s not like we’ll be alone or something. We’ll be in a pub full of grumpy old men, I can apologize, have a beer, leave as friends again.

It’s got nothing to do with the thought of his face inches from mine, our knees barely touching. It’s not because there’s a bad, wicked, rotten part of me deep, deep down that secretly thinks that maybe I could have this one small thing and Alistair would never need to find out.

And it’s definitely not because Liam’s got this pull on me that’s so powerful it feels tidal, gravitational, bigger than either of us. Hell, that’s a very good reason not to go.

But I put on shoes. I grab my coat, a scarf, a hat, leave my suite door quietly. From far away there’s a shriek of female laughter and I click the door shut behind me, a little more certain now.

At least I’m being secret about it, I think.

I head silently along the plush carpet in the hallway, down the servants’ stairs, through the less-fancy part of the manor until I’m at the plain side door, the knob cold in my hand, feeling like I should know better.

I turn it, the cold slipping through the opening as I hear footsteps stop behind me.

“Where are you off to?” Alistair’s voice says.