Page 159 of The Unwilling Bride
"It belonged to the fourth cousin to the King of England until my great-grandfather bought it from him," James offers.
I’ve always known the Hamiltons have money, but this is different. This is the kind of old-world influence that doesn't just buy things; it buys silence, loyalty, and the kind of private school network that creates a wall around people like James.
For heaven’s sake, a butler greeted us at the entrance to the house and took our coats and guided us here.
I shift my weight from foot to foot, trying not to get flustered. I’ve never been more conscious of how different James’ background is from mine.
My pulse quickens.
I’m not the kind to be easily impressed or feel overwhelmed by the trappings of generational wealth, but I’m feeling both today.
I square my shoulders, remind myself that power is just a tool, and wealth is just high-end camouflage. At the end of the day, we’re all born. And we all have to die. Really, we’re the same.
It’s that which gives me the courage to step into his space. My heels click against the stone floor, and I reach up to straighten his tie.
It’s not like his tie needed fixing, but I wanted to remind myself that, beneath the bespoke silk and the Hamilton name, he’s still just James.
He’s the grumpy chef who’s a tyrant in the kitchen. The man most likely to have a vascular event if a chef dared to over-salt the tartar sauce.
He may be ice to most people, but I’m the exact temperature it takes to make him boil over.
He looks at me quizzically. "You okay?"
"Just telling myself I don’t need to be overwhelmed by all this." I gesture to the rose bushes framing us.
Each plant boasts a discreet tag which proclaims that it’s an award-winning specimen at the Royal Horticultural Society’s annual show. I bet the cost to cultivate a single one of these stems likely exceeds my monthly salary.
His features soften. "You absolutely don’t. All this?" He waves a hand in the air dismissing our surroundings. "It’s a carefully curated theater piece designed to make people feel small so we can feel big. It’s just a façade. And the only thing in this room that isn't a lie is you."
I blink. I already know what he said. But to hear it from him? It strikes differently.
His shoulders stiffen. He seems just as surprised that he said those words. But he doesn’t take them back.
I look into those piercing blue eyes. "Except, being your wife is a lie. We are a lie. Right?"
I said it to see his reaction, and because I want to take out some of this frustration I feel for falling for him so deeply. I know I shouldn’t, and it's evident I won’t be able to walk away from this relationship unscathed.
Somewhere, deep inside, I hope he’ll deny it. He doesn’t.
He clenches his jaw. Then a mask slams down over his features, turning his face into that familiar remote mask.
And to think, we were having a moment there, too. For just a few seconds, this relationship felt real. We felt real. And I spoiled it.
But I'm right. We are just an illusion. So why does it feel like I hurt him, and myself, by saying so?
"Harper." My sister opens her arms. "I was wondering what was keeping you."
"Briar." I embrace her. "Didn’t know you were going to be here."
"I asked Margot to invite her and Freya," James says in a toneless voice.
Damn, I should have thought of that. I’m relieved to see a familiar face. Sure, I know Phoenix, and I’ve met a few other members of his family who I know will be here, but it’s great having my sister here, too.
It’s only been three weeks since I moved in with James, but I’m used to seeing her every day, and I miss her.
“Thank you." I half smile at him.
The skin around his mouth softens.
