Page 33 of An American in London

As I press the bell on Ben’s town house, nerves start to tumble in my stomach.

Flashes of last night flip through my brain, and my hands start to shake with the anticipation of seeing him again.

It almost feels like another version of myself was with Ben last night.

A more me version of myself. He stripped me of more than my clothes and found a Tuesday I’d forgotten about, or maybe I never knew existed.

He opens the door and the first thing I see is that dimple. Part of me likes to think it only comes out for me. I know it can’t be true, but I also know not everyone gets to see it. At least I’m part of an exclusive members-only club.

“You look incredible,” he says, not breaking our gaze as I step over the threshold. I’m not sure he’s even seen what I’m wearing.

“You happy with it? It’s suitable for tonight?

” I twirl and my skirt lifts. When I meet his gaze again, his expression is difficult to place.

It’s soft and kind and filled with gratitude, and it makes my heart inch higher in my chest. The time away from him, however short, increased my longing for him.

“More than.” He reaches for my face, cupping his hand around my jaw.

Heat radiates everywhere—the base of my spine, between my legs, across my collarbones.

He presses me against him and I gasp as our bodies meet.

He feels so ... safe. He fixes me with a magnetic glare, and I lean into him, wanting to be closer.

His lips graze mine and I have to hold back a groan, I want him so badly.

“Thank you for my flowers,” I say. After half seeing Daniel De Luca, I went back to my hotel to find more flowers waiting for me.

“I wanted you to have something that reminded you of me today.”

“They’re beautiful. But I’m not sure how you think I’d forget.”

“You’re beautiful.”

A staccato knock at the door makes me jump, but Ben holds me in place with his hand and his stare. “My driver,” he says.

“We should go,” I reply, my voice weak from our proximity.

His chest lifts and lowers. I sweep my palm up his shirt.

He nods, takes my hand, and moves back toward the exit.

“One second,” I say, seeing the mirror by the doorway. I pull my lipstick from my bag.

When I’m done, I turn to him, and he’s looking at me, a question in his eyes.

“I was hoping you’d kiss me, so I didn’t put my lipstick on,” I say in explanation. The cherry red is a contrast to my black silk dress, and it stops the outfit from feeling funereal. If it smudges, I’m in trouble. I’ll look like I have a shellfish allergy and just made out with a crab.

“You wanted me to kiss you,” he says—not a question, just an observation.

“Of course,” I reply.

He holds the door open.

“Is there anything you want me to say or bring up tonight?” I ask as I exit the house.

“About what?”

“I don’t know. What do you think you need to get him to agree to sell the hotels to you?”

He blinks once, then twice; it’s like he’s trying to say something but can’t quite find the words.

“Leave me to worry about that.” He holds the car door open for me.

Maybe I’m imagining it, but it feels like the atmosphere turned a little frosty.

I’m not quite sure if it’s because he’s nervous, because I wanted him to kiss me, or something else.

“You’ll never guess what I did this morning.” We get into the car and I tell him about my morning stalking Daniel De Luca with Melanie on speaker, and how I got completely soaked.

He doesn’t say or do anything.

I slip my hand into his and squeeze. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. Just a lot on my mind. How’s Melanie?”

I almost tell him she’s deranged because she thinks I’m in love with him, but I decide against it. I don’t want him to think I’m not only Daniel De Luca’s groupie but his too. “She’s fine. Keeping New York warm for me.”

“New York. You’ll be back there soon.” His gaze is fixed ahead as if he’s driving. He looks a little solemn.

“Hey.” I drop my hand and stroke my fingers over his cheekbone. “You want to talk about it?”

He glances at me and my stomach flips. Just from a look. I might not be in love with him, but that damn lust fairy is working overtime.

“How can I cheer you up?” I ask. “You seem tense.”

“Just be yourself. I’m better now you’re here.”

The idea I could lift whatever burden he carries warms me. “What else can I do?” I push my hand back into his and curl my fingers, locking them together.

“I hate that I’ve had to ask you to do this. I sort of hate that we have to go through this pretense again. I’m not sure ...”

“I offered, remember? I’m happy to come along. I’ll have a wonderful time.” I don’t say it, but I can’t help thinking that we’re not pretending. Okay, so we’re not engaged, but we’re romantically linked. Even if it’s only for the last few days of me being here in London.

“But you should be enjoying London. And I ...” He doesn’t finish his sentence. He releases his seat belt and for a moment I think he’s going to pull me onto his lap or something, but I realize the car has stopped.

“We’re here,” he says.

He undoes my seat belt for me and we get out of the car.

“It’s this one,” he says, nodding at the grand town house in front of us.

The imposing black double doors are flanked by white columns, and the stoop is covered in pretty black-and-white tiles.

Because it’s a town house, it’s not clear where the house begins and ends, but I can see it goes up about four or five floors.

It surprises me a little that it’s right on the street. Surely anyone could knock on the door.

Grant opens the door and we’re shown into a huge formal living room.

I can see the duchess’s influence in the room’s pretty feminine details: walls of duck-egg blue with gold-framed paintings hung close together; two huge chandeliers drip with light, emphasizing the elaborate crown molding and intricate plasterwork on the ceiling.

As we’re being offered drinks, the duchess arrives.

Her hair is swept up in an elegant chignon, and she’s wearing a black, knee-length cocktail dress.

What I’m wearing looks like it could have come from the same person’s wardrobe, and I relax slightly.

The first part of my role is complete; at least I look the part.

“Let’s have champagne,” she says. “We can celebrate your engagement.” She puts up her hand. “I’m not pressuring you to decide, but I just want to tell you that our offer to host the engagement party or reception still stands.”

My stomach roils for all the wrong reasons.

She’s so kind and generous, and both she and the duke have already been so lovely to us I hate lying to them.

It was bad enough for the weekend, but somehow it feels worse the second time around.

I thought the fact Ben and I have slept together would make it easier, but somehow it makes it worse because the lie feels less necessary.

Or maybe the reality of what I’m feeling for Ben and how much I like spending time with him also feels like a lie.

I don’t know what’s the truth and what’s for show.

“Thank you,” Ben says. “Honestly, as long as she becomes my wife, I don’t really mind about the wedding.”

Tiny flutters explode in my heart. From his expression and tone, there’s no way anyone could tell he’s lying.

He’s entirely convincing. Even to me. But of course, he is lying.

If he was telling the truth, it would be absurd.

We’ve known each other a few weeks, and I’m going back to New York.

But there’s a part of me that wants him to be telling the truth.

The flutters turn to churning. Living a lie—even for a few more hours—is more stressful than I anticipated.

“You always say the right thing,” I say, pulling my mouth into a tight smile.

“Long may that continue,” the duchess says. “It’s exactly the opposite affliction my husband suffers from. Speak of the devil.”

The duke comes through the door, dressed smartly in a gray suit, white shirt, and pink tie. “My apologies,” he says. “That call took longer than it should have done.”

“You’ve got to slow down, darling. I keep saying it to you.”

“How are you two?” the duke asks, ignoring his wife.

“I was just reminding Tuesday and Ben that our invitation to host the engagement party still stands,” the duchess says. “I always say to the duke, us not being able to have more children was such a waste. I would have been a wonderful interfering mother.”

The duke squeezes her arm, and I realize I’ve never seen him touch her before.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, then wonder if I should have pretended she hadn’t mentioned her lack of children. Sometimes it’s difficult to know with the British whether they want to talk about something.

The duchess smiles. “I’ve had a lot of time to come to terms with it. But it is a huge regret in our lives, isn’t it, George? We love to spend time with and support young couples. I suppose that’s how I’ve channeled my mothering.”

“We’re blessed in many ways, my dear.”

“We are.” The duchess puts on a bright smile and nods toward us. “We get to host lovely young couples like you at Fairfield House.”

“I absolutely fell in love with the place,” I say. It’s the truth but I’m also relieved we’re on safer conversational ground. “It has a magical feel. The house, the grounds—it’s all so very special.”

“You must come to our place in France in the summer. We have a number of friends of all ages who will be joining us.” Another generous invitation.

I know I should feel grateful, but my gut fills with guilt like a rain barrel in a storm.

We’re tricking two lovely people. This isn’t just business.

This is personal. “I’m there on and off between June and September, flying to and fro.

We’re not far outside Cannes. It’s absolutely gorgeous and more restful than London, which is all go-go-go. ”