Page 3 of Is This Real or Just Pretend?

Alex’s gaze lingered on Lucien Taylor’s figure until he disappeared round the bend toward the carriage house.

He had grown considerably since she last saw him, with the kind of broad shoulders and lean form that naturally drew the eye, while his golden-brown hair was just a little too long to be respectable—though given that he had been living among the Bohemians in Paris, that was likely the point.

One which was further emphasized by the small gold hoop in his right earlobe.

But while his face still retained a hint of chubby-cheeked boyishness, it was tempered by the edge of world-weariness in his hazel eyes.

The kind that spoke of experiences one could not find in Bunbury.

“I still don’t believe it’s him,” Freddie marveled as she stared after him. “ Lucien .”

Alex frowned at the blatant interest in her sister’s eyes. This would not do. “I don’t see what’s so hard to believe.”

Freddie turned to her, incredulous. “Are you joking?”

“He’s certainly taller now. And bigger,” Alex acknowledged. “But I wouldn’t go as far to say he is unrecognizable . You just never really noticed him before.”

Freddie looked offended. “I most certainly did! We were playmates.”

“But you never saw him as anything more than that.”

And certainly not anyone worth ogling , though Alex kept that thought to herself.

At that moment the memory of young Lucien angrily wiping away stubborn tears surfaced.

It had been the night of her mother’s birthday party and Alex had come across him en route to the summer house where she was searching for Freddie to stop her from doing something incredibly stupid and inconveniently irreversible.

Meanwhile, the shy, sweet boy had been crushed by the actions of her careless and completely oblivious sister.

Lucien’s hopeless infatuation had long been obvious even to Alex, who usually didn’t concern herself with matters of the heart.

For years she had never understood how he could feel so much for a girl who offered him so little in return.

Until Alex had been foolish enough to offer her own affections to an unworthy suitor.

Until she, too, had been hoodwinked by her own heart.

You need to go somewhere far, far away from here , she had told him that night. Somewhere you can be whomever you want .

And, by God, he had done just that.

Only last fall she had learned through servant gossip and her own discreet inquiries that his traveling supper club had been the toast of Paris with a waiting list filled with everyone from artists to aristocrats—until it had fallen quickly, and completely, apart.

Still, Alex knew very well just how difficult it was to accomplish what he had.

Lucien had managed to create and execute a novel business in the avant-garde capital of the world.

Privately, she was convinced it was only a matter of time before he came up with something even better.

Now Lucien had returned to lick his wounds and visit with his ill father.

It should be nothing more than a short detour on a promising career path.

But if the scene she had interrupted earlier was any indication, he was in great danger of veering off the path entirely and sinking into a Freddie-shaped quagmire.

Meanwhile, actual Freddie looked primed to argue before she promptly shut her mouth and turned back toward the direction of the carriage house. The corner of her mouth curved. “Well, then, I suppose I’m seeing him now.”

“Freddie,” Alex warned. “You know very well that the Ericsons will be in attendance tonight.”

They were a wealthy American family interested in investment opportunities in England, and Alex had made it her personal mission to ensure they partnered with Atkinson Enterprises.

That would help the company make greater inroads in New York society and be a huge coup for her professionally.

That Hank Ericson Jr., the eldest son and heir apparent, had been pursuing Freddie since the spring also weighed heavily in their favor, but the man was beginning to grow impatient with her laissez-faire approach to courtship.

It seemed as though everyone except Freddie was waiting on their engagement.

But in the years since her debut, she had left a trail of broken hearts that stretched from Bunbury to the Continent.

And since she had no interest in joining the family business, that left the business of getting married.

Freddie would not charm her way out of this one.

At least, not without a more compelling reason than boredom .

“Not to worry, dear sister,” she said sweetly, albeit with a thick layer of sarcasm. “I know very well that nothing is more important to you than maintaining your business relationships, and I won’t do anything that could possibly jeopardize them.”

“That’s not what I—”

But the rest of Alex’s protest was lost as Freddie marched toward the house.

She sighed and stared at the little box of sweets still clutched in her hand.

Leave it to Freddie to wait until the day of the party to buy Mother a gift.

She ran a finger along the edge of the familiar pink box.

When they were children and particularly restless Mother would take them on long walks into the village, always with a stop at the sweet shop, where she would buy a bag of lemon drops for herself.

Alex lifted the box and inhaled the fragrant notes of citrus.

A smile touched her lips as her heart warmed with old memories.

Perhaps… perhaps it wasn’t such a bad present after all. The Sèvres porcelain vase Alex had spent months tracking down suddenly seemed gauche in comparison. She never got gifts right. It seemed like the more effort she put in, the more she failed.

Because you lack all sentimentality.

It was a barb her sisters frequently lobbed at her.

And they weren’t wrong. But there were other areas where she excelled because she wasn’t swayed by menial emotions.

Like business, for example. Freddie could act the martyr as much as she wanted, but it was Alex’s commitment to her business relationships that had allowed her youngest sister to spend the last five years swanning around London without a care.

Freddie would do well to remember that. Alex shoved the box into her skirt pocket and headed inside. As always, there was work to be done.

Lucien did his best to outrun Alexandra Atkinson’s disapproval, but he could feel her sharp-eyed glare at his back until he turned the corner.

He let out a breath as the carriage house came into view.

It was the only place on the property where he could never be dismissed.

The one place where he was always welcome.

His parents had met while working in service for the family, his father the coachman and his mother an apprentice to the Parisian chef the Atkinsons had poached from a London hotel.

Lucien’s mother, Celeste Laurent, had worked hard to earn her position and until she became a head chef, she had no interest in the distraction of a romance with anyone —not even the very persistent Englishman who became a coachman in large part because it allowed him time to read.

It was only once the Parisian chef returned to France and Celeste took his place that she allowed true love to prevail.

They settled in the cozy flat above the carriage house and filled it with secondhand books and handwritten recipes.

Lucien came along a few years later, an unexpected but happy surprise for the older couple, who assumed they had missed the chance to be parents, and he was doted on accordingly.

Lucien climbed the stairs that led to the flat two at a time, suddenly eager for the safe confines of home, and let himself in. There he was greeted by the comforting scent of dusty paper and tea leaves.

He inhaled greedily and scanned the front room. “Father?”

“I’m in here, Lucien!”

His father’s quavering voice carried from the back of the flat. Lucien frowned in concern as he made his way toward the bedroom. It was nearly the afternoon. His father would never be abed at this time of day unless something was very wrong.

You may find him much changed.

He recalled the dire warning in a letter from Mrs. Holloway, the housekeeper.

The one that had compelled him to spend his last francs on a ticket home instead of a final, desperate attempt to save his business.

Lucien had only seen his father once since he’d left for Paris during a brief visit to London after he finished culinary school.

Lucien was interviewing at several hotels in Mayfair and managed to fit in lunch with his father in a pub not far from the Atkinsons’ London residence.

Over a simple shepherd’s pie and two pints of bitter, Lucien confessed his dread about working in a professional kitchen before tentatively mentioning the idea for the supper club.

His father’s response had been short and salient:

Now is the time for big leaps, my boy. Before life gives you reasons to look first.

It was just the push he needed.

As Lucien entered the room, his father reclined in an overstuffed armchair with a thick book on his lap. He took off his reading glasses and smiled. “There he is! Come here, my boy. Let’s have a good look at you.”

Though he was dressed for the day, his father wore slippers and an old dressing gown over his shirt and trousers.

As Lucien drew closer, he noticed the hollows beneath his father’s cheeks.

He had battled a nasty bout of pneumonia over the winter and Lucien saw that he was still alarmingly gaunt months later.