Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“I'm afraid, Lady Sarah, we are all out.” Burt grins, deriving great pleasure in lying.
Not as much pleasure as Sarah’s response, as she twirls a finger around her silver hair. “Don't be naughty, young man.”
“Young, Lady Sarah?” Burt asks.
“You’re younger than me.” She smiles. Her pointer finger comes out for good measure, tapping his chest. “And if you keep being insolent, I will—”
“Grandmother.” Victor commands everyone’s attention with his stern tone.
“Oh, Vicky, let’s get in the swing of things. The day of love is tomorrow. The wedding—”
“A wedding?” Mary comes fully to and faints for a second time.
This time, though, I’m not the culprit.
34
Luxury
Somewhere in a state of utter bliss and tranquility, a groan seeps past my lips. A delicate, floral fragrance envelops me from the inside out. Heavy eyes fluttering open, I revel in soft, velvety petals teasing across my flesh. I come to a seated position in a bed of magnolias, surrounded by more bowl-shaped blossoms. The flowers lace along the walls, which are curved, arching a few feet above my head, like some sort of hut. Magnolias blanket the ground so thick that I can’t confirm if it’s a dirt floor beneath me.
Am I dreaming?
I glance at Victor, who’s seated on a peculiar chair made of bamboo. At the furthest part of the tiny room, there’s a hollow in the floor where magnolias infuse warm stones, intensifying the enchanting scent, and ratchets the temperature to a pleasing, sweltering level.
“Where are we? What’s with . . .” My fingertips brush over the flowers. The bastard knows what magnolias mean to me.
They symbolize love and the plans I had for myself and my mom. The hope that I still have for my future.
My heart flutters in my chest at the invitation in his charming British tone. “A small village on the outermost edge of southern China. I remember you telling me the Chinese saw magnolias as a sign of nobility.”
I run a hand through my hair.
“You’re still dazed?”
“Yes. When did I fall asleep? How?”
“A couple of bottles of wine.”
I offer a silly grin. “You preyed on the fact that I’m a lightweight?”
“Your questions would’ve ruined my surprise. This is my version of breakfast in bed. Happy Valentine’s Day, Little One.”
This is your version of romance. Lifting my hands, I let the beautiful sepals and petals shimmer down, barely containing a dizzy chuckle. “Vic, you are crazy.”
“I’m what you Americans call, ‘crazy about you,’ Lux.” Since he’s too tall to stand, Victor crawls over to me, gripping my thighs in his hands and placing himself between them. His sharp gaze strips my naked body of all inhibitions.
“How can I give you the world if you never bloody ask, huh? Or rather, you’re asking all the wrong questions.”
“There’s only one thing I want, Vic,” I reply, warmth bubbling in my soul.
“You have me, Luxury Whitson. All of me. And by the end of the day, you will glow in the confidence of such.”
We fucked in a small village in China for breakfast and jetted to London for afternoon tea at the Kew Gardens, which Victor has closed for an hour so that he could give me a private tour.
A . . . private . . . tour.
Of the Queen’s favorite garden.
I’m giddy like I was chosen to arrange the flowers for a million-dollar wedding.
Staff stands at attention as we stroll around the garden. The dress he chose for me swooshes around my legs like a bell. It’s not slutty. No. It’s sophisticated and grown with a pinch of sexy.
I feel like . . . I belong in his world.
“Thank you for the tour, but.” I punctuate but as the afternoon sun beams down on us. God must have favored our elicit relationship at this moment because it’s rarely sunny. “But you don’t know the difference between a peony and—”
“And any other flower, really. If it’s not a rose, it’s a flower, Luxury.” Victor’s rough palms brush over my freckled cheeks.
“You take that back.”
“No. Flower, flower.” He points across the canopied walkway and toward The Hive, where people cordoned off attempt to get a glimpse of us. “Rose.”
I gasp. “Common snowdrop.” I define the bloomed buds that decorate the ground in a carpet of white, then jut my chin to the other white flowers, saying, “Chamomile.”
“Chamomile?” An attractive, baffled brow lifts.
“Yes.” I’m helpless against infectious laughter adding, “Like the tea you and Burt—”
“Duke of Arlington!” A member of the paparazzi runs toward Victor and me, stiff-arming guards as he asks how Victor’s grandmother feels about me.
“I don’t bloody care.”
“This is your first relationship on record since—”
Like a cobra, Victor’s hands strike, clasping the man’s collar. “Get the fuck out of here, wanka!”
He thrusts the man like a bowling ball into two guard’s arms, almost striking them all down.
The paparazzo’s statement echoes in my head: “This is the first relationship on record since . . .”