So he hadn’t started conversations that way. It had been equally easy to fail to include this fact anywhere in the late-night discussions with his new friends. Years of neglecting this extremely unfortunate piece of information had not made disclosure easier. So here he was, more than a decade later. He was Posh Jim, or Jeremy Yu, and that was all they knew of him.
Alas that his more public persona was not so anonymous. The Dukes of Lansing had forgotten Wedgeford; Wedgeford had not returned the favor. Not that anyone ever referred to Jeremy by anything so civil as his actual title. Here he was known by more flavorful appellations, such as His Grace Good Riddance or The Duke Who Didn’t or—for those like Andrew, who leaned toward saltier language—simply the fucking duke.
There had been no point in Jeremy’s history with Wedgeford where he had wanted to confess that he was, in fact, the fucking duke.
“Hold up.” Andrew frowned at the structure. “I haven’t seen you in years. You haven’t gone all stodgy on me, have you?”
“Stodgy? About seeds? What sort of seed-hating fiend do you take me for?”
“It’s probably not legal, I don’t think?” Andrew waggled a teasing eyebrow at Jeremy. “Demolishing a duke’s building. Establishing an entire society that abides rent-free on land that belongs to His Grace Good Riddance. You’re posh, Jim. Posh people tend to be tetchy about things like ‘ownership’ and ‘deeds’ and ‘proper permission’ and such. They tend to respect conventions. That sort of thing.”
Jeremy suspected that if he were to consult his family solicitor, he would, in fact, be advised to be tetchy about things like “ownership” and “permission.” Which was precisely why he’d never mentioned the matter at all. Instead, Jeremy did what he had always done when confronted with questions like this. He played along. “Ah, what an insult. You imagine I’ve changed into some kind of a monster? Fuck the fucking duke and his fucking conventions.”
An enormous smile spread across Andrew’s face—so large and so accepting that Jeremy could not help but smile alongside him. Dear God. Why would he want rent on a minor property when he could have companionship instead?
“Ah, Posh Jim.” Andrew bumped his shoulder. “You’re a traitor to your own class. I like that in a wealthy man. You’ve got time for a round?”
By the way, Jeremy did not say, as he had not said for over a decade, I am the fucking duke you speak of. I am not betraying my class; I am only betraying myself. And it is a great deal of fun. He should have told them who he was years ago. Instead, he was precisely as they’d named him. He was the duke who didn’t.
“I’ve got—” Jeremy paused, and then frowned. “I’m sure I do have time for a round, but not at seven thirty in the bloody morning. Later today. What I have now is an appointment.”
“An appointment?” Andrew asked. “Appointments sound tetchy. That’s awfully posh of you, Jim.”
“It’s not that sort of an appointment. It’s an appointment with…” He trailed off. Would she want people talking about them? It must be all right. She’d asked to meet him on the green; she was hardly hiding.
“An appointment with whom?”
Jeremy folded his arms. “An appointment with Miss Fong.”
Andrew looked at him knowingly. “Ah ha.”
“This will come as a complete surprise, I am sure.”
From the moment Jeremy had come to Wedgeford—the moment Chloe had been assigned to explain the Trials to him and to shepherd him through the event—it had always been Chloe.
Andrew just looked upward. “Very much so. My mother and aunt see her as something like a second daughter, you know. Don’t make me have to pound you into the dust.”
“You’ve nothing to worry about there. I vastly prefer my unpounded state.”
Andrew just nodded at him. He said nothing else about Chloe, and it was just as well. The other boys, when they found out that she’d been tasked with his education that first year, had winced and said she was cold and harsh and demanding and intense. And, well, yes. She was.
But that had only sparked Jeremy’s interest. There was something about a woman who knew what she wanted. It had captivated him even at the tender age of twelve when he hadn’t quite understood his own fascination.
Chloe knew what she wanted. Wouldn’t it be something if she wanted him?
“One moment.” Andrew raised an eyebrow. “Miss Fong, is it? That seems terribly formal. What are you planning with our Chloe?”
“Only what I should have done years ago.”
“And that is?”
“I should probably discuss it with her first. She’ll have to put it on her list if it’s going to happen, and she’d hate to hear it from someone else.”
From behind him, he heard a snort. A snort that he recognized. A snort that he knew from long experience. He pretended not to notice Chloe’s arrival.
“But if you must have just a hint,” he said, posturing a bit, and speaking a little more loudly, “I’m going to be seeing rather a lot of her, this round of the Trials.”
“Are you?” Andrew was openly looking over Jeremy’s shoulder at someone who was most certainly Chloe, come to meet him as planned. “What are your plans, then?”
“What do you expect?” Jeremy threw his arms out. “I plan to bask in the magnificence of her presence, to whatever degree I am allowed.”
Behind him, Chloe choked on something that might have been a laugh. “Be serious,” she said.
He just shook his head and winked at Andrew before turning to her. “I am serious, my dear. Basking is serious business. You’ll see.”
4
Efficiency. Chloe was going to embody efficiency in every single part of her plan. She was going to take control. She was going to demand precisely what she wanted, and accept neither one ounce more nor less. Afterward, she’d be free of Jeremy, and it would be he who thought of her with regret for years.
Surely it would happen that way.
She pretended not to see the arm that Jeremy offered her as they left the green. Instead, she marched ahead of him to a handful of rocks in the shade of some willows along the banks of the Wedge. She settled back on the single tall boulder, arranging her skirts and board clip on the rock around her. She left him to array himself on the flat stones at her feet. This way, she could tower above him.
Petty, she knew, but he’d been gone for three years before turning up like a stray cat, expecting to be fed.
He slouched indolently against the low granite rock a foot away, tilting his head so that she could see an inch of his neck above the points of his collar. “Right,” he said, as if this were his usual mode of sitting. “So. How do you want to go about this?”
“I had some time to think over breakfast.” Something warm bloomed on her cheeks. “Before we proceed, I would like to make some alterations to our agreement.”
“Ahhh.” His smile broadened; he took off his hat and leaned all the way back. Sun tilted across the flat planes of his face. “You’ve realized you can milk me for everything I have, haven’t you? Clever girl.”