Lady: Impossible by B.D. Fraser Page A

‘So, I shouldn’t expect too many invitations?’
    He laughs haughtily. ‘I’ll get George to forward you my invitations. There might be something you’d like to go to. Who knows, if you meet someone, maybe I’ll be inclined to grace London with my presence.’
    I gently encourage him to be more social. ‘You’re not attending any Diamond Jubilee events next week? It is the Queen, you know. Sixty years on the throne.’
    ‘You know I’m not too fond of fanfare. Besides, I celebrated her last two jubilees. That should suffice.’
    ‘Ohh, how about Viscount Weller’s sixtieth? It’s coming up in July. You said you’d go to that.’
    ‘I’m still thinking about it. I’ll wait and see if the House is debating anything interesting.’
    ‘Okay.’ Can’t say I didn’t try.  
    ‘Well, like I said, look after yourself, dear. I will speak to you another time.’
    ‘Yes, have a good night. Say hello to everyone for me. Is George there with you right now?’
    ‘How did you know? He says “hello”.’
    ‘I’m one with the estate, Father.’
    ‘Then do me a favour and try to increase your value.’
    ‘Ha, ha, ha.’
    ‘It’s only a joke, dear. Goodbye for now. Let me know how things go.’
    ‘I will. Bye.’
    ‘Bye.’
    I can’t help but frown as I end the call. I guess only Abby understands how insulting and demoralising it is for me to have third parties looking into my love life for me. My other friends don’t know my parents as well as she does and, frankly, the fewer people who know, the better.  
    As for the butler issue, at least my father was tough enough on this occasion to give my mother proper warnings about money before she left Yorkshire. I’m also relieved I didn’t get Blair kicked out of the house – I really could’ve stuffed up there. As for the thought of inspecting the attic, I think it would well and truly freak him out to have me in his personal space, no matter who really owns the place.  
    I sit in the armchair and try to clear my brain by looking once again at the walls, picturing my father in the house as I do so. But the tension and unease broiling inside me just won’t be quelled.  
    An idea comes to mind. I quickly text Blair: Millie here. Are you able to fix me a drink? Please.  
    I’ve never sent a text to request anything before. There are enough members of staff at the estate to ensure that someone is always available. Moreover, I don’t think George knows how to text and, as for the rest of the staff, I think some of them still use handsets dating back to when mobile phones first came out.  
    If walls could talk, I would ask the house for Blair’s reaction right now. Is he rolling his eyes? Is he doing his best to stay positive? He was in a relatively good mood when he delivered my luggage to my room, but after that he seemed subdued again. I just can’t figure him out.  
    Thankfully, he replies within a minute. Any longer and I would begin to read into the delay, like any woman does when a man doesn’t text back.  
    Do you mean an alcoholic one, Lady Emilia?
    I make a mental note to tell him not to be so formal in his texts. It’s a little weird. Then again, he’s probably doing it deliberately to make a point about respect. I mean, I didn’t stare at him during dinner service, but maybe he could tell that I wanted to. Badly. In fact, I’ve probably been staring at him most of the time.
    Ugh. I’m obsessing.  
    I reply before my paranoia gets worse: Yes.  
    Only your mother has the key to the drinks cabinet. She’ll ask why you need a nightcap.
    My devastation knows no bounds. Seriously. If I was to even attempt to find the bounds, I would be stumbling in the dark for a very long time.  
    I think I’m going to cry.
    Of course, once I hit the send button I realise how pathetic I sound. As if the butler would care whether or not I cry. He’d only care if he was required to fetch me a hanky.  
    Surprisingly, Blair does reply: I’m going to