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Authors: Alexandra Richland
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my mouth closed and smile sheepishly. “That would be great.”
Eerie quiet follows us up the stairs. At the top, we travel along the length of the balcony toward another mahogany door. Black and gold curtains cover the cathedral windows to my left.
At the end of the balcony, Randall pushes the door open and we walk down another wide corridor draped with tapestries. On our journey, I look around, hoping to find some family portraits, personal items, anything that gives me a hint of who Mr. Merrick really is. Instead, everything looks like it belongs in a museum.
We walk across a circular atrium featuring more yellow marble and encompassed by several closed double mahogany doors. Randall leads me toward one set and we enter a reception room.
“Since it’s the long weekend, Mr. Merrick gave most of his staff the day off,” he says. “Therefore, I will serve as the butler tonight as well as your chauffeur. The cook is also here, of course, to prepare the meal.”
“Oh, of course.” I hold back a giggle at the fact this is not a dream, but my bizarre reality.
Randall sets me up in a comfortable chair beside a roaring fire. Unlike the rest of the estate, this room feels toasty warm.
“Allow me to take your purse,” he says.
“Thanks.” I hand it over to him.
“I’ll be right back, Miss Peters.” Randall leaves, closing the door behind him. When he returns, he pushes a silver cart with two overturned glasses and containers of ice housing several bottles of wine. His expression looks grim.
“Miss Peters, I’m afraid Mr. Merrick is running late.”
Something tells me, given Mr. Merrick’s military precision when it comes to time, being late isn’t a common occurrence with him.
Well, it’s not like I’m going to leave now after how long it took to get here.
“It’s no problem, really. I understand.”
Randall pushes the cart closer. “I have three of Mr. Merrick’s best wines here: a Chateau d’Yquem 1969, a potent 1973 Chateau Pétrus Pomerol, or if you’re in the mood for white, a Montrachet 1978 from Domaine de la Romanée-Conti.”
The only thing I can do is choose the last wine Randall mentioned because it’s freshest in my mind and the only one I have any hope in hell of repeating properly. Or so I think.
“The Montrachet is fine.” I cringe at my horrid pronunciation.
Randall takes it all in stride. “Excellent choice, Miss Peters.”
He uncorks the bottle and pours me a glass. I think I’m supposed to swirl it around and sniff it or something first, but I decide to skip embarrassing myself further and just take a sip.
“Is it satisfactory, ma’am?”
I swallow hard. “Amazing!”
“Good.” He sets the bottle down. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to check on Mr. Merrick’s ETA.”
ETA? Who talks like that?
Randall pauses just short of the door and turns to me again. “It’s imperative for you to remain here until I return, Miss Peters. The estate is quite large and I wouldn’t want you to get . . . lost.”
I shrug. “No problem.”
Randall nods and leaves again, shutting the door behind him. The house is so quiet it’s like I’m the only one here. It must be lonely for Mr. Merrick, even when all of his staff are around—unless he has a habit of inviting women here to keep him company. The thought unnerves me so I push it aside.
After a while, I feel restless and wonder what’s taking Randall so long. Pacing the parlor gets old quickly. I recall the various doors off of the atrium just outside this room and decide there’s no harm in taking a mini tour. Randall doesn’t want me getting lost, but if I stick to the nearest options, I should be fine.
Wine glass in hand, I push open one of the tall double mahogany doors and exit into the atrium. I should feel guilty for snooping, but the way I see it, I’m simply taking a page out of Mr. Merrick’s book.
The double doors guarding the room I chose to enter are heavier than I expect so I have to
Eerie quiet follows us up the stairs. At the top, we travel along the length of the balcony toward another mahogany door. Black and gold curtains cover the cathedral windows to my left.
At the end of the balcony, Randall pushes the door open and we walk down another wide corridor draped with tapestries. On our journey, I look around, hoping to find some family portraits, personal items, anything that gives me a hint of who Mr. Merrick really is. Instead, everything looks like it belongs in a museum.
We walk across a circular atrium featuring more yellow marble and encompassed by several closed double mahogany doors. Randall leads me toward one set and we enter a reception room.
“Since it’s the long weekend, Mr. Merrick gave most of his staff the day off,” he says. “Therefore, I will serve as the butler tonight as well as your chauffeur. The cook is also here, of course, to prepare the meal.”
“Oh, of course.” I hold back a giggle at the fact this is not a dream, but my bizarre reality.
Randall sets me up in a comfortable chair beside a roaring fire. Unlike the rest of the estate, this room feels toasty warm.
“Allow me to take your purse,” he says.
“Thanks.” I hand it over to him.
“I’ll be right back, Miss Peters.” Randall leaves, closing the door behind him. When he returns, he pushes a silver cart with two overturned glasses and containers of ice housing several bottles of wine. His expression looks grim.
“Miss Peters, I’m afraid Mr. Merrick is running late.”
Something tells me, given Mr. Merrick’s military precision when it comes to time, being late isn’t a common occurrence with him.
Well, it’s not like I’m going to leave now after how long it took to get here.
“It’s no problem, really. I understand.”
Randall pushes the cart closer. “I have three of Mr. Merrick’s best wines here: a Chateau d’Yquem 1969, a potent 1973 Chateau Pétrus Pomerol, or if you’re in the mood for white, a Montrachet 1978 from Domaine de la Romanée-Conti.”
The only thing I can do is choose the last wine Randall mentioned because it’s freshest in my mind and the only one I have any hope in hell of repeating properly. Or so I think.
“The Montrachet is fine.” I cringe at my horrid pronunciation.
Randall takes it all in stride. “Excellent choice, Miss Peters.”
He uncorks the bottle and pours me a glass. I think I’m supposed to swirl it around and sniff it or something first, but I decide to skip embarrassing myself further and just take a sip.
“Is it satisfactory, ma’am?”
I swallow hard. “Amazing!”
“Good.” He sets the bottle down. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to check on Mr. Merrick’s ETA.”
ETA? Who talks like that?
Randall pauses just short of the door and turns to me again. “It’s imperative for you to remain here until I return, Miss Peters. The estate is quite large and I wouldn’t want you to get . . . lost.”
I shrug. “No problem.”
Randall nods and leaves again, shutting the door behind him. The house is so quiet it’s like I’m the only one here. It must be lonely for Mr. Merrick, even when all of his staff are around—unless he has a habit of inviting women here to keep him company. The thought unnerves me so I push it aside.
After a while, I feel restless and wonder what’s taking Randall so long. Pacing the parlor gets old quickly. I recall the various doors off of the atrium just outside this room and decide there’s no harm in taking a mini tour. Randall doesn’t want me getting lost, but if I stick to the nearest options, I should be fine.
Wine glass in hand, I push open one of the tall double mahogany doors and exit into the atrium. I should feel guilty for snooping, but the way I see it, I’m simply taking a page out of Mr. Merrick’s book.
The double doors guarding the room I chose to enter are heavier than I expect so I have to
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