Can't Help Falling (20 page)

“What's the worst-case scenario?” She cut him off. Changed the subject.

“For what?”

“So best-case scenario is you make a blazing comeback and win gold in Tokyo. What's the worst case? If you put yourself back into training and it happens all over again?”

“That I do permanent irreversible damage.”

“Which means?”

“Lifelong weakness. Pain.” Or as his consultant so bluntly put it, not being able to ever lift his arm again. The next fifty years on hard-core opiates.

“And which is more likely? The best or the worst?”

“The worst.” By a long mile.

“And it's still worth it to you? The minute chance of winning an Olympic medal versus the very real chance that you could become permanently disabled?”

He'd never really had to have this conversation before. Sabine got it. His teammates got it. His parents didn't but trusted him to make his own decision. How did you explain the drive to beat all the odds? No matter what the risk? To be the best? To stand on a podium and hear your country's national anthem playing? “Yes.”

She shook her head. “That's crazy.”

He bristled. “Aren't
you the girl who once wanted to be the next Christiane Amanpour? To be a war correspondent? Do you have any idea how many journalists and photographers come back in body bags? Or without limbs? Or, at the least, with post-traumatic stress disorder? My dream doesn't involve the real risk of me dying.”

“Seventy-one.” She said the words as she walked past him toward the door.

“Sorry?”

Emelia looked right at him. “Seventy-one journalists were killed last year.”

“Want to know how many Olympic rowers were shot? Or executed? Or thrown in prison? None.” He wasn't even sure what the point was that he was trying to make.

“But at least they were doing something worth—” She cut her own words off but not before he knew exactly what she was about to say.

“Worthwhile? Worthy? Whereas my dream is just, what? Selfish? All about my ego? Pride? Ambition?”

Emelia didn't say anything.

He blew out a breath. Well, that was a great kick of reality. Nothing quite like finding out the girl you have a crush on thinks your biggest dream is self-absorbed stupidity.

“What are you guys doing out here?” Allie saved Emelia from being forced to confirm that was exactly what she thought. She stood in the doorway, a brown paper bag in her hand, the local burger place's branding on the side. Allie didn't even wait for an answer before she launched into her next thing. “Guess what? Jackson and I have talked and we're going to have an engagement party.” She looked at them with expectation. What
did she want? A medal? They'd been engaged for like eight months already.

“Great. Took you long enough.”

“Congratulations.”

Peter and Emelia spoke over each other.

Allie scrunched her nose. “Why does it smell like smoke?”

E
MELIA WATCHED THE
E
NGLISH COUNTRYSIDE
pass by the car window. All lush and green with flowers poking up their bright heads. There were cobbled stone fences and pastures filled with cattle. Quaint villages with looming church spires reaching toward the heavens. The scenery was outstanding, but everything else about the drive to visit Peter's potential venue had been very mysterious so far. When she'd tried to dig, all she'd managed to get out of him was that there was a “family connection.” Words that made her realize she knew pretty much nothing about his family.

She still had no idea how that had morphed into her coming with him to his parents' house for lunch, except that it seemed to make sense at the time. Something about its being near the potential location. And she needed to apologize for basically saying his dream was stupid.

“You okay?” Peter flicked on the blinker and turned a corner.

“Fine.” Emelia returned her gaze to the road. Her pulse increased for a second as she instinctively reacted to being on the wrong side. “Just a bit nervous, I guess.”

The silence from his side wasn't exactly comforting.

Suck it up, Emelia. Just say sorry.
“I'm sorry about last weekend.
About your shoulder. My opinion doesn't matter. But permanent damage to a rotator is bad. You want a medal so much you'd be willing to live a life of excruciating pain? Risk never being able to throw a ball with your kids?” She stopped herself from saying any more. She'd already said more than enough.

“You're wrong.”

Maybe she was. She was dredging her memory of what she knew about sports players who had suffered a similar injury.

“Your opinion does matter.” He looked over at her and captured her with his gaze.

Oh.
She forced herself to break the connection. “Can you tell me about your family?” She didn't care that she'd changed the subject with all the subtlety of a Miley Cyrus music video. Staring into eyes like that as he told her that she mattered was just asking for trouble.

“What would you like to know?”

She turned her face toward him. “Um, their names?”

He looked directly across at her. “I haven't even told you their names?”

“No.”

“Sorry.” His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. He cast a half smile her way. “I guess I'm a bit nervous too. It's been a long time since I brought a girl home.”

Brought a girl home.
The words twisted inside her. Both terrifying and exciting, the emotions fighting for dominance. She'd never been the girl anyone brought home. Not ever.

“My father is William. Bill. My mother is Margaret; everyone calls her Maggie. My brother is Victor.”

She winced at his brother's name. Even though she was sure Peter's brother was nothing like her nemesis.

“What are they like?”

His fingers relaxed slightly. “My dad is tall, big. Played rugby. Almost made the English team when he was young. Apparently was pretty much a steamroller on the field. He has the kind of booming laugh that you can hear for miles. He works hard. He doesn't really care about what we do, all that matters to him is who we are. My mum is the sweetest woman you'll ever meet. The glue that holds our family together. She was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis a couple of years ago but you'd never know it. Never complains, always looking for opportunities to help everyone else. You'll love her . . . she'll love you.” He added the last sentence almost as an afterthought. She didn't know if it was to make her feel better or if his mom was just the type to love everyone.

“What about your brother?”

Something twinged in his jaw as he stared at the road, face set, seeming to ponder her question. Finally, he lifted one hand and pushed it through his hair. “Look, I wish that I could say that we're best mates but the truth is we have a . . .” He paused, searching for the right word. “Challenging relationship. He's older by three years but we've never been close. He wasn't too crazy about me from the day I arrived.”

“I'm sorry.”

“How about your family?”

“My dad remarried a few years ago, someone closer to my age than his. I've got two half brothers and a half sister. He's pretty busy with them. Though my stepmother was excited about me coming here. She has high hopes of me snagging Harry. Or at least a member of the aristocracy with a large estate so she can come and play
Downton
.” Maybe if she distracted
him with tales of her social climbing stepmother he wouldn't ask about her mother.

Peter suddenly started coughing. “Excuse me. How old are your siblings? Half siblings? Sorry. I'm not sure of the terminology.”

“It's okay.” She wasn't sure how to refer to them most of the time herself. They were young enough to be her nieces and nephews. “Um . . .” She had to pause for a second to calculate. “Charles is six, George is three, and Katherine-Elizabeth is almost two.”

He couldn't hold back his grin. “Wow. You weren't kidding about your stepmother being a royal fan.”

“Unfortunately not.”

He glanced across at her. Opened his mouth as if to ask another question, but then closed it without saying anything.

Time to steer things onto a more neutral topic. “So who will be at lunch?”

“Probably just be the four of us. Victor doesn't often show up for family lunches.” He turned off the main road onto a smaller side road with tall hedges lining both sides. “So there's something I need to tell you.” Peter stared straight ahead as he said it.

Emelia's stomach clenched at something foreboding in his tone. “What?”

“So, um, our house isn't so much a house. And when I said my parents lived near the potential location, it would have been more accurate to say they are the location.”

“I don't understand.”

“Well, it's more of an estate.”

She still wasn't getting what he was saying. “Are you trying to tell me your parents are rich?”

He laughed. “Definitely
not with money, but there is quite a bit of land.”

“How much land?”

They'd turned onto a smaller road again, one lined with picturesque stone walls and lush fields on either side. He gestured around them. “We're almost there. This is some of it.”

Shadows covered the car as it passed through a stand of trees and across a small bridge. They came around a bend, and in front of them, in the distance, loomed a huge house. A mansion. And not just any mansion. One that twisted knots of dread in her stomach until she thought she might choke.

She stared at it, trying to process what her eyes were telling her. Finally words started forming in her head. “Highbridge Manor is your house?” Too late she realized her slip. Why would an average American know the name of this estate?

He grimaced. “It is.”

“Stop!” She hadn't meant to shout, the outburst filling the small space.

Peter hit the brakes. Hard. The car slammed to a stop in the middle of the road. Her seat belt cut across her as it held her in her seat. Her head bounced back against the headrest. She was going to be feeling the effects of that at some point but the realization flooding her mind had nothing on the impact her body had just taken.

She turned her entire body sideways as much as she could and asked the question she already knew the horrible answer to. “Who exactly are you?”

P
eter had no idea what to make of the expression on her face. It could have been anything from horror to excitement. Oh,
he hoped she wasn't one of those liberal anti-aristocracy types. Probably should've thought to subtly check for that before he brought her home.

“I'm Peter Carlisle.” He refused to be defined by his father's title. Especially when they'd only come into it by a combination of tragedy and rotten luck.

“Don't be obtuse.”

“I'm not.” It was his turn to get a bit short, which wasn't entirely fair. He probably should've given her some warning of all this. “You asked who I was. I told you.”

Emelia gave a half roll of her eyes. “Fine. Who is your father?”

“William Carlisle. Also known as Viscount Downley.”

With a click, she'd undone her seat belt and had her head between her knees. Of all the reactions he'd anticipated, this was not one of them.

“You okay?” His shoulder ached from the abrupt stop.

“Give me a minute.” Her words were muffled, directed at the passenger's foot well.

A horn sounded behind them, and he realized the car had stalled when they'd slammed to a stop.

He restarted the engine and pulled the car over to the side of the road. Fortunately, no one he knew was behind the steering wheel. Emelia's head remained wedged between her knees, the back of it almost clipping the glove box as he bumped over the grass verge.

Finally, he couldn't take the silence anymore. “Do you hate the peerage, is that it?”

At that Emelia levered herself up and leaned back against her seat. “No. I don't hate the peerage. What is a viscount, anyway?”

“It sits between a baron and an earl. Small potatoes in the hierarchy.”

Emelia made a show of looking all around them, finishing with the house. “Call this what you will. But it is not small potatoes.”

“Touché.”

She pressed fingers to both temples. “Sorry for my reaction. I just . . . I was nervous enough meeting everyone. Then you suddenly spring this on me. It's a bit overwhelming. Why didn't you tell me?”

Peter shrugged. Why hadn't he? It wasn't that he was ashamed of his lineage. Quite the opposite. But he just liked being an ordinary guy. When people found out his background, it always changed how they saw him. As per Exhibit A, sitting right beside him. “We weren't born into this. It was never meant to be ours. It landed on us through a combination of early deaths and titleholders without children. Dad inherited the title from his cousin when I was ten.”

Emelia heaved out a breath, gathered her hair in a pile behind her head, and then let it fall. “So, what do I call your parents? Am I supposed to curtsy?” A panicked look crossed her face. “I don't even know how to curtsy. You could've at least given me a warning to learn!”

He laughed. “No, definitely no curtsies. If it makes you feel better, feel free to call them Viscount and Viscountess when you meet them, but they'll tell you to call them Bill and Maggie. They're even less into titles than I am.” Unlike his brother, who threw “the Honorable” around like it was cheap currency. “If it's really that overwhelming, we can turn around and I'll take you home.” He meant it as a lame joke, but she seemed to actually
consider it for a few seconds. His heart thumped against his ribs. What if she said yes?

What was he even hoping for? Emelia didn't share his faith. He'd always told himself that was one line he wouldn't cross. He'd watched the reality of how that played out his whole life. His parents had a good marriage. But there was no missing the wistfulness in his mother's eyes when she left for church on Sundays, leaving his father behind. Or her hopefulness every Easter and Christmas when he deigned to attend. Or her attempt to conceal her hurt when his father made it clear saying grace was an impediment to be suffered through to get to his meal. And those were only the things he saw.