Mister and Missus By E L James - 53

My mouth dries. Beneath the hall chandelier, the light burnishing her dark hair, Alessia is a screen siren. She’s wearing an ankle-length soft silk dress fitted at the waist and fastened at her neck, exposing shapely shoulders. The skirt sculpts her hips, tapers to her knees, and then falls in swathes of ruby red to her feet. Her dark eyes are framed in kohl, her lips are as scarlet as her dress, and her hair falls in soft, gentle waves around her. She is a goddess. Aphrodite. And she’s mine. I clear my throat. “You look stunning.” My voice is hoarse.

She smiles, knowing and shy and sweet at once, and I feel it in my dick.

Fuck.

“You look edible,” she says.

I laugh. “This old thing; it’s my lucky suit.”

“You could get lucky,” Alessia purrs, teasing me.

I reach up and take a strand of her hair between my fingers. “I hope so, but only with you. Your hair looks lovely.”

“We went to a salon at the store where a man washed it, and another man gave me a blowout.”

A momentary pang of what I can only assume is jealousy slices through me. “Did they now?” I pull her into my arms. “I’m not sure how I feel about that.”

Alessia giggles. “It was a first for me too.”

Tenderly, I clasp her face between my palms and press my lips lightly against hers. “Then I don’t approve.”

“Of my hair?”

“No. The men. But whoever it was, they did a great job. Come, let me show you something.”

On the dining table, I’ve laid out three velvet boxes. I open them all, revealing their sparkling secrets. Alessia inhales in wonder.

“Yes. Trevethick booty. Part of a substantial collection.”

Alessia is awestruck. On the table, nestled in velvet, is some of the most exquisite jewelry she’s ever seen.

Diamonds.

Diamonds winking in the soft light of the chandelier.

“I think these,” Maxim breathes eventually, and he reaches for a pair of starburst cluster diamond earrings. “Let’s see what they look like.” Gently he tucks her hair behind her ears and inserts first one, then the other earring. “You’re beautiful. You don’t need any embellishments, but these earrings are fit for a goddess. And in that dress, that’s what you are. Do you like?”

Alessia stares in the gilt mirror on the wall at the unrecognizable woman gazing back at her. She looks and feels… different. Confident. Potent. “I love them,” she whispers, her eyes shifting to her husband’s in the mirror and she drinks in his beauty. His emerald eyes glint, and his sculptured lips part as he inhales. He’s in a fitted black suit, with a white shirt.

He looks virile. Elegant. Gorgeous.

He gives her a dazzling smile. “Good. Let me put these back in the safe.”

“You have a safe?”

“ We have a safe. It’s in my wardrobe.”

Hand in hand, Alessia and Maxim walk up Cheyne Walk toward Trevelyan House. Alessia tries to stifle her nerves, remembering Mrs. Blake’s less than enthusiastic welcome last weekend.

What kind of reception will she receive today?

“This house has been in my family for generations. In fact, since it was new,” Maxim says as he opens an iron gate that leads down a short stone path in a neat garden. They stop outside an impressive old building with a gleaming black front door that looks remarkably like the door at the house on Cheyne Walk. “I grew up here.”

Alessia smiles. “Are there photographs of you as a boy here?”

Maxim laughs. “Yes. Many.” He reaches up and pushes the bell, which rings shrilly somewhere inside the house. “You’ve met Mrs. Blake.” Maxim’s mouth flattens into a bleak line. “She’s been with the family for years, since my father was earl. Mr. Blake, her husband, is the family butler.”

“Okay.” Alessia inwardly girds herself.

A stout, balding man in a pristine black suit answers the door. He turns his shrewd brown eyes on Alessia, then Maxim. “Lord Trevethick,” he says and, bowing his head, holds open the door.

“Blake.” Maxim is tight-lipped as he takes Alessia’s hand and guides her into the hall. “This is my wife, Lady Trevethick.”

“Congratulations to you both,” he says kindly. “Lady Trevethick, welcome to Trevelyan House. May I take your coats?”

“Caroline is expecting us,” Maxim informs him as he hands over his coat. Following his lead, Alessia removes hers too.

“Lady Trevethick,” he murmurs as he takes it, his eyes bright with admiration. Alessia returns his smile. “Lady Trevethick is in the drawing room, my lord. Brace yourselves. I believe cosmopolitans are on the menu.”

Maxim chuckles. “Thanks.”

Blake gives them both a nod, turns on his shiny black shoes, and paces down the long black-and-white tiled hall. Alessia’s gaze follows him. The walls are adorned with photographs and paintings. Two large chandeliers are hanging from the ceiling, much like those in Maxim’s apartment, but these are bigger. An ornate gilt mirror sits above an old wooden console table where two elaborate lamps with golden lampshades cast a gilded light over the hall.

“The drawing room is upstairs,” Maxim says, smiling at her.

Their footsteps clatter up a broad staircase made of rich, russet-brown wood. Above them, on the walls, are more paintings and photographs. Alessia catches sight of one with Maxim. He looks younger, and he’s posing with a blond, curly-haired man who seems a little older than him. They’re in a uniform: white britches, long leather boots, and darker T-shirts with L AURENT P ERRIER emblazoned on the front. A long mallet is casually propped on Maxim’s shoulder, while the other man, who has an arrogant, imposing air, is resting his hand on a similar mallet.

“That’s Kit and me in our polo gear. It’s from about five years ago.”

“You both look very handsome.”

Maxim grins, looking boyish and pleased at once. “Thank you.” He leads her through a door on the landing into a large drawing room where Caroline is waiting. She’s impeccably dressed in a floor-length black gown with a plunging neckline, single pearls at her ears, and a long, knotted pearl necklace that falls between her breasts. She steps forward and grasps both Maxim’s and Alessia’s hands.

“Welcome, Alessia, you look stunning. Maxim.” She kisses Alessia’s cheek and offers her own to Maxim.

“Caro. You look lovely.” Maxim gives her a brief peck.

“I do so hope you’re both in need of a cosmo.” She squeezes their hands, then turns and presses a button on the wall. “Do take a seat.”

Alessia glances around the room, taking in its opulence and antiquity. It’s comfortable yet imposing. A marble fireplace with impressive columns dominates the room, and there are several overstuffed red-patterned couches. There are paintings of landscapes and still-lifes but also photographs of Caroline and her husband, several of an older man who Alessia recognizes from the portrait in Cornwall as Maxim’s father, and a few of Maxim, Kit, and Maryanne as children.

“May I look at the photographs?”

“Of course, Alessia,” Caroline responds. “Please, be my guest.”

There’s a brisk knock at the door, and Blake enters, making his way over to a silver bar cart that’s laden with bottles of alcohol, sparkling crystal glasses, and a cocktail shaker.

“That dress does suit you,” Caroline says. “Do you approve, Maxim?”

“I do. Very much.” Maxim’s expression heats as he stares at Alessia.

Alessia smiles. “Thank you,” she whispers, warmed by his gaze. She turns, flushing a little, to examine one of the family photographs. Maxim must be nine or ten, handsome even as a child, his father’s hand cupping his shoulder. Maryanne stands between Maxim and his brother—who’s taller with a mass of blond curls—while Rowena stands behind Kit, her arm draped around her eldest son. There’s a steely glaze in her eyes as if she’s daring the photographer to reveal the truth.

What truth?

“I have those items of Kit’s,” Caroline says to Maxim and gestures to an elegant wooden box on the coffee table.

“Oh.” Maxim eyes the box, eyes suddenly wide with doubt. “Um…”

“Now might not be the right time,” she adds quietly.

The atmosphere in the room cools, only to be revived by the loud rattle of a cocktail shaker. All eyes turn to Blake, who holds the silver shaker aloft with a flourish. He smirks, enjoying himself. Maxim grins while Caroline laughs and joins Blake at the drinks tray. “Let me help.”

Deftly Blake pours alcohol into three cocktail glasses, and Caroline adds a slice of fresh orange zest to each. “There we go,” she says, handing a glass to Alessia then Maxim. “This is a cosmopolitan. Or, as we say, a cosmo.”

“Cosmo,” Alessia repeats.

“Cheers,” Caroline says, smiling at Maxim.

“Gëzuar,” Alessia and Maxim say in unison, and Caroline laughs in response. Alessia takes a sip. The tangy, sharp taste is delicious. “Mmm… what is in this?”

“Vodka, a dash of Cointreau, lime juice, cranberry,” Maxim responds, his voice husky as his eyes meet Alessia’s.

“Oh, for God’s sake, get a room, you two!” Caroline says. Maxim winks at Alessia, and Caroline continues, “I thought a vodka-based cocktail might set us up for Dimitri’s.”

Maxim nods. “Yes. The vodka will be flowing this evening. Let’s drink up and make a move.”

Dimitri lives in a newly renovated pile in Mayfair. The house is redbrick, squat, and furnished by the interior designer du jour. I’ve been a couple of times. The décor, the furnishings, and the art are on point and utterly soulless. I’ve never felt fully comfortable in his company—not that I’ve met him often—but his is the place to be seen, and if I’m going to out Alessia as my wife, there’s no better way to go public. We’ll be plastered over all the tabloids in the morning.

“Are you ready for this?” I ask Alessia as our cab stops close to his house. She nods, her eyes dark and shimmering from the streetlight. “Caro?”

“Yes. Time to get back on the horse,” Caroline says.

“Okay. Let’s go. Don’t answer any questions.”

As we climb out of the taxi, I see there’s a steady stream of the well-heeled already entering the property. The paparazzi step forward with shouts and cameras poised.

Lord Trevethick!

Maxim!

Look this way!

I wrap my arm around Alessia and grab Caroline’s hand, and we walk through a sea of flashing cameras and shouted questions. It feels like forever, but it’s probably seconds later that we’re through the shining black door and into the relative safety of the courtyard.

Though it’s still early, the place is already heaving.

An attractive young woman with slicked-back hair, dressed entirely in black, takes our coats, and we head into the courtyard proper. As we do, we’re given a shot of vodka each from a waitress who looks the spit of the cloakroom attendant.

“Thank you.” Alessia looks dubiously at the concoction.

“Welcome to Dimitri’s,” I mutter in as reassuring a voice as I can manage and down the shot. I’ll say one thing for him—he does good vodka. Alessia downs hers as does Caroline.

“Uau! Ah! That’s strong!” Alessia splutters.

“Yeah… maybe not too much, eh? Let’s find Joe and Tom. They should be here.”

“Trevethick!” The booming voice of Dimitri Egonov interrupts us. “I am so glad you could make it. And who is this beautiful young lady?” His accent is faint, but it’s there. Could he sound any more oily? And he’s wearing a white dinner jacket like he’s Gatsby or Bogart.

“This is my wife, Alessia Trevethick. Alessia, our host, Dimitri Egonov.”

He takes her hand and brings it to his lips, his dark eyes searing hers. “The rumors are true,” he murmurs. “My dear Lady Trevethick, you are exquisite.”

“Mr. Egonov.” Alessia smiles, but even I notice that her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

“You’ll need to be careful of this one,” Egonov warns me. “She’s a rare diamond.”

“She is,” I agree, wanting him to drop her hand.

Get your hands off my wife.

I’ve never felt as territorial as I do now.

“Please enjoy my hospitality. There’s all manner of entertainments to delight here. Maybe next time you’ll DJ for me.”

Never.

“I think my DJ days are over, Dimitri.” My smile is polite, but I want him to release my wife. Finally, he does and turns to Caroline.

“Lady Trevethick, how lovely you look this evening.”

“Dimitri, darling.” She air kisses him on each cheek, but he pulls her into a tight hug.

“I am so sorry for your loss,” he says, holding her close.

Caro turns a panicked look toward me, but it’s Alessia who takes her hand.

“Caro, please show me around,” Alessia asks sweetly.

“Thank you, Dimitri,” Caro purrs, and with a dazzling, knowing smile, he releases her and moves on.

Fuck.

“Are you okay?” I ask Caro, whose hand is still clasped in Alessia’s.

“Yes. He is… extra.”

“He is. Let’s go grab a drink.”

Alessia is dazzled by the spectacle of the event laid out before her. The courtyard is covered by a black silk canopy festooned with tiny, twinkling fairy lights. In the center, on a black plinth, there’s an ice sculpture of tall carved flames that branch in all directions. It’s lit with red and orange flickering lights, so the flames look real. Three bartenders stand before it, serving shots from the vodka that’s pouring through its icy flames.

How does that work?

“Vodka luge,” mutters Maxim. “Let’s avoid that and find some champagne.”

“I’ll have another shot,” says Caro, and leaving them, she saunters up to the bar and greets a tall young woman standing there. Maxim turns abruptly away from them as if he’s avoiding the other woman, grabs two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter, and passes a flute to Alessia.

“Let’s move over there, and we can hold court and people-watch,” he says.

The area is crowded with men and women all dressed in their finery. Alessia recognizes a few movie actors, celebrities, and a couple of British politicians that she remembers from the free newspaper she read on the train to and from Brentford. On the fringes of the throng, several conspicuous, burly men in dark suits, wearing earpieces, watch over everyone.

Security? For what? Alessia doesn’t know.

Various people accost Maxim to offer their condolences at his brother’s passing and to meet Alessia. She shakes hand after hand, aware that a few beautiful women she meets are eyeing her with ill-concealed envy. She wonders if they know Maxim intimately.

Alessia, don’t go there.

She tightens her grip on her husband’s arm.

A photographer asks for a picture, and Maxim pulls her closer. “Smile,” he whispers. “This will be all over the tabloids tomorrow, and I want the world to see that you’re mine.”

Alessia beams at him, her doubts erased, and the photographer snaps a few shots, thanks them, and moves on.

“Trevelyan!” There’s a shout, and Tom, in black tie, strides toward them, dragging Henrietta behind him through the crowd. “Dear Alessia, you look stunning. Maxim, my goodness, what an extraordinary turnout. Of course, everyone here wants to meet your new bride!”

Henrietta lights up when she sees Alessia. “You look lovely,” she gushes.

Alessia beams back. “Thank you, so do you!”

Maxim and Tom begin an intense discussion. Alessia picks up the words prying journalists , security , and kompromat —whatever that might be.

“I’ve never been here before. Shall we go and explore?” Henry’s brown eyes sparkle with curious delight and a little mischief.

“Okay,” Alessia replies, inspired by Henry’s infectious enthusiasm and of course, Alessia is curious too. She’s never been to a mansion owned by a Russian oligarch.

“Where are you going?” Maxim asks as soon as they move away.

“Exploring.” Henry smiles, and Maxim casts bright eyes that widen with concern at Alessia.

“Be careful,” he murmurs, and Alessia knows he disapproves, but he’s not going to stop her.

“We will,” she says with a sweet smile. He nods in response, and Henrietta takes two glasses of champagne from another passing waiter, and they walk through the affluent crowd and into the house.

The residence is impressive, decorated in beige and browns and creams with touches of gold everywhere. It’s opulent; the furnishings are in satin and silk. Abstract and figurative art hangs on every wall. It’s stylish but a little sterile for Alessia’s taste. Guests mingle, talking, laughing, and drinking in each room. In the first—a sitting room—a couple of close-up magicians entertain the milling folk. One produces a gold coin from behind Henry’s ear. What’s more, to her utter delight, he lets her keep it.

They move on through a dining room set with a lavish banquet. Alessia recognizes the caviar and pink salmon roe, but there are dumplings and little pasties. Pirozhok, Henry informs her. The table, which must seat twenty people, is laden with food. Tall, attractive male servers with slicked-down hair dressed in their uniform black stand at points ready to serve. Henry and Alessia choose caviar with blinis, the little dumplings, and pasties.

“This will fortify us,” Henry declares, and they move with their plates into the next room, another sterile space crammed with beautiful people. Henrietta introduces Alessia to all who approach. A thin young woman in black accosts them—her flowing dress appears a little big for her. “So you’re the woman who snared Maxim Trevelyan,” she drawls as her brown eyes sweep over Alessia.

“Maxim is my husband,” Alessia responds stiffly, aware that she’s been the subject of speculation and the occasional side-eye as she and Henry have wandered through the gathering. No one’s been as overt at this woman.

“Pretty little thing, aren’t you?” she says, and Alessia suspects she’s had too much to drink.

“And you are?”

“Arabella Watts. Maxim and I used to date. Many moons ago. I must congratulate you on snaring one of the UK’s most eligible—”

“Thanks, Arabella,” Henry interrupts. “We have to find Maxim.” She grabs Alessia’s hand, and they move through to another room. She whispers, “Maxim’s ex. A complete addict and a nasty piece of work too. Though I’m not sure if the two things are related.”

“Oh. Ex-girlfriend?”

“Yes. Has he not told you?”

“Briefly. But not…um…with…details.”

“Probably wise,” Henry adds. “I mean, we don’t want to hear about our partner’s ex-lovers, do we?”

Alessia shakes her head and doesn’t want to dwell on Maxim’s exes at all.

There are too many.

Henry stops by a window so they can finish their food. When they’re not being interrupted for introductions, Henry chats about her day. She’s a nurse who met Tom while working at the veterans’ hospital in London. Alessia listens attentively, feeling more relaxed and oh-so-comfortable in Henrietta’s presence. She wonders vaguely where Maxim might be.

Once they’ve eaten, and with more champagne in hand, they wander through the hallway. The atmosphere among the revelers has heated up. The chatter louder and freer. They pass a magnificent wooden staircase that leads to the floor above and down to the basement, from where colored lights flicker up the walls and thumping music can be heard.

Henry makes a face. “We don’t want to go down there,” she warns, and they move on into the main sitting room.

It’s another opulent room, furnished as the others, though this has a modern gas fireplace where flames flicker, adding a little color and life to the space. There’s an excited buzz from the well-off crowd that hangs over the spacious room, accompanied by the chink of champagne and shot glasses.

Above them is a mezzanine floor. “Look,” Henry says when she spots the grand piano on display above them. She grins. “Let’s go up there.” Henry downs her champagne, grabs another two glasses from a waiter, and leads the way to the spiral staircase. Alessia is keenly aware that their journey is followed by the curious eyes of the partygoers mingling in the room. Alessia downs one of her glasses of champagne and follows Henry up the staircase to the mezzanine. It houses an impressive library, the hardbacks sorted by color and size, and the gleaming black piano. Alessia inhales sharply. It’s a Bechstein.

“Well, hello there. Do you play?” A young man with black hair, tousled a little like Maxim’s, steps out from behind one of the library shelves. His accent echoes Dimitri’s.

“Not me,” Henry responds. “But Alessia here does.”

He steps forward; his clear blue eyes scan Alessia’s face, then skim down her body, so that she raises her chin to meet his challenge.

He smirks at her attempt to intimidate him and holds out his hand. “Grisha Egonov, and you are?”

Alessia shakes his hand, alarm bells ringing in her head. His grip is too tight, his smile too warm. She withdraws her hand and resists the urge to wipe it against her dress. “Egonov. Dimitri’s…?” Alessia asks.

“Brother. Well, half-brother. Same father.”

“Alessia Trevethick.”

“Ah! The new countess.” He bows quite formally, takes her hand once more, and kisses her knuckles. “My lady.”

A shiver runs up her spine.

“This is my friend Henrietta Gordon.” Alessia removes her hand and introduces Henry, who is watching Grisha with the same wariness as Alessia.

He gives a nod to Henrietta and turns his attention back to Alessia. “Your accent. Like me, you are not from around here.”

“I am Albanian.”

“Ah. Interesting. Please.” He gestures toward the piano. “Be my guest.”

“I wouldn’t want to…um…disrupt the party.”

His eyes glow with an unwelcome intensity. “Maybe it’s exactly what this party needs. Or perhaps your friend’s claim that you can play is… overstated?”

Henry laughs—at him, not with him—and Alessia glances at her friend. “Show him,” Henry mouths. Grisha’s gaze slides between the two of them, arrogant and amused.

“Please.” He gestures once more to the piano, and because Alessia doesn’t know if she’ll ever have the opportunity to play a Bechstein again, she concedes with a graceful nod. She sits on the stool, rests her fingers on her lap, and stares at the beauty before her. The piano gleams beneath the inset lights, and the golden words C. B ECHSTEIN glint irresistibly on the fallboard, enticing her to play. Alessia presses middle C, and the note rings out, the tone deep, rich, and more golden than their surroundings.

Perfect.

Alessia glances up at Grisha, who’s holding his phone and eyeing her speculatively.

She’ll show him, arrogant arsehole.

Alessia smiles and winks at Henry. Turning to the keyboard, she places her hands on the keys and launches into Bach’s prelude number 2 in C minor… her angry music.

The music rings through the room in oranges and reds, warmer and hotter than the colors of the ice-fire in the vodka luge outside, and Alessia loves it. And because she’s had a little to drink, she’s free and fast, letting the music overtake her and blotting out the arrogant fool beside her.

I’ve left Tom and Joe deep in conversation about the merits of rugby over soccer, to try to find Alessia. Ignoring the rising panic in my chest, I move through each room as Dimitri’s guests offer me condolences or congratulate me on my marriage to my beautiful wife whom they’ve just met!

Where the hell is she?

Then I hear it. The sounds of Bach wafting over the hum of conversation.

Alessia.

She’s in the main drawing room. I follow the sound, and with the crowd gathered in the room, I look up and spy her with Henry and Dimitri’s arsehole younger brother Grisha on the mezzanine.

Now that I have her in my sight, I relax and listen. I know this is her angry music and I wonder what Grisha’s said to piss her off.

“Maxim!” I turn and find Charlotte staggering toward me.

My ex.

Shit.

They’re both here, though I’ve managed to avoid Arabella. Caroline was talking with Charlotte earlier, and I wonder what about.

“Hello, Charlotte.” I place my index finger on my lips to silence her because I want to listen to my wife’s exquisite take on Bach. Charlotte glances up at Alessia in full flow.

“I’ve missed you.” She grasps my hand. “Do you want to come and join me downstairs?” Charlotte’s invitation is clear, but her eyes are unfocused as she weaves on her high heels at my eyeline.

She’s drunk or high, or both, and I’m a little stunned.

Does she not know I’m married?

Alessia finishes the prelude, and as the final notes fade in the room, the gathered crowd erupts into applause. I extract my hand from Charlotte to applaud with them, but Charlotte grabs my lapels, surprising me, and plants her lips firmly on mine, pressing her wet tongue into my mouth. I’m vaguely aware of a flash of light.

What. The. Fuck.

I twist my head and grab her hands, pushing her gently back, escaping from her clutches. “Charlotte! What the hell are you doing?”

Alessia hears the applause coming at her from what feels like the far end of the room.

“Brava, Lady Trevethick,” Grisha says. “I was doubtful, but that was impressive.”

“Thank you,” Alessia says and grins at a smiling Henry before glancing down at the audience in the living room, her eyes straying to her husband.

He’s kissing another woman.

And Alessia’s world crashes to a halt.

What?