Page 2 of The Spare

Check.

That’s the funny thing about prizes. I see my fiancé as the prize, but that’s not the way my family sees it, nor our investors. For them, it’s all about me: Selena, golden girl and eldest daughter, heiress to an enormous luxury-based fortune in her own right, and the key to the extraordinary access and legitimacy that this dynastic union, hatched so many years ago by two sets of adoring, ambitious parents, can bring.

For all of them, you see, I’m the great hope.

I’m the prize.

We spent Christmas Day yesterday at Belvedere, celebrating with Xavier and his mother, brother, and sister. Xavier was subdued, I thought—morose, even—but his father was lying upstairs, surrounded by nurses and struggling for every breath, so it was no wonder. He has a lot on his mind at the moment, I’m sure: the wedding, and his father’s imminent passing, and the changing of the guard to come. The enormous responsibilities that will face him.

I was fairly distracted myself. While it was gratifying to see the dining room and drawing room at Belvedere decked out fully in Wentworth Home decorations—a lovely gesture from my future mother-in-law, Charlotte—I couldn’t help thinking about the sheer scale of the logistical gymnastics required over the next few days. Tomorrow, teams of planners and florists will descend on Belvedere to whip it into shape. A wedding on the scale of ours—the society wedding of the decade, according to Tatler—will always be subject to insane levels of preparation, but the de Veres haven’t helped matters by ‘requesting’, only a few weeks ago, that the proceedings be moved up from April to New Year’s Eve.

Xavier, quite frankly, has no clue just how frenetic the accommodations at our end have been. Of course he doesn’t; like any man, he’s planning on rocking up, saying his piece, and enjoying the party. Mum and I have borne the brunt of it. But I understand the de Veres’ motivations. It’s John’s dying wish that his succession is secured before he passes, so of course we will all do whatever we can to accommodate.

I’ll just be forever grateful that the atelier at Dior Couture was running so far ahead with the final details on the dress that they were able to accommodate us. Having to compromise on my gown would have broken my heart.

I’m at my laptop in the study when I get a text from Xavier, informing me that he’s coming over. Perhaps he wants to see what remains to be done before the wedding. It’s too little too late, but I appreciate the gesture. I’m also quite relieved to have today as a bit of a breather. I’ve always loved Boxing Day: the enforced lull after the craziness of Christmas. There’s not much to be done on a public bank holiday. Tomorrow, our organiser and her enormous team will descend on Belvedere to transform it into the wedding reception venue of dreams—which it really will be—and it will be all systems go.

But today is for triple-checking every last detail by the fire with a perfectly brewed cup of Earl Grey. I’ll miss this place, which is a silly thing to say. It’s not as though I live here. I have my lovely townhouse in the quiet back roads where South Ken becomes Chelsea, and I’ll be free to return to Millbrook any time I like, obviously.

That said, I can’t wait to get my hands on Belvedere.

Xav looks like shit when he shows up. He’s perfectly turned out, as always, in a navy peacoat, jeans, and a palest blue shirt under an olive green sweater. These Belvedere boys really are excellent clothes horses. But his face is pale and blotchy, and his entire eye sockets are so dark that he looks like a Halloween ghoul. I wonder if I can gently persuade him to have a hydrating facial, or an IV drip, at the very least, so he looks more presentable for our wedding. That said, he and Benedict were really laying into the claret at lunch yesterday, so perhaps he’s just hungover.

I pour us both a coffee from the French press I prepared while I was waiting for him to turn up. I don’t believe he likes Earl Grey much.

‘I didn’t expect to see you today,’ I say as I pass him the first cup. He certainly didn’t indicate, when we said our goodbyes yesterday, that he’d be popping over.

‘I know.’ He goes to stand in front of the fire. Without his coat on, I can eye him up. He really is beautiful—physically flawless, even while he ignores basic levels of hydration. Whenever I look at Xavier, I have the oddest dissonance between appreciating him aesthetically as if he’s a model for our brand (God, I can’t wait to strong-arm him into being a Wentworth brand ambassador) and feeling downright cold at the idea of us…

You know.

It’s not as if I’m physically repelled. It’s not that in the slightest—more that I can’t imagine it. We’re both so awkward around each other. We dance around each other with such politeness, such formality, that the idea of actually getting naked together is… well, excruciating, I suppose.

We’d have to be drunk. We’d definitely have to be the first time, anyway. But marrying one of the most gorgeous, powerful, and wealthy landowners in the British Isles and not wanting to jump his bones is really what I would call a high-quality problem. I’ll deal with it, of course.

‘Selena,’ he says. The seriousness of his tone has me looking up from the cup of coffee I’m pouring myself. He looks even more hungover now—as if he might be sick. ‘I realise this will come as a shock, and I’m truly sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t marry you.’ He pauses. ‘Not next week, not ever.’

CHAPTER 2

Selena

Iunderstand the words, obviously, but I can’t grasp their meaning. I stare at Xavier as I set the French press down with a thud. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

‘I’ve met someone.’ He gives an infuriating little shrug. ‘It’s all happened quite quickly, but I’m in love with her, and I want to spend the rest of my life with her. Not only can I not marry you, but I can’t ask you to marry a man whose heart belongs to someone else.’

I can’t believe I’m hearing this shit. And no—he does not get to put this on me. The panic rises in my throat as he talks, his trite words threatening to take away absolutely everything I’ve worked so hard for, all these years.

I’ve done everything right. Every. Bloody. Thing. Moulded myself into the perfect future duchess for him. I’m unimpeachable, and he wants to throw me over for someone else?

I don’t think so.

‘You have got to be fucking kidding me.’

He flinches, perhaps at my tone of voice, perhaps at the F-bomb. I’ve never sworn in front of him.

‘I’m not. I wish I was.’

‘We’re getting married in five days. Five.’ Maybe reminding him of it will snap him out of whatever this is. The wedding looms over my every waking moment. The dress. The hundreds of thousands of pounds’ worth of flowers waiting in a warehouse to transform Belvedere into an exquisite bower. The innumerable guests preparing to make the journey to Oxfordshire, many from overseas. How can he not be as hyperaware of this as I am?