e·lite
/əˈlēt,āˈlēt/
noun
noun: elite; plural noun: elites
a group or class of people seen as having the greatest power and influence within a society, especially because of their wealth or privilege.
• in which the darkness-loathing heiress meets t...
"Sisters, you both sound idiotic; it's forehead. Now please,"
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A car ride with four men is hellish.
That's what Thomas is currently thinking about. Correction, a car ride with four vigorous-war-torn men, is unbearable. Here Tommy is sitting in between Arthur and Alfie, ears this close to being deaf. The three of them, including John in the front seat, hideously sang wartime songs. No, calling it singing would be an insult to the word itself, more like screaming at the top of their lungs to the lyrics of wartime songs.
With him being pressed in the middle, Thomas couldn't do anything, let alone escape. He had asked the three of them to stop their yammering multiple times by now, with a calm and collected tone. Each time, they would stop. Then to only continue the ear-bleeding sound right after they talk about the olden war days. It's a never-ending cycle of death.
Hence when Eaton Hall came into view, standing tall with all its glory, Thomas let out an exasperated sigh. All five men, the chauffeur included, gaped at the colossal estate laying in front of them. Lord Hugh Grosvenor seemed to not skip on luxury wherever he goes. Alfie took off his top hat, "Holy fuckin-"
"Exactly." Tommy whistled. Both Arthur and John hadn't spoken a single word yet, still gaping at the vast grounds of Eaton Hall. Two footmen greeted them as soon as the car doors open. The taller one spoke with a clear Scottish accent, "Welcome to Eaton Hall, sirs. If you would follow me, I will take you to Lord Grosvenor's offices where he's already waiting for your arrival."
"We shall." John jokingly bowed. Thomas shot him a bemused glance.
Whispers about the details of Lord Grosvenor's mega estate did It no justice. Thomas' informants have detailed the manor as grand and richly. When, in fact, it was more than that. It was Grand, Richly, and Exquisite. Even Mr Barclay, the private investigator, seemed to get a few things wrong. This... Palace was not fit for only a lord. It would work for a king.
"Oi, look." Arthur pointed to a portrait hung proudly at the centre of the entrance.
It was a portrait of the Grosvenors, brightly lit with two small scone lights on either side of the picture. The picture had Lord Hugh and, who Tommy assumes is his wife, sitting on a luxurious velvet settee with an air of absolute aristocracy.
How they sat, how they smiled, it laced with an atmosphere called nobility.
Thomas lingered on the late Duchess of Westminster's facial features. She was alluring, something Tommy was sure she passed on to her children. Specifically, her daughters. Alluring was an understatement, actually. Lady Grosvenor had a unique beauty that he couldn't prescribe.
Behind them, of course, stood their ever-so-proud children. Heads held up high, smiles dashing, faces gorgeous as ever. Robert, the eldest, stood behind his father wearing a – indeed- expensive three-piece suit. His handsome face was decorated with a dashing smile that would put damsels' cheeks red like a tomato.
