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...
"Fetch her for me, please. Thanks." It was not a request.
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Thomas Shelby sat in his car for an hour. Unmoving.
He wasn't doing anything, just contemplating about what had happened and what could possibly happen next. In all honesty, Thomas couldn't fathom the reason why he had driven all the way to Eaton Hall to meet the angelic heiress early in the morning.
What had happened was all hazy, like a forbidden dream.
He drove to the Duke of Westminster's home in a state of daze. The leader of the Peaky Blinders hadn't slept at all that night, thinking about black cat dreams and his possible betrayer. He had a feeling it would all happen during match day. Everything he had fought all these weeks would somehow come back and bite him in the arse on that fateful day.
So when the sun rose, Thomas left his house in a hurry.
He didn't know where he was driving in particular. He was on some sort of autopilot, going to wherever he felt familiar. And that was Eaton Hall, oddly. Its gates stood tall, glinting with a touch of soft sunlight, masking whatever palace hidden inside. Guards stood watch, each one larger than the last.
The Javanese doors boomed loud when the footman thrust them open. Once again, Thomas was greeted with the celestial portrait of the Grosvenors. His eyes immediately shot to the middle of the picture, where his employee – and current inhabitant of his dreams and thoughts – stood. Her proud stature amused him; her smile somehow brought serenity to his troubled mind.
"His Grace is not available at the moment, Mr Shelby. He's in London-"
Thomas turned, "I know."
Thomas Shelby knew precisely where the Duke of Westminster was. Yet that newly made archaic friend wasn't the reason why he drove here. Thomas must see her because when a portrait of her brought a little moment of peace and quiet to him. What would the life-size do?
"Oh," The maid looked somewhat perplexed.
"Is she awake yet?" Thomas plucked a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it ablaze. His eyes still glued on the large portrait in front of him.
The maid scrunched her eyebrows before realization hit her, "Her Grace is very much still asleep, sir."
The knowing look did not go unnoticed by Thomas. And, of course, his Irene would not have woken up at this hour. The heiress would elaborate on what's expected of an aristocrat. Yet, the idea of waking early in the morning seemed to be missed by her.
"Fetch her for me, please. Thanks." It was not a request.
Thomas Shelby was sure the maid hates him now. He can tell by her shocked, paper-white expression and the look of disdain written all across her face. Imagine, a low-life like him summoning an aristocrat; was pretty much unheard of.
"She is my employee." When the maid was unmoving, Thomas reassured.
"But sir-"
The maid was probably terrified of what might befall upon her if she wakes someone so powerful from their slumber. The blue-eyed devil was getting impatient, "I must see her now."
≻───── ⋆✩⋆ ─────≺
The events that unfolded after that had been the most cloudy. Though somehow Thomas could still remember it as if it was playing on repeat at the back of his head. As much as Thomas shook his head, trying to pluck the memory from haunting him.
The milkiness of her skin. How Thomas' calloused fingertips skimmed along the back of her neck, how she clutched him in return. That mane of a hair and how stubborn it is. Much like the person, it's resting on.
Irene Grosvenor was indeed the descendant of an angel; Thomas had established this long ago. The way her eyes would entrap his blue ones in a never-ending match, the way her smile was a mix of playfulness and a certain grace. Thomas had seen pretty much all of her when they had their little encounter in Ada's loo, but somehow that wasn't enough.
And the heiress showing up in front of him with only her nightdress on was somehow a tipping point for Thomas's growing unexplainable desire for the socialite.
"Thom – Tommy!"
A knock descended upon the window of his car.
Thomas muttered a tiny, "Fuck." Before opening the door and jumping out of the cream coloured Bentley. He rubbed his tired eyes before plucking a cigarette from his coat, his fingers brushing the places where the Heiress of Westminster's hands had roamed.
Thomas Shelby's neck hairs giddied.
Arthur waited a moment before speaking, "The hall, Thom. We need to prepare the hall for Match Day."Right. Match Day.
The day when Thomas' fighter, would fight Alfie's guy. Thomas blinked at his brother, tilting his head to one side, shrugging, "So?"
"We might have a slight problem."
Arthur hadn't finished his sentence when Thomas dashed off to the direction of the venue. He knew something would go wrong; Thomas just didn't expect it would be this fast.
Fucking amateurs.
≻───── ⋆✩⋆ ─────≺
Arthur Shelby was alarmed when his little brother mustered a smile upon walking to the venue they had coerced the owner to rent it to them for a quarter of the price.
When asked about it, Thomas laughed and shrugged before patting Arthur on the back.
Arthur Shelby was contemplating on calling the family physician that day.
