From London With Love

23 | shaming of the shrew

Andrew jogged up the steps of Argyll Estate.

He slammed the brass knocker on the door, rocking back on his heels. It was an usually hot May morning; he was sweating through his jacket. Scotland's flowers were in full bloom now, a riot of lemon, flamingo pink and lavender.

Andrew glanced at his watch. Two o'clock. Good. Digby would be back for lunch — he might even be able to nick a sausage roll, if he was lucky.

Of course, Digby wouldn't know to have an extra one ready; Andrew's visit was unexpected, to say the least.

They hadn't spoken in the last five days. As far as Andrew was aware, Digby had left London shortly after breaking up with Ophelia, claiming that there were several things on the estate that needed tended to. Mostly his wounded pride, Andrew suspected.

Andrew hadn't been planning to come. But he had woken up just after dawn, irritable and restless, hopped in his car, and somehow wound up in Scotland.

So here he was.

At Argyll.

The door swung open.

Digby blinked, shielding his face against the sunlight. There were dark bruises under his eyes — eggplant and sickly green — and his dark hair was unkempt. Andrew could smell antiseptic clinging to his clothes. Or maybe it was booze.

"Scott," he said, surprised. "What the bloody hell are you—?"

"Did you love her?"

It came out in a rush; Digby slumped against the door frame, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You could have just rung me, you know."

"Well, did you?"

Digby sighed, pushing the door open wider. "You want to come in?"

"Fine."

Digby showed him into the library. He directed Andrew to a seat and then reappeared a few minutes later, carrying two sausage rolls and a decanter of brandy.

"Figure we'll need it," Digby muttered, pouring two fingers of the caramel-coloured liquid into a glass. He offered it to Andrew.

Digby took a long slug of the whisky. Then he topped himself up again, using tongs to add two ice cubes to his glass. "Do you remember our CCF course?" he asked abruptly. "When we were at Eton?"

Andrew blinked. Whatever he had been expecting him to say, it certainly wasn't that. "The one taught by the Irish man?"

"That's the one."

"Vaguely."

Andrew hadn't really paid much attention to their cadet force training at school, to be honest. He had been far too busy painting. Or reading about painting. Or sneaking into London to see the latest David Hockney exhibition.

Digby tipped the whisky back. "You were always so damn good at everything. Rope tying. Abseiling. Building a fire. It all just came so naturally to you."

"You weren't bad."

"No," Digby agreed. "But you were better."

Andrew took a sip of whisky. The liquid burned his throat, but it was a pleasant sensation. Almost soothing in its intensity.

"I don't understand," he said. "What does this have to do with Ophelia?"

Digby stared into the empty grate. "You don't know what it's like to grow up second best, Andrew," he said quietly. "To live in the shadow of another person."

"When you gave up polo this year, I thought that I might finally be the best. But it wasn't enough, was it? People kept asking after you. Hell, even Henry kept banging on about getting you back on the team. So I took it even further."