The Actress and the Aristocrat by Katie Ashley
Chapter Eight: Randall
Once we’d finished the first and second courses, I requested for tea to be sent. While I was at first annoyed by Rob’s presence or more importantly how easily he related to Charlotte—or perhaps I should call her Charlie—I quickly became grateful to him during the meal. In an odd way, it was like he was a trusted journalist. He kept the conversation flowing between Charlie and myself with his questions.
After Charlie got her cup of tea, she took it over to the window. “I’ve always loved that bridge. It’s absolutely breathtaking.” She glanced over her shoulder at me and smiled. “Of course, it also makes me feel a little bit like I’m in Harry Potter.”
“What is it with you Americans and that children’s book?”
“Um, excuse me? You do realize that Harry is British as well as the author.”
“I am aware.”
Tilting her chin at me, she replied, “Ah, so it was more of a jab at how unread Americans are compared to you Brits?”
Damn, she was good. In fact, apart from conversations with my brother, I’d forgotten how fun banter was. She’d certainly keep me on my toes. “While unchivalrous of me, yes, I suppose it was a jab.”
“Have you even read the series?”
“Of course not.”
Rob snorted. “He would have nothing of it when Mother read it to me.” Jutting his nose into the air, Rob added, “He preferred the classics.”
“As I still do,” I mused.
Charlie then had the gall to tsk at me. “Then you don’t know what you’re missing.”
“I think I’ll survive.”
As she cradled her teacup in her hands, Charlotte eyed me curiously. “I suppose it makes sense you always preferred the classics even as a young man.”
I quirked my brows at her. “What is that supposed to mean?”
With a shrug, she replied, “You’re more of a 19th century kinda guy.”
“Is that a thinly veiled criticism of me?”
“Not at all. More that you adhere to somewhat outdated social norms.”
Well, she had me there. I suppose my mother had sugarcoated it by calling me an old soul. Wanting to know more of what Charlie thought of me and my 19th century sensibilities, I asked, “And?”
“It’s pretty evident you possess a very Darcyesque personality.”
“Ah, why not just come right out and call me an arsehole?”
Charlie gasped while Rob chuckled. “Darcy wasn’t an asshole.” When I pursed my lips at her, she replied, “He was just a product of his prideful raising.”
“And that made him act like an arsehole most of the time.”
Shaking her head, she replied, “That’s not what I meant.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Then what did you mean by calling me that?”
“That you’re brooding and keep to yourself.”
“She has you there,” Rob quipped.
I jerked my gaze from Charlie to Rob. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
Sporting his usual impish grin, Rob replied, “As a matter fact I do. I’m playing tennis with the Countess of Rothesbury.” He swiped his mouth with his napkin before waggling his brows. “Please let Mrs. Shaw know she shouldn’t expect me for dinner.”
With a roll of my eyes, I replied, “Do remember you’re in the presence of a lady.”
“I’m sure Charlie can handle my lewd, yet honest comment.”
Charlie laughed. “Yes, I can.” With a pointed look at me, she countered, “This isn’t Remains of the Season, you know. You don’t have to shelter me.”
“I’m well aware of that.”
“See you tomorrow, Charlie,” Rob said.
“Bye.”
After the dining room door closed behind him, I said, “Perhaps we should adjourn to my study?”
“That’s fine with me.”
As we started out into the hallway, my gaze zeroed in on her hair. “Would you like me to make the arrangements for your makeover, or do you know someone?”
“Wow, you’re really ready to transform me, aren’t you?”
“It’s not me but the social calendar. Our first event is in less than two weeks.”
She swallowed hard. “Two weeks?” she squeaked out.
“Yes, I usually attend the Royal Chelsea Flower Show and a charity polo game.”
“I was thinking I was off the hook until at least Royal Ascot.” Her face had somewhat paled. “With plays or TV movies or films, I’ve always had a lot of rehearsal time.”
“You’ll be fine.”
“Famous last words,” she muttered as we entered my study. She promptly went over and plopped down on the settee. “Is it too early for a little Lagavulin?”
I laughed. “I suppose not.” As I went over to the liquor cabinet, I added, “A nip can’t hurt to get the edge off as we hammer out the details of who you are to become.”
“Yes, but make it a large nip as I’m about to sink my teeth into my new role.”
After pouring us a glass, I brought Charlie hers before I went around to have a seat at my desk. I opened up the middle drawer and produced a sheet of paper with the Whittingham family crest. With my pen hovering over the paper, I asked, “Where shall we begin?”
“I suppose my name.”
“What’s in a name?” I mused.
“A rose by any other name would smell just as sweet,” she replied.
I’m sure it was my own snobbery, but I hadn’t expected her to be able to finish the quote. “I see you know your Shakespeare as well as your 19th century novelists.”
“Duh, I’m an actress.”
“Have you performed Romeo and Juliet.”
“As a matter of fact, I did.”
“On or off Broadway?”
She snorted. “I wish. It was all the way off Broadway and back in Atlanta at this place called the Shakespeare Tavern.”
“Well, you could be Juliet,” I suggested.
“I think I’ll pass.” With a pointed look, she added, “Since most all of Shakespeare’s heroines didn’t fare too well, I think I’ll skip out on taking my name from them.”
“Only in the tragedies and histories. I’d say the women fared much better in his comedies.” I couldn’t resist winking at her. “With your fieriness, I’d say you’re a dead ringer for Katerina.”
“Har, har with The Taming the Shrew reference.”
“Sorry. I couldn’t help myself.”
“It’s not a total insult. After all, some of the greats have played her like Elizabeth Taylor.”
“What about Elizabeth?” I suggested.
“It’s my middle name.”
Rubbing my chin, I replied, “I don’t imagine that would be an issue unless someone truly started digging.”
“It probably wouldn’t hurt to keep thinking.”
“Okay, if not a literary reference, then what?”
“Music maybe?” she suggested.
“American or British?”
“I grew up on British bands and singers. My parents were huge fans of the oldies. Like take The Beatles for example. There’s Eleanor and Lucy and Penny.”
I eyed her curiously. “I’m not sure I see you as a Lucy or Penny.”
A faraway look entered Charlie’s eyes. “Goodbye England’s rose,” she sang absently.
I furrowed my brows at her. “Excuse me?”
“You know, from the adapted Candle in the Wind for Princess Diana.”
“I thought we were talking about The Beatles?”
“I know, but then in my mind, I just suddenly had this image of Elton John before me. Maybe it was because we’d watched Rocketman last week in one of the trailers during our downtime.”
“Aside from the completely absurd mental trip you just took—”
She scowled at me. “Forgive me and my ADD brain.”
Ignoring her last comment, I countered, “Do you actually want to take your fake name from a song about a dead woman?”
She sucked in a breath. “Diana was an icon. Not to mention the people’s princess.”
I chuckled. “According to my mother, she had a penchant for telling quite cheeky jokes.”
Her eyes bulged. “You knew Princess Diana?”
A pain zigzagged through my chest. The ache wasn’t from Diana’s loss but more from memories of my mother. With a nod, I replied, “I was only twelve when she died, but she was a friend of my mother’s.”
Charlie slowly shook her head back and forth. “It’s simply mind-blowing how you actually know all the members of the Royal family. I mean, you don’t just know them. You know them.”
“We’re related, remember?”
“Right. I’m not sure why I tend to forget that. I guess because it’s so mind-blowing.”
“By the way, as an aristocratic young woman, you wouldn’t say mind-blowing. You would say remarkable or uncanny.”
“Oh, come on, Mr. Webster’s Dictionary. You’re telling me that your cousins, Beatrice and Eugenie, never use slang words?”
“Actually, it would be the Mr. Oxford Dictionary. Webster’s was adapted to make it easier for you Americans. As for the York’s, they are my distant cousins. And their speech is of no concern to me. It’s you who I’m dating, not them.” As soon as the words left my lips, I grimaced. “Well, you know what I mean.”
Charlotte had the nerve to giggle. “Come on, Randall. If we’re ever going to make this fake relationship work, you’re going to have to loosen up.”
“I’m not sure that’s a possibility. After thirty-five years, I’m not sure I can change.”
“Of course, you can. Humans are constantly evolving throughout their life.” She rose off the settee and came to stand in front of me. With a determined jerk of her chin, she stated, “You can be anything you want to be.”
“I think that’s the whiskey talking.”
“I’m dead serious.”
After leaning back in my chair, I studied Charlie’s determined form. My mind couldn’t help but go to Lydia. She had never mentioned me having the ability to be anything I wanted to be. Instead, she had constantly berated me for being such a stick in the mud. In all of our years together, she’d never spoken with as much resolve towards me as Charlie had.
Waving my hand absently, I said, “Fine. Now can we please get back to the business about your name and how preferably it shouldn’t be after Candle in the Wind?”
“Frankly, I don’t think it should be up for discussion.”
“Is that so?”
“If I’m going to be portraying the person, I think I should get to choose the name.”
Crossing my arms over my chest, I leaned back against my chair. “I suppose that’s fair. However, I still think it’s a macabre way to come up with a moniker.”
“Actually, my grandmother’s name was Rose,” she countered.
“Seriously?”
“Yes. Her full name was Rose Marie Andrews.”
“Is that the name you choose?”
Tilting her head, she murmured, “I’m Lady Rose Andrews.” She rose from her chair. After throwing her shoulders back, she then took a stroll around the dining room. “Good evening, I’m Lady Rose Andrews.” She extended her hand to an imaginary person in front of her. Wrinkling her nose, she turned to look at me. “Hmm, now that I think about it Lady Rose sounds a bit too Downton Abbey, don’t you think?”
“You won’t be Lady Rose.”
“Huh?”
“You won’t be titled.”
“Why the bloody hell not?” she demanded.
At her use of a British word, I couldn’t help chuckling. “Nice cursing.”
“Thank you,” she sniped. Sweeping her hands to her hips, she demanded, “Now tell me why I can’t be titled in this fantasy we’re playing.”
“Saying you’re a member of the aristocracy is like being from a small village. It would be very easy to discredit who you were, especially during the social season.”
Although she appeared to grasp my meaning, she still grumbled, “If you say so.”
“What, did you think I was refusing you because I somehow didn’t think you were good enough?”
“No. That’s not it all,” she huffed.
“It was.” I got up and went over to Charlie. “Regardless of what you think my opinion is of you, I honestly do not think you’re beneath me.”
“Thank you, Randall,” Charlie replied with skeptical sarcasm.
“I’m not finished.”
With a roll of her eyes, she replied, “Whatever.”
“The sad truth of the matter is that when we step out together there will be many people who don’t think you’re worthy of me or that you’re beneath me because you don’t have a title. You’re going to have to learn to keep your temper and bite your tongue.”
“Yes, Henry,” she quipped with another reference to My Fair Lady. I couldn’t help the smile that overtook my face. My mother would have called her spirited.
“Good, Eliza.”
We both stared at each other with wide eyes. “Eliza,” we both murmured in unison.
And that’s when Eliza Littleton was officially born.