Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 125694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 628(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 628(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
“Are you happy with him?” I mouthed into her hair so only she could hear me.
“I—” she started.
“Well, well,” Benedict said, with Byron on his heels. He squeezed my shoulder. “I thought I’d see pigs fly before I caught sight of Devon Whitehall back on British soil.”
I disconnected from Cecilia, shaking his and his brother’s hands.
“My apologies, but the only pigs I know are right here on earth, and looking like they could use a trip to rehab.”
Benedict’s smile collapsed. “Very funny.” He grit his teeth. “I have thyroid issues, for your information.”
“And you, Byron?” I turned to his brother. “What issues are preventing you from looking like a sober, functioning member of society?”
“Not all of us are so vain as to mind their appearance as much. I hear you’re a self-made millionaire now.” Byron smoothed his suit with his hand.
I finished off my fag and flicked the bud toward the grave. “I get by.”
“Being known for your accomplishments is such hard work. Better to be known by your last name and inheritance.” Benedict cackled. “Either way, it’s good to have you back.”
Thing was, I wasn’t back. I was just a visitor. A bystander in a life that was no longer mine.
I’d built a life elsewhere. It was tied to the Fitzpatrick family, who took me under their wing. With my law firm, and my fencing, and the women I wooed. With a new twist in my story, Emmabelle Penrose, a girl who had more demons than gowns in her closet.
As people engulfed me from all directions, demanding to hear about my life in America—my mates, my partners, my clients, my conquests—I noticed only one person stayed away, on the other side of the dirt-filled shallow grave.
Louisa Butchart studied me from a safe distance under her lashes. Her mouth was curled in a slight pucker, her back arched, as if flaunting her new assets.
“Come now.” Mother laced my arm in hers, tugging me toward the sprawling manor. “You’ll have plenty of time to talk to Lou. I cannot wait to show you off to all the servants.”
But there was nothing to discuss.
I owed Louisa Butchart an apology.
And nothing more.
An hour later, I sat at a grand table in one of the two dining rooms of Whitehall Court Castle. I was at the head of the table. My family and childhood friends surrounded me.
It astonished me how nothing had changed in the years I was gone. Down to the plaid carpeting, carved wooden furniture, candelabras, and floral wallpaper. The walls were sodden with memories.
Eat your greens or end up in the dumbwaiter.
But, Papa—
No Papa. No son of mine will grow up to be pudgy and soft like Butcharts’ kids. Eat all your greens now, or you’re spending the night in the box.
I’ll throw up if I do!
Just as well. Vomiting would do your portly figure good.
As I looked around me, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for Cece and Mother—even more than I was for myself. At least I went and built myself another life. They stayed here, burdened by my father’s godawful temper and never-ending demands.
“So, Devon, do tell us all about your life in Boston. Is it as dreadful and gray as they say?” Byron demanded, chewing loudly on shepherd’s pie and meatloaf. “I’ve heard it isn’t much different from Birmingham.”
“I suppose the person who told you that has never been to either,” I said, swallowing a chunk of shepherd’s pie without tasting it. “I rather enjoy the four seasons of the city as well as the cultural establishments.” The cultural establishments being Sam’s gentleman club, in which I gambled, fenced, and smoked myself to death.
“And what of the women?” Benedict probed, well into his fifth glass of wine. “How do they chart in comparison to England?”
My eyes met Louisa’s from across the table. She didn’t shy away from my gaze but didn’t offer any type of emotion either.
“Women are women. They are fun, necessary, and an overall bad financial investment,” I drawled. I was hoping to convey I was still the same, no-good tomcat who’d run away from England to avoid marriage.
Benedict laughed. “Well, if no one’s going to address the elephant in the room, I might as well do so myself. Devon, don’t you have anything to say to our dear sister after leaving her high and dry? Four years, she waited for you.”
“Benedict, enough,” Louisa snapped, tilting her chin up demurely. “Where are your manners?”
“Where are his?” he crooned. “Someone has to call him out on this, since Mum and Dad can’t.”
“Where’s the Duke of Salisbury and his wife?” I asked, realizing for the first time they hadn’t attended the funeral.
There was a beat of silence before my mother cleared her throat. “They passed away, I’m afraid. A car accident.”
Christ. Why hadn’t she told me?
“My condolences,” I said, looking at Louisa rather than her brothers, whom I still hadn’t considered to be on the same evolutionary scale as me.