“You know,” my mother said, dropping her voice down an octave conspiratorially, “it was your father’s last wish that you marry Louisa.”
You know, I wanted to say, in the exact same tone, I could not give one single toss.
“While I sympathize with your pain, I find it extremely hard to make concessions for Edwin. Especially now, when he is not around to appreciate them,” I said mildly.
“You need to settle down, my love. To have your own family.”
“Not going to happen.”
But Ursula Whitehall did not let a measly thing such as reality stand in her way of a good speech. I could practically envision her stepping onto the soapbox.
“I hear about you all the time from acquaintances on the East Coast. They say you’re sharp, astute, and never let a good opportunity go to waste.
“They also say that your personal life is in shambles. That you spend your nights gambling at that heathen Sam Brennan’s joint, drinking, and keeping company with ditzy women half your age.”
The first accusation was spot-on. The last one, however, was a plain lie. I had a strict five-year maximum in place. I’d take lovers five years younger or older. In fact, I had only broken the rule once, with the delightfully infuriating Emmabelle Penrose. For all my faults, I was not a sleazeball. There was nothing quite as pathetic as walking around with a woman who could be mistaken for your daughter. Thankfully, no one in their right mind would have thought I’d let my daughter dress like Emmabelle Penrose.
“I understand that you’re upset, Mummy, but I am not going to be talked into marriage.”
Through the vast glass door, I could see Cillian, Hunter, and the rest of Royal Pipelines’ board trickling out of the conference room. Hunter flipped me the bird on his way out while Cillian offered me a curt, speak-later nod.
This phone call had put me an hour behind schedule. It was more time than I’d given my father in three decades. I was going to send him a hefty bill straight to hell. Meanwhile, Mum continued to drone on.
“…out of touch with your roots, with your lineage. I suspect a lot of things will resurface once you make it back home. I could send in the private jet if you like.”
The private jet belonged to the Butcharts, not the Whitehalls, and I knew better than to take favors from people I had no intention of being indebted to.
“No need. I’ll fly commercial, with the other peasants.”
“First class is so common, unless it’s Singapore Airlines.” If there was something that could distract my mother from the fact she just became a widow, it was discussing wealth.
“I fly business,” I said sardonically. “Brushing shoulders with honest-to-god average people.”
I knew that for my mother, flying business class was akin to making the journey on a paper boat while surviving exclusively on raw ocean fish and sunrays.
“Oh, Devvie, I do hate that for you.” I could practically envision her clutching her pearls. “When shall we expect you?”
“I’ll be in touch in the next few days.”
“Please hurry up. We miss you so.”
“I miss you too.”
When we hung up, it felt like my flesh had been ripped open.
I might have missed my mother and sister.
But I did not miss Whitehall Court Castle.
I took the rest of the day off. Contrary to general belief, I was not married to my work. In fact, I wasn’t even engaged to it. I had a casual relationship with the firm I’d incorporated and used every chance I could to spend time out of the office.
Losing a father, even if I’d forgotten what he looked like, was a brilliant excuse to take time off.
Clouds glided lazily overhead, curiously watching to see what my next move would be. Not one to keep nature waiting, I wandered into Temple Bar, an Irish pub down the street from my office. I was sitting at the bar when Emmabelle Penrose burst through the sticky wooden doors, tears streaming down her face, looking like a train wreck seconds after a colossal explosion.
Emmabelle was the most beautiful woman on planet Earth. It was not an exaggeration, but a plain fact. Her hair, long and luscious, looked like it drank in every sunray it had been exposed to, falling in strings of different shades of blond. Her feline eyes, the color of a blueberry slushie, were perpetually hooded. Her lips were bee-stung, puffy like she’d just been kissed savagely.
And that was without even talking about her body, which I was inclined to suspect might cause a Third World War one day.
She was young. Eleven years younger than me. The first time I’d seen her, three years ago, when I’d gone to serve her younger sister, Persy, with Cillian’s prenup papers, I caught a glimpse of her asleep and spent the next month fantasizing about conquering the fair-haired nymph’s bed.