That day, work had been glossed over.
Coming back home and burying myself in Emmabelle seemed more important than helping my clients get out of whatever trouble they’d gotten themselves into.
I knew what we had was temporary. Women like Sweven hardly made for domestic goddesses. But like all mere mortals, I was fond of playing with deities, even though I knew all about how these stories end.
Also, I really needed to ensure she was safe until my baby was out of her body.
Also, Mum was getting on my last nerve, begging me to come to England and meet Louisa for a cuppa, which meant I needed to head back to Britain soon and explain to my family that I wasn’t going to marry someone just because my dead sperm-donor strong-armed me.
I took the stairs up to my loft two at a time.
I keyed in the code, flung the door open, and sing-songed, “Honey, I’m home!”
And stopped dead in my tracks.
Belle was sitting at my breakfast nook, still wearing the same ridiculous oversized shirt she sported before I’d gone to work.
She wasn’t alone.
“Hello, Devvie.” Sweven’s smile was saccharine, but her eyes darted poisonous daggers at me. “Busted.”
Across from her sat Louisa, sipping green tea.
Shite.
Louisa stood up, dangling her hips seductively while she made her way over to me. She placed a lingering kiss on my cheek, her whole body angled toward mine.
“Darling, you’ve been missed. Your mother gave me your address. She is awfully distraught. She asked that I come speak to you personally.”
Brazen move. Even—dare I say—deranged? But there were several million dollars on the line in properties and heirlooms, and Mum had no liquid assets and no other income sources.
As for Louisa, I was the one who got away. The prized match.
“You could’ve called.” I smiled enchantingly, bowing my head to kiss her knuckles easily.
“I could say the same,” Louisa remarked smartly, not looking half-bothered by my icy welcome. She was sharp, but not—I noticed—hostile, like Belle was. “When’s a good time to talk?”
“Now,” Belle interrupted from her place at the breakfast nook, reaching into a cereal box and withdrawing one Froot Loop, popping it into her mouth. “Now’s a bomb-ass time to tell me what the shit is going on. Spare no detail, boos.”
“She does have a way with words.” Louisa swung her gaze to me, arching an eyebrow.
“You should see me with my fists,” Belle said sunnily.
I choked on my saliva.
Louisa blinked slowly, calm and collected. “Don’t let my exterior fool you. I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty.”
If I had to put my bet on either of these women, I’d say Louisa better run, because Emmabelle Penrose could probably turn her into dust.
Still, Lou had definitely grown up, and I couldn’t help but appreciate this newly improved version of her.
Sensing a looming catfight, I sauntered toward Belle, sitting next to her. I took her hand, kissing the back of it gently. She withdrew immediately, like I’d bit her.
It was time to face the music, even if it was a terrible, sugary pop song that made my ears bleed. I turned to Belle.
“As you know, my father passed away not long ago. When I went back for the reading of the will, I discovered that he left everything to me, but on the condition that I marry Louisa. I rejected the idea immediately. My apologies for keeping you in the dark. The only reason I did so was because your shite plate seemed full enough. It was—is,” I corrected, “as far as I’m concerned, subject closed.”
“How much did he leave you?” Belle asked, businesslike.
“Thirty million pounds in estates and heirlooms,” Lou intervened from beside us. “Although Whitehall Court Castle is priceless. And by priceless, I mean, the next in line to inherit the castle is England. It’ll get turned into a museum. It is prominent in British history.”
“That’s a crap ton of dough.” Belle popped another lone Froot Loop between her luscious lips, nodding thoughtfully. No trace of emotion on her face or posture, I noticed.
Louisa turned to me. “Now I am absolutely not saying she’s a gold-digger …” She sang in a perfect, American accent, quoting the Kanye West song.
“But I ain’t messin’ with no broke.” Belle laughed. “Damn straight.”
“This discussion is futile.” I rubbed at my forehead.
Internally, however, I was beginning to question my own statement. What stopped me from marrying Louisa? She was gorgeous, well-bred, well-read, and well-mannered. She was smart and still fond of me. I would get richer, sort all my family’s problems, and have a marriage on my terms. Most of all I’d be able to marry, something I prevented myself from doing thus far.