Page 20

Thomas

Apparently, my family isn’t here yet, but Felicity-Anne Peregrine is.

I’ve barely finished stuttering hello to her, surprised by her sudden appearance—seriously, where the hell did she come from?—when Stella comes back around the corner. She stops short to keep from running into Figgy, then takes a quick half step back.

“Oh my God, sorry!” Stella blurts. “I’m just determined to mow everyone down lately.”

I have no idea what she’s on about, but there’s no time to ask, because my wife and the woman I’ve been expected to marry for practically my whole life are now face-to-face with each other—and they couldn’t be more different.

Stella, brown-skinned and leggy, wearing a cashmere dress belted at the waist and her dangerous stilettos. Figgy, flaxen-haired and petite, dressed in the Cotswolds uniform of jeans, boots, and a Barbour jacket. But it’s not just in appearance where they deviate. My wife is no-nonsense and sharp edged, all sly humor and twinkling eyes. And my old friend turned unwanted admirer is…well, none of those things. She has the softness of a woman who was handed everything at birth and has never strived for more, content in her status, knowing it would never be challenged as long as she followed the path set out for her by marrying well and carrying on the legacy.

But a challenge has appeared in the form of Stella, and I have no idea what that’s going to bring out in her.

My stomach twists into something vaguely pretzel shaped and sinks. This is not how I envisioned their first meeting going. I had hoped for more time to prepare Stella and to maybe have a chat with Figgy to once again explain that she and I were never going to happen. I didn’t want either of them thrown into the arena with no preparation. Yet here we are.

“You’re fine, don’t worry,” Figgy says on a laugh, light and lyrical. It’s the exact opposite of Stella’s rumbling chuckle. “At least we’re all still standing.”

Well, I might not be for much longer.

Figgy moves next to me, standing so close that her arm brushes mine as she lifts a hand to extend to Stella. “It’s so lovely to have you here,” she says. The statement is warmly welcoming, as if she’s the lady of the manor greeting a guest. “It’s about time Thomas brought his wife home to visit. I’m Figgy, an old family friend.”

I’m glad that’s the explanation of our relationship—or lack thereof—that she went with. The woman is tactful, I have to give her that. And Stella is a practiced businesswoman, so the smile and handshake she offers Figgy in return are perfectly polite, even downright friendly.

“It’s wonderful to meet you. Thomas has told me so much about you.”

“All good things, I hope,” Figgy chirps as she drops Stella’s hand—and wraps her arm around mine. When I dare to glance at her, she’s beaming up at me. “Unfortunately, he knows all my secrets and embarrassing stories. Guess that’s what happens when you grow up together.”

I shouldn’t be surprised Figgy’s breaking out the possessive behavior, but I didn’t think she’d lay it on this thick so quickly. Thankfully, Stella’s unbothered by the woman clinging to me like a koala, smiling fondly at us both.

“I bet you have such good stories about this guy,” she says, smile shifting into a conspiratorial smirk, like they’re already best friends. “Could we maybe sit and chat over a mimosa? I’m going to need all the dirt on him, and you’re the best source.”

My attention ping-pongs between the women, not missing the way Figgy’s expression flickers with confusion for a moment before she’s back to cheery. Stella’s offer has clearly taken her aback, not having expected such an affable proposal.

“Oh, I’d love to,” Figgy says, though I can sense the but coming. “But I only popped round to drop my things for the week. I’m actually off for a facial in town with the best aesthetician. If you want me to book you an appointment, I absolutely can. Those long-haul flights make you look so rough.”

The sly insult has my eyes flaring wide. Stella could call her out on it, but Figgy phrased it in such a way that she could laugh it off and say she included herself in that you , the world traveler that she is, and then Stella would come out as the loser in that battle.

“I might actually take you up on that,” Stella says, much to my surprise. I doubt she missed the slight, but she’s so perfectly composed that I can’t be sure. “I could use a self-care day. Thomas has kept me so busy lately, what with following him around the world, that I’ve barely had a moment to myself.” At that, she shoots me a wink, and it’s oh so clear she has the upper hand. “But I can’t complain.”

Again, Figgy’s expression wavers, this time with what I swear is outrage, but then she’s laughing. To her credit, it doesn’t even sound forced. “I bet not.” With that, she detaches herself from me and tosses her hair over her shoulder before giving us a little finger wave. “See you!”

Stella waves back, but I can’t do much more than watch her stride toward the doors.

“Oh, she’s fun ,” Stella says brightly when Figgy’s gone. “I won’t go so far as to say she hates me, but we certainly aren’t going to be friends.”

It takes a few more beats before I get my wits about me, wincing when I realize I left her to fend completely for herself. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea she was going to be here. No one told me.”

Stella waves off my apology. “It’s fine. I wasn’t expecting to meet her before your family, but I knew it would happen eventually. Like I said, better to get it out of the way.”

“You’re stronger than me.” I search her face for any signs of distress or discomfort. I find nothing, though that doesn’t mean she’s not feeling either. “But are you sure you’re okay? You’ve had a lot thrown at you in the past twenty-four hours, with more to come.”

“Thomas.” She catches my gaze, forcing me to hold it. “I’m fine. But if I need a break, I’ll tell you, okay?”

“Okay.” It won’t stop me from checking in on her, but I’ll acquiesce for now. “So do you think we’ll be able to fool Figgy into thinking we’re the real deal?”

“Oh, honey, she’s already on the defensive.” Stella grins and pats my cheek. “That’s a good start, though I don’t think she’s going to let go of you easily.”

I knew that was going to be the case, but I hoped Stella might have a different read on things. My mind whirls, contemplating more ways we can convince Figgy it’s time to let me go. This will all be for nothing if we can’t.

As if she can tell I’m getting lost in my head, Stella grabs my hand and tugs me toward one of the archways. “Now that we’re alone…how about that tour you promised me? I’d love to see how the point-zero-zero-one percent lives.”

After taking Stella on a tour that left her out of breath and swearing to add more cardio to her fitness routine, we’ve retreated to our separate bedrooms to settle in and rest.

She seemed relieved when I told her we wouldn’t have to share a room, and I know no one will make a fuss about us staying apart for two reasons. One, because propriety suggests that we have our own bedrooms until my parents officially approve of our union. And two, because nearly every couple in this family sleeps apart since they can’t stand their spouse.

Unfortunately, Stella and I are down the hall from each other, since Figgy already claimed her usual room next to mine.

“Do you need anything?” I double-checked before we went our separate ways. Mostly, it was to buy more time with her.

“I’m fine ,” she reassured. “And thank you for everything you’ve done so far. I can’t believe you stocked your house with all of my favorites.”

I told her it wasn’t a problem, because it wasn’t. All it took was a couple of phone calls to her people, and then I relayed messages to my own. But what I really wanted to say was Why wouldn’t I do it? It’s merely good hosting etiquette. (Thank you for that lesson, Mum.) And besides, is it so bad that I liked doing it for her? That I like watching the way her face lights up, even if she doesn’t realize it, at every detail she notices? That alone would make me want to give her everything.

In the few hours we’ve been apart, I’ve been busy thinking of more things I can do to keep her happy while she’s in the UK with me. The list so far is typed haphazardly in my phone’s notes app, consisting of things like hire estate agent to find suitable property for a London Stella Margaux’s location and keep house stocked with almond flour . It’s a work in progress.

I’m about to write down another idea when a text from Geneva appears. It’s a quick message to let me know she and the rest of the family will be arriving in time for dinner, followed up by And I mean the whole family. Edith’s bringing her entire brood and Andrew’s trotting out his wife. If she goes into labor here, I am NOT sticking around.

It’s time to warn Stella, then. Poor thing is going to have to face everyone tonight, and I have to pray she’s ready for it. That we both are.

She calls for me to come in when I knock on her shut door, but I stop in my tracks after taking one step inside.

She’s lying on her stomach across the bed in just a towel that barely clears the generous curve of her ass. Her long legs glow and glisten, bent at the knee and crossed at the ankle, feet in the air. Her laptop is open in front of her, a half-typed email on the screen, but I’m certainly not interested in what she’s been writing.

Fuck, this woman is sexier than sin. And I’m somehow expected to keep my hands off her.

“Sorry,” she says sheepishly, drawing my gaze up from her legs to take in her crooked smile. “I know I said I was taking the week off, but I seem to have slipped and fallen into my inbox. I did have a bath in that fantastic tub, though. Couldn’t resist.”

My mouth is almost too dry to form words, but I somehow say, “Just wanted to tell you that my family’s on their way. We’ll be having dinner together.”

At that, her smile takes on a pained quality, laptop forgotten as she sits up. The motion draws my eyes down to the swell of her breasts peeking out above the edge of the towel. It would be so easy for the fabric to come untucked, to slip down, to show me more of her…

“Oh boy,” she exhales, dragging me out of the thoughts I shouldn’t be having. She’s made it abundantly clear where she stands on us having a physical relationship, and even fantasizing feels out of bounds. “You think we’re going to pass their tests?”

As I consider the question, she gets up from bed and pads over to the wardrobe, where she’s unpacked and hung up her outfits.

“I’ve got to hope.” I step forward when she’s about to push past a classic black dress, putting my hand on top of hers. “Wear that one.”

She glances back at me, eyes finding mine for one heated second. There’s no way she can’t tell what I’m thinking or even feel it radiating off me. And I’m sure I feel it in return in the way her gaze flicks over me.

She drops her hand before either of us can make a mistake. “Black dress it is.”

The breathless words betray her outward composure. She’s just as affected as I am. It’s both a comfort and a torture; knowing we both want something to happen is difficult to reconcile with the fact that we shouldn’t let it.

“Now get out so I can get dressed,” she demands, shooing me toward the door.

“Come on, I’m your husband,” I cajole with a grin. “Don’t you want my help doing up the zipper?”

“I’m afraid it will never get zipped if you stay. Now out .”

The door shuts in my face before I can process her words. When I do, I fear she might have been right.

“Do we have to wait for someone to announce our grand entrance or can we just go in?”

Stella’s whispered question as we approach the dining room has me stifling a snicker. I don’t know where she’s getting all these ideas of how things work around here. Maybe she needs to lay off the Jane Austen.

“No announcement necessary.” I offer my elbow to her. “You ready?”

Stella blows out a breath and rolls her shoulders a few times before sliding her hand into the crook of my arm. She’s like an athlete preparing for the biggest competition of her life. In a way, I guess this is all a game, so I won’t begrudge her the preparations.

“Okay, let’s do this.”

Voices rumble from the other side of the broad oak doors as we approach. The clink of glasses and a few laughs tell me Mum must be bartending already. All I can hope is that everyone stays happy drunk instead of let’s lay out all our family drama in front of company drunk. It’s happened a few too many times to count, and Stella doesn’t need to face that this early into our marriage.

Everyone is milling around the vast room when we step in. Edith’s spawn rip and race past the long table and the sideboard where Mum is wielding a cocktail shaker with concerning gusto. Andrew stands off to her side, gloomily sipping an espresso martini as he eyes his heavily pregnant wife sitting at the table, who in turn is watching my mother with longing in her eyes as another drink is poured.

Dad is chatting with Edith’s husband, who nods a little too enthusiastically at everything the man says, a habit of his ever since Dad announced his plans to retire in the next five years—as if his suck-up act will get Dad to name Edith CEO. Edith herself is having an animated conversation on the phone, pacing circles in the corner and throwing a disgruntled hand up every so often. Business, undoubtedly. Even with Dad still technically running A.P. Maxwell International, she’s the one keeping everything afloat.

Calais is the first to notice our entrance, elbowing Geneva in the ribs. They aren’t twins, just barely two years apart, but they look and act more alike than the rest of us. Calais is wearing one of her own designs tonight, likely something from the new collection that I was forced to see as I sat front row at her last show. It’s bright and floral and would look more at home on a beach in Florida than in England in winter. By contrast, Geneva’s lime-green puff-sleeved dress is tame. As a model, she’s worn far worse, but it’s still an eyesore by my standards.

“Thomas!” Calais exclaims, spreading her arms wide as she approaches. Her grin is nothing short of devilish. “And Stella Margaux! Welcome, welcome!”

I notice the last person in the room when her head whips toward us, having previously been half-hidden behind Mum. Figgy’s eyes go from wide to narrowed to perfectly angelic in the time it takes me to blink, her face lighting up when she notices me looking. I swallow back a groan, praying I haven’t just given her the wrong idea.

As Calais comes over to pat my cheek a little too hard and then exchange double air kisses with Stella, gushing over her outfit choice, Mum swans over with two espresso martinis in hand.

“My newest daughter-in-law!” she greets, and I swear there are tears in her eyes. Based on how she’s beaming, they’re happy tears. “Oh, darling, it’s so wonderful to finally meet you. Thomas has kept us at such an arm’s length, but I’ve been dying to get you here.”

Mum then shoves one martini at me and another at Stella, motioning for us to drink up. I take a sip, wincing at the burn of straight vodka with a splash of coffee liqueur. Before Stella can even take a swig of hers, she’s being herded away from me by Mum, Calais, and Geneva. I make to follow, but Figgy slides into my path.

“Is Stella enjoying herself?” she asks. “She seemed a little intimidated when she first walked in.”

It’s such a lie that I almost let loose a guffaw. She must be saying this to make herself feel better, because Stella couldn’t have held her head any higher.

“She’s loving it,” I answer, sparing a glance in Stella’s direction to make sure she’s all right. From what I can see, she’s already charming my mother, smile wide and eyes sparkling. “I’m going to take her on a tour of the area tomorrow, show her all the Cotswolds has to offer.”

Figgy, to her credit, doesn’t let her easy demeanor fade. “Just don’t take her to all our secret places,” she teases. “Not that I think she’d want to hang out with Mr. Duggan’s sheep. She seems a little high-maintenance for that.”

Again, I don’t miss the dig. Just because Figgy doesn’t mind traipsing through sheep shit and climbing trees to watch the sunset like we used to do as teenagers, doesn’t mean she’s better than Stella—it just means they’re different people.

Figgy’s always been a little pushy, but these underhanded comments are new. Is this her last-ditch effort to see if I would ever choose her? Because if it is, it’s failing—miserably.

I don’t want to be unkind, despite how low she’s stooping. “I promise those will stay just for us.”

Her mask finally slips, betraying her underlying anxiety. “Really?” she presses. “Because with how you’ve been avoiding me, I have to wonder if we’re even still friends.”

I soften a little. “Of course we are, Fig.” We’ve known each other a long, long time, and I’m not trying to completely throw away the friendship we’ve built, even if she seems desperate to do so for a chance at a romantic relationship. “But that’s all we’re ever going to be, okay? I need you to understand that.”

“Thomas,” she pleads, clutching at my arm. “Come on. Everyone knows this marriage of yours isn’t real. She’s just some woman you married while drunk in Las Vegas, and now you’re trying to figure out a way to cover that up.” Her grip tightens, nails digging into my skin. “You don’t have to lie to me.”

My heart pounds so hard that I swear everyone in the room can hear it. No one else has called me out this bluntly so far, though I know plenty of people have been thinking it. It makes sense Figgy would have her doubts, but she’s not buying this at all.

The hope written across her face has me sick to my stomach. She truly thinks she still has a shot—that all she’d have to do is get Stella out of the picture and we could ride off together. I don’t know how else to get it through her head that it’s never going to happen.

“Even if I were lying to you,” I grit out, pulling my arm from her grasp, “it wouldn’t change the fact that I’m married and I respect the vows I made to the woman you seem so intent on insulting. That’s my wife , Figgy, whether you like it or not.”

Her lips part in surprise, hand falling back to her side, and for one awful moment I think she might cry. But then she narrows her eyes and says, “I’m going to tell your parents this is a sham marriage. That you’re trying to fool everyone and failing miserably at it. What would they think of that?”

The last question is a taunt. What would they think? My eyes dart to Stella and my mother laughing together. To Calais and Geneva giving each other the look that I know means Oh, we like her . Even Evil Edith is watching Stella curiously from the corner of her eye. My family has already opened their arms to her, even if they have their own misgivings about how the marriage came to be.

Besides, in a world like ours, reputation means more than the truth. Stella and I can’t back out now that we’ve declared to the world that we’re together. And I know my family will stand behind the lies for as long as they benefit the Maxwell-Brown name, whether they like my wife or not.

“Do whatever the fuck you want,” I snap, then, a little too loudly I say, “Would you mind moving your stuff out of the room next to mine?” The question draws eyes to us, but I don’t care. I’m burning from the inside out, furious thanks to her petty threats. “I’d prefer to have Stella closer to me.”

Before she can reply, Andrew calls out, “Wait, you and your wife aren’t in the same room?” When I look over, he squints at me. “Why not?”

I’m already heated, but my face somehow grows hotter at being questioned. “We have enough bedrooms in this bloody house that everyone could have two of their own,” I huff. “Is it so wrong to have our own space?”

He scoffs, and even my younger sisters snicker, but they all know if Mum or Dad had decided automatically that they disliked Stella, we’d be on opposite sides of the house.

“You’re newlyweds, Thomas,” he drawls, swirling the dregs of his espresso martini. “You’ll be sneaking into each other’s rooms to fuck anyway.”

“Andrew!” Mum scolds, turning to slap his arm before giving me an exasperated but apologetic glance. She then turns to Stella. “I’m so sorry for my eldest son’s behavior, but we’ll have your things moved into Thomas’s room. No need to sleep separately.” She snaps her fingers at the staff member lingering by the doors, and the woman nods before rushing off.

As Mum turns back to her bartending setup, Stella and I lock eyes across the room, the same thing written on her face that I’m sure is written across mine.

Oh shit.

Looks like I’ll be sleeping with my wife tonight.