Page 42 of Stick to the Deal (Friendship Springs Romance #3)

WWFDD?

I ’m fucking exhausted. I’ve had board meetings during the week, luncheons on the weekends, and an endless round of dinner parties and museum events.

It’s all so meaningless. How many events do these people need?

The gala was so successful and so many donors mentioned their interaction with me and Nic specifically, that my parents have thrown me to the wolves full time. The irony is not lost on me.

Even the new opening of the Royal Ballet couldn’t cheer me, it only made me miss Nic more.

She has been distant since she left. Barely replying to my texts, sending my calls to voicemail.

It’s clear she’s hurting because of the rumors, but I don’t know what to do.

We’ll hash it out this weekend when she flies in.

Until then, I have no excuse to avoid dinner at Silverbrook Hall. Resigned, I trudge up the stone steps and automatically head to my sanctuary in the house—the library. Halfway across the foyer, voices drifting from the parlor draw me up short.

If the earl and countess are entertaining, this is the last place I want to be.

Silently, I turn to retreat, but my escape is foiled by the booming voice of my father. “Reginald, boy, come join us.” A heavy sigh escapes, drawing a raised eyebrow from the earl.

Squaring my shoulders, I follow him through the open doorway.

Any semblance of a polite smile falls as all three Wentworths come into view.

Lord Wentworth barely spares me a look from his perch in an antique wingback chair, his full attention on my father’s excellent scotch.

Lady Wentworth sits delicately on the settee with my mother, eyeing me with cold indifference.

On my mother’s other side, Serena preens as she leans forward to better display her figure.

As if today couldn’t get worse.

“Reginald, you’re late.”

Pushing down another sigh, I cross the room to greet my mother.

“Yes, Mother, hospital committee meeting ran over.” I nod to my mother’s longtime friends.

“Lord Wentworth. Lady Wentworth. Serena.” Then I hightail it to the decanter in the corner.

I don’t want to get sloshed in case Nic calls, but some liquid bolstering is definitely called for in this situation.

“We’ve barely seen you in months, son. What have you been up to?” Lord Wentworth asks.

“I’ve been in New York, launching a magazine with a schoolmate.” That wasn’t what I meant to say. I keep saying the wrong thing, my mind too wrapped up in my wife.

“Why you continue on with that ridiculous hobby, I’ll never know,” Mother mutters into her wineglass. “Really, Reginald, it’s so beneath a man of your station.”

“Where is your wife?” My father looks back through the doors like he’s looking for her to appear or only now realized she’s not here. “Did you come alone?”

“Trouble in paradise already?” Serena’s tone is demure, but bitterness shines in her perfectly made-up eyes.

“Nic is finishing up a project back in the States. She’ll join me later this week.”

Mother huffs on the couch. “You don’t need to pretend, Reginald.”

“What are you talking about, Penny?” Lady Wentworth asks.

“It’s not like they have a proper marriage.” Her hand flutters in my direction.

“Mother.” I take a deep breath and continue through clenched teeth, trying for a less hostile tone. “I assure you, it is an actual marriage.” I squeeze the crystal in my hand until my knuckles shine white, half convinced it will shatter.

“On paper, maybe.” Shaking her head, she turns back to Lady Wentworth. “They have an understanding. She needed to marry to access her trust fund. They attend events publicly, but she gives Reginald full leave to do whatever he wants. I mean, really, they don’t even live together.”

A thump builds at my temple, and I half pray the sound of my heartbeat will drown out my mother as my vision tinges red .

“That’s enough,” I yell, drawing all heads towards me.

My chest rises and falls as I wait for the anger to subside.

It only grows and I realize I can’t spend another minute in this room.

“If you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ve had enough for one day.

” Without waiting for a reply, I spin on a heel and march to the entryway.

“Reggie-bear.” Her heels click against the marble as she runs after me.

I stop, but only half-turn back. “What do you want, Serena?”

Her bright smile dims momentarily, then she pushes on. She walks up to me with a sway to her hips that I’m sure she thinks is seductive, and lays a pink tipped hand on my chest. “If you’re stressed, I could help relieve the tension.”

“What are you doing?” My lip curls in disgust.

“I understand now. I know you had to marry her for the money, but maybe there’s still a path for us.” She licks her lips and looks up at me with doe eyes.

My fingers encircle her delicate wrist. Hope, desire, and victory light in her eyes.

“A path?” I shove her hand off me as if burned. “What the fuck do you think is going to happen here, Serena?”

She steps back, mouth agape as she rubs her wrist. “That we could continue on as before. That you would divorce her after an appropriate amount of time and…” Her words come to a stuttering halt as I tower over her at my full height.

“And what? Marry you?”

The shock in her glare gives way to building anger. “We were good together, once.”

“No, Serena.” She shrinks back slightly, a twinge of guilt pangs in my chest at scaring her, but this shit has gone on for far too long and I need to make myself heard.

“We were never good together. I never loved you. It was just easier to go along with what everyone else wanted than figure out what I wanted for myself.”

My cell vibrates. I immediately dismiss Serena as my entire focus is pulled to the text from my wife.

Nic

I’m sick. Not going to make it this weekend.

Me

Are you ok? I’ll fly to you.

Nic

No. You have that big dinner next week. Can’t have you catching it.

Me

I don’t care about that. Let me help

I start to type ‘I love you’, but my fingers freeze over the keyboard.

The foyer spins as the realization hits me.

I love her. This foreign warmth I feel when I think about her.

The sense of home, of belonging I’ve never felt before.

The overwhelming loss when she’s not near.

I’m in love with my wife, and I’m starting to think I always have been.

“Is she what you want?”

I’d completely forgotten Serena. She still stands before me, her cheeks mottled with rage as she glowers at me. “Some artsy whore who’ll never be a proper countess?”

Drawing up to my full height, I glare at Serena with all the contempt and bitterness I’ve buried for years. “Nic is twice the woman you’ll ever be, but even if she wasn’t in the picture, you’ll never be my countess.”

She gulps. “You’ll regret this.”

I highly doubt that.

My phone is already to my ear as I storm down the front steps and back into the town car—much to the shock of Foster in the front. The line rings once before going to voicemail.

“Fuck,” I yell as I toss my phone onto the seat.

“Everything alright, sir?” Foster’s concerned voice echoes in the confined space.

“Not really.” My fingers scrape down my face as I lean my head back. “Can you take me home, please?”

“Not staying for dinner, I take it. Where is the missus tonight?” His eyes dart to me as he pulls out into traffic.

“That’s the million-pound question.” I sound petulant to my own ears.

“If I might be so bold?”

“You know you can always speak freely with me, Foster.” Yet he still asks every time after thirty years .

“Anyone who sees you with both Miss Wentworth and Lady Ravenscourt can see the truth of it. You know how these gossip rags go.”

“I’m not the one needing convincing.”

A soft chuckle. “Lady Ravenscourt knows, too. But knowing something and feeling it aren’t quite the same thing. She just needs some reminding.”

“How?”

“Make a big gesture. That always worked with my Julia. Some of those books you are always reading should give you some ideas. What would Mister Darcy do?”

What would Fitzwilliam Darcy do? Besides throwing money at her problems, that is. First, Nic is so independent she fixes her own problems before I can help, and second, it’s her money anyway, so that doesn’t work. There’s got to be something else.

My mobile buzzes from the floor. I scramble to pick it up, hoping it’s her.

Henri Beaufort

I’m glad you convinced her to call me. Merci beaucoup.

As I’m puzzling out that message, a second arrives. The image shows an invitation to an art show at Henri’s gallery next month. I’m about to close it when the artist’s name stands out.

Nic Kato-Atherton.

She’s actually going to do it. A complex mix of emotions flood my senses. Pride in her for putting herself out there. Disappointment that she didn’t tell me herself. Jealousy that she can share this with Henri and not me. Inspiration for my grand gesture.

I smile down at the phone as an idea forms.

“Did you think of something, sir?” Foster’s voice sounds as hopeful as I feel.

“I believe I did. Might need some help, though.”

Like so many times in my youth, Foster listens as I talk through my thought process. A thoughtful question here, a gentle nudge there, and by the time we pull up in front of my flat, I have the makings of a plan.