Page 2 of Valentine Nook (The Valentine Nook Chronicles #1)

“Mother?” My holler echoes off the hard surfaces of the entrance hall and the wide pillars on either side of the vestibule. “Mum, where are you?”

I wait, but there’s no answer. The only sound I hear is the barking of dogs getting louder, their nails clattering on the stone floor as they rush down the hallway to greet me.

My mum may be choosing to ignore me. Her pet peeve with us as kids was when we stood and yelled for someone instead of going to find them.

We argued that it was far quicker than spending half an hour searching, while they could move from room to room.

But today, I have no intention of waiting, and one way or another, I’m getting answers.

I’m only slowed down on my mission when three of the Labradors—Hamish, Maud, and Dolly—catch up with me because they all demand I say hello to them before they follow me through the house and back outside.

“Mother!” I try again, marching over the newly mowed grass toward my first stop, the pool, which the dogs immediately launch themselves into.

Giant floats—a unicorn, a fire engine, and a dragon—bob in the center. Max, my four-year-old nephew, has clearly been here, but I only find my sister, Clementine, lying on a navy-and-white-striped sun lounger with her nose deep in a book.

Eleven years younger than me, she’s just taken her finals at St. Andrew’s, and since she arrived back home a couple of weeks ago, she’s been permanently installed by the pool.

“Where’s Mum?”

Clementine tilts her head toward me and slowly pulls her sunglasses down her nose until she’s peering at me through her Burlington-blue eyes, the ones we all inherited from our late father .

“Oh, hey, Lanny, when did you get here?”

“Thirty seconds ago. D’you know where Mum is?”

She shrugs, ignoring my snapping and lacking interest in whatever has me agitated, and returns to her book.

“Dunno, she might be in the kitchen, or I think she talked about going over to the vegetable gardens. Or it might be the rose garden. Can’t remember.”

I grunt to myself. Typical. Turning to leave, I then spin back around with narrowed eyes.

Clementine normally has her ear to the ground with anything happening around here, especially when it concerns things that shouldn’t be happening. If anyone knows what’s going on in the village, she will.

“You don’t know what’s happening at Bluebell Cottage, do you? There are moving vans blocking the lane.”

Clementine abruptly sits up and shifts onto her knees, which I should take as my first warning. This time, she whips off her sunglasses, and her expression—only moments ago somewhat blasé and disinterested—is wide with excitement.

Too much excitement for my liking. Especially when she gasps and claps her hands.

“Holy shit. Today ? You saw them today ? She’s here already. Oh my god!”

“What?” My brows draw together in confusion. “I asked you about moving vans.”

“Yes!” Her screech almost bursts my eardrums. “You really saw them? They were definitely outside Bluebell?”

“Saw what? Clementine, why are there moving vans outside the cottage?”

“Mum’s put a new tenant in. You’ll never guess who it is?—”

“What!”

“The new tenant, guess who she is? Guess , Lanny!” She balls her hands, pumping them in the air. “Oh my god, let’s go down and meet her now. We can take her a housewarming gift. ”

My fists clench, my blood boils, and my molars are on the verge of breaking from how hard I’m clenching them. This time, my mother has gone too far, and from the look on Clementine’s face, she seems to have roped my sister in too.

“She? She? ” I snap. “Un-fucking-believable.”

“Wait for me!” cries Clementine, totally misreading the way I storm off. “I just need to change. Go grab a bottle of champagne from the fridge.”

I most certainly am not getting champagne.

I march back over the lawns and into the house the way I came.

Storming down the corridor, I briefly peer into each room I pass—my study, the library, Max’s playroom—but my mother is nowhere in sight.

I’m about to take the stairs two at a time when I sense movement next to me.

I know instinctively it’s James Winters, our family director of operations. The man is stealthier than a ninja.

In hindsight, he should have been my first stop, considering that anything my mother is involved with also involves him.

“Your Grace, if I may?—”

My fist tightens around the banister. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, James, there’s no one else around. You practically raised me. Drop the officiality, will you?”

He tuts loudly. He knows exactly why I’m boiling with rage, and it dawns on me that my mother’s absence is purposeful.

James is waiting for me as the voice of reason because after our father died, that was the role he took.

The five of us children were nothing compared to the thousands of troops he commanded as a former army brigadier.

“I was going to say you can’t do anything about it.”

“Like hell, I can’t.” I sprint up the stairs, only for James to follow.

“Lando, I know you’re pissed off, but you can’t kick her out. The lease has been signed, and she’s here until the end of the year. ”

She. Her. It’s the only part of James’s sentence that has my jaw clenching.

“I didn’t okay it. This is my land. It’s my cottage. I am the duke. I am in charge. Not my mother.”

James sighs but says nothing more. I know he agrees with me, but I also know he’ll do anything my mother asks of him.

“I know exactly what’s going on here,” I retort. “And don’t pretend you don’t either. I thought at the very least you’d have my back in this dating agency she seems to be running.”

“Of course, I have your back, Lando. But you haven’t exactly been you the past six months. Ever since . . .”

“Ever since I walked in on Caroline fucking Jeremy?” I snap.

“Yes.”

“And how exactly do you want me to be?”

“Well . . .” He waves at my face—more precisely, the beard, which has grown thick and fast.

“Yes?”

“You look like a yeti, for one. When was the last time you shaved?”

I scratch through the thick bush. I haven’t been clean-shaven since what was supposed to be my wedding day, and beyond a couple of necessary trims, I haven’t touched it. What’s more, I like it.

“Six months ago. Caroline hated me with a beard, so I’m bloody well keeping it like this.”

James remains silent, only raising an eyebrow.

“What’s the second?”

“Your short temper,” he replies without hesitation. “It’s not like you, Lando. I know what happened was shit?—”

“That’s not the problem.” I carry on up the stairs because I do not want to get into another conversation about Caroline.

When there’s no response to my statement, I turn around and find James still where he was.

“What? ”

“Then what?”

I sit down with a heavy sigh of defeat, twisting the gold signet ring on my pinkie.

“I have a business to run here, a huge multibillion-pound business. We do good, important work. But all anyone seems to care about—and by anyone, I mean Mum—is finding me a wife. I don’t know who’s worse, her or that dreadful love guru. ”

James chuckles and joins me on the step. A wet Hamish waddles up the stairs and drops down on the one below us, dripping everywhere.

“So . . . are you going to tell me who I’ve rented Bluebell Cottage to, or do I have to guess? And why’s Clementine acting like it’s Christmas morning?”

James reaches out and strokes Hamish’s ears. “I don’t know much about her. Her representatives managed it.”

“Representatives? What does that mean?”

“It was her agent, I believe.” He’s waving his hands about while he tries to find the correct wording. “Perhaps a manager? I’m not sure which is which. Gerard, from the estate team, brought her credentials over, and the duchess approved it.”

“An agent? What sort of agent?”

“I’d need to check her name, but she’s an actress. Quite well-known, I believe.”

“An actress ?”

“Yes. American.”

“An American ? Has my mother run out of women in England?” I scoff, although the entire scenario sounds more ridiculous by the second. Hamish groans loudly in agreement.

James shrugs. “Possibly. She’s from Hollywood, according to your sister. Won an Oscar this year.”

I turn to him, and his face remains as impassive as always. But usually his left eye twitches ever so slightly when he’s joking, only not this time.

It has to be, though .

“Are you joking? Is this a joke?”

“No. It’s not a joke.”

“You’re telling me my mother has moved an actress into Bluebell Cottage. She’s trying to set me up with an actress?”

“I’m not sure that’s?—”

“That’s exactly what’s happening here. Stop being so diplomatic. She can’t hear you.” I laugh, and suddenly, like the sun breaking through dark rain clouds, my mood lifts, and a smile beams from my face.

My mother has truly outdone herself this time.

“An American Hollywood actress ?” The laugh rumbles up my throat from deep in my belly, followed by another, until I’m laughing so hard I roll back on the stairs. “An actress? Dear god. Really, James, you should have led with that. More fool my mother, I say.”

“Lando . . .”

“There’s no way I’d ever date an actress. Come on, let’s saddle up the horses and ride over to the pub.”