Page 6 of Valentine Nook (The Valentine Nook Chronicles #1)

Lando

A snail is crawling across my desk.

“Max!” I yell loud enough that I know he’ll hear me.

A silvery trail crosses the document I need to read, along with tiny nibble marks around the edges.

And while many documents are probably only fit for eating, this one I do actually have to sign and send back to my solicitors.

Picking up the snail, I open the window and carefully place him on the ivy outside.

“There. Now go and find something else to eat.” I turn back to my study and yell again. “Max?”

“Yeah?” he replies from the doorway, leaning against the frame just like his father does, wearing the same expression of pure insolence. Except I rarely see his father dressed as Spider-Man.

“Not yeah, yes. And what have I told you about snails in the house?”

Spider-Man shrugs. “Sometimes they come in without me. I’ve told them they’re not allowed, but that must have been a particularly naughty one. ”

“Hmm.” I narrow my eyes, but he holds my stare without blinking. I swear this child will grow up to be either a barrister or a dictator. A leader of something at the very least, which suits me fine. “Well, perhaps you need to have another word with them.”

“I will.”

“Where’s Birgitta?” I ask, just as I remember Wednesday is her day off, though Max’s nanny is rarely around when she should be. “Never mind, where’s your father?”

“Churchill got out of the field again.”

I tut loudly. That bloody goat is a better escapologist than Houdini.

“Where’s Granny?”

“Don’t know.”

“What about Auntie Clemmie?”

“Did I hear my name?” asks Clementine, appearing at the door as stealthily as Max had and peers down at him. “Ooh, I didn’t know superheroes were coming for breakfast. How exciting. What’s going on?”

“Uncle Lando’s still in a bad mood,” Max replies, his eyes rolling just like Hendricks, or rather, Miles.

Given Hendricks and Miles are identical twins, Max has annoyingly inherited all of Miles’s equally annoying habits, including his ability to shit-stir.

“I’m not still in a bad mood. I’m not in a bad mood,” I say, holding back the irritation I know will make an appearance if I let it. “I’m fine.”

Max and Clementine stare at me until they’re joined by Dolly, one of the Labradors, who also stares at me.

“What? I’m not in a bad mood,” I repeat. “I just don’t want snails in the house, and no one seems to be concerned that Max is going to be late to school.”

One look at Max and it’s clear I’m the only one concerned about his tardiness .

“I’m taking Max to school,” Clementine answers in a level of calm that directly correlates to my mood and only serves to irritate me further. She turns to Max. “Come on, Spider-Man, go and get changed. We need to leave in five minutes. We can have a second breakfast in the car.”

Max groans but decides against protesting and trots off, followed by Dolly.

I slump down in my chair with a sigh only to find Clementine still staring at me. I don’t bother to ask her why she’s staring at me because I know. Just like I know I can’t escape the conversation about to happen because it’s been a daily occurrence for the past week.

“Come on, Lanny, you can’t seriously keep this bad mood up. Go and meet her. You’ll like her.”

“I don’t need to like her. She’s my tenant. It’s a business transaction and nothing more. As long as she pays the rent every month, I never have to see her.”

“She doesn’t know anyone.”

“Then she shouldn’t have moved here, should she?”

“Lando—”

“Clementine, I’m not having this discussion again.

Bluebell Cottage belongs to me, just like this house belongs to me.

I did not give you permission to rent it out, but you and Mum did it anyway.

And if you think I’m going to endure the pair of you ganging up on me for the next six months, then you can both move out tomorrow. Bluebell still has two spare rooms.”

Okay, maybe I am in a bad mood.

The cause of it is standing opposite my desk, blue eyes squinting, arms crossed over her chest while she taps her foot on the floor. She’s one of the causes, anyway. The other is my mother because I seem to be related to the two most infuriating women in England.

Once more, I curse the day I ever met Caroline Montague. Along with the day I was stupid enough to ask her to marry me.

It didn’t take me long after we broke up to realize how badly suited we were. Or that my entire family despised her.

I was too blinded by a woman who perfectly fit the role of the future Duchess of Oxfordshire. I ignored every one of the tiny niggles that constantly followed me and all the giant red flags waving in my face.

I’m still boiling with rage that it got to the night before our wedding for me to see what should have been obvious. My best friend— ex- best friend—and my fiancée— ex- fiancée—were having an affair.

I’d spent the evening with my groomsmen, including Jeremy and my three brothers, Alex, Hendricks, and Miles. We’d played poker, had a delicious dinner, and overall, it had been a relatively sedate and early night.

For reasons I can’t explain, when Miles left to go home, I decided to walk back across the fields with him. He lives next to Bluebell Cottage, where Caroline was sleeping the night before our wedding while I was staying at Burlington.

I hadn’t planned to go in and see her because, after all, it’s bad luck. But as I passed, the gate had been open and so was the front door. Being naturally curious and wanting to make sure the cottage was shut for the night, I walked up the path.

I was only halfway down when I heard them.

Groaning, deep moans, and breathless panting.

They’d been so desperate to get to each other they hadn’t even had time to close the door behind them.

At first, I wasn’t sure exactly what I was seeing, except as the light adjusted, all I could make out was my fiancée’s legs wrapped around someone who wasn’t me.

When Jeremy and I were eighteen, we went to Thailand on a boys’ trip with a group of our friends. It was to be the final vestiges of freedom for me before I officially took over the dukedom I inherited when my father died.

I doubt there was a sober moment for any of us, and one afternoon, Jeremy lost a bet. His forfeit was a tattoo on his arse. He chose the Superman logo.

Now, everyone knows the rules of tattooing is you have to wait before getting your skin wet. But Jeremy was eighteen, drunk, and the temperature was a scorching forty degrees Celsius. The minute he arrived back at our villa, he forgot about the still drying ink and jumped straight into the pool.

From that day forward, he was the not-so-proud owner of a permanent red and yellow smudge on his left arse cheek.

As I stood there in the doorway of my cottage, that smudge burned into my retina.

Before I knew what I was doing, I punched Jeremy square in the face before calmly walking away without another word.

Our wedding had been hours away. The entire country was primed to watch the spectacle that had been tabloid gossip for months—how much the flowers had cost, where the honeymoon was, who would be attending—and canceling everything didn’t seem like an option. Instead, I got blind drunk.

If Alex hadn’t found me and taken charge of the situation while my mother and James dealt with the fallout, I would now be in a very unhappy marriage.

I have no intention of making that mistake again.

“I saw Agatha yesterday, you know . . .”

My molars grind as my jaw clenches. I open my desk drawer and rummage around for no other reason than to show Clementine I’m ignoring her.

“I was with Holiday . . .”

I stop what I’m doing and take a deep breath. Holiday. What a stupid name.

Really, I should feel sorry for the woman who’s become an unwitting pawn in my mother’s attempt to get me into a relationship, but all it’s done is solidify an idea I’ve been toying with for a while.

Renting out my cottage was the final straw.

I’ve asked my mother a thousand times to stop setting me up on dates, yet each request has fallen on deaf ears. The time for politeness is over.

Hence, the paperwork. Pulling out a tissue from the box on my desk, I wipe as much of the snail goop up as I can, but it’s already dried. No matter, everything will still be legal.

Picking up my fountain pen, which had once belonged to my father, I’m ready to scrawl my name along the dotted line at the bottom of the page, except I remember I need a witness.

I’m not going to waste my breath by asking my sister.

She wouldn’t do it anyway.

Clementine hasn’t moved when I glance up.

“We’re not ganging up on you, Lando. We just want you to be happy.”

“I’ll be happy if you stop trying to push me into a new relationship.”

“We’re not?—”

“Clem—”

“ I’m not, at least. Holiday Simpson moving into Bluebell has nothing to do with you. Mum didn’t want it sitting empty with bad memories for you, and as you weren’t going to do anything about it, she did. Holiday was the perfect candidate.”

My eye roll is thick and heavy, just like my scoff. The manure in the cow pasture smells less like bullshit.

“Fine. As long as we’re all clear I am not interested in anyone. Including the American you’re such a huge fan of.”

“We’re clear,” she snaps. “Can I go now?”

“I was never stopping you.”

Her hair flicks behind her as she turns and marches away without another word. I hear her yelling for Max to hurry up and slump back in my chair. It’s not even nine o’clock, and I’ve already had a day of it.

Sometimes I wonder how my father managed.

I pick up the phone and hit the button that takes me straight through to James Winters’s desk—the only person I do want to speak to this morning.

After my father died when I was fourteen and I inherited the dukedom, James and my father’s other advisers took me under their wings and taught me everything I needed to know about running a multibillion-pound company. That was twenty years ago, and I could never have done it without him.