We’re on a road that looks like it was meant for horses and carriages and certainly not modern-day SUVs. There are sheep to my left and fields of some sort of grain to my right. And I, a city girl, am out of my element—especially when we turn down another narrow lane and trundle toward an honest-to-God manor.
Thomas turns into the circular drive, winds around a decorative fountain, and comes to a stop in front of the beautiful stone home. It’s not Downton Abbey levels of large, but it’s certainly bigger than any house I’ve ever owned, covered in twisting vines of dormant wisteria and dark green ivy. I almost expect two lines of staff to come bursting out the tall wooden doors, but it looks like we’re on our own when it comes to escorting ourselves in.
Even from the outside, there’s an antique opulence to the building. And when I follow Thomas into the front hall, taking in the tapestries on the walls and the hand-carved furniture, I can’t do much more than stare open-mouthed at it all.
I am a rich woman—there’s no other way around it. But this? This iswealth. Old, terrifying wealth.
“All right?” Thomas asks me, and I press my lips closed again, though I’m sure he’s already seen me slack-jawed.
“Yep,” I eke out. “Great. So great.”
He snickers and takes my weekender bag from my hand, giving me the opportunity to turn and take in the high ceilings and exposed wood beams. “It’s a lot, I know. Promise, this is the least-modern room in the house, though. And before you ask,yes, we have running water. There’s even a pool in the back garden. It’s heated if you want to take a dip while we’re here.”
I didn’t think to pack a swimsuit, but now I’m not convinced that Thomas was joking about breeches and evening gowns.
As I admire it all, he strides over to one of the arched doorways and calls out to see if anyone’s home. After a few seconds of waiting and no response, he sighs and sets our bags down.
“Looks like no one’s here yet.” He glances at the expensive watch on his wrist before looking back over at me, brows raised. “You want a tour in the meantime?”
I sure do, because when else am I going to wander a sixteenth-century English manor? “Absolutely. But first, can you guide me to one of those bathrooms with running water that you claim to have?”
Thomas laughs and points to the archway straight ahead. “Go down that hall and turn right. It will be the first door on your left.”
I thank him and hurry off, bladder full from all thebeverages he served me at breakfast. Thankfully, his directions are easy to follow, and I emerge relieved a few minutes later, eager to start our tour before anyone else shows up. Our conversation flowed in the car, even if most of it was spent with him telling me about his friends and the history of this place, and I wouldn’t mind picking it back up.
“I hope you’re ready to give the tour of your life,” I say as I turn the corner back into the front hall.
And then I walk straight into Figgy.
Chapter 18
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 turnedunwanted 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 isnothow 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 glanceat 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.”
