by J. R. Ward
"That's right. I'm looking forward to it."
After the reverend took his leave, there was more conversation between her and Samuel T. and Maxwell--during which she tried not to be obvious as she searched the empty rooms. Where was everyone? The visitation ran until seven. The house should be filled to overflowing.
Looking around the archway into the parlor, she nearly gasped. "Is that Mrs. Bradford? Sitting by Lane?"
"Or what's left of her," Max said tightly.
Sutton excused herself and entered the beautifully appointed room--and as soon as Edward's mother saw her, the woman smiled and reached out. "Sutton. Darling one."
So frail, yet still so regal and elegant, Sutton thought as she bent down and kissed a powdered cheek.
"Come, sit and chat with me," Edward's mother insisted.
Sutton smiled at Lane as she lowered herself onto the silk cushions. "You're looking well, Mrs. Bradford."
"Thank you, darling. Tell me, are you married yet?"
From out of nowhere, a strange sort of heat went through her--and Sutton glanced across the way. Edward had come into the periphery of the parlor from the study, his eyes locking on her as he leaned against the doorway for support.
Sutton cleared her throat and tried to remember what she had been asked. "No, ma'am. I'm not married."
"Oh, how can that be? A nice young lady such as yourself. You should be having children soon before it's too late."
Actually, I'm a little busy running a multi-billion-dollar corporation at the moment. But thank you kindly for the advice.
"And how are you, Mrs. Bradford?"
"Oh, I am very well, thank you. Edward is taking good care of me, aren't you?"
As Mrs. Bradford indicated Lane with her heavily diamond'ed hand, the man nodded and smiled as if he had been going with the misnomer for a while. Covering her surprise, Sutton glanced across the room to that archway again.
The real Edward wasn't looking very Edward at all, at least not by the standard that Mrs. Bradford clearly recalled of her oldest son.
For some reason, the discrepancy made Sutton tear up.
"I'm sure he's doing a fine job of seeing to you," she said hoarsely. "Edward always knows how to handle everything."
*
Ladies were supposed to wear panty hose beneath their skirts.
As Gin sat on the edge of the pool in the back garden, she moved her bare feet in lazy circles through the warm water--and was glad she never wore hose. Or slips. Or gloves.
Although the latter two were passe now. Well, arguably the L'eggs stuff was, too, what with Spanx having come along--although women like her mother certainly wouldn't ever go out without nylons.
She wasn't her mother, however. Names notwithstanding.
And yes, it was hot here on the tiled edge, no wind reaching this part of the garden thanks to the high brick wall that encircled the geometric layout of flower beds and pathways. Birds chirped from the blooming fruit trees, and up above, on the currents of what appeared to be a gathering storm, a hawk sailed around, no doubt looking for a spot of dinner.
Amelia was at Chesterfield Markum's house . . . or so Mr. Harris had informed Gin prior to the visitation. And that was fine enough. There was no one here to see, really, and Field and Amelia had been friends since they had been in diapers. Nothing romantic or sexual there.
A professor. God, Gin found the expulsion debacle at once wholly believable and totally inconceivable. Then again, she didn't really know her daughter very well at all--which was probably the why of the liaison, wasn't it. Or maybe she gave herself and her absenteeism too much credit: her own parents might not have been big players in her life day to day, but she'd had Miss Aurora.
And yet look at how well she had turned out.
Feeling faint, Gin removed her cropped jacket, but left her Hermes scarf in place. She was of half a mind to jump in the pool with her clothes on--and in an earlier incarnation of her rebellious self, she would have. Now, she simply didn't have the energy. Besides . . . no audience--
"So is the wedding off or just the reception?"
Gin closed her eyes briefly at the sound of that too familiar voice. "Samuel T. I thought you weren't coming."
As his footsteps approached from behind her, she refused to look at him or welcome him.
"How could I not pay respects to your family," he drawled. "Oh, were you speaking of your nuptials?"
There was a shhhhcht sound and then she caught the fragrant scent of tobacco.
"Still with the Cubans," she muttered as she focused on her feet moving around in the aquamarine water.
"So which is it? The e-mail you sent a mere half hour ago was not specific. It also had two spelling mistakes in it. Do you need me to show you where spell-check is in Outlook?"
"I'm marrying him. But there won't be a reception." She waved a hand over her shoulder, indicating the house. "As you see, people have a rather dim view of us at the moment. What's the saying? Oh, how the mighty have fallen?"
"Ah. Well, I'm sure you'll find a way to repurpose the funds. Perhaps into some clothes? A little bauble to match your ring--oh, no, that's Richard's job, isn't it, and he's certainly starting off on the right foot. How much does that sparkler weigh? A pound? Three?"
"Do fuck off, Samuel."
When he didn't say anything, she twisted around. He hadn't left, though. Quite the contrary, he was standing over her, his brows down under his aviators, a straw boater in one of his hands, that cigar in the other.
"What?" she snapped as all he did was continue to stare at her.
He indicated her with the cigar. "What's that on your arm?"
Turning back to the water, she shook her head. "It's nothing."
"That's a bruise."
"No, it isn't."
"Yes, it is."
Next thing she knew, he crouched down beside her and took her wrist in his grip.
"Let go of me!"
"That's a bruise. What the hell, Gin?"
She yanked herself free and put her jacket back on. "I had a little too much to drink. I bumped into something."
"Did you. Then why does it look like a man's handprint?"
"You're seeing things. It was a doorway."
"Bullshit." He pulled her around to him and then looked lower than her face. "What's under the scarf, Gin."
"Excuse me?"
"Take off the scarf, Gin. Or I'll do it for you."
"You're finished removing my clothes, Samuel T." She got to her feet. "And you can leave now. Or I will. Either way, this conversation is--"
"You never wore scarves when I was with you." He got right up in her face. "What's going on, Gin?"
"Nothing--"
"I'll kill him if he lays a hand on you. I'll fucking kill that bastard."
Abruptly, Samuel T.'s face became a mask of rage, and in that moment, she saw him for the hunter he was: He might have been in one of his patented seersucker suits, and yes, he was handsome as F. Scott Fitzgerald . . . but there was no doubt in her mind that he was capable of putting Richard Pford, or any other living thing, in an early grave.
But he wouldn't marry her. She'd already asked him and he'd told her no.
Gin crossed her arms. "He was just trying to keep me from falling."
"I thought you said it was a doorway."
"I hit the doorjamb first and then Richard kept me on my feet." She rolled her eyes. "Do you honestly think I would ever marry someone who was rough with me--when I didn't deliberately ask him to be?"
In response, Samuel T. just took a puff on that cigar, exhaling off to the side so the smoke didn't get in her face.
"What," she snapped. "I hate when you look at me like that. Just say it, whatever it is."
He took his damn sweet time, and when he finally spoke, his voice seemed falsely level. "Gin, you're not in as desperate a situation as you think. This financial stuff--it'll work itself out. People will keep buying that bourbon, and your family will rebound. Don't do anyth
ing stupid."
"Richard can afford me." She shrugged. "And that makes him valuable whether my family has money or not."
Samuel T. shook his head like the thing hurt. "At least you're not even trying to pretend you love him."
"Marriages have been built on far less. In fact, there is a grand tradition of marrying well in my family. And not to doctors . . . or lawyers. To real money."
"I should have known that was coming." With a curse, he smiled coldly. "And you never disappoint me. Have fun with your man, especially when you're lying back and thinking of England. Or is it Bergdorf's?"
She lifted her chin. "He treats me beautifully, you know."
"You've clearly picked a winner." He muttered something under his breath. "Well, I'll leave you to it. My condolences on the loss of your father."
"It was no loss."
"Just like your scruples, right?"
"Be careful, Samuel T. Your bitchiness suggests a hidden weakness. Are you sure you're not jealous of a man you consider beneath you?"
"No, I feel sorry for him. It's the biggest curse in a man's life that he loves a woman like you. That sad sack has no idea what he's in for."
As he turned away, a rush of emotion hit her. "Samuel."
He pivoted back around slowly. "Yes."
If only you hadn't said no, she thought. If only you were the one I could turn to.
"Don't go back through the house with that cigar. My mother's downstairs, and she doesn't abide them indoors."
Samuel T. glanced at the smoldering length. "Right. Of course."
And then . . . he was gone.
For some reason, Gin's legs started to shake and she barely made it to one of the Brown Jordan recliners that were lined up down the long sides of the pool. As she all but fell into the chair, she had to peel off her jacket again.
When she couldn't breathe, she took off the goddamn scarf. Underneath, her neck was sore, particularly on the right side where the worst of the bruising was.
Yoga breaths . . . three part . . . just . . . she needed to take a deep breath . . .
"Gin?"
She looked up at Lane's girlfriend--fiancee . . . whatever. "Yes," she said roughly.
"Are you okay?"
"Of course I am," she snapped. But then she couldn't keep up the anger. "I am . . . just fine."
"All right. But listen, bad weather's coming."
"Is it?" God, she felt as though she had fallen into the pool and was drowning. "I thought it was sunny . . . or something."
"I'm going to go get you some water. Stay right there."
Gin was of half a mind to argue, but her tongue felt like it had swollen in her mouth and then her head started to spin in earnest.
When Lizzie came back, it was with a long/tall of lemonade. "Drink this."
Gin put her hand out, but it was shaking so badly, there was no hope of holding anything.
"Here . . . let me."
Lizzie brought the glass to Gin's lip, and Gin took a sip. And then another. And then a third.
"Don't worry," Lane's fiancee said. "I'm not going to ask."
"Thank you," Gin mumbled. "I greatly appreciate that."
THIRTY-TWO
Edward could have spent the rest of the visitation just watching Sutton and his mother sit together on that silk sofa. Contrary to Lane's chilly relationship with the woman who had birthed them, Edward entertained little bitterness to their dam--mostly because, having worked so closely with their father, he had a healthy respect for all Little V. E. had been forced to endure.
Why wouldn't one find relief at the bottom of a pill bottle?
Especially if you'd been cheated on, ridiculed, and relegated to all but a Tiffany vase in your own home.
And now it appeared as though his sister, Gin, was falling into the same trap with Pford.
Sutton, on the other hand . . . Sutton would never do something like that, never conscribe herself to a marriage of convenience just so she could live a given lifestyle. In fact, she didn't need a man to define her at all. No, her life plan? She was going to run a multi-national corporation like a boss--
As if she knew he was thinking something about her, her eyes flicked over in his direction, and then refocused on his mother.
His own stare stayed put on Sutton, lingering on her hair and the way it had been swept up off her neck and away from her face. Her earrings were fat pearls anchored by brilliant diamonds, and in a truly uncharitable moment, he wondered if the Shit Dagney had bought those for her. They did compliment the pale blue of her suit, but such placid gems didn't do her justice.
She was better in rubies.
His rubies.
But whether treasures from the Orient or from Burma, from a good suitor or a bad footnote in her love life, she was still arrestingly beautiful: Behold, the new CEO of the Sutton Distillery Corporation. And yet she still had the grace and class to take time to speak gently to an addled lost soul like his mother. When she was done here, however? She would get back in her limo in her moonlight-on-a-snowfield blue suit and her hopefully-not-the-governor's pearls, and promptly reconnect with her senior executives, her sales force leaders, maybe a Japanese investor whose kind offer to buy out the company would be rejected with a charming, but totally unequivocal, no.
Yes, he had heard on the radio on the way in that she was taking over her family's business. And it couldn't be in better hands--
A man entered the parlor, took one look at Edward and came on over--and in spite of the scruffy beard and battered clothes, Edward would have recognized his brother Maxwell anywhere. Then again, he had reason to.
"Edward," the guy said remotely.
"Max, you're looking well, as usual," Edward replied dryly. "But you must forgive me, I must be going."
"Tell Moe I said hello."
"Of course."
Moving around his brother, he limped forward into the parlor proper. It seemed unbearably rude, even for an asshole such as himself, to not at least greet his mother as he left.
He had no idea what to say, however.
Approaching the sofa, Sutton looked up at him first. And then his mother did the same.
As he searched for proper words, Little V.E. smiled at him as beautifully as a Thomas Sully portrait. "How lovely that the grounds staff have come to pay their respects. What is your name, son?"
As Sutton blanched, Edward bowed his head. "Ed, ma'am. That's my name."
"Ed? Oh, I have a son named Edward." Her hand swung toward Lane in indication, and God, the poor bastard looked like he'd rather have been swallowed by a hellhole. "And where do you work on the estate?"
"The stables, ma'am."
Her eyes were the exact blue of his, and as beautiful as a morning glory in the July sunshine. They were also as clouded as window glass on a frosted morning. "My father loved his horses. When he goes to heaven, there will be thoroughbreds a'plenty for him to race."
"There certainly will be. My condolences, ma'am."
Turning away, he began what seemed like a very long trip out of the parlor, only to hear her say, "Oh, and that poor man is crippled. My father always had a soft spot for the poor and unfortunate."
It was a while before Edward's consciousness returned from wherever it had momentarily evaporated to--and he discovered that he had walked himself out the grand front door instead of back to the kitchen and where he'd parked Shelby's truck.
In fact, he was standing on Easterly's steps, the astoundingly beautiful river view down below something that he had managed to disregard the entire time he had lived at the mansion, both as a child and as a young adult, and, later, as the business leader he had become.
And yet as his eyes took it all in now, he wasn't awestruck by nature's beauty or inspired by the landscape's breadth or even sad for what he had lost and was currently missing. No, what occurred to him . . . was that his mother, believing he was a mere stablehand, would not have approved of his exit. Staff were only allowed to use certain prescribed entrances,
all of which were in the rear of the house.
He had gone out the formal door.
His legs were weak as he took a step down. And then another. And then a final one to the cobblestones of the circular drive and parking area.
Dragging himself forth, he set a path around to the back of the great white mansion, to a stranger's truck that had been loaned to him with the generosity of a family member.
Or at least how you wished a family member would--
"Edward--Edward!"
Of course, he thought as he continued on. But of course his escape could not have gone unencumbered.
Sutton had no problem catching up to him. And as she touched his arm, he wanted to keep going, but his feet stopped: As always, his flesh listened to her over anything and anyone, including himself. And oh, she was flushed with upset, her breath too quick for the short distance she had traveled, her eyes so wide.
"She didn't recognize you," Sutton said. "She just . . . didn't recognize you."
God, she was beautiful. Those red lips. That dark hair. That tall, perfectly proportioned body. He had known her for so long, fantasized about her for so long, one would think when he saw her there would be no further revelations. But no, that was not the case.
His fantasies of her were going to have to keep him going, however. The way things were headed, with what was happening on the estate . . . they were all he was going to have for quite some time.
"Edward . . ." As her voice cracked, he felt the pain she was feeling sure as if it were his own. "Edward, I'm sorry."
Closing his eyes, he laughed harshly at himself. "Do you have any idea how much I love that sound? The sound of my name on your lips? It's rather sad, really."
When he reopened his lids, she was staring at him in shock.
"I am not of my right mind," he heard himself say. "Not at this moment."
In fact, he felt like things were falling off shelves up there, great weights tumbling and hitting the floor of his skull, their contents spilling out and getting broken into shards.
"I'm sorry?" she whispered. "What?"
Taking her hand, he said, "Come with me."
*
With a pounding heart, Sutton followed Edward as he led her off. She wanted to ask where they were going, but the haunted expression on his face kept her quiet. And besides, she didn't care. The garage. The fields. The river.
Anywhere. Even though it was crazy.
