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For Sharon Villone Doucett, who was one of the first
readers to find my books, and who has been such a
champion and supporter ever since.
Contents
Note to Readers
Five years earlier, Becksworth Hall,
Wiltshire, England
‘YOU’RE A ROTHSMORE, for Christ’s sake.’
My father is perhaps the only person more apoplectic than I am.
‘She is aware of that.’ Surprisingly, my voice comes out clear and calm, even when I feel as if I’ve run a marathon. I reach for the Scotch on autopilot, topping up my glass. My hand shakes a little. Shock, I suppose.
And I am shocked.
‘This isn’t like Saffron.’ My mother wrings her gloved hands in front of her pale peach suit, the wedding corsage still crisp and fragrant. I reach for my own in the buttonhole of my jet-black tuxedo jacket, and dislodge it roughly, pleased when the pearl-tipped pin snags on my finger. A perfect circle of burgundy blood stains the white rose at the decoration’s centre.
‘How do you know, Mother?’
I don’t mean to sound so derisive, but in the four hours since my cousin received a text from my bride’s best friend explaining that the love of my life wasn’t going to be showing up to our wedding, I’ve had to endure more platitudes and Saffron-defending than I can stand.
‘Well, she’s…’ Antoinette Rothsmore struggles to describe Saffron. There are any number of words I could offer. Suitable. Wealthy. Privileged. Appropriate. Beautiful. Cultured. Words that describe why my parents introduced us and cheered from the sidelines as we hooked up. But the reason we got engaged is simple.
I love her. And she’s left me.
‘Nice,’ my mother finishes, lamely.
Saffron is nice.
Too nice for me?
Perhaps.
I haven’t seen her in three days, but when I did, she was in full preparation mode for our wedding, reminding me that the photographer from OK! magazine would be coming to take pictures of the party so not to let my groomsmen get too messed up on Scotch before the ceremony.
I throw back the single malt and grip the glass tightly. How many have
