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I wanted domestic bliss. To pass down not only my fortune and title, but also my life experience, my morals, and my affections.
Mr. Tindall walked in looking tan and well-rested.
After a round of handshakes, half-arsed condolences, and a terribly boring monologue about Mr. Tindall’s island vacation, he finally opened the file containing my father’s will.
I took Mum’s hand and squeezed it reassuringly. I found it clammy and cold.
Prefacing the reading of the will, Tindall cleared his throat, his chin flapping about. He was a very large man, with the tendency to turn fuchsia pink whenever he was rattled. Not what you’d call a grade-A looker.
“I would like to preface this by saying that this will is certainly unconventional, but it was written in accordance with Edwin’s desire to preserve the values and principles of the Whitehall family. That being said, I do hope that everyone will remain respectful and sensible, since, as you all know, it is irrevocable.”
Mum, Cecilia, and Drew all squirmed in their seats, a dead giveaway that they had a fair idea of what could be in the will. I, on the other hand, did not particularly care. I had my own fortune, and I did not rely on anyone else’s.
But as Harry Tindall began reading the will, I got increasingly confused.
“Whitehall Court Castle goes to Devon, the first son…”
The estate went to me, the son he rejected and positively loathed and had not seen in two decades.
“The investment portfolio of two point three million pounds goes to Devon …”
So did all of his funds.
“The car collection goes to Devon …”
In short, everything now belonged to me. I was bracing myself for the punchline. I was listed as the sole inheritor of the estates and monies, but there was no way this would be unconditioned. The more Tindall spoke, the more my mother shrunk into her seat. Cecilia looked the other way, fat tears rolling from her cheeks, and Drew closed his eyes and dropped his head backward, like he didn’t want to be there.
And then, I found it. The fine print. The violent dare.
Mr. Tindall raised his voice when he got to the last sentence.
“All properties and funds will be released upon Devon Whitehall, The Marquess of Fitzgrovia, on the day of his wedding to Lady Louisa Butchart. Until then, they will be held and maintained by Tindall, Davidson and Co. In the event of Mr. Whitehall’s refusal of the arrangement, and/or failure to marry Miss Butchart for a period exceeding twelve calendar months from the date of the reading of the will, the abovementioned properties and funds shall be released and transferred to the multiple charities Edwin Whitehall has aforementioned.” Tindall looked up and arched an eyebrow. “From here on out is a list of The Masters of Foxhounds, dedicating to protecting the sport, and other questionable charities. In case Devon and Louisa do not marry. But, of course, I am sure we will not get to that point.”
Bloody hell.
Edwin Whitehall had left nothing to his wife, daughter, or son-in-law. Even from his grave, he tried to bully me into marrying Louisa, and now, he’d dragged the remainder of my family into that mess.
A distant memory of my conversation with Edwin when I was fourteen years of age resurfaced.
“Now be a good boy and go apologize to Louisa. This matter is settled. You will marry her after you finish Oxford University, and not a moment later, or you will lose your entire inheritance and your family. Am I understood?”
Only I never ended up going to Oxford. I went to Harvard instead.
He said it loud and clear decades ago. It was his way or the highway.
Now he had created the perfect storm. My mother knew if I didn’t marry Lou, she’d be stripped of everything she had—and she was already struggling financially. This was why she was clammy and cagey today. This was why the news of Emmabelle’s pregnancy nearly destroyed her.
“Outrageous,” I commented in my mildest tone, taking a sip of my coffee.
“Quite,” Drew whined. “My darling Cece and I haven’t inherited bloody used toilet paper!” He squashed a cookie to dust in his fist.
“Oh, zip it, would you?” Mother barked impatiently. It was the first time I saw her address her son-in-law directly, and it was fair to say she thought more fondly of war criminals than the latest addition to the family. “Cecilia will be taken care of. I’d never let my daughter go without.”
“Cecilia?” Drew whined, darting up from his seat—but not man enough to actually storm out. “And what about me?”
“I can’t take this will seriously.” I picked an apple from the assortment of refreshments and sprawled in my seat, eyeing Tindall as I rubbed the red fruit clean against my Armani suit.
He gave me the nasty smile of a man who knew I could and indeed should.
