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He’s never done anything like it. Not once.
As true as the sun rises in the east, I know that Alessandro Valmont screws my brains out behind closed doors, and completely ignores me in public.
I’m too shaken to protest as he leads me toward his friend.
“Cad, you’ve met Ivy?” he asks casually.
Like it’s completely normal for him to introduce me to his best friend, when he wouldn’t back when we were engaged.
Fuck. He’s changing the rules.
But I don’t kid myself: I know it’s still another game.
Caden’s eyes bore into mine, and I flush even before he says, “Not really. But I did give her a bit of advice once. Strangely, she actually followed it.”
So, it was him that day.
I try to smile, but I’m not sure it looks like anything but a grimace. “It was good advice.”
“Was it?” He tilts his head, those stormy, dark blue eyes searching mine.
“Definitely.”
His gaze dips down to Less’s arm, still around me.
Yeah, well, not much I can do about that,my eyes answer the question he’s not asking.
I pick my battles with Less. I don’t mind his arm; it’s confusing, sure, but if I make a scene over it, I’m going to lose all my energy before he even gets to whatever he’s planned.
And he has something up his sleeve. Doesn’t he always?
“Francesco’s pouting,” Caden tells Less. “But you should have heard that sigh when he saw your taillights from the lounge.”
I don’t ask who Francesco is, though I’m curious.
Chuckling, Less leads us through the humongous manor.
It’s ancient, like most of the Valmont residences. I’m no expert, but I’d guess it must have been built in the Middle Ages. I visited Hampton Court, Henry VIII’s pleasure palace a couple of years back, and this place makes me think about the oldest part of it. We walk through great rooms, with fireplaces big enough to roast a dozen people and their horses—a good half of which are lit up, exuding delicious warmth after the last half hour in the frozen storm.
The high, stone walls are decorated with roundels.
At long last, we reach what must be the great hall. The stunning vaulted hammerbeam roof with sculpted timber is likely worth millions in itself.
A small group is playing cards around a round stone table that looks so heavy I wouldn’t be surprised if the castle were built around it. That thing is never going to move an inch. It’s toward the back of the great hall, not far from the elevated dais that once might have supported a throne.
These people live in a different universe.
I’ve never been comfortable around this crowd; they made certain of it. But my sister bounces forward, beaming.
“Is there a school reunion or something?” I mumble, recognizing all of them as Less’s old crowd.
I haven’t seen any of these people in ages, and I’ve never talked to any of them, but their names are apparently branded in my brain.
There’s another Noble brother—likely Sebastian. Aaron’s closer to Nic’s, or even Bella’s, age.
Declan Huxley, the only member of that elitist group who’s not a highborn; his father is a tycoon in the medical industry, and he’s one of the richest among them. He’s a tall and gorgeous Asian guy that I’ve always found incredibly intimidating, though I can’t really pinpoint why.
Basil Osborn, the shortest—if we can use that word, given that none of them dip below six feet tall—but bulkiest of the lot, looks like a bit of a teddy bear compared to his friends, who all seem to compete for the title of the worst of the lot.
