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I loved Harrison. I respected him. He had worked for his position. Daddy hadn’t bought it like he’d bought Benjamin’s— my other brother’s—military career.
“That is none of your concern. You will do as you are told. Remember, you are not too old to be sent to a convent or locked in an asylum.”
CHAPTER 4
LUC
“Hello, Amelia, darling.” I gritted my teeth as the valet opened the door to Amelia’s black Town Car.
I offered her my left arm to help her from the vehicle, which she gracefully took, as was expected of her.
At least she hadn’t forgotten all her manners. “You look stunning tonight.”
She really looked absolutely stunning, wearing a classic black, high-necked gown with a scintillating slit to her thigh that showed off enough skin to be mouthwatering, but not so much as to be indecent. She didn’t wear any jewelry. She didn’t need to. The dress itself seemed to sparkle like diamonds as she moved. The look was completed with her smoky eyes and red lips, the makeup painted onto her flawless, frozen face.
I had to give her mother credit.
The shrew knew what she was doing.
Amelia was everything a high society bride should be, perfect on the outside and hollow on the inside.
Pretty enough to be on my arm for events and to give me children, but cold enough not to care when I inevitably went elsewhere for entertainment. A man could not be expected to live his life without a woman who was passion and fire. That was how they became soft in the head and married twenty-something waitresses without prenups.
She smiled politely at me but didn’t say a word, just took my arm and allowed me to escort her from the drop-off line to the gala.
The red carpet was, of course, rolled out for the event, and a few paparazzi snapped pictures as we walked arm in arm into the sculpture garden that led into the mansion.
We passed the fountains of cherubs pissing into the pools of water. I never understood why statues of pissing babies were the height of sophistication, but like so many older mansions such as this, there were statues of babies, or of women with their breasts exposed as they poured water.
Amelia remained silent on my arm.
Her gaze appeared to linger over the various statues, like she was assessing them, taking them in one by one as we approached the large open double doors of the Diederich mansion to attend yet another garish fundraiser for the New York Public Library. Apparently, they desperately needed funds so they could buy something important, and it hadn’t occurred to anyone to just ask for the donations instead of spending half of them on this party.
Above us were several balconies, a few guests already mingling and watching the parade of wealthy narcissists. Probably making bets on who would be featured on the society pages as the “best dressed” and “worst dressed.” All while getting their asses kissed for being at a charitable event.
A few signs explained what it was they were raising money for exactly. I didn’t even bother looking them over.
I didn’t care.
No one at this event gave a damn about the library or what the money was being raised for. This event was to see and be seen.
Truth be told, I loathed charity galas.
They were never truly parties but networking events where men were forced to bring their wives so they could show off their arm candy. It was a waste of time, but expected of me, so I was here, with my reluctant soon-to-be-bride on my arm.
As we moved into the mansion, my senses were immediately assaulted with the cloying, heavy perfumes of the other women. Several were milling about, looking at the paintings, no doubt of the Diederich ancestors, or even commenting on the gilded frames. A double grand marble staircase dominated the foyer, its European ironwork a sharp contrast to the white stone steps. Other guests were headed up to look down at the party from the balconies, not only outside, but no doubt above the ballroom as well.
Grand mansions such as this always seemed to have several places where the owner could look down upon his guests. Any man who needed a balcony to look down on people wasn’t much of a man at all. Though I supposed some members of the fairer sex would call the balconies “romantic,” daydreaming about Romeo and Juliet like they were some great love story.
“I hate these events,” I said under my breath.
“Don’t enjoy giving money to charity?” Amelia asked, not looking at me.
“No, I appreciate the tax write-off. What I don’t like are pompous men playing at being masters of the universe. They pretend to have worked for everything they have in their lives, then sit around congratulating each other on jobs well done. Enough of my time is spent around these crypt keepers. I don’t want to spend my evenings meeting their wives and acting like I give a shit about their snot-nosed kids’ achievements or the new horse, car, or humidor they just bought.”
I flagged down a waiter wearing a white tux with white gloves. “Though I suppose you like them? You and Marksen attend any of these events?”
I didn’t miss the bitterness in my tone. Marksen had been running through my mind all day, and it affected me more than I liked. It hadn’t occurred to me to investigate how far he had gotten with my would-be bride. At the time, it didn’t matter for my revenge.
