The Art of Marrying Your Enemy (The Richmond Brothers #2)

9. Daisy

9

DAISY

A fter Aaron disappeared, I sank to the floor. Outside, thunder clapped. Rain pattered against the oversized windows. The heavy dark-green drapery added another gothic touch to the gloomy, isolated mansion.

He better not have a crazy wife locked up in a hidden room somewhere.

Or maybe I was the crazy wife.

In a panic, I raced to the door Aaron had slammed behind him. I breathed a sigh of relief when I was able to open it.

In the big ball gown with the delicate off-the-shoulder sleeves, I continued feeling like a character in a gothic novel as I explored the mansion. Everything in it—the stairs, the tapestries, the windows, the flickering gas sconces—seemed almost oversized, out of scale, and dark and disorienting. Many of the rooms I passed were locked, their brass handles catching under my palm.

Dorian clung close to me. Suddenly he hissed and rose on his toes. His fur stuck straight out as we were startled by our reflections in an antique mirror. I looked like a ghost—a curvy, sunburnt ghost but still.

As I turned a corner, I heard faint strains of music. Lighting cracked and thunder roared as Dorian and I screamed then turned and ran to the relative safety of the dark-green bedroom.

“The Victorians put arsenic in this shade of green,” I chattered to my hissing cat. “I wondered if Aaron is trying to slowly poison me. I wouldn’t put it past him.”

Sniffing the air, Dorian calmed down when he saw his supper.

By one of the windows, a small seating area had a meal laid out for one, plus one cat.

“Courtesy of the magical servants that I’m not allowed to talk to, I’m sure.”

Dorian scarfed down his raw salmon paté while I unbuttoned the little pearl buttons of the ball gown. He meowed for seconds as I twisted my arms, trying to reach the zipper on my dress.

“I’ll give you some of my lobster. Just hold on,” I promised the upset kitty as I struggled with the zipper.

The dress pillowed on the floor, and I let it all hang out.

Although the food spread was amazing, the magical servants hadn’t brought me any clothes.

Daisy: Are you coming back to Manhattan this weekend or staying in the Hamptons?

Reese: I hope you’re not asking about wedding leftovers because those are all gone.

Daisy: Even the lobster rolls?

Reese: They were delicious.

Daisy: I need my clothes.

Reese: I’ll bring them in the morning. Am drunk.

Reese: The Colemans are toasting in your honor for saving the family fortune.

Reese: There’s talk of marrying you off to one of your cousins when this is all over.

Daisy: I shall never marry again. I am a ruined woman.

Reese: Did you actually do the deed?!?!

Daisy: Emotionally and spiritually ruined. Not… you know…

Reese: Also, will Aaron be mad if I hook up with one of his brothers?

Daisy: I will disown you.

As much as I detested Aaron, this bed was a nice one. And that food was delicious. I fed Dorian little bites of the lobster from the seafood pasta as I polished it off along with the big salad, the potato croquettes, and the cherry tart for dessert. Aaron’s prison hotel didn’t have a TV, but I had my phone with forty-three percent battery and my Kindle app.

“I hope that food wasn’t supposed to last me a week,” I told Dorian as I stacked the empty plates on the bedside table. Then I snuggled down under the covers with the bag of barbecue potato chips and my new JAFF romance book.

Dorian lay on his back on the pillow next to me, round tummy rising and falling. Sure, being married sucked, but I bet breakfast in bed would magically appear tomorrow. Maybe I could leave a note or something and get a TV. I needed to ask Reese to bring my phone charger and my laptop.

The door creaked open.

“Thanks for dinner. That was amazing,” I said to the male servant who entered the room. I looked up from my phone. “I can help you with—Aaron, what the hell are you doing in my room?”

Dorian, startled, sprang up off the pillow, spitting and hissing.

“You mean my room?” Aaron slammed the door behind him. He’d showered and was out of the cake-covered suit, wearing soft black pants and a white shirt.

“You can’t be in here,” I squawked. “In the Victorian period, everyone got their own room. Go somewhere else. I need my own space.”

“You previously shared a room with Reese.” He frowned. “Are you eating chips in my bed?”

“ My bed, and these taste like barbecue-flavored cardboard. I want to put in a request for kettle chips, not baked chips.”

“Then why are you eating them?” Annoyance was stamped on his handsome face.

“It’s too late for existential questions.”

Dorian arched his back and made that hurk hurk noise that every pet owner knew intimately and could wake anyone from a drunken sleep at two in the morning. Then he puked up his dinner all over Aaron’s pillow.

“Oops,” I said. “Guess you have to leave.”

The scowl deepened on my husband’s face, and he blew out an angry breath.

“Just ignore it, and Dorian will clean it up.” I waved him away.

“You are fucking revolting.”

“Go sleep in another room, then.”

“You are my wife. We are sharing a bed.”

He picked up the pillow, which, as I suspected, Dorian had already cleaned, and threw it outside the door, along with all my empty plates.

“Get rid of that cat.”

“My forty-one-month-old infant,” I said, cradling Dorian, “has separation anxiety and needs to be with his mother.”

Dorian hissed as Aaron slid into the bed beside me.

“Keep your cat on your side of the bed,” he said brusquely.

“All of it is my side of the bed.”

Aaron bit back a curse then flipped off his lamp.

“Turn off your light.”

“I’m reading.”

“Coleman.”

I ignored him.

The mattress shifted.

I sucked in a breath as his broad chest loomed over me briefly while he reached to flick off the lamp switch.

“Exhausted from a long day of exploiting people and ruining lives?”

I needed to keep the stream of commentary going so that I didn’t completely lose it on account of the fact that I was more than half-naked in bed with Aaron freakin’ Richmond.

“If we have to be roommates, you need to buy bunk beds. I don’t like sharing,” I chattered.

He blew out another breath.

I had never shared a bed with a man. Never ever in my entire life. Unless you counted those horrible camping trips where I had to lay awake in a sleeping bag next to my brother by the fire, and I didn’t.

“Or like in the fifties, when people had their own separate twin beds,” I continued.

“Coleman.”

“What?”

“Shut up.”

Next to my head, Dorian emitted soft kitty snores.

“This isn’t sanitary,” I babbled. “Did you even shower?” I knew the answer. Yes, he had, since he didn’t smell like cake. He smelled deliciously male. Adult male, not like when we were teenagers.

Aaron snarled, “You’re the one eating in bed. There are crumbs in the sheets. I can feel them. You cannot eat in this bed. Furthermore, you smell like stale champagne. You didn’t shower.”

“You really need to get me my own bed,” I huffed. “What if I start masturbating?”

I could hear his teeth grind.

“It helps me sleep, you know.” I shifted my legs under the cover, getting a shock when my toe accidentally brushed his calf.

I wiggled my butt and slid my hand down the lacy bridal panties that had come free with the dress and Granny Madge insisted I wear. Just in case. You never know!

“There’s this professor at my program.” I pitched my voice higher, moving my hand. “Who I have a crush on.” I let out a fake moan. “He’s got this hot British accent, and I like to pretend that we’re in his office, and he’s between my legs, his finger here and stroking me like—ah!” I shrieked, startling Dorian. “Cold! Cold! Cold!”

Fumbling, I flicked on the light.

Ice-cold water dripped down my face, soaking my pillow.

“What the hell? Is the roof leaking?”

Dorian hid behind me when he saw the spray bottle in Aaron’s hand.

“Don’t,” Aaron said simply, “do that.”

“Why do you have a spray bottle in here?” I brushed at the icy drops in my hair, shivering as they ran down my back.

Aaron settled back on the bed, his hands clasped behind his head.

“I’m in insurance. I plan for every probability.”