Chapter 1
One
Blair
I’ve always thought that Thornhurst, my family’s ancestral home, must have been constructed for the sake of sheer pride. No one—and I mean no one—would otherwise choose such a miserable location for an estate.
It isn’t close to any major city, or even roads to comfortably take you into one.
The wretched place stands alone on a thin strip of land between the mountains and the sea, a fortress of aging stone which is buffeted by icy ocean wind for one-half of the year, and torrential rain for the other.
The rooms are too large to ever be properly warm, and no amount of maintenance or improvements ever quite shortens the list of repairs or updates needed.
Alas, even if it’s impractical and undesirable and costs far more than is reasonable to maintain, generation after generation of Porter progeny have kept up the family’s most noble tradition of fighting gravity to keep Thornhurst standing.
It’s a showpiece, one which tells the world “we are far too rich, powerful, and important to trouble ourselves with such pedestrian matters as practicality.”
This kind of behavior is how the upper classes end up at the business end of a guillotine. Yet still, we persist.
I can only assume that pride must be a genetic failing, because in the centuries since it was constructed, not one of my ancestors has been willing to admit that our birthright was built upon a foundation of flawed logic and leave it to crumble into the sea.
Somebody must have died.
Big family news is the only explanation for me being summoned back here because no one in the family actually lives at Thornhurst. Not full time, anyway.
The house is mainly used for big events like weddings, Christmas, or the occasional fundraiser.
It’s a prop—an expensive, impractical one at that—and something dramatic must have occurred for my father to interrupt his polished, important life with a mandatory family trip to our ridiculous ancestral home.
It’s hard not to be irritated as I step onto the tarmac at the tiny local airport, and my very first taste of “home” is an enormous gust of wind which nearly knocks me on my butt.
God, I hate it here.
Not even six hours ago, I was sitting poolside at my friend Chloe’s penthouse in Sant Antoni.
The primary topic of conversation was who to invite to her birthday party next month, whether her father would let her commandeer the family’s yacht for the occasion, and how many cases of champagne would be considered excessive.
Admittedly, I’d been dodging my parents’ calls for a few days, hoping their inevitable ire from the tabloid photographs would fade away by the time I plucked up the courage to speak to them.
An incoming call from my father’s full-time assistant—or part-time mistress, depending on who you ask—had seemed safe enough to answer, for Candice is also a frequent deliverer of parental bribery offerings.
This optimism betrayed me, however, when she conveyed the most unwelcome of summons: Return to Thornhurst. Or else.
Dun. Dun. Dun.
It’s September, but you’d never know by my current core body temperature.
The two-minute walk across the landing strip has my teeth chattering as I slide into the back seat of a waiting Land Rover, cursing myself for not thinking to dress for the weather.
A tank top and miniskirt might be appropriate for Sant Antoni this time of year, but Stelland’s western coast is another beast entirely.
It’s been ages since I was here. My most recent visit was Christmas the year before last, when my father announced he’d be making a play for PM, and delivered our assignments to support this “exciting” new endeavor.
My mother’s was to stand behind him and smile.
My brother’s was to keep a firm grasp on the family’s many financial holdings.
My sister’s was to flash her shiny law degree and marry well.
Mine was to stay out of the way.
If I were raised in a different family and needed my parents for emotional validation or whatever, being dismissed like that might have stung.
Fortunately, I’m a Porter, and Porters are trained from an early age to view our parents more as distant, wealthy benefactors, rather than anyone we should expect love or affection from.
As such, I wasn’t sad about my dismissal from Stelland.
If anything, minimal campaign appearances and spending the next few years doing what I liked has been an ideal setup for me.
I’d hoped that maybe they’d just forget about me if I stayed away long enough.
Unfortunately, it seems the media actually cares about the PM election in a tiny, European country that’s primarily known for our fishing exports and for having an American actress as queen.
Sighing, I lean forward as the car begins to move away from the airfield, holding my clammy hands in front of the heating vent. My temples throb. “Any chance someone has opened a coffee shop in this godforsaken place?” I ask the driver, without any real hope.
Sure enough, the man merely grunts. “Not that I’m aware of, Miss Porter.”
Of course not.
If this were a warm, habitable environment, the Porters would have no interest in it.
It’s so sparsely populated out here that as the minutes tick by, we only pass a handful of tiny dwellings and a single, minuscule fishing village.
The road to the estate winds right along the coast, bordered on one side by jagged cliffs and rocky beaches, and on the other by a distant line of misty mountains.
Even if I have no desire to be here, I can appreciate the tragic, romantic beauty of this place.
As a child, I’d imagined tiny, winged fae flitting between the trees, and that every glint of the sun off the churning ocean was something magical in its depths.
Now, at twenty-six, I’m too busy wondering whether my reception at home will be even more inhospitable than the environment.
The drive isn’t nearly as endless as I’d like.
My head flops back against the seat as the nameless driver pulls off the road, stopping before a set of black iron gates, flanked on either side by a high stone wall.
I wince at the blast of icy air that hits me as he rolls down the window and reaches out to enter a code into the little box.
The gates sweep open, and we carry on, making our way along the long, winding drive that snakes through the forest before emerging at the edge of a vast stretch of open space.
The house itself is situated right in the middle of the sprawling lawn, surrounded by dense woods on three sides, and rocky coast on the fourth.
The drive branches off, leading toward staff cottages and the house’s utility buildings—all tastefully hidden from sight—but we continue, stopping at the base of the steps which lead up to the pair of ornately carved oak front doors.
“Can I pay you to drive in circles for another hour?” I muse aloud.
The driver, whom I have just now decided I don’t like very much, ignores me. Leaving the engine running, he gets out, rounding the front of the car to open my door for me. When I still don’t move, he eyes me expectantly.
I glare up at him, feeling like a gazelle must, when it wanders into a nice, open field for grazing, knowing there’s a possibility it may soon be picked off and eaten for lunch by an emotionally constipated lion.
With great reluctance, and ignoring my innate sense of self-preservation, I uncross my legs at last, stepping out into the cold.
“Your breath smells like dog feces,” I inform the driver as I pass.
It’s a lie, I was never close enough to tell. Still, it’s gratifying to pause at the top of the steps and glance back, only to see him heading back around the car with a hand hovering over his mouth. Checking.
Fighting a laugh, I pull open the door and step inside, closing it behind me with an echoing thud.
Thornhurst looks the same as it always has, from the polished, dark wood panels covering the walls, to the checkered, black-and-white marble tiles beneath my feet, to the massive iron-and-glass chandelier casting an insubstantial light over the familiar space.
None of it changes. Not really.
My mother might take it upon herself to have the wallpaper replaced in the formal dining room, or new drapes put in the guest bedrooms, but these alterations always fade into the general atmosphere and sheer magnitude of my family home.
A lump seems to be lodged in my throat as I take a cautious step forward, my heels echoing off the marble floor.
“Hello?” I call, trying to sound more confident and innocent than I really am.
It’s difficult when I don’t know exactly what I’m walking into.
Disclosing pertinent information isn’t the Porter way, however, and I really should have known better than to ask Candice why I was being summoned when I took her call earlier.
Sure enough, the question had barely left my mouth before she huffed, “Lord Porter didn’t share that information with me.
I’m merely relaying the request for your presence and providing a travel itinerary. ”
Sure thing, lady. Nothing says “request” quite like a chartered jet scheduled to touch down in less than an hour, and a driver already waiting to take you to the airfield.
Only to arrive at what appears to be an empty house. Has no one else arrived yet?
Edging toward the stairs, I cross my arms tightly over my chest and try again. “Hello?”
My optimism fails me yet again when, this time, my call is met with the sound of brisk footsteps from one of the side rooms. I turn in time to see my eternally serious brother Cedric emerging through a doorway, looking even more grim than usual.
He stops at the sight of me, his frown deepening. “Ah, Blair.”
“Hello, Ced,” I offer weakly. “How are you?”