Chapter 4
Chapter Four
THEO
“Theo!” I hear my father roar from the bottom of the stairs. “Get your arse down here. Now!”
Groaning, I lift my head from my bed and look at the clock on my nightstand.
9:32.
Ugh, doesn’t he know not to bother me until at least noon? And isn’t he supposed to be on holiday?
“This very second!” he screams again, using the type of voice that tells me whatever happened involved me doing something stupid.
I shift the blankets off me and glance down at my lap to see that I’m wearing a pink lace thong. What the hell?
I look over to the side to see a note on the nightstand with a pair of pink lips staining the paper.
Oh…right.
Not wanting my father to have any excuse to yell at me more, I slip off the thong—unsure why I’m wearing it in the first place—and slip on a pair of boxer briefs. I grab the robe that’s hanging off the back of my wingback chair and I slip it over my shoulders as I reach for my door.
Just as I open it, my father yells, “Hurry up!”
I wince from the booming of his voice. Jesus Christ. Who invited him into my little cottage anyway?
I surely didn’t. That reminds me, I need to see what kind of key he has.
Sure, my cottage is on his property, but technically this will be my property one day, therefore, it’s everyone’s… wait, does that make sense?
Hell if I know. I can still taste the rum on my tongue that I was licking off…huh, what was her name?
“I can smell you from here,” Father says as I make my way down the moderate staircase.
“Yeah? What do I smell like?”
“Don’t test me,” he says just as I reach the bottom, and he shoves a phone in my face. “Care to explain?”
“Uh, yeah.” I pinch my brow, attempting to get my eyes to focus on the screen millimeters away from my nose. “That’s a mobile phone; they’ve overtaken the use of landlines.”
“Theodore,” Father booms, causing the stairs beneath me to quake.
Okay, okay, maybe I need to actually take this seriously. His spittle just landed on me, and when there’s spittle, there’s consequences.
Adjusting my eyesight and attempting to focus, I take in an article that reads, “Theodore Williams III Is Looking for a Fiancée.”
Oh shit.
“From the look in your eyes, I’m going to assume this is not a fake headline?”
I press my lips together and take the phone from my father, quickly searching through the article and glancing at the screenshots of my profile on .
Likes to suck on cherries?
Loves a long-lasting merger?
Jesus, Rupert.
“Why?” Father asks, ripping the phone from my grasp. “Why do you keep doing this? Getting yourself into these kinds of predicaments? Do you know how bad this looks? That the future Lord Dunebary is searching for a fiancée online?”
“Seems proactive to me,” I answer, trying to keep things light, but from the murderous look in my father’s eyes, I’m going to guess he doesn’t appreciate it. Clearing my throat, I add, “I mean, it doesn’t seem like a bad thing.”
Through clenched teeth, my father says, “It says you’re looking for an American wife.”
“Does it?” I ask, taking the phone back and scrolling through the article. “Huh,” I say when I spot it. “Don’t recall that needing to be a requirement.”
“None of it should have been a requirement, because you shouldn’t be on this website. You shouldn’t be advertising that you’re looking for a fiancée. You should be learning the family business.”
That almost makes me laugh out loud.
Learning the family business.
What is there to learn?
We’re supposed to strut around like we are of importance, when no one fucking cares about our title. We’re supposed to shake hands and offer people our attention like we’re gifting them with our presence. And when we get home, we’re supposed to boss people around so they wait on us.
Seems like I understand it perfectly.
“This is just typical you, always finding trouble, never following through on anything, and forcing your mother and me to dig you out of the mess.”
“That’s not true,” I say.
“Is it not?” Father quirks a brow. “What about the time you promised an entire primary school free scholarships under the Lord Dunebary estate?”
“That was just a splendid idea in my opinion. We don’t need the money.”
“That money is what keeps the legacy of our ancestors alive,” he shouts, blowing my hair back with his booming voice.
God, he’s fuming mad this time.
“And what about when you thought it would be smart to start a charity where you hand out pillows for a pillow fight day?”
I’ll give him that one. It was one of Rupert’s dares that I couldn’t go back on.
“That might have been slightly misguided,” I say, scratching my cheek.
“Everything you do is misguided, unfinished, and lacking in aristocratic wisdom, something required of your future title. You’re unpolished, a foolish wanderer with no ability to take anything seriously.”
“That’s not true,” I say.
“Says the man with lipstick marks all over his face.”
Shit, should have looked in the mirror.
Shaking his head, my father walks toward the door. “You’re by far the biggest disappointment in my life.”
I know that should hurt, but it isn’t the first time he’s said it to me.
“Now I have to fix yet another mistake. Attempting to wash off the dirt you continue to throw on the family name. You’re irresponsible and self-centered. Have you ever stopped to think how your actions affect me?” He points to his chest.
Me, self-centered? I’m the only one in this family that actually visits charities and foundations and donates to those in need.
I might make mistakes here and there out of pure defiance, but self-centered?
No.
My father needs to look in the mirror when he says that.
“No, because unlike you, I don’t think about you all the time. I think about others, people with real problems.”
“You’re my problem,” Father seethes. “Your responsibility is to represent this family with respect, not to be this self-centered, entitled arsehole with a tawdry reputation.”
Self-centered. I might be hungover with lipstick marks all over me, and the faint feeling of a thong still up my arse, but I don’t fucking like him calling me that.
Not one bit.
Not when he’s the one who is self-centered.
He doesn’t care about the family name; he cares about himself and his image.
And to hell if I’m ever going to be like him.
Someone who actually doesn’t follow through on things, like the many, many promises he’s made while shaking hands at events but never kept.
Or the many times he told my mother he was monogamous, which didn’t track with the multiple times his hand had been up skirts that didn’t belong to my mother.
Or how he swears to help out the people who rely on him, but he never actually does.
I’m over it and I’m over him.
Something needs to be done. I’m putting my foot down.
“No need to worry about me,” I say, rocking back on my heels. “Because I was serious about finding a fiancée.”
“What?” he asks, his eyes narrowing.
Yeah, what?
Did that just come out of my mouth?
Jesus, am I still drunk?
I know I just went on an internal monologue about how shitty my father is, but stating I’m serious about finding a fiancée? That…that needed a little more thought before I let it out into the world.
*Internally winces*
Maybe I’m a bit of a fuckup like he said…
No, let’s not go down that road.
Shifting on his feet, Father gives me that questioning stare that says, I don’t believe a single word that’s coming out of your mouth, which of course only fuels the fire.
Because there is something foolish about the Williams family: we are stubborn, hardheaded, and we won’t go down without a fight—even if it’s an absurd hill to die on.
“You’re looking for a fiancée? You, the guy with lipstick all over his face?”
Fucking hell, keep forgetting about that.
“It was a farewell fling to my bachelorhood.”
“I see.” His jaw clenches. “So you’re going to just get married now?”
I stick my hands in my robe pockets, grounding myself on this fiancée hill I’ve climbed, and say, “Correct. Can’t wait to find the woman of my dreams.”
“And you thought going on a website, publicly, where everyone could see your…endeavor, you thought that was a brilliant idea?”
“Have to broaden my horizons.”
“To America?”
I slowly nod. “Yes, because someone from America is not going to know who I am or what I have to offer.” I stand a little taller, running with this lie. “They’ll fall for who I am and not the title. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some bride hunting to do.”
I spin on my heel and start back up the stairs as my father says, “I’m holding you to this, Theodore. You won’t pull a fast one over on me. I expect to see you engaged by the end of the summer.”
My arse clenches in fear, because fuck, that’s quick.
“And if I don’t?” I ask.
“Then I’ll find you a bride. Neil’s daughter has had her heart set on you for years, but we’ve tamped that down, knowing the lamentable man you are. But if you’re ready to settle down like you say you are, then I have no problem offering her hand to you.”
Neil’s daughter?
The talker?
With the shrill voice?
The one who once sniffed my armpit at a garden party and told me I smelled nice? Legit stuck her nose right up there.
Oh fuck no.
Not happening.
Smiling coolly, I say, “No need to bother Neil, Father, I’ve got this. Already have someone in mind.”
“Oh?” Father asks, totally not buying it.
“Yes. By the end of the summer, mark my words, Father, I’ll be engaged.”