Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
VICKY
“How was the honeymoon?”
Paint and fabric samples are scattered all over the coffee table of the living room, but Imogen’s plea for me to help her choose which ones to decorate the baby’s nursery was clearly a ruse. And from the piercing look she’s giving me, until I give her a few details I’m not escaping her clutches.
“It was…” I search for the right word, but I’m not sure there is one to describe my surprise at the version of Nicholas I got on my honeymoon. “Different from what I expected.”
A crevice pops up between her eyebrows, and she cants her head to one side. “Different, how?”
I run my tongue along my lower lip and hitch a shoulder. “He couldn’t have been more attentive or considerate.”
“And you expected him to leave you to your own devices and be grouchy all the time.”
“Yeah, I kind of did. I’m well aware he didn’t want to marry me, but you know, ever since that night at Noir when that twat punched me in the face, he’s changed. He’s… protective of me.” Maybe a little overprotective. I’m still not entirely convinced he won’t try to make trouble for Matthew in some way, if only to stamp his authority. Nicholas is as alpha male as they come. Protection is in his blood, and from the look in his eyes on the couple of occasions Matthew’s name came up, it’s my ex-boyfriend’s blood he’s after.
I make a mental note to see if I can contact Matthew and maybe, oh, I don’t know, warn him there might be an angry husband on the warpath.
Or… I could be overthinking it.
“Lucky you. Alexander ignored me for the most of my honeymoon. Then again, he was trying to isolate me so that I’d leave him.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t stab him in his sleep.”
“Believe me, I came close more than once. I’m glad Nicholas wasn’t like that, though. And of course, he should protect you. He’s your husband.”
“Yeah, but he wasn’t supposed to be, was he?” I sigh, shaking my head. I’m still having trouble casting off the long shadow Beth’s tragic passing has brought into my life. The dichotomy of missing her like crazy, yet knowing if she were here, my shot at happiness with Nicholas would never have come to fruition is messing with my head. The guilt of it is crushing.
“Vicky.” Imogen takes both my hands in hers. “You can’t keep thinking like that. Sometimes fate has more of a hand in our lives than we care to admit. I’m sorry you lost your sister. I don’t have siblings, so it’s hard for me to imagine what you’re going through, especially as the two of you were close, but she isn’t here, and you are. Don’t let her untimely death rob you of the life you deserve.”
I have to hand it to her, Imogen is awfully wise. Perhaps being an only child means you have to rely on yourself a lot more. She has a point, but knowing and believing are two different things. I can’t help feeling like an imposter, and one day, I’ll pay for my sins.
At two-thirty, I extract myself from the mother-to-be and make it back to Nicholas’s apartment. Our apartment now, I guess, although if I am going to live here, I’ll need to add some personal touches. You can tell this is a guy’s space. It’s all functional furniture and bland walls. A splash of color, the odd throw or two, a few scatter cushions, and I should be able to make it feel a little homier.
I dive into the shower. There’s no time to wash my hair, so I rub in some dry shampoo and brush it until it shines. I apply a dab of perfume below each ear and on my neck, and slip into a cream, satin nightgown that clings to my curves and falls a few inches below the knee. Considering we’ve had a lot of sex the last few days, I’m ridiculously excited at the thought of Nicholas turning up here with lust burning in his eyes and ripping this beautiful gown off me.
Three o’clock comes and goes. No sign of Nicholas. Then three-fifteen. Three-thirty. When the clock hits three forty-five, I change out of the nightgown and into a pair of jeans and a cashmere jumper. Disappointment fills my chest as I head off in search of him. I don’t know his routines or where he works, but every room I pass is empty. I head back to the living room, but Imogen isn’t there any longer.
As I make my way downstairs, I spot a member of staff carrying a large tray filled with food walking away from me. I hurry to catch up to him.
“Excuse me?”
He turns to face me, bowing his head a little. “Mrs. De Vil. What can I do for you?”
I’ve never seen this guy before in my life. His familiarity with who I am is a little unsettling, although he probably attended the wedding in some capacity.
“Um, I’m looking for my… my husband.”
“Mr. Nicholas left the estate with Mr. Christian some time ago.”
“Oh.” My heart sinks. Back two minutes, and I’m already forgotten. He’d rather be off with one of his brothers than be with me. Fine. Got it. “Did he say when he’d be back?”
“I’m afraid not.” He shifts the weight of the tray. “Was there anything else, Mrs. De Vil?”
“No. Thank you. If you do see him, can you let him know I was looking for him?”
“Of course.” He bustles off, disappearing into a room a few doors down. I traipse back upstairs and flop onto the couch.
Should I call?
No. He could easily have called me and let me know he wasn’t going to make it. You know what? Fuck him. No time like the present to put the wheels in motion for Montague Interiors. I never did get around to telling him about my fledgling business on our honeymoon. After his vehement declaration that he wouldn’t rest until Beth’s murderer was found, it took the shine off the trip. I know how selfish that makes me, how horrible, but I can’t help it.
After scrolling through the hundreds of messages between Eloise and me (she’s a wordy bish), I eventually find the one she sent ages ago, before Beth died. Before my parents told me I had to marry Nicholas.
Eloise: Here you go, babe. Guy’s name is Anthony Davidson. His number is 07888 222555. Based in Sevenoaks. Dad said he has good contacts.
Taking a deep breath, I hit the call button. It rings and rings, and I’m about to hang up when it’s answered.
“Davidson.”
“Oh, Mr. Davidson. My name is Victoria De… Victoria Montague.” Screw you, Nicholas. My business, my fucking name. “Eloise Addington gave me your contact details. She said you were a good person to talk to about my business, Montague Interiors.”
There’s a pause, then, “Oh, yes. I remember now. You took your time calling, Miss Montague.”
“I know. I apologize. My sister passed away quite suddenly a few weeks ago, and we’ve been… well, it’s been difficult.”
“I see. My sincere condolences.”
“Thank you. But I’m ready to push on with my company now. I’d appreciate any time you can give me.”
“Hold on.” The sound of tapping on a keyboard comes over the line. “I have thirty minutes an hour from now.”
Jesus. An hour? It’s already past four o’clock, and I’m not even suitably dressed for a business meeting, but neither can I let this opportunity pass me by. What if this is my one and only shot with this guy? I can already sense his impatience, but I ask anyway.
“Um, I don’t suppose you have any time tomorrow. Or next week?” I add hopefully.
“I’m afraid not. My diary is full tomorrow, and I’m traveling next week.” I swear, he huffs.
“That’s fine. I can be there.” I scribble down the address he gives me and launch into action. Pencil skirt, white blouse, smart jacket, a pair of sheer tights, and high heels. The whole works. I pull my hair back into a neat bun secured at my nape with a silver clip. After giving myself a once over in the mirror, I grab the leather folder that contains my business plan and dash downstairs. It’s here I come to a stuttering halt.
Fuck.
I don’t have a car. Mine is still at home. I’d planned to get it sometime this weekend, but I need wheels now.
“Mrs. De Vil, do you need something?”
I spin around. “Andrew. Perfect timing. I need to go somewhere. Can you drive me?”
“Of course. Where do you need to be?”
I reel off the address, and within five minutes, we’re on our way. I think about messaging Nicholas to let him know where I’ve gone, you know, in the unlikely event he remembers I exist, but I decide against it. He can wonder where I am just as I’ve been left to wonder where he is. Besides, if he wants to know that badly, he can call.
The irony that I haven’t called him either isn’t lost on me, but I don’t care. I’m feeling petulant.
It takes forty-five minutes to reach Sevenoaks. Anthony Davidson’s office building is only four stories high, but it’s modern, all glass and brushed steel. Andrew pulls into a visitor’s spot and accompanies me inside. I give my name to the receptionist and take a seat on a cream, leather couch. Andrew stands to my right, his gaze a constant sweep as though he’s expecting militia to storm the building at any second.
Just as I’m stifling a giggle, which I’m sure Andrew wouldn’t appreciate, I’m called to Anthony’s office. When Andrew moves to follow, I raise a hand to stop him.
“Wait here.”
His face screws up, and he gives the space another wide sweep. “I don’t think Mr. De Vil will like that, ma’am.”
“You don’t work for Mr. De Vil. You work for me, and I’d like you to remain here. I’m perfectly safe.” I can imagine Anthony’s face if I turn up with a burly bodyguard shadowing my every move. That’s not the impression I want to make.
“Yes, ma’am.” Andrew looks about as happy as if I’d told him he’d been demoted to horse shit shoveler, but too bad. Before he can think of another argument to accompany me, I stride to the lifts and press the button for the fourth floor.
As I exit on Anthony’s floor, my phone rings. Digging it from my purse, I groan. Now my errant husband chooses to call me. Just my?—
“Miss Montague, Mr. Davidson is ready for you.”
I drag my attention away from my phone and smile at the blonde woman around my age. Stuffing the phone back into my purse, I nod. “Thank you.” Nicholas will have to wait. He made me bloody well wait.
I’m not sure what I expected, but Anthony Davidson isn’t it. I’d guess he’s around forty-five, with salt and pepper hair, a trim physique, and a Hollywood smile. He rounds his desk, hand outstretched.
“Miss Montague.” I take his hand. Gesturing to a chair in front of his desk, he says, “Have a seat.”
“I appreciate you seeing me.” I set the leather folder on his desk and smooth my skirt beneath my thighs as I sit.
“Time is short. I suggest we make a start.” He points to my folder. “Is that your business plan?”
The watch on my wrist buzzes, and I manage a quick glance. Nicholas. Again. I silence it before fixing my attention on the man sitting opposite. Right now, he’s far more important than Nicholas. For one thing, he gave me his time when my husband couldn’t be bothered, and for another, he may be the key to launching my business well.
I’m aware Nicholas will have more connections than Anthony Davidson, but I don’t want to succeed because of the De Vil name. I’d never be sure whether clients were using me because they liked my ideas and thought I had talent, or because they were afraid of the De Vils and what would happen if they didn’t hire me. That’s the main reason I decided to keep my maiden name, and it doesn’t appear Eloise’s dad has told Anthony I’m now married, either.
Probably because it happened so fast, most of the guests are suffering from whiplash.
My hands are sweating as I hand over a plan I’ve spent more than a year writing, tweaking, and rewriting. I only mentioned my business to my parents a couple of times. They showed such little interest in it that I never brought it up again. Now I’m married to Nicholas, they probably envisage I’ll spend my time hosting dinner parties and popping out babies.
I’m convinced Anthony must be able to hear my heart hammering against my ribcage, but as I start to talk through my ideas for Montague Interiors, I relax into it. I hope my enthusiasm and excitement for what this could be comes across and Anthony sees me as a serious contender and worthy of passing on my details to his contacts.
Once I’ve finished, he leans back in his chair and folds his hands over his stomach. He taps his thumbs together. “You’ve thought this through. I’m impressed.”
I positively preen at his compliment. I’m not used to praise, and it soaks into me like rain on dry, cracked earth. “Thank you.”
His hands come up to steeple beneath his chin, and he pauses, his eyes never leaving mine. I’m not sure what he’s searching for, but I hope he finds whatever it is.
A few more seconds pass before he speaks. “I’ve recently bought a property in Surrey. It’s in dire need of a complete makeover, and my wife is too busy with her own career to take on such a large project. I’d like to hire you for the job, and if you make a success of it, I’ll recommend you to everyone I know. Make a mess of it, on the other hand…”
He lets his sentence tail off, but his message is clear: make a mess of it and my career is over before it’s begun. His subtle warning only galvanizes me, and I beam as a rush of excitement and adrenaline fills my veins.
“I won’t let you down, Mr. Davidson.”
He stands and fastens the single button on his dark gray jacket. I stand, too, scooping up my business plan and stuffing it back into the leather folder.
“I’ll be in touch.”
We shake hands again, and I virtually skip back to the lift. By the time I exit on the ground floor, I’m beaming wider than a lottery winner. I may as well have won the lottery. Sure, Eloise’s dad opened the door, but it was my hard work, diligence, and belief in myself and my business plan that landed me the job.
For once in my life, I’m proud of myself. I should learn how to cheer my successes. God only knows, my parents are unlikely to.
I check my phone. Ah, crap. Four missed calls from Nicholas, and a text sent twenty minutes ago.
Nicholas: Where the fuck are you?
My stomach churns and a pang of regret takes hold of me. Maybe I should have messaged or called. Then again, he could have called me, too. We’re both at fault. After what happened to Imogen, though, and his sister all those years ago, it’s likely he’s more sensitive when someone he’s trying to contact goes silent.
It’s better to have the clear ensuing argument in person rather than over the phone. I reply via text, keeping it short without directly answering his question.
Me: On way back.
Stuffing my phone in my bag, I cross the lobby toward a constipated-looking Andrew.
“Mr. De Vil wants you home right now, ma’am.”
Great. When he couldn’t get hold of me, he must’ve called Andrew, and from the looks of my bodyguard, Nicholas probably gave him an earful.
“We can go now.” Halfway to the exit, I stop, and Andrew does, too. “I’m sorry.”
“What for, ma’am?”
“For whatever my husband said to you that’s made you look as if you’re walking to the gallows.”
His lips quirk briefly, then revert to their previous position. “You don’t need to worry about me. I can take care of myself.”
I’ll bet he can, too. “Well, my apology stands. And can you please call me Vicky? I’m not a fan of ma’am for anyone below the age of sixty-five.”
Another twitch of his lips is followed by, “As you wish.”
Once I’m in the car, I reach for my phone again. Briony is excellent at conflict resolution, and I need to figure out how to deal with an enraged husband without his pissy attitude activating my pissy attitude and resulting in me stabbing him in the eye with the nearest sharp implement.
I’m half expecting to see a reply from Nicholas, but there isn’t one, and oddly, his silence makes me more anxious. I’ve never had trouble going toe-to-toe with him, but that was before.
Before he married me.
Before he fixed the broken part of me.
Before he swept away the blanket of animosity I’d worn since Beth’s passing and made me adore him even more.
I don’t want to argue with him. I want to have my husband share in this momentous day for me, then wrap me in his arms and make love to me.
Don’t think that’s happening anytime soon.
Pulling up my chat stream with Briony, I type out a quick message.
Me: SOS. How to soothe the bruised ego of a pissed off husband without escalating to DefCon 5?
Three dots immediately appear. Briony is always attached to her phone, and thank God for that.
Briony: Sexy lingerie.
Me: Not sure there’s time to change.
Briony: Striptease?
Me: I’ll probably fall flat on my face while trying to take my high heels off.
Briony: Ooh, heels. That’s a good start. Tell him to strip you naked, but leave the heels on. Men always love that for… reasons.
Briony: Also, haven’t you only just returned from honeymoon? What’s got his knickers in a twist so soon?
Me: I dared to leave the estate without telling him where I was going. But he started it. We were supposed to meet up for… an afternoon nap, and he bailed. Zero contact.
Briony: Forget everything I said. Go straight to DefCon 6. He deserves it.
Me: There’s no such thing as DefCon 6.
Briony: I’ve a feeling there’s about to be. Call me later. Don’t make it from prison.
A laugh spills out of me. God, I love my girls.
We make it back to Oakleigh in good time. The car rolls to a stop in front of the impressive entrance, and I get out, heaving a sigh.
Time to face the music.