Say You Will (6 page)

Summer’s expression clouded over with sadness. “My mother recently passed away.”

Rosalind looked stricken. “I’m sorry. How awful for you. My father’s memorial must have been especially beastly.”

“It was trying, but I wanted to pay my respects.”

“How did you know my father?” Rosalind asked.

Crossing his arms, Nick stared steadily at his sister.

But Summer was an experienced lawyer. She could make facts out of air. “Through my parents. Since they couldn’t make it, I wanted to pay my respects for them.”

“Is your father deceased as well?”

“Yes.” Summer nodded with a sad smile. “But my mother’s death was harder. He and I weren’t very close.”

“My father and I weren’t either.” Rosalind exhaled and pulled out a notebook. “Well, let’s talk about happy things, like your wedding. When is the date?”

Summer glanced at him, as if he’d know when this fictional wedding was. She finally said, “Next year. August.”

Rosalind jotted it down in her notes. “Whoever you have make the dress will need to start working on it right away in order to get it done in time. What sort of wedding are you envisioning?”

“Type of wedding?” Summer asked, lips pursed. “Does that matter?”

“Yes. If you’re having a pirate wedding, I shouldn’t design you a Little Bo Peep dress.”

“Oh. I guess a normal wedding.”

Rosalind stared at his sister. Then she shook her head. “Okay, let’s try this. What sort of fashion do you like? Do you have favorite articles of clothing? Do you want to be understated or like a princess?”

His sister looked overwhelmed. He shouldn’t have enjoyed it as much as he did but he couldn’t help himself. He crossed his legs and sat back to enjoy.

Summer sputtered for a moment before she said, “I imagined a white dress.”

“That’s a good start.” Rosalind nodded. “At least we’ve ruled out ivory or red.”

He laughed at the sarcasm in her tone.

They both looked at him. Grinning, he said, “We also ruled out black, which is a relief.”

“Why?” Summer asked.

“Because you look awful in black.”

His sister frowned. “All my work clothes are black.”

“Exactly.”

Rosalind shook her head at him before returning to the task at hand. “How big of a wedding do you plan on having, Sara?”

“I’ve never thought about it much.” Summer played with the diamond stud earrings Tabitha had given her. “I guess I’d like just family and very close friends. Something traditional, with lots of flowers and soft music. And those perfect little macarons in pink and green.”

Rosalind perked up. “I love macarons. They’re an underrated sweet, plus they have a tidy esthetic that I can’t help admiring.”

“I know.” Summer leaned forward. “Nick mocks me for this, but I arrange all my toiletries, so they look like they could be at a makeup counter.”

“I do, too.” Rosalind grinned. “In school, it used to drive my best friend mad. Bijou was never very tidy. She still isn’t, although she treats her clothing with respect. Mostly.”

“You sound very close to Bijou,” Summer said, wistful. “I didn’t have many friends in school. You’re fortunate you had your sisters, too.”

“You’d think differently if you actually had sisters,” Rosalind said lightly. “So back to your dress. You’re thinking traditional?”

Summer shrugged. “I suppose. Unless you think I’m not suited to it.”

“You’re lovely, Sara.” Rosalind smiled, one that radiated credibility, as she closed her notebook and stood. “You’d be suited to whatever your heart desired.”

Summer nodded, looking overwhelmed as she took Rosalind’s hand. “Thank you.”

“I’ll pull together some ideas, and we’ll go from there.” Rosalind gave her a kiss on each cheek. “I’ll make you a dress you’ll adore. I promise.”

It was the first time he’d ever seen his stepsister speechless. She just nodded.

Rosalind turned to him. “Walk me out?”

He was in trouble—he heard it in the tone of her voice.

“Go, Nick,” Summer said, pulling him to stand. “We can have lunch another time.”

He was going to strangle her. He looked at Rosalind and tried to come up with another excuse to stay away from her.

But the uncertain, hurt look in her eyes twisted his heart. And who was he kidding? He’d give anything for five minutes alone with her. Nick held his arm out, motioning Rosalind in front of him. “Let’s go.”

“I’m going to the underground.” She tied the belt on her coat and whipped her scarf around her neck.

“Okay.”

She looked at him as they started down the sidewalk. “Maybe I misconstrued the other afternoon.”

He knew what he should have said, but he couldn’t lie to her. He shook his head at the irony there. “Rosalind, I’d like nothing better than to get to know you better, but we both know it’s impossible.”

“Then how about just sex?”

He caught himself before stumbling on the pavement. “Sex?” he repeated, his voice strangled.

“Where we rub up against each other in some state of partial or complete undress until we lose our minds.” She frowned at him. “Do I have to draw a diagram?”

“No, although I wouldn’t mind if you wanted to.” He shook his head—what was he saying? “We can’t, Rosalind.”

“Are you seeing someone else?”

“No.”

“Are you gay?”

“No.”

“Don’t you find me attractive?”

She looked at him with her guileless angel eyes, and he was powerless to say anything but the absolute truth. “You’re the most beautiful, fascinating woman I’ve met, and all I’ve thought about since the other day is stripping you bare and kissing every inch of you.”

“Well.” She blinked, her face flushing. “Then we don’t have a problem since I feel the same about you.”

They did have a problem: Summer.

“I’m glad I’m designing Sara’s dress,” she said as if on the same wavelength. “Not just because it gives me a chance to seduce you, but also because I like her.”

His groin stirred, but he ruthlessly shut down his non-thinking head. He needed to maneuver the conversation toward something that wasn’t sexy in any way. “I never knew wedding dresses were such complicated things.”

“Of course you didn’t. You’re a man.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “Very much a man.”

He cleared his throat, stuffing his hands in his pockets so he wouldn’t give in and touch her. “So tell me about
your
wedding dress.”

“Is it that obvious I have it designed?”

“Not obvious, but you’d have thought about it.”

“You must think I’m silly.”

“You don’t care what I think, but you’d be wrong. It’s sweet. It’s romantic and optimistic and says you believe you’ll find someone worthy of it.” Someone who wasn’t him—and that thought made him want to howl.

“I will,” she said as they stopped at an intersection. “I don’t think love is selective, picking some people over others. We dictate our own lives. We get what we believe we deserve.”

“Always?”

“Always. If we don’t have what we want, we can change it, can’t we? And if we don’t, that’s our own decision to settle.”

“You’d never settle.”

“I want love, but I’m not in a hurry for it.” She studied him. “And you and love?”

“I want it.” He wanted
her
. “I want a family and all the trappings. Somewhere to belong. Permanence.”

“Is there such a thing as permanence?”

“Even if I were struck down tomorrow, one day of having family would be worth it.”

“I feel ashamed,” she said as they resumed walking. “I have a family, but I’ve always tried to get away from them.”

“You’re here now.” Thinking of Summer, he added, “You can reconnect if you want to.”

“I might do that.”

“Good. Family is important.”

They reached the entrance to the underground, and she turned to face him. She seemed to be considering what to say. Then she shook her head, put her hand on his chest for balance, and kissed him with bone-melting enthusiasm.

Before he could react, she broke away. “We’re going to do this again, and more.”

“That’s not wise,” he managed to say.

“But it’s inevitable.” She kissed him again, this time slowly exploring, letting the heat buildup.

Inevitable was a good word for this. Maybe also inescapable, perhaps even unavoidable. Maybe unstoppable was the best description though, because he felt powerless against it.

She was the one to pull away first. She touched his lips, and then turned and walked into the tube station. At the entrance, she flashed him a grin that promised all things sinful.

He wanted every single one, too.

He was royally screwed.

Chapter Eight

“Why is Father’s study locked?” Rosalind said as she strode into the kitchen.

“The study is locked?” Fran asked with a frown, turning around from the sink.

She nodded, looking at Portia, who hadn’t even glanced up from the magazine she was perusing. Shaking her head, Rosalind returned her attention to Fran. “Do you have a spare key?”

“Of course, I do, lamb. Right here.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a humongous ring with dozens of keys attached. She flipped through them, one by one. Her mouth puckered, and then she started back at the beginning and went through them again. “It’s not here. Where could it have gone?”

Hands on her hips, Rosalind faced her sister. “Portia, do you have any guesses where the key to Father’s office went?”

“I took it,” she replied, flipping a page.

“Why?”

“So you can’t go through Father’s things without me. I don’t want you to throw away anything without my approval.” She closed the magazine and stood, taking her teacup to the sink. “I’m ready to go now.”

Rosalind sighed.

Fran gave her a look that said
play nicely
. Before turning around to finish the dishes.

“Well, Rosalind?” Her sister propped her hands on her hips. “I don’t have all day.”

She wanted to point out that, yes, Portia did have all day. As far as Rosalind knew, Portia didn’t do anything but work with some of the charities the Summerhills had been associated with forever. But in the interest of their temporary détente, she kept her thoughts to herself and followed Portia to the study.

Her sister unlocked the door. A few rays of light peeked through the heavy drapes, illuminating the particles of dust floating in the air.

Rosalind strode to the windows. “Do you mind if I open the curtains?”

“I—”

She yanked them open, one by one, until the room was bathed in weak December sun.

“Go ahead,” Portia said sarcastically. Shaking her head, she sat at their father’s desk, almost tentatively. She ran her hands along the top. “John Summerhill, the fourth Earl of Amberlin, brought this desk back from Paris, after his time in the Sixth Coalition. Supposedly, he pillaged it from Napoléon’s home.”

“How do you remember all this?” she asked as she surveyed the wall of books her father probably never touched.

“Father used to tell me the stories. He said I was the only one who understood the value of the Summerhill name, even if I was a female.”

Trust their father to make a compliment also a criticism. Rosalind took the first book off the shelf, flipped the pages to look for any random pieces of paper, and then set it aside.

“When do you think the American is going to come claim his title?” Portia asked, lifting a pen from the desk and inspecting it. “I’m glad that he’s not getting anything more from the estate, especially Suncrest Park. Do you think anyone would mind if I went to live there?”

“Why would you want to live in there?” she asked as she went through another book. “It’s drafty, rundown, and in the middle of nowhere.”

“I love Suncrest Park. I wonder if Mother would let me take the gallery with me.”

“I don’t see why not.” It was full of ancestral portraits, dating back to the first Earl of Amberlin in the 1700s. Rosalind had always hated the gallery. Some people went to great lengths to discover their ancestry and the stories behind their forefathers. Rosalind had always felt eclipsed by hers. Looking at the paintings of generations of Summerhills, she’d always felt their weighty disapproval.

“Father loved those portraits.” Portia sighed, and then she stood up. “Let’s go.”

“What?” Rosalind frowned over her shoulder. “Where?”

“Out of here. I have a historical society meeting to attend today.”

“Then go,” she said as she took another book. Once her sister left, she could go through the desk’s drawers.

Portia shook her head. “You promised you wouldn’t go through Father’s things without me.”

“You aren’t seriously going to lock me out of here, are you?”

“You agreed.” She lifted her chin mulishly.

As Rosalind put the book away, she silently called her sister all sorts of names. But being reasonable was more in her self-interest. “Maybe we can come back after your meeting.”

“Maybe,” Portia said.

Fortunately, the creaking sound of the door locking covered up the grinding of Rosalind’s teeth.

Nick wasn’t answering his phone, so Rosalind decided to search more of the house. Since the study and the earl’s suites were both locked, thanks to her sister, she headed to the gallery.

Normally, Rosalind avoided it at all costs, but she kept hearing Portia’s words in her head.
Father loved those portraits.

Now, she stared at them thoughtfully. Portia was right—their father
had
revered his ancestors. Would he have trusted the will to one of them?

Definitely.

She walked up to the painting of a stern-looking matriarch and reached up to peek behind the frame.

“What are you doing?”

Rosalind looked over her shoulder, surprised to see Viola’s daughter. “Looking for something,” she answered.

Chloe watched her through the feathery bangs that covered her eyes, her garishly bright red lips pursed. Then she said, “The only thing that’s ever behind paintings is hidden money or stolen diamonds.”

Close enough. Rosalind glanced at her niece, wondering how much she knew about what was going on. “Where’s your mum?”