It should come as no surprise that I asked this question. Momma never misses an opportunity to remind me how I’ve spent my youth gallivanting around Charleston like a hellion instead of a proper Southern lady trying to find a husband.
“Pardon me?”
“Did you tell Miles to give me a dowry with outlandish stipulations? He would never think of somethin’ like this on his own.”
“I did no such thing, and you’ll do well to remember that. What your brother decided to place in his will was done of his own volition. I couldn’t control his actions any more than I can control that mouth of yours,” she replies and continues to the second floor.
Ignoring Momma’s retort, I follow her up the stairs. “If you’re in charge of Miles’s estate, then surely you can have this rescinded.”
“No,” she replies at the top of the landing.
I rear back. “No?”
“No,” she repeats. “I will respect your brother’s wishes and support this decision no matter how unexpected it may be. Perhaps you should try to do the same.”
“You want me to marry for money?”
“I married your father for money, and he was the great love of my life.”
At the mention of Daddy, a small bit of anger goes out of me. “Be that as it may, not everyone is that lucky.”
“You could be lucky if you gave someone a chance.”
“Perhaps. But we’ll never know because I refuse this dowry.”
Momma closes her eyes and rubs her temples before she replies. “Raina, I have more concernin’ matters at hand. I will not fight this decision, or with you. This entire day has been very tryin’ on my spirit. Please send for someone to bring a restorative beverage to my private quarters immediately.”
Momma doesn’t wait for my reply. She allows her cryptic words to hang above me. Today was tiresome for us all. I should step back from this twisted situation and take a deep breath because, at the end of the day, all Momma and I have now are each other. I hear her door shut and close my eyes.
I don’t need the dowry. The money is of no importance to me, and I don’t need a husband. What I need is a miracle. Or for my brother to come back and explain this all to me, and since that isn’t going to happen, I need to think of a practical alternative. There’s someone out there who is very much alive.
Someone who I didn’t see today but who owes me answers.
That person is none other than Livingston Lacroix.
Immediately, I act and turn toward the front door. Stanley opens the door for me, but then I remember I don’t have the will, so I quickly turn on my heels and rush back to the dining room. I snatch it from the table, and when I do, my eyes snag on the words Livingston and dowry and husband.
I snort and say very quietly, “The day you become my executor is the day I become your wife.”
CHAPTER THREE
Livingston
In the midst of the raucous laughter and crude wisecracks, a persistent pounding on the front door gives me a sense of déjà vu from yesterday. Are Étienne and Serene back? No, they can’t be. Since they’ve had Alex, the two of them have retreated to Belgrave. Once the sun falls, they’re in for the night.
Whoever it may be will either stop or find their way inside.
The entire first floor of my home is filled with bodies. Many faces I’m just seeing for the first time, but I’ve never met a person I didn’t like. Especially with liquor coursing through my veins. The more, the merrier!
I ignore the knocking, mainly because I’m being a lazy bastard, and eventually, it subsides. I become convinced whoever is there has given up and take another drink from the bottle in my hands.
And then, the infuriating pounding renews once again. Muttering every curse word I know in my mind, I give my apologies to my guests. They’re so foxed they don’t notice my absence.
My body feels warm, my muscles relaxed as I saunter toward the front door. Now this, this is why I drink. I could face my demons right now without armor and a battle plan, and win the fight.
I could. If my demons would come out and face me.
“Open this door, Livingston Lacroix. I know you’re inside!”
I recognize that voice. I’m beginning to regret letting go of my butler, Charles. If he was here, I’d have him politely rebuff Rainey Pleasonton.
With a half-empty bottle of whiskey in one hand, I open the door while Rainey’s fist is midair, ready to land against the hard grain of the oak door. When she sees me, I have the pleasure of watching her momentarily lurch forward. She gains her balance and straightens her spine. Crossing my arms, I dip my head in acknowledgment. The bottle of alcohol dangles from one hand. “Le savauge.”
I’ve called Rainey le savauge since she was a little girl simply because she’s ferocious and untamed. Her tongue was as sharp as her mind. Her confidence as big as her opinions.
The world was a small, simple place against her strong will.
Within seconds, a red flush stains her cheeks. “Rainey. My name is Rainey.”
“When you’ve had the number of nicknames you’ve had, is your name Rainey?” I counter with a half-smirk.
She doesn’t return the smile. A guest laughs, grabbing Rainey’s attention. Standing on her tiptoes, she tries to peer inside the house. I know she’s furiously counting the many people spilling into the foyer in her head. I step in front of her, blocking her view.
Growing up, that was an easier feat but not any longer. As a child, she was skinny and far shorter with large, almond-shaped eyes that were disproportionate to her small features.
But now, at twenty-eight, Rainey Pleasonton has grown into her features. For a woman, she’s tall and lithe. Her eyes, the color of cognac, now perfectly complement her.
She appears so delicate. Perhaps some men would find her pleasing on the eyes. But then she opens her mouth, and the pleasing feeling fades.
“My apologies for bein’ so sensitive, Limp Lacroix.” She gives my leg she once used for target practice a pointed look.
“Did you come here tonight to trade nicknames?”
“No. I need to speak to you regardin’ a matter of utmost importance.” Abruptly, she stops speaking. Her eyes become shuttered, and it’s plain to see why. The woman who was kissing my neck and whispering all the indecent things she wanted to do to me moments ago has interrupted us. I blink at her rapidly. When she entered my home, she told me her name. I’m sure of it. I can’t remember what it was. I’m almost certain it starts with an L.
Lydia? Or was it Lillian?
Rainey arches a dark brow and inspects Lydia/Lillian with a regal stare. One that dares her to utter a word in her presence.
Rainey’s confidence fiercely clings to her, and when it’s not being directed toward me, it can be highly entertaining to watch. For Lydia/Lillian, she’s too busy clinging to me to notice.
“Well, I am so sorry, Livingston. I can see you’re terribly busy.” Disdain drips from Rainey’s words.
Lydia/Lillian tugs on my hand. She’s ready to retreat to the party, but I’m more curious about what le savauge wants. Grinning at her, I discreetly step away from Lydia/Lillian. She’ll stay, but Rainey won’t. Rainey never does. And so as baffling as I find Rainey Pleasonton, it’s important to remember every interaction with her. There’s always a hidden message with her.