“What are you two whispering about?” Father groused.
“Oh, do be quiet, Harold,” Mother retorted, before she pinched my cheek and murmured, “I’m quite looking forward to the show.”
I narrowed my eyes at her, before I headed down the stairs toward my father. The sheer number of boxes was indicative of one thing—they were moving back here.
Permanently.
Which meant I had to move out, because no way in fuck could I live with either of them again.
Jesus, I hadn’t lived with them permanently since I was a child—I wasn’t about to break the habit now.
“Devlin, my boy,” he declared—like it was a declaration, “it’s bloody good to see you!” His nose crinkled. “I’d get up but the legs aren’t cooperating.”
My mind whirled with plans as I murmured, “No, you shouldn’t have traveled so hard.”
He sighed. “Clarice was right. My plan to die up there was a stupid one.”
“That you planned to die at all was stupidity itself,” Mother intoned like Astleys could cheat death itself.
I had to laugh though. “Plan on living forever?”
“You bet I am,” was her cheerful retort. “When Harold dies, I know my quality of life will improve immeasurably. I intend on haunting you for a good three decades, Devlin.”
“Something to look forward to, I’m sure,” I said wryly.
“Charming,” Father grumbled. “I am here, you know?”
“Oh, I know, but I don’t think you’ll be living for long, not when you tell Devlin who’s also coming to stay.”
I twisted around to glare at him, discomforted to see he was pulling at his collar like it was too tight. Wearing his usual tailored trousers, and a sweater over a custom-fit shirt, he looked the same as always save for his pesky coloring and leaner appearance. He had the same wild hair as I did, but his was gray now, not a lock missing though, and he wore a beard that covered his lips it was that bushy.
The wilds of Cumbria had nothing to his beard.
“What have you done?” I snapped, hands falling to my hips as I glowered down at him.
“Well, her father was only telling me the other day how she missed you,” he sputtered.
“Who?” I growled.
“Catherine Fairweather,” Mother sang out, cackling when I tensed.
“Are you crazy?” I boomed, just as loud as Father, because I’d inherited his pipes. “You invited that insane bitch to come and stay?”
“You didn’t think she was insane at the time—”
I shoved aside his sputtering, “She was good in bed, Father. That was the best of it. But as for the rest, Jesus Christ.” I slid my hand through my hair, agitated to the last, before I growled, “Cancel the visit. Tell her not to come.”
“Can’t do that, dear boy,” Father grumbled. “She’s all excited. We can’t disappoint a lady.”
“And you need your goddamn heir and his spare?” My nostrils flared as I rumbled, “Don’t worry, Father, the second she lands at the front doorstep, I’ll send her away. Don’t worry about offending her father, I’ll do it for you.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort! You and she will make a brilliant match—”
“We won’t,” I snapped, and even as the tangled web of the Astley lineage clutched at me, I felt Micah cutting through them all, forcing through them like he was a cleaner armed with a feather duster. “I’ve already made my decision about who I’ll be spending the rest of my life with, and it isn’t Crazy Catherine Fairweather!”
His eyes glittered. “You’re engaged?”
I scowled at him. “No. I’m not. But I’m with someone.”
“Is she here?” Mother cried, her hands fluttering around like butterflies as she peered around like my imaginary girlfriend would fly into the hall.
“In my room.” I looked up at the staircase, half expecting to find Micah watching me, but he wasn’t.
Which meant he’d chosen to stay in my bedchamber.
And who could blame him?
I’d made him no real promises.
He probably was sneaking into the room my Viscountess should use, about to play the role of a lifetime as my ‘friend’ from work.
The thought had anguish soaring through me, because I could only imagine how he was feeling, and I was the direct cause of that. Even when I’d told him that he could do what he wanted, it could have been misinterpreted. Why hadn’t I just said that I loved him? Told him that I felt no shame in introducing him to my parents?
My heart in shreds, I started toward the staircase, intent on bringing him down, but Father grabbed my hand. “Is she an American? It’ll dilute the lines, boy, but I can deal with that. Do you need the family emeralds from the vault? I can arrange for that immediately—”
Jaw tense, everything inside me wanting to scream, I snapped, “I highly doubt my partner will want to wear the family emeralds—” Although I knew, point blank, Micah would look fabulous in green.
“Not want to wear the family emeralds?” Mother repeated. “Is she mad? Oh God, you’ve got a tree-hugger, haven’t you?” she wailed.
“Not a Vegan?” Father groused.
“No, I haven’t. And no, not a Vegan,” I retorted, irritably, like that’d be the end of the world. My hands furled into fists at my sides as I sought patience and failed to find it. Blowing out a breath, I murmured, “His name is Micah.”
For a second, there was silence in the hall.
The staff, the chauffeur, Hendry, not one of them said a word, none of them even dared to breathe as I recognized that this was not the best place to come out to my parents. Not when the front door was wide open and anyone could overhear me, but I didn’t care.
Didn’t give a fuck.
I just wanted them to stop talking about heirs and family jewels and— Fuck. I just needed them to shut up.
It worked.
My mother’s eyes were round, and Father looked on the verge of apoplexy as he rasped, “Did you say ‘his?’”
“He did,” Mother confirmed. “His name.” She frowned. “Isn’t Mika a girl’s name?”
“I suppose it might be,” I retorted. “But Micah is most definitely not a girl.”
Her mouth formed a perfect circle before she whispered, “Is he in fashion? I’ve always wanted a gay friend in fashion. They’re always so perfectly on trend.”
“Am I in fashion?” I growled, wondering why I was surprised that she’d think of herself at a time like this.
“Well, no, darling, but you’re not gay, are you?” She beamed a smile at me. “You’re one of those—” She wafted her hand again. “You know, those inbetweeners. What do you call it? Bisexual?”
“Bisexual? My son is not bisexual!” Father growled.
“I am,” I ground out, glaring at him.
“You’re not.” He grabbed my hand. “What about the line?”
“Goddamn the bloody line,” I snarled, pulling my fingers from his. “I don’t care about the fucking Astleys. I never have and never will.”