“Sherbourne,” he says, coming down to shake my hand, and I blink for a second.
Isn’t that the name of the castle we’re going to? So why is he—
Oh, right. Sherbourne is not his first name—it’s his title. The Marquess of Sherbourne. The castle we’re supposed to be going to later is his.
Crap, how do you greet a marquess? Your Grace? No, that’s for dukes. God, I really should’ve read Glynnis’s stupid folder. I promise myself that I’ll study it religiously once we actually get to the castle.
But before I have to say anything in reply, another guy appears in the farmhouse doorway, a bottle in his hand, his golden hair tousled in a way that seems too perfect not to be on purpose. “We call him Sherbet,” this new blond boy says, winking at me in a way that immediately has my face feeling hot. Seriously, what sort of pheromones do these guys exude?
Sherbourne—Sherbet, I guess—elbows the blond guy, then inclines his head toward me. “Forgive Gilly here, he was raised in a barn and therefore has no manners.”
“Gilly?” I repeat, and the blond guy shakes my hand as well.
“Andrew McGillivray,” he says, and then he gestures for us to all go inside.
The farmhouse has stone floors and truly massive furniture, plus a fireplace so big that I can only assume people once roasted elephants in it. There’s a fire crackling happily there now, and the back of the room is basically one giant window looking out into the valley.
I go to the window now, staring down at all those green rolling hills, shadows moving, the light constantly shifting. There are sheep down there in the valley, little white puffballs milling around. As far as wedding presents go, this one is pretty nice, I have to admit, and I’m smiling when I turn away from the window.
Aaaand nearly smack right into another guy. Seriously, how many cute boys can one farmhouse hold?
This one puts out his hands to steady me. He’s got dark blond hair, almost brown, and the best set of cheekbones I’ve ever seen on anyone who wasn’t a statue. Like all these dudes, he looks kind of like a romantic poet who decided to join a boy band, his eyes very green as they look down at me.
With . . . dislike?
Seriously, his upper lip is nearly curling, which is such a weird reaction that I step back.
He’s taller than Sherbet and Gilly, but not that much taller than me. Not that that’s stopping him from looking down his nose at me as he drops his hands from my arms. “All right, then?” he asks, his voice lower than the other boys’, but every bit as posh. Those syllables are clipped and crisp as he looks past me toward the window.
And then, suddenly, I realize why he looks familiar.
“Monaco!” I blurt out, and he blinks in confusion.
“No, Monters,” Gilly says, coming up to us and smacking a hand on the other guy’s shoulder. “Miles Montgomery, professional prat,” he says, but he’s grinning, and Miles doesn’t seem all that offended.
“She means that incident with Sebastian,” he says, and I am so embarrassed I feel like I have to be the same color as my hair.
“I did some research,” I say, which really only makes the whole thing worse, and Gilly snorts with amusement.
“God, if you were reading up on Seb’s foibles, I’m surprised you came here at all.”
But Monters is watching me with this unreadable expression. All the guys here are handsome, but this guy is particularly . . . interesting. All handsome face and good posture, his eyes a really pretty shade of green. Sherbet may be the marquess, but this guy seems more aristocratic than any of them.
Or maybe he’s just stuck up.
“Wasn’t aware tabloids counted as ‘research,’” Miles says, folding his arms over his chest, and okay, yeah, definitely stuck up.
I cross my own arms, mimicking his pose. “They’re actually all we’re given to read in America,” I say. “Tabloids for books, sad slices of cheese in plastic for lunch . . . It’s truly a godforsaken place.”
Gilly hoots at that, elbowing Miles in the ribs. “Blimey, she’s got your number, mate.”
Miles only gives me this look somewhere between a smirk and a grimace, and I’m tempted to ask what his problem is.
But before I can, Seb strides to the middle of the room, lifting a glass of champagne. “A toast!” he calls, and Sherbet approaches carrying several flutes of bubbly. I take a glass and thank him.
Ellie comes to stand right next to me, while Alex hangs back, still watching his brother with this wary expression, his head tilted down slightly.
“To Alex and Ellie,” Seb says, and the rest of us lift our glasses with him.
“To Alex and Ellie,” we repeat, and I take the tiniest sip of champagne. The bubbles tickle my nose, and I wrinkle it as I look for somewhere inconspicuous to stash the glass.
I’ve just turned toward a little table near the sofa when the front door opens with a crash.
“What in the hell is going on here?”
Or at least I think that’s what the man in the doorway says. His face is red, white hair jutting out from underneath a cap and a matching white beard reaching nearly to his sternum, and his accent is so thick that the words are mostly a series of rolls and grunts and a kind of spitting sound.
Still, there’s no mistaking the fact that he’s really pissed.
In the middle of the room, Seb just grins and wags a finger. “McDougal,” he says, his own Scottish accent musical but comprehensible. “You weren’t supposed to be here today.”
“What?” Ellie asks, looking between Seb and the man, and Alex steps forward, his shoulders tight. “Sebastian—” he starts.
The man—McDougal—is still talking, the words coming fast and furious, his cheeks scarlet above his white beard, and there’s a lot of pointing and possibly cursing, and while I have no idea what’s being said, it doesn’t seem all that friendly.
“Calm down, mate,” Stephen—Spiffy—says, throwing back his champagne. “It’s not like he’s not gonna pay for the place.”
Ellie’s head swings to the side to look at Seb. “Wait, what? I thought you said you bought this house.”
Sighing, Seb shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “Well, I’m certainly going to,” he says. “If this gentleman will just be reasonable.”
“Um . . . are we . . . trespassing? Is that what’s happening right now?” I ask, glancing around the farmhouse.
Seb shoots a look at me and gives me an easy smile. “Of course not, love,” he says, and even though I might be an unwitting accomplice to a crime, I still feel my stomach flutter at that endearment.