Page 27 of Seal My Fate

Now, I realize that’s not all we might be tearing down.

His future. His family’s place in history. One of the oldest and most prestigious names in the British aristocracy.

The Ashford legacy. Saint’s future legacy.

I gulp.

He’s always said he didn’t want any part of it. He’s spent the last ten years running in the opposite direction: idling at Oxford, dabbling with academia, fine wines, and women to pass the time. But the end result was never really in doubt. In the end, it would all be his: the land, the wealth, and the title—whether he wants it or not.

The Duke of Ashford.

I thinkof the turrets and grounds at Ashford Manor, those somber family portraits lining the grand hall, all the way back for centuries. Saint was supposed to be the next of them, safeguarding their achievements for a new generation—instead of tearing them down.

What will he be left with, once we’ve blown the scandal at Ashford Pharma wide open? Does he even realize what he’s risking here?

“You guys should see the way he looks at her,” Annabelle declares, still gushing about me and Saint. “He’s totally smitten. It’s the cutest thing. I bet they’re next down the aisle…”

Fiona snorts. “Sorry, but I just can’t imagine it,” she trills smugly. “You can’t get a leopard to change his spots, and all that.”

Before I can speak up to defend Saint, Imogen does. “You mean like Dickie?” she asks sweetly.

Fiona shoots her a sharp look before quickly covering it with a laugh. “Of course, getting them to pop the question has never been your problem, has it, Immie?” Fiona smirks. “You know this one is a runaway bride, don’t you?” she adds to me. “What’s it now, five broken engagements?”

“Three,” Imogen replies casually, still lounging there, sipping champagne like she doesn’t see the claws coming out.

I blink. Imogen has never mentioned her dating life, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that she has men lined up to sweep her off her feet.

“We lose count, you see,” Fiona continues merrily. “She just can’t make up her mind. I heard poor Harold is still devastated. Harold Caruthers, Esquire. Thethird,” she explains. “Fabulously loaded, such a sweet man, head over heels for her. Imogen here broke his heart.”

“The man proposed after three dates,” Imogen says dryly. “It’ll mend. In fact, why don’t you give poor Harold a call?” she adds sweetly. “It sounds as if he’s closer to commitment than dear Dickie. He’ll give you a drawer for your knickers, at least.”

Fiona’s eyes flash, but before she can say something else catty, Annabelle speaks up. “My toes are wrinkling; I think it’s time for afternoon tea! Cyrus booked us the solarium at Sketch, isn’t that sweet?”

“So sweet!” the others coo, and thankfully, a catfight is avoided.

After showeringand changing at the spa, we reconvene for the fleet of specially hired Rolls Royces to chauffer us to the next stop on our bachelorette train. I ride with Imogen and stick by her as we take our seats in the tearoom, where we’re served a dizzying array of cakes, finger sandwiches, and of course, more champagne. It’s a cool, modern restaurant, and the entire room is more like an art installation, done up like a woodland glen, with real moss on the floor and branches looming overhead, laced with real blossoms and flowers. Annabelle is in heaven, and insists on a half-hour photo shoot, posing around the room.

I hang back, digging into the food. “Fiona seems to have it out for you,” I murmur to Imogen, watching the other woman preen and check their reflections.

“Fifi? Oh, she’s held a grudge since boarding school, when I beat her out for Lady MacBeth in the summer play.” Imogen rolls her eyes. “And everyone knows Dickie is dragging her along now. He’ll shape up eventually and marry her, it’s not like he has any better options, but she won’t forget the humiliation of having to wait.”

“Sounds like a recipe for a long and happy marriage,” I quip, and Imogen laughs.

“I know, it must all seem terribly mercenary from the outside. We’re a few generations past pre-contracts and arranged marriages, but not everything has changed. We’re still raised to marry someone from the same social circle, the right background, to continue on the family line.”

“But you haven’t,” I point out. “Although you’ve clearly had the offers.”

Imogen exhales. “No, I haven’t. Not yet. Maybe I’m simply delaying the inevitable, but I like to hope there’s a little more for me in the world than Harold Caruthers, Esquire.”

“The third,” I add dryly, and she smiles.

“How could I forget? No, the truth is, I’d rather build my own empire than sit back, and wait for some man to inherit his.”

“Your party-planning business,” I nod.

“Right. That.”

I see a flash of a cryptic smile on Imogen’s face, but then it’s smoothed away as Annabelle joins us, hurling herself into the booth with her empty champagne glass waving in the air. “More bubbles, please!” she beams.

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