An Irresistible Bachelor(22)
Her ascent was something she was no doubt proud of, but it was only a victory of appearances. Though her determination had carried her to heights of wealth and social power she hadn't dared dream of as a child, nothing could change the fact that she'd been born into the working class. Jack had always thought it was a truth she despaired of even though no one else seemed to think twice about her modest beginnings, at least not in her immediate family. In fact, Nathaniel Six had regarded the wife he'd transformed into the toast of Boston society as a badge of honor.
Frankly, Jack didn't know how she'd withstood all those years of condescending affection.
The trade-off, though, was one hell of a lifestyle.
As he went down to his bedroom, he was convinced that Mercedes and Callie had a humble start in common. It made him wonder why, assuming Callie could have used the money, she'd turned him down twice before accepting his generous job offer.
He paused outside of her door. While he was trying to see through the wood, his mother's voice drifted down the hall.
"What are you doing?"
He wanted to snap at her to leave him the hell alone. Instead, he went over to his own door and said smoothly, "I thought we already said good night."
"Jackson."
"What?"
"She's not your kind, Jackson."
He shot a glare down the hall. Mercedes was standing under the light at the head of the stairs, her face drawn in dramatic shadows, her cheeks hollow, her lips painted red with the lipstick she always wore.
When he didn't reply, she spoke with urgency. "You must always remember. You carry the Walker legacy."
"You don't need to remind me of that. Not when I'm cutting all the checks to keep it alive."
He was opening his door as she came down the hall at him. "I heard about Blair tonight. Why didn't you tell me yourself?"
Jack crossed his arms over his chest, trying to think who she could have heard it from. They hadn't kept the engagement a secret, but there had been no wide announcement, either.
"It really isn't relevant," he said.
"You're getting married. Of course it's relevant." Her eyes started to light up with an enthusiasm that exhausted him. "When is the date?"
Ah, yes, the precise question he wanted to avoid. He told himself this was because he didn't want his mother meddling in his and Blair's affairs, but the image of Callie flashed in his mind and wouldn't leave.
"We haven't decided."
Mercedes frowned. "Have you made announcement arrangements yet? What about the papers?"
"I haven't contacted them."
She smiled. "Well, no worry. I'll call tomorrow—”
"No, you won't."
"Jackson, this is—”
"None of your business, Mother."
She rolled her shoulders back and arched her elegant brows. "Well."
Jack smiled grimly while the silence stretched between them.
If she wanted to wait for him to give her free rein with the planning, she'd be sleeping out in the hall, he thought.
Mercedes's chin rose. "No announcement, no date. Why did you bother to ask her to marry you?"
As he refused to entertain the question, he watched a subtle triumph flare in his mother's eyes and thought her accuracy for finding vulnerable points was a gift. For her, at any rate. He supposed that everyone needed a hobby and his mother's favorite one was exposing people's weaknesses.
Though why the hell she couldn't take up knitting like every other seventy-year-old was a crying shame. After all, she'd still get to use needles.
"Sleep well, Mother," he said, stepping into his room.
"Please, Jack." The aggression drained from her face, revealing an impotency she must have despised feeling. "I only want to help."
"Then let us handle it. We'll let you know if we need you." He shut the door firmly.
Chapter 7
Callie came awake with a jerk. She had the eerie sense she was being watched, and when she rolled over, she ran into a furry face and a lolling pink tongue.
"What the—”
Bolting upright, it took her a moment to remember where she was and that Arthur had stayed with her during the night. His tail wagged shyly, as if he was dismayed and a little hurt by her reaction.