The Reluctant Bride (Arranged Marriage #1)(6)

His smile is faint, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Being agreeable for once. I appreciate that.”

The words are like a slap. A painful reminder that once upon a time, not too long ago, I wasn’t that agreeable. I fought against him, rebelled in the worst way possible, only to be left devastated and broken.

I came home and swore I’d be stronger. I had new rules to follow.

Never trust anyone.

Don’t give away your heart.

Men suck—avoid them at all costs.

I’ve lived by those self-made rules ever since.

“I don’t think you’re giving me much choice,” I say with an edge of defiance in my tone.

The smile fades, his gaze growing stormy. “You’re right. The engagement party is in a week. I’ll send your mother up and you can go shopping for proper attire.”

I glance down at myself. I’m wearing all black—my favorite color. If he thinks I’m going to wear something demure and pastel colored to an engagement party that I never asked for, that’s happening in a week, he’s got another thing coming. “Okay,” I say simply.

“Yes, sir,” he snaps.

I lift my gaze to his, glaring at him. “Yes, sir.”

I make it sound like fuck you. I hope he can tell.

Unfortunately, I don’t think he could. He turns on his heel and storms out of my room, slamming the door behind him.

Doja jumps on my lap the moment he’s gone, purring and rubbing against my hand, seeking affection. I give it to her absently, my mind racing as I grab my phone and go straight to a new browser.

And type in the name Perry Constantine.

Hitting the images tab, all sorts of photos fill my screen. All of a man who looks only a few years older than me, which is confusing.

Perry is such an old-fashioned name. I was half afraid he’d be some old geezer around my father’s age in search of a fresh young wife. Or like Seamus, who was in his late thirties, which at the time seemed so…forbidden.

Clearly I had some daddy issues I was dealing with.

Instead, Perry Constantine is young. Tall. Broad shoulders and golden haired with vivid blue eyes and straight teeth. I know this because he smiles easily. In every single photo—most of them with a different woman by his side, always beautiful, always dressed impeccably, if a little too sexily. He’s grinning as if he’s won the lottery and I’m sure in that particular moment, he felt that way.

Just wait until he meets me. His future wife. I’m a little ball of joy.

Insert sarcasm here.

I get so lost in scrolling through the endless photos of Perry Constantine, I lose track of time, startling when there’s a soft knock on my door, followed by, “May I come in?”

My mother.

“Yes,” I call and the door swings open.

Doja jumps off my lap and crawls under my bed, a low growl emanating from her throat. She really doesn’t like my mother, and I can’t figure out why.

Louisa Lancaster cuts an elegant figure no matter where she’s at or what she’s doing. For instance, she’s currently in her “spending the day at home” attire, which is a cream-colored cashmere crewneck sweater and matching cashmere pants. A thin gold chain dangles from her neck and she flutters her hands, the giant diamonds on her fingers flashing and twinkling in the light.

“Are you excited?” she asks, clasping her hands together and tucking them under her chin as she studies me.

“About my impending marriage I only just found out about, to a complete stranger?” I roll my eyes. “Absolutely thrilled.”

Mother drops her hands, disappointment etched all over her face. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I know it’s not quite what you envisioned for your future, but your father is giving us no choice. The deal is done. He thought this was the best way for you to find someone after the other…failed attempts.”

Failed attempts? I can only think of the one. Did they really believe I would go to Paris and find my future husband? That’s hard to believe.

Instead, I met a darkly handsome charmer who sweet-talked me right out of my panties after only a couple of months of what I believed to be harmless flirting and endless conversations about Parisian architecture.

God, what a mess I made.

And we can’t forget my debutante ball. My father believed the finest young men Manhattan had to offer would be lining up to date me upon my debut. After that disastrous night, not a one of them came calling.

Is that even a thing?

My negative vibe that evening didn’t help my chances. I didn’t want to be there, and I made it painfully obvious. I didn’t want to go through the entire spectacle, knowing I would undoubtedly fail. That no one would be interested in me. I was only going through the motions to make my parents happy, and besides, it was expected of me because I’m a Lancaster.

What they’ve discovered is I’m the most boring Lancaster to ever exist.

The last year has been peaceful. Quiet. No one has asked me to do anything, and I love it. I fend for myself. I spend time with the servants and enjoy their company. I’ve read enough books to fuel my rather fervent imagination. I’ve dabbled in writing. Mostly poetry.

I like my solitary existence. I don’t need something like a freaking husband to mess that up.

Once my father makes up his mind, he won’t budge. He believes this is my only recourse, and he won’t let me back out of it. And if it’s messed up somehow, and we don’t go through with the marriage, it’ll end up being my fault.