The Accidental Countess (The Aristocrat Diaries 3)

“Why do you have three denim jackets? Why does anyone need three denim jackets?”

“They’re all different shades of denim. See? One blue, one bleached, and one black.”

“Fair enough, but why do you have two identical waterproofs?”

I picked one of them up. “I lost one, so bought another, then found the original.”

“Do both need to come?”

I stared at them for a moment before I handed him one of them.

He took it with a sigh. “We’re not going to have to do this for every item, are we?”

I glanced into the wardrobe.

“This is going to be one long-ass day, isn’t it?”

CHAPTER SEVEN

EVA

“Twenty-five years they gave him!” Mum’s high-pitched tone of disbelief made the line crackle. “Twenty-five years in jail!”

I trapped the phone between my ear and my shoulder as I got the milk out of the fridge to pour into my cup of tea. “Well, that is the going rate for murder these days, Mum.”

“Oh, please. Edmund didn’t mean to murder him.”

“He bashed the man’s skull in with a hammer. Four times. What do you think he was trying to do? Shake his hand? Plait his hair? Play basketball?” I put the milk back in the fridge. “I know you were fond of Edmund when we were kids but come on. You can’t make excuses for that.”

She was silent for a moment. “It wasn’t premeditated.”

“Oh, well, as long as he didn’t plan it, I suppose it’s all right.” I rolled my eyes, thankful she couldn’t see me.

If I’d done that in front of her, it would have earned me a clip around the ear.

“Evangeline, are you rolling your eyes at me?”

“No, Mum.”

“Just because you have a fancy new title now doesn’t mean I won’t drive up there and clip you around the back of the head for your attitude.”

Sure.

I was twenty-eight, married, and probably going to be a mother in the next twelve months, but apparently, I was still good for a sharp slap by my mum.

“Attitude? What attitude, Mum? I’d never give you attitude.”

“You’re full of crap, Evangeline. How is dear Matthew?”

Dear Matthew, my arse.

“He’s fine, Mum.”

“Are you looking after him?”

“I just made him a cup of tea,” I lied, stirring mine. I’d said it purely to appease her.

I wasn’t even sure he was awake yet. It wasn’t like we shared the same room or anything, and his door had still been shut when I’d come down here.

Heck, I wasn’t even sure I knew how to be a wife. It’d only been four days since the wedding, and it didn’t exactly come with an instruction manual. It would have been handy, though. Slipped in there with your marriage certificate, you know?

101 Ways To Wife In The 21st Century.

Actually, sod the marriage certificate. I’d pay good money for that.

In e-book and hardback.

“All right. Do try to come and see us soon, dear.”

“We will, Mum,” I lied again. Northwest Wales to Somerset was a long drive. We’d only just done the reverse, and I wasn’t too enthused about doing the damn thing again. “I’ll call you later this week. Bye.”

“Okay, dear. Bye now. Bye, bye, bye.”

She finally hung up after the sixth iteration of the word, leaving me shaking my head.

Why must we Brits say goodbye fifty times when once was quite sufficient? It was the same as when we needed to leave. It was almost always preceded by a slap of the hands to the thighs followed by, “Right. I must be off.”

“Strange,” I mused out loud, cradling my mug of tea.

“What’s strange?” Matthew strolled into the kitchen wearing a white shirt tucked into a pair of perfectly ironed black trousers. His shirt was open at the collar, and his black tie hung open around his neck.

“Nothing,” I replied, lifting my mug to sip my tea. “Just thinking out loud.”

He smiled over his shoulder at me as he pulled a mug down from the upper cabinet. “Don’t let me interrupt you.”

“It wasn’t anything terribly exciting.”

“I heard voices down here. Was that you?”

“Oh, yes, sorry. Mum called. I didn’t disturb you, did I?”

“Not at all.” He put a teabag into the mug, two spoons of sugar, then poured in the hot water from the kettle. “I wondered if Christopher was here yet.”

“If he is, I haven’t seen him,” I replied.

Christopher was the butler-come-cook at Castell Menai—Menai Castle in English. It was Matthew’s ancestral home close to the bank of the Menai Strait, the stretch of water that separated the Isle of Anglesey from mainland Wales. It had been in the family for more than five hundred years, passed down to each male heir as they assumed the title of The Earl of Anglesey.

It was weird.

I wasn’t quite used to being called “milady” yet, so thank God Matthew’s house was more informal than other aristocratic ones and Christopher referred to me as Eva, like I preferred.