About Last Night

She smiled. “So you’re new money. That’s good. I don’t think I could handle being married to an aristocrat.”

“Hmm. Perhaps this is the time to admit my father is a lord.”

Her stomach clenched. “Please tell me that was a very bad joke.”

“He’s only a baron, darling. There are loads of them.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Does this mean I should be calling you ‘Lord Chamberlain’?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s my father’s title, and even he only uses it on ceremonial occasions. At any event, Winston is the one who will inherit it. I’ll remain a nobody.”

The thought of Nev passing as a nobody amused her. There was about as much chance of that happening as of her passing as the sort of well-bred girl he was destined to marry.

Yikes.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about the title sooner. What else aren’t you telling me? Do you live in a castle?”

“No,” he said, his dimple showing.

“Do you have a tight-lipped butler?”

“No.”

“How about a domineering housekeeper? A frowsy cook who tipples in the sherry?”

“No. You watch too much television.” When she frowned, he brushed the back of his hand across

her cheek. “Quit worrying, sweetheart. You’ll be perfect.”

At least his mother opened the door herself, Cath thought a few minutes later. The house was huge, an English manor straight off the pages of a novel. Cath had given Nev a look with daggers in it when they pulled into the half-moon at the end of the driveway, but he’d remained unfazed, simply smiling and saying, “Welcome to Leyton, darling.”

Evita Chamberlain didn’t look a bit like her son. She was all sharp angles and flat planes: tall, thin, and fashionable, she reminded Cath of Cruella de Vil. His father, on the other hand, was an older, softer version of Nev.

While Cruella fussed over Nev’s arrival in shrill tones of delight, the baron was quiet, taking it all in. But his eyes were kinder, more welcoming than the quick, flat glance she’d gotten from Mum. If I have to choose, I pick Dad.

“But Neville, we’re being unforgivably rude,” his mother said eventually, turning to Cath. “Won’t you introduce us to your guest?”

“Of course.” He snaked his arm around Cath’s waist, drawing her forward to stand next to him. “Cath, I’d like you to meet my parents, Richard and Evita Chamberlain. Mother, Father, allow me to present my wife, Mary Catherine Talarico.”

Surprise wiped the Chamberlains’ faces blank, and for a long moment there was no sound in the entry hall but the air moving in and out of her lungs. Presumably, everyone else had quit breathing. Cath braced herself for the shouting that would surely follow, but second after second ticked by, and the silence took on a life of its own. Was this how they handled the unforseen in Nev’s family? It was so chilly. Utterly foreign to her.

Brazen it out. “Chamberlain,” she said, breaking the silence. “It’s Mary Catherine Chamberlain now, darling.” And she smiled up at Nev as if blissfully unaware that he’d just dropped a bomb.

“Right, love. I’m not used to it yet. We were only married Wednesday,” he explained for his parents’ benefit.

Cath readied the explanation she and Nev had agreed on—that they’d married at the registry office, wanting the ceremony to be quiet and private, just between the two of them—but the conversation dropped dead all over again. If she and Nev had been in Chicago, her aunt Nina would have asked a dozen questions by now, and her uncle Pete would have either thrown a punch or broken out the alcohol. Cath didn’t know what to think about all this polite silence.

Evita had managed to plaster her social mask back in place, and she smiled icily at Cath. “Well, it sounds like we have a lot of catching up to do. Let’s get settled in the parlor, where we can talk properly.” She began leading the way, her heels tapping on the marble floor.

Richard spoke, bringing her to a halt. “I think congratulations are in order first.” He offered his hand to Nev and gave it a hearty shake. “Married. I can scarcely believe it.” Pulling Cath into a loose approximation of a hug, he said over her shoulder, “And to such a lovely bride. Welcome to the family, Mary Catherine.”

“Please, call me Cath. Only Nev calls me Mary Catherine, and he does it just to tease me.”

Evita had no choice but to follow suit. She hugged her son and planted an air kiss on either side of Cath’s face, saying, “Congratulations, to be sure. I’m so looking forward to our getting better acquainted.”

The grip of her fingers on Cath’s shoulders was not the least bit friendly.

The parlor looked like it had been plucked from a Jane Austen novel, uncomfortable Regency settees and all. She couldn’t possibly sit in this room. The furniture belonged in a museum. Stalling, she escaped to the bathroom to “freshen up.” It seemed the best way to describe clutching the vanity top and taking deep breaths until she’d convinced herself she wasn’t about to lose her lunch.