Forevermore

by Cristiane Serruya

  Success, however, had so far eluded Siobhan. But it was more because of her stubbornness than for the lack of talent. When she finished Birmingham School of Jewelry, she’d had her cut of the offered jobs, but none had appealed to her highly creative streak. So, she went back to her foster parents’ house and she worked every hour she could for a catering company, saving every penny, with high hopes of a better future. She still struggled to pay her bills and be independent since she was still a server and had yet to have her talent recognized.

  “I wish we could go out and celebrate” Jaxon said.

  “I wish too, but you know I can’t. I begged for an extra shift, so I can’t very well say that I changed my mind. Besides, I think they let me have the extra hours sort of as a birthday gift.”

  “I know. Don’t forget I’m staying over at Aunt Moira’s,” Jaxon reminded her.

  At the thought of her foster aunt who had Alzheimer’s, Siobhan stopped admiring her car and looked up. “How is she?”

  “About as well as can be expected. It’s not like she’s going to get any better.” Jaxon kissed her cheek and said, “Go, or you’ll be late. And find yourself a nice, rich, single young man tonight, huh?”

  Siobhan just laughed and shook her head at him.

  Her mother’s volatile relationships with a long line of men who had treated both of them badly had left their mark on Siobhan even at a young age. She had known even then that she wanted something different for herself, something more than casual sex with men who didn’t want to commit, contribute to the home, or play any real part in a child’s upbringing. And she didn’t want to be hurt, either. With the exception of Jaxon, the sort of men Siobhan had met in the years that took her to adulthood had merely increased her wariness and distrust of the opposite sex.

  When her mother died, her grandmother had put her up for adoption. The nine year-old Siobhan had never quite recovered from the simple fact that her own flesh and blood had handed her over to social services simply because she was illegitimate and, even worse, she was the embarrassing proof of her mother’s affair with a married man.

  Siobhan had lived a tumultuous young life with constant change, broken relationships, and plenty of insecurity until she moved in with the Talbots at the age of fourteen.

  When Jaxon’s parents’ died, one quickly following the other in the space of one week, he had invited her to continue living with him and even offered the servant’s quarters in the back garden for her to have more privacy, which she had readily accepted with glee. After some refurbishment, it turned into a one-bedroom apartment, with just enough space for a bed, an armchair with a side table, and a special desk with multiple mini-drawers, where she kept her materials and crafted her jewels.

  But, even now, at the age of twenty-two, the sheer hurt of that unapologetic rejection by her grandmother had made Siobhan not seek contact with her birth relations again. She had blocked out the memories of the early years of her life. Not even wanting to think about it, she cleared her mind of such thoughts. There’s no point in dwelling on these recollections.

  But even as she hummed a song under her breath as she got ready for work, there was still a sense of loss that had settled in her chest.

  Chapter 2

  London, Mayfair

  Lektenstaten Embassy

  5:00 p.m.

  * * *

  Angus was not surprised to see that his aunt, Princess Aileen, his father’s sister, and his only direct cousin, Princess Fiona, were also present when he entered his mother’s private apartments in the Lektenstaten embassy. Nor was he surprised to see they were all dressed up in long gowns and styled hair-dos, since his mother had always insisted—ordered, really—that they all change into formal attire for dinner.

  What surprised him, was the fact that there was none of his mother’s usual entourage, and that didn’t bode well for him.

  “I felt that it was time to talk to you,” Catriona murmured, with a meaningful look at her only son after the drinks were served by a prim waiter.

  Angus rose a black brow. “About what, exactly?”

  “You’ve been a widower for a year now,” Aileen answered.

  So they remembered. “Is there a point to that obvious statement?” Angus enquired dryly.

  “You’ve spent enough time in mourning to satisfy social conventions. It’s time to think of remarrying,” his mother informed him.

  Incredulously, Angus studied the woman who had sent him to an English boarding school at the age of five and remained impervious to his tear-stained letters begging to be allowed to come home. “I don’t agree.”

  Fiona, his much younger cousin, chimed in, “It’s not as if we are asking you to replace Innes, Angus. But—”

  “But you must put the family’s unbroken line of inheritance first,” Catriona declared with ridiculous gravity. “There is presently no heir to the title or the estate but your cousin, who hasn’t found a prospective bridegroom yet.”

  He noticed Fiona flinched and looked down at her tomato juice. “Mother—”

  “You are thirty-six years old,” Catriona continued on her theme, with the stubborn insensitivity of a woman determined to have her say. “When Innes died we all learned how fragile and fickle life can be. What if something similar were to happen to you? You must remarry and father an heir, my son.”

  He had no need of such reminders. All his life he had been made aware daily of the many responsibilities he would have when he grew up. He was raised in the same antiquated traditions as his ancestors were to put duty and honor and family first. He had never known an hour of freedom from the weighty burden of expectations that accompanied his privileged social status and great wealth.

  For Christ’s sake! “I’m aware of those facts, but I’m not ready to take another wife,” he retorted crisply.

  “I thought it would be helpful if we drew up a list of potential brides to help you,” Catriona contended, with a wide smile that struck her angry son as bordering on manic.

  Angus flattened his mouth into a line that would have encouraged a less determined opponent to drop the subject.

  His aunt Aileen, however, would not be silenced. She put forward a candidate from a family as rich and royal as their own.

  Angus dealt her a look of scorn.

  His mother quickly added a name of her own and explained, “She’s a young widow, related to the Queen, and she already has a son.”

  Ah, a proven fertility record. An expression of unhidden distaste crossed Angus’s classic dark features—talks of fertility records reminded him of livestock breeding. Yet, he knew exactly why that point was being made.

  When Aileen suggested the very young—barely a woman and a virgin, according to her—daughter of a personal friend as being perfect bride material, Angus almost laughed out loud.

  “We’ll hold a party and invite some suitable women,” Catriona announced. “But not the teenager, Aileen. I really don’t think so young a woman would be appropriate. Your bride needs to be mature, well-versed in etiquette, educated and socially accomplished, as well as being from a suitable background.”

  “I will not attend any such party,” Angus declared without hesitation. “I have no intention of remarrying at this point in time.”

  Fiona gave him an apologetic look and tried to soften the idea, which had been discussed at length already. “But at least if you go to the party you might meet someone you like, and you could even fall in love.”

  “Thankfully, Angus has no nonsense of that variety in his head,” Catriona countered in a deflating tone of ice. “Marriage is a matter of business.”

  She sounds as if she is living in the last century. “That’s enough, Mother.” Angus decreed, implacable outrage at their comments igniting steadily beneath his cool façade. “There will be no party.”

  He could hardly believe that his own relations could be so crass—or rather, crazy.

  But then the extreme formality and reserve that his mother had always insist
ed on had driven wedges of polite behavior between them all, as if they were strangers, as if their lives were ruled by last century’s rules, as if bearing an heir for their country was more important than being happy human beings.

  “We are only thinking of you and what is best for Lektenstaten,” Catriona murmured sweetly.

  “I know what is best for me, ma’am, and this is a personal matter where I’ll allow no interfering— yours or anyone else’s.” He stood up, his face rigidly controlled to conceal his disgust at his own family, and stared steadily back at the women. “When and if I remarry, I will choose my own wife as it seems people do in this century. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Princesses, Mother, I must attend a wedding.”

  He had done his duty by his country once and unfortunately his marriage bore no fruits, but not for lack of trying.

  When he did remarry—because there was no if, in his case—he would do as his father had done.

  When King Augustus Maximus Braxton-Lenox married for the second time, his first act after what had been the shortest honeymoon on earth, was to take his eighteen-year old bride to a clinic and impregnate her with an artificial treatment. Hell yeah, because who would have stomached planting a life in such a cold woman?

  As he was well aware, not only from experience, but also by watching his parents, marriage could be a most challenging situation, even for those who might think they are very well matched as a couple.

  Now, all he wanted was a bit of freedom.

  London, Kensington

  6:35 p.m.

  * * *

  Siobhan tied a frilled apron on over the narrow black skirt and white blouse that was her costume for the fancy wedding and quickly made her way to Allen’s side, where the bride’s mother, Amelia Forsythe—of some place or other, Siobhan couldn’t recall—an enervated and emaciated blonde dressed in a gray-pink dress, was rapping out imperious instructions in a shrill voice.

  “Siobhan, Mrs. Forsythe is telling me there will be a lord here tonight—”

  “Angus Augustus Braxton-Lenox,” the bride’s mother interposed haughtily, pronouncing the name in a mix of French and German accents and in a hallowed tone that most people reserved for royalty. “Our most important guest. Make sure you wait on him hand and foot. Ensure his glass is never empty. I’ll point him out when he arrives.”

  “Don’t worry, ma’am.” Siobhan nodded acquiescence and as soon as the woman turned her back, sped off back to the kitchen where she was preparing a tray of sandwiches to take to the bridal room.

  “What was all that about?” Penelope Taylor, her fellow waitress, asked.

  Parroting the woman’s shrill voice and haughty manners, Siobhan told her about the important guest, ending with, “A peer. Allen said he was a lord, but I didn’t quite get the title.”

  “Another fat old snob with lots of money, I bet,” her friend opined.

  “I only hope he doesn’t forget to leave a fat tip,” Siobhan joked, as she arranged another tiny sandwich on a tray and left the kitchen heading to the second floor of the residence, where the bride, Abigail Forsythe was having a private before-the-wedding party.

  Stunning, in a sophisticated sheath of white satin, Abigail was surrounded by six of her best friends and was already opening a third bottle of French champagne.

  Siobhan watched while Mrs. Forsythe fussed over her daughter, twitching her train into place and adjusting her tiara.

  Unappreciative of the proud parental attention she was receiving, Abigail uttered a sharp complaint about the color of the napkins—so last year and not what she had ordered.

  Allen surged forward to apologize and explain those were for the internal use only, while Siobhan wondered why people made so much ado about nothing. If she had a loving mother, she would never complain about anything.

  A few minutes later, Siobhan was summoned to the mezzanine to have the oh-so-important-guest singled out. Amelia pointed to the vicinity of her husband and whispered, “There, on my husband’s left, the man with the black tuxedo.”

  All the men are in black tuxedos, Mrs. Forsythe. Siobhan located a single old man sitting to the left of Amelia’s husband. “The one beside the potted plant?”

  With a huff, Amelia framed Siobhan’s head between her hands and directed it to where her husband was. “Are you blind, girl? There, the tall man talking to my husband.”

  There was a tall, dark man, with long chestnut hair, almost as long as hers, engaged in conversation with the bride’s father. “Ah, yes, I see him.” Not really. But his height and hair are unmissable. I must have misunderstood, he’s probably some athlete. Or TV star. No lord would have that hair or attitude.

  “Good. As soon as the ceremony is over, see that his every desire is tended to with haste.”

  And with that, she left Siobhan there, squinting with her poor-sighted eyes, trying to get a better look at the dark male’s face, and ran inside the bride’s rooms, shrilly exclaiming in what she supposed was a hushed whisper, “The wedding must start! Now.”

  At a discreet order from Allen’s walk-talkie, the orchestra signaled the beginning of the ceremony, and Mr. Forsythe directed the tall man to the front row, making it impossible for her to distinguish his features.

  Soon Siobhan was distracted by the flurry of activity: women rushing down, giggling and whispering, to take their places at the bottom of the stairs, Mr. Forsythe making his way above-stairs, and Allen needing her help to arrange the bridesmaids and grooms in correct order.

  Had it not been for the fact that Heinrich Forsythe was one of Lektenstaten’s most important businessmen, Angus would have sent one of his good-for-nothing relatives to represent him. But his conscience wouldn’t have left him alone if he hadn’t shown up since he had told his secretary to accept the invitation. I more than see to my obligations, Mother.

  Despite the two aspirins he had taken in his limousine on the way to the wedding, the headache that had installed itself in Angus’s skull after leaving his mother’s house, was now disputing with the orchestra.

  To his relief, the ceremony was short, and before long, with a plastered smile on his face, he was making his way behind the married couple, a deference to his sovereign status.

  A receptionist directed the newlyweds to a room while another showed him into a vast reception hall where there were a few tables, a space for dancing, and a live band already playing.

  Before the woman could direct him to his place, Amelia’s shrill voice hit his ears, “Your Royal Highness!”

  Angus almost groaned out loud but he turned and smiled, greeting and congratulating the old woman.

  And he calculated how long until he could make his goodbyes.

  Chapter 3

  “There, Siobhan, go offer the lord a drink before Mrs. Forsythe eats my liver,” Allen urged, as soon as the guests were all inside the reception room.

  Siobhan squinted and easily located the tall man at the bridal table. He already had a tall glass in his hand—whisky probably—from which he was drinking steadily as if he was very thirsty. So, she grabbed another bottle of whisky, ice, glass, and, as an afterthought, a crystal pitcher of water, and put it on the first tray she found.

  The closer she got, the taller the man seemed to get. Her curious gaze rested on him, taking in every detail of his stylish sophisticated appearance while he smiled down at a blushing woman who was being introduced to him.

  His tuxedo had the classic tailoring and sheen of the most expensive design and the highest quality and by what she could see, he was blessed with the sleek, broad-shouldered, lean-hipped and long-limbed muscular physique of a classical god that his clothes couldn’t hide. The only thing that set him off as a rebel was his hair.

  But she was not ready when her eyes focused. The dark male was so breathtakingly good looking—downright dazzling, from the crown of his unfashionably long chestnut hair to the flawless planes of his classic bronzed features—that her heart jump inside her chest.

  “My lord?” Siobhan sa
id to gain his attention, while at the same time, she extended the tray she was carrying.

  When he gazed down at her she discovered that he had wonderfully thick sooty eyelashes and eyes the color of hot gold. She felt as dizzy as if she were suddenly falling from a height.

  For a moment it crossed his mind that his thirst might be more wisely quenched with water than alcohol, but what happened next turned his thoughts in a different direction. He gazed from the tray to the server.

  Her curling lashes lifted, her green eyes looking up direct into his.

  He felt the jolt of connection like an electric shock traveling through his lean, powerful frame to set off a chain reaction in his groin.

  Angus took a step forward, focusing on her mesmerizing face, and thus didn’t see that he walked right into the path of an oncoming and oblivious child.

  It was then that a beautiful disaster struck.

  The child ran into the lower half of Angus’s back side at the same time Siobhan extended the tray to him.

  With her quick reflexes, she pulled the tray back as she observed the collision and Angus began to stumble forward. But she was too quick, causing the crystal pitcher of water to topple over toward him, bounce off his crotch, and then shatter on the tiles.

  “I’m sorry, my lord,” Siobhan said immediately, placing the tray on a chair, out of the way of any foot traffic. Then she grabbed from the table a cloth napkin to minimize the damage she had inadvertently done and began wiping at the wet spot on the front of his pants, not even thinking about the region in which she was dabbing and rubbing.

  Angus, who was already in a mental state of arousal at the sight of her, felt himself becoming engorged as the lovely young lady began to rub his manhood with an embroidered white napkin.