PROLOGUE

      Five years earlier, Becksworth Hall,

      Wiltshire, England

      ‘YOU’RE A ROTHSMORE, for Christ’s sake.’

      My father is perhaps the only person more apoplectic than I am.

      ‘She is aware of that.’ Surprisingly, my voice comes out clear and calm, even when I feel as if I’ve run a marathon. I reach for the Scotch on autopilot, topping up my glass. My hand shakes a little. Shock, I suppose.

      And I am shocked.

      ‘This isn’t like Saffron.’ My mother wrings her gloved hands in front of her pale peach suit, the wedding corsage still crisp and fragrant. I reach for my own in the buttonhole of my jet-black tuxedo jacket, and dislodge it roughly, pleased when the pearl-tipped pin snags on my finger. A perfect circle of burgundy blood stains the white rose at the decoration’s centre.

      ‘How do you know, Mother?’

      I don’t mean to sound so derisive, but in the four hours since my cousin received a text from my bride’s best friend explaining that the love of my life wasn’t going to be showing up to our wedding, I’ve had to endure more platitudes and Saffron-defending than I can stand.

      ‘Well, she’s…’ Antoinette Rothsmore struggles to describe Saffron. There are any number of words I could offer. Suitable. Wealthy. Privileged. Appropriate. Beautiful. Cultured. Words that describe why my parents introduced us and cheered from the sidelines as we hooked up. But the reason we got engaged is simple.

      I love her. And she’s left me.

      ‘Nice,’ my mother finishes, lamely.

      Saffron is nice.

      Too nice for me?

      Perhaps.

      I haven’t seen her in three days, but when I did, she was in full preparation mode for our wedding, reminding me that the photographer from OK! magazine would be coming to take pictures of the party so not to let my groomsmen get too messed up on Scotch before the ceremony.

      I throw back the single malt and grip the glass tightly. How many have I had? Not enough to make this feel like a distant dream.

      ‘Nobody does this to a Rothsmore.’ My father’s face has turned a deep shade of puce. I’d think it’s sweet that he cares so much except I don’t for a second imagine he cares about the fact I just had my heart handed to me in tatters in front of five hundred of Europe’s elite. Princes, dukes, CEOs—everyone.

      Not that I care about the embarrassment. I care about Saffy. I care about the fact we were supposed to be married and she’s sent me a ‘Dear John’ text via a friend and my cousin.

      ‘What would you like to do, Father? Sue her?’

      ‘If only,’ he snaps, then shakes his head. ‘Though the last thing this family wants is a scandal. Damn it, Nicholas. What did you do to her?’

      I blink, his question something I haven’t considered.

      What did I do to her?

      Is it possible I said or did something to turn her away?

      No.

      This isn’t about me.

      This is pure Saffron. Passionate, affectionate, changeable.

      I grimace, rubbing a hand over my jaw, neatly trimmed just the way Saffron likes.

      I fix Gerald with a firm stare. ‘I did nothing, Father, except agree to marry the woman you chose for me.’ I don’t say the rest. That I fell head over heels in love with her as well.

      We used to laugh about the nature of our relationship—how we both knew it was a heavy-handed set-up from our parents. How their interference was like something out of a nursery rhyme. Except we were going to have the last laugh, because we were in love.

      We were in love.

      When had I started believing in love? What kind of goddamned idiot fool have I become to worship at the altar of something so childish?

      I snap the Scotch glass down against the table, a little louder and harder than I intend, and I see