The Night that Changed Everything. Anne McAllister
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at Edie, wordlessly asking the same question.
She flashed him a smile of polite acknowledgment, but focused on her sister. “I’ve had a text from Andrew.” Which, fortunately, was absolutely true.
Rhiannon lit up, then remembered she was mad at Andrew and frowned. “Why’s he texting you?” Her tone was accusatory.
“Can’t imagine.” Edie shrugged. “Maybe because you turned your phone off?”
Rhiannon’s lower lip jutted out petulantly. “I didn’t want to talk to him.”
“Well, he wants to talk to you. Badly. He sounded desperate.”
That might have been embroidering things a bit. The text had said, Tell ur sister 2 turn her fone on. Need 2 talk.
But he’d said “need.” Didn’t that mean “desperate”? Of course it did.
“Badly,” Edie reiterated, to reinforce the point. Then she turned her gaze on the man still standing with his arm around Rhiannon. “Andrew is her fiancé,” she said pointedly.
He let her go. Quite casually but deliberately, he eased his arm from beneath her hand and moved a step away. He looked at Rhiannon. “A fiancé?”
Ree lifted her shoulders in a sulky shrug. “He’s not here,” she said. But then she had the grace to appear a bit shamefaced. “We quarreled. He’s not always right,” she muttered.
Mr. Trouble didn’t say anything, and Edie felt obliged to jump in and steer the situation. “Of course he’s not,” she said stoutly. “And now he’s had plenty of time to think about things all the way to Vancouver. I’m sure he didn’t mean to hurt you, Ree. He’s probably missing you dreadfully.”
“Do you think?” Suddenly Ree’s tone was bright.
Edie nodded emphatically. “Call him.”
But Rhiannon hesitated. She looked at the handsome man beside her, then her gaze measured the whole ballroom as if she were trying to decide what she’d be missing if she left: champagne, music, happy couples dancing past. Mr. Trouble who was, even in Edie’s disapproving estimation, the handsomest man in the room.
Rhiannon looked disgruntled. “He should have stayed. We could have danced.”
“Yes, but he wanted you to go with him, too,” Edie reminded her. “It’s a two-way street. He has a competition.”
“But I’d have missed the wedding.”
“And now you’re missing Andrew.”
Edie let that sink in for a few moments. Then she added almost offhandedly, “If you call him, you can tell him what Sir Oliver said about using his Scottish castle for your honeymoon.”
It was the ultimate temptation. Ever since their engagement, Rhiannon’s life had revolved around their wedding plans, and every detail had to be shared with Andrew. Sir Oliver’s offer of his family’s castle had been all Rhiannon could talk about last night—when she wasn’t talking about how she was fed up with Andrew.
“Oh, all right.” Rhiannon tumbled to the temptation exactly as Edie had dared hope. “I’ll call him. I guess I should since he tried to call … and if he texted you …”
Ree sighed, then lifted her gaze to look at Mr. Trouble. “He loves me,” she explained. “And I love him—even if he’s maddening. So I probably should call him. But,” she added a bit wistfully, “I really would have loved to see the architectural renovations in your bedroom.”
“And I’d have been pleased to show them to you,” he said gallantly.
Edie’s jaw dropped. She slammed it shut at once. Rhiannon didn’t notice. She gave them both a little wave and tripped gaily off toward the doors to the Great Hall where, please God, she would call Andrew and make up with him.
Edie watched her go, holding her breath until Rhiannon was out of sight. Then she turned to make her excuses and disappear, only to discover that the man Rhiannon had been pawing wasn’t looking in the direction Rhiannon had gone.
His dark eyes were now on her. A slow smile touched his lips. And then he winked at her.
Winked!
Something kicked over in her chest. It was almost electric, as if she’d been dead and was suddenly jerked back to life.
Like Sleeping Beauty and the prince? she sneered at herself. But the sensation was so real and caught her so totally unaware that for a moment she couldn’t speak. She hadn’t felt this sort of awareness since Ben.
When she did finally find her voice, she said, “Architectural renovations in your bedroom?”
Next thing you knew he’d say he’d been going to show Rhiannon his etchings.
But Mr. Trouble just grinned at her and she felt another jolt. “Scout’s honor,” he said, eyes alight with amusement.
Edie refused to think it was funny. She glowered at him.
“You don’t believe me? I’ll show them to you.” He offered her his arm.
Instantly Edie folded hers across her chest. “Don’t be ridiculous! I’m not going to your room. And Rhiannon wouldn’t have, either,” she lied a second later, needing for some reason she didn’t quite understand to deflect the focus back to her sister. “She does love Andrew. They just had a disagreement. And she … lost her head.” Not to mention her sense of propriety. “She wasn’t offering,” she added firmly.
“No?” His brow lifted. “Apparently you didn’t hear as much of the conversation as I did.”
Edie’s cheeks burned. “She wouldn’t have—have …”
“Slept with me?” He was laughing at her now. “You don’t think so?”
“No!” At least Edie hoped not.
“Well, don’t worry, I wouldn’t have slept with her.”
Edie’s eyes widened, and she was surprised again by another unexpected feeling, this time one of something akin to relief. “You … wouldn’t?”
He shook his head, meeting her gaze. “Not on your life. She’s a child.”
“She’s twenty.”
He nodded. “Like I said, not my type.”
“You have a type.” It wasn’t a question.
Of course he had a type. Men like him always did.
“Well, um, good,” Edie said, because she felt obliged to say something in the face of the steady assessing look he was giving her. She started to back away.
He followed. “Who are you?” he demanded. His gaze was intent now, his eyes so dark they were almost black.
“Rhiannon’s sister.” No one ever believed it until Mona swore on a stack of Bibles that she’d given birth to them both. Her sister was blonde and busty, all curves and come-on. Edie was all angles, elbows and knees. Always had been. With nondescript brown hair and green eyes. Not the color of jade. Not the color of emeralds. Pretty much the color of grass. “Half sister,” she corrected.
“Do you have a name, half sister?”
“Edie Daley.”
Something else she and Rhiannon didn’t have in common. Her sister was named after some ethereal mythological Welsh goddess. Edie was named after her father’s mother.
“Ah. Edie.” He grinned and reached out and tugged one of her nondescript locks of hair. “My grandmother’s name.”
Exactly.
“I’m Nick.”
As in “up to the old nick,” no doubt—as her grandmother used to say when