Chelsea looks between us. The scent of alcohol lingers heavily on Gage’s breath as he stifles a laugh. “Guilty, but it was only once.”
“After you set the trellises on fire and decided it was too hot to wear a stitch of clothing.” I close my eyes, trying to block out the godawful image of my brother’s bare arse.
“Wow,” Chelsea all but chokes out, and I can’t say I blame her. Whereas Malachi and I have etiquette, Gage does not. I’m sure his manners, like his tongue, reside somewhere in the gutter. “You’re really something,” Chelsea says.
Gage flashes a wolfish grin. “Thanks, I get told that all the time.”
I’m sure Chelsea has him pegged as a class-A arsehole, and she wouldn’t be wrong.
“In my defence,” Gage continues, “I was only eighteen. And anyway, I need Lucian bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for our poker night.”
“Poker night?” Chelsea repeats, and her gaze lands on me.
I run my hand along my jaw.My God, how could I have forgotten?
I hosted our boys’ night in my Devonshire estate last month, and Gage in his Pembrokeshire mansion the month prior. Which only means one thing. I grab my pocket watch and make a point of looking at the time.
“Obviously it’ll be too far to travel to Scotland by car,” Gage says, picking up on my not-so-subtle gesture. “So Malachi has arranged for us to go to Dunmorrow Castle via helicopter.”
I curse inwardly and shake my head. I can already feel the excuse on my tongue.
“It sounds like fun. You should go,” Chelsea interrupts.
“I like her,” Gage says, and, leaning into Chelsea’s personal space, ruffles her hair. I’m seconds away from punching my brother in the face when Chelsea steps back. Long curls fall in front of her face before she pushes them behind her ear.
“I’m going to go ahead,” she says, and, finger-combing her hair, hurries toward the door that leads to the gardens.
I watch Gage as he watches Chelsea, though more specifically homes in on her arse.
“Are you trying to get a black eye?” I enquire, my tone neutral.
Ignoring my question, Gage nods in approval. “Am I right in my assumption that Chelsea has a sister?”
I shove my brother. “Didn’t you learn anything at Eton?”
Gage taps his chin a few times, as if considering my words. “If getting high and getting laid count, then yes. Women would naturally flock to us on our boys’ nights out, and I can’t say I blame them.”
I shake my head and let out a laugh. “You’re a real inkstain on the Calloway name.”
“I know,” Gage drawls. “But perfection is so drab and highly overrated.”
The sun is blinding as we make our way outside. I shield my eyes as I look around for Chelsea.
One thing I always loved about Freesdon Hall is the immaculately tended gardens and beautifully designed landscape. When Mother became ill, she would spend hours confined to her bedroom. She would sit on the small balcony looking out onto the many acres of land. It was for this reason that Father paid a small fortune to have the most experienced gardeners work here. Every flower has a purpose, every stone and pebble have a place. The garden is like one intricately crafted mosaic, which when you stand back to look makes the most magnificent picture.
“I’ll go grab your drink,” Gage says and walks on ahead to where my family and the catering staff gather in a white marquee. Silk tablecloths have been laid out on long rectangular tables, and the food has been beautifully presented on an array of platters.
It would appear as though Gage has forgotten my drink. Without a backward glance he joins Malachi and Father, who are helping themselves to sandwiches. Farrah and Chelsea stand chatting with small plates of food in hands. I’m about to join them but instead stand, frozen to the spot, an observer, a bystander to everything and everyone I hold dear to me. I watch how easily Chelsea fits in with my sister, and despite Gage’s less than tactful introduction, it would seem he was happy to welcome her to the family. I just need to work on my father. I need him to see what I see, and that is how wonderful Chelsea is.
I casually make my way toward Chelsea and my sister. Father turns and meets my gaze, and without hesitation calls everyone to gather around for a toast.
The staff grab the champagne flutes and hurriedly begin to fill them. We are each handed a glass and stand in a semi-circle inside the marquee.
Father raises his glass. “I would like to raise a toast to family, old and new.” He pauses and, frowning, looks over our faces one at a time. I can’t help but wonder if his reference to ‘new’ had anything to do with Chelsea. One can only hope.
“To the future, and the past,” he continues. “To Annabelle Calloway, may we never forget the amazing woman she was.”
“To Mum,” Gage says, lifting his glass.