Chapter One
Declan
“They are throwing rice all over the grass, Anna!”
Peering out the window, I watch in horror as the party of elegantly clad guests toss tiny granules of white rice all over the garden out back. There is a string quartet playing a blasphemous rendition of an old rock song, and there are tiny tuxedoed children stomping through the hydrangeas.
My sister scurries down the hall ahead of me, a chuckle under her breath. “It’s a wedding, Declan,” she replies with humor.
“A wedding at my bloody house!”
“You agreed to this, remember?” She stops at the end of the long hall before the door to the main section of the house flies open, and a flurry of servers and attendants hustles by, each carrying a floral centerpiece that towers over their heads.
Anna holds open the door for them as she turns her head toward me, giving me a look of impatience. “When Killian passed the house down to you, you said you didn’t want it, remember? You said,Anna, use it however you want.Remember that?”
I groan out a disgruntled, incoherent response with a roll of my eyes, my sister quickly cutting me off.
“But then, you changed your mind. Yet you understood whenyou moved back into Barclay Manor that we now host weddings and events. Andyousaid that as long as you could use the third-floor studio to paint and sculpt as much as you wanted, you didn’t care. Remember that, Declan?”
I roll my eyes even harder. “That was before I realized how much Ifuckinghate weddings.”
“Declan, language,” she scolds me, although she’s only three years older than me, and I’m a thirty-two-year-old man.
“It’smyhouse, Anna!”
“The third floor is,” she bites back, getting her face close to me and clearly losing her patience. “So why don’t you go back up there?”
“Like I could get an ounce of peace,” I growl.
Leaving my sister at the door, I march back down the long hall toward the stairs that lead to my studio. The entire way, I grumble and groan to myself about how unfair this is. I rightfully inherited this house. It’smyhouse, and I should be able to have the entire bloody thing—no matter what I said before.
Just because I didn’t want to live here at first doesn’t mean I don’t care about the house. Watching these people come in to use and abuse it grates on my nerves, and it should grate on Anna’s too.
Once upon a time, this manor used to be famous for its parties—wild, sex-crazed events my older brother held until our family name became synonymous in the county for debauchery. I far preferred that to these elegant soirees and haughty events.
But then heneverleft the house, and we had to send in a bold American woman to save him, and by some grace of God, it worked. The only problem is that now they’re married, living life in domestic bliss. This former den of iniquity has since become covered in roses, its halls filled with classical music, the garden covered in rice, and the gazebo crowded with people. It all just makes me sick.
Rightfully, I could tell my sister to bugger off and have herweddings elsewhere, and I probably should. Maybe I will. She seems to love them so much, I’m sure she’d find another manor in the Scottish countryside to terrorize with these incessant ostentatious events.
As I reach the stairs, I nearly crash into a young woman dressed in black coming down. Long blond hair flies into my face, and after I brush it away, I’m staring straight into a pair of uncomfortable blue eyes.
“Blaire,” I mutter under my breath, proud of myself for remembering her name.
“Declan, sir,” she replies, correcting herself.
“Fuck, don’t do that. Sorry for running into you.”
“No, I’m sorry,” she mumbles while looking at the floor.
God, I need to get out of here. The last time I rendezvoused with Blaire, I didn’t exactly stick around for pillow talk. She hasn’t been able to look into my eyes since. Now, she assists my sister with these weddings and is here nearly every weekend, so lucky fucking me.
“I have to go…” she stammers.
“Yes, of course,” I grumble miserably. “Bye…Blaire.”
With that, I turn and practically sprint up the stairs and away from that poor woman.
The sanctuary of my studio waits for me at the end of the hall. Once I reach it, I slam the door, closing myself inside. Immediately, I reach for my apron, tying it around my waist before slipping a pair of noise-canceling headphones over my ears.
