Page 4 of Savage Vows

Needing some kind of action, I snatch up my phone to study the map to see how far away we are from Elysian Hall.

Frustratingly close. But miles and miles to go.“Fuck.”

“Everything okay, sir?” Chiara asks.

She’s one of our soldiers, and she’s sitting next to me in the back seat of the SUV. Nash is behind the wheel. Though he’s driving over the speed limit, I want to urge him to go faster.

Chasing my intended bride across thousands of miles has been a massive time consumption and a frustrating waste of effort that shouldn’t have been necessary.

After the Four Corners Alliance meeting ended yesterday, I headed for the airport. I didn’t even stick around long enough to enjoy dinner with Nico and my father to celebrate the fact that all four families had signed the agreement.

I managed a few hours’ sleep on the plane, and we touched down in England early this afternoon.

The fact I’m irritated hasn’t helped my temper.

Not soon enough, the massive iron gates of Elysian Hall come into view. Behind them, Alessia is playing at being a peasant. My jaw clenches. She’s here, deliberately defying everything she was born to be.

Nash managed to get us reservations that we won’t need. Chiara is masquerading as my wife, and we’re here celebrating our anniversary, hoping for a break from our hectic lives.

After Nash repeats our cover story, the gates swing open, and we drive onto the estate.

The mansion looms ahead, all symmetry and grandeur, its Palladian facade practically screaming self-importance.

The path meanders through perfectly manicured gardens, complete with topiary animals and marble fountains. A glass conservatory juts out from one side. Under other circumstances, I might appreciate its history. Today, it’s a barrier to me getting what I want.

The moment we pull to a stop, one of the wide front doors is thrown open, and a woman all but glides down the steps.

She’s tall and willowy, dressed in an explosion of color—something between a flowing vintage dress and a painter’s smock. Wild curls escape from her scarf, and she moves with unhurried grace.

Nash opens the back door and helps Chiara out. Then I follow, already playing our roles.

“Welcome to Elysian Hall!” The woman is cheery to a fault. “You must be Mr. and Mrs. Miller.”

Without waiting for a response, she goes on. “I’m Artemis Whitmore. My brother and I manage Elysian Hall. You’ve picked the perfect time to visit—dinner will be at eight, sherry is servedin the conservatory in an hour, once the drawing class finishes up.”

“Drawing class?” I ask.

“Gabriel Greaves is our artist in residence, and he’s instructing the class.”

Chiara and I exchange glances, and she shrugs.

“Surely you’ve heard of him?”

“Can’t say I have.” The only thing I know about art is that we hold a number of pieces in our family collection. I’m told many of them were legitimately purchased.

Artemis nods. “He’s very famous. His work is extraordinary, and we’re very lucky to have him. But enough about that. Let’s get you settled.” She waves a hand toward the house. “Come inside, and I’ll get you your room key. I can even brew you a pot of tea in the kitchen—real loose-leaf, of course. It’s just divine.”

“Actually …” Chiara begins.

“What is it, darling?” I ask.

“Would it be okay if we walked around a little first, maybe stretch our legs?”

“Of course!” Artemis responds for me. “I should have thought of that. I’m sure you’ve had a long journey.”

“Flew directly to London from Las Vegas, then got in a car,” Chiara says, her voice filled with excitement. “We couldn’t wait to get here.”

I’ve never worked with Chiara before, and I’m impressed. Nash recommended we bring her, and his advice was solid.

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