Nick rubbed his temples. “That’s not like him. None of this is like him. He even said Edwin’s laziness needed to be nipped in the bud,” he said. “Freddie said that. And he backed up Father on not releasing any word of Gran’s health to the press.” He blew out his cheeks. “I understand that, I suppose, given that she’s going to be fine, but this family has told enough lies over the years and now that our wedding turned into one—”

I don’t know which he heard first, his own words, or the gasp from me. “I mean, that’s how it looked to the public,” he insisted.

“Right.” I couldn’t hide that it stung.

“It’s been a long day and it’s only teatime,” Nick said. “My brother is behaving like a mini-Dick and going on father-son hunting outings that we’ve never done in the history of our lives, and we’re about to get trotted out in public to act like nothing has ever been wrong, so pardon me if I’m not at my diplomatic best.”

His voice had hit a thin, loud pitch. I bowed my head and intoned, “Point to the gentleman.” I gave that a second. “Things will chill out. It’s only our first day.”

Nick relaxed visibly. “You’re right. Hello.” He rolled off the sofa, crawled over to me, and kissed my cheek. “How was your day?” He blinked as if seeing his surroundings for the first time. “Did we get the wrong key? Why are we in a flea market?”

I waved an arm at the room. “Behold our new home. It’s a hoarder’s paradise. I saved the main master bedroom for us to look at together, if you want to head upstairs with me.”

He smiled. “I always want to go upstairs with you.”

We padded into the foyer and then up, traversing the threadbare carpet runner that once matched the green walls, all the way to the top of the stairs and to the end of the cream-painted hallway. We stopped at a door with ornate moldings and a huge brass knob smack in the center, like a safe.

“After you,” I said, and Nick eagerly pushed it open.

The master suite was a time capsule of hideousness so acute that it almost turned the corner into being perfect. The armchairs in front of the fireplace were a riotous mélange of pinks, the wallpaper was an aggressive selection of purples, the king-size bed was topped with a moth-eaten Marie Antoinette–style canopy in baby yellow, and the dusty hardwood floors were covered with multiple rugs that coordinated with none of it. Not a single floral matched any other one. The en suite bathroom provided no relief: While the giant claw-foot tub looked inviting, the wallpaper—again—was a peeling gold foil, the long heated towel rail was falling off the wall, and one of the double sinks was cracked down the middle so dramatically that I could see the inside of the cupboard beneath it. Every lampshade was stained glass, as if Georgina had once seen a photo of an Italian family restaurant in New Jersey and fallen in love.