Even more curious? Georgia doesn’t seem as offput by the entire situation as she should be. Hasn’t had any meltdowns, hasn’t panicked about it, hasn’t screamed or yelled at me the way I’ve been waiting for her to.

She’s been reasonably calm for a girl who’s gone and gotten herself married.

When she walks in the door from practice later on in the evening, after I’ve cleaned myself up from my own training, she drops her duffle bag next to the door in the same spot she always does.

“Lady Dryden-Jones, did you want me to order us dinner or were we just going to fend for ourselves?”

She rolls her eyes. “Please stop calling me that.”

I shrug. “I’m only calling you that because that’s what you are.”

We’ve been home six days, and Georgia hasn’t returned to her own bedroom, sleeping in mine every night as if that’s been her rightful spot in the house all along.

Still, she’s been loathing it when I call her Lady Dryden-Jones, which oddly I love the sound of.

Lady Dryden-Jones isn’t the actual way to address the barony title—it’s Lady Talbot, and that is, and will only be, my mother. The wife of a baron’s first son has the courtesy title of “the Honorable” until her husband inherits his title, but the look on Georgia’s face when I call her Lady is so priceless I cannot make myself stop saying it.

Besides, Mum’s not around to hear it.

Georgia, who is theoretically now my wife, strides over and plants a kiss on my mouth, swatting me on the arse.

We’ve not taken the steps to annul the marriage, but we did agree not to wear our rings.

“Watch yourself or you’ll get caught being too domestic.”

Too domestic.

Is that a thing?

“What should we do for dinner?”

“Mmm, I’m not all that hungry just yet. Maybe a salad, I don’t know. I actually have some homework, and we have to video-chat later with Nalla, Priya, and the rest of the group so when we hand in our final project, everyone has their part completed.”

I shove a cucumber slice in my mouth. “Ugh, fine—I’ll go work out until you’re done and then we can eat.” I wipe my hands on a nearby towel.

Bzzt, bzzt.

Bzzt, bzzt.

No object makes that annoying sound except my mobile, and it’s buzzing on the counter next to the stove.

I raise it to my ear.

“Mum. What’s going on?”

“You’re married?”

“I…we…were sauced when we did it.”

“Sauced,” Mum repeats, sounding scandalized. “My son went and got married without telling me, without a proper ceremony, and he was tossed while doing so.” I hear a sob on the other end of the line and glance over at Georgia.

“It was a lark, Mum. We’re handling it.”

Across the kitchen, Georgia mouths the word “Lark?” in my direction. I shrug at her. What the hell else am I supposed to say?

“What do you mean handling it?”

“Annulled. We just haven’t had the time to take care of it.”

“Annulled?” My mother screeches so loud I have to yank the mobile away from my ear.

“Mum, calm down—you don’t have to yell. What time is it there?”

I mentally do the time-zone math and come up with roughly eleven o’clock, London time.

“Don’t change the subject. Your father is having fits.”

My father probably is indeed having fits, but not the same kind as the ones my mother has most likely been having if her semi-hysterical tone is any indication.

“How did you know I got…” I don’t want to outright admit I’ve been lying to them, but Dad already knows about the cash missing from my trust fund. I’m just not sure how they discovered I went and got myself a wife. “…hitched?”

“How did we know? How did we know? We know everything you do. Your father had our barrister follow the money trail. You didn’t think we wouldn’t get to the root of you withdrawing money from your trust, did you? Darling, marriages are public record, and he already knew you were in Vegas.” Mum takes a long, dramatic pause, calculating my transgressions. “Vegas! An annulment. Young man, I could die. What am I supposed to say to the ladies at my club? How am I supposed to show my face?”

I sigh. “No one has to know, Mum. You’re not supposed to tell anyone anything.”

Her long, drawn out silence says it all. She’s told plenty of her friends; the damage has already been done.

“Mum?”

“Does this girl make you happy?”

“That isn’t the point. We were pissed and didn’t think it through. She wants to get an annulment.”

“Who is she? You won’t even tell me her name. My daughter-in-law.” Mum sobs again.

“Her name is Georgia. Please stop crying.”

Georgia, who’s been leaning against the counter listening, makes a sad face.

“Come home,” Mum demands. “Both of you—bring her with you.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea…”

“Why? I want to get to know her.”

“Because we’re…” I swallow. “Not going to stay married.”

“Well I want to know what kind of girl my son is willing to marry since you’ve never brought a single woman home. You won’t let me match you up with anyone. Who is this girl?”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to say She’s just a girl, Mum, but I think Georgia would take issue with that. She is not JUST an anything—I love her and married her, drunk or not. She is my wife.

I hesitate. “It’s not that easy to just hop on a plane and come home, Mum. We have classes still.”

“Well when?”

“A few more weeks.”

“As soon as you have a break. Now. Next week, I don’t care, just get your sorry arse on the next flight and bring your wife.” More sobbing. “Oh I can’t believe I just said that. Your wife. My son is married and he didn’t invite his mum to the wedding.”

When Mum latches onto something, she’s inconsolable, carries on like no other, and this is no different.

Reminds me of the time the Honorable Winnifred Bennett won the Garden Bud Society Patroness of the Year after only being a member for six months when Mum had campaigned to win that title all year long only to have it ripped from her grasp.

Took Dad three weeks and a trip to Fiji to soothe her ruffled feathers—I can’t imagine what it’s like at home for him right now in the wake of my shotgun nuptials.

“Alright. I’ll talk to Georgia.”

And at least one of us can fly home to my parents.

I can do that for them; at this point I owe my family an explanation. Though it may take some serious convincing, I can’t imagine Georgia would pass up an opportunity to visit Great Britain.

“Please do.” My mother’s sniffle carries through the phone. “I still can’t believe you would do this. It’s so unlike you—and taking money from your accounts for vanity purposes without telling anyone? What were you thinking, Ashley Arthur?”

I’m not going to get into it with her over the phone; she and I both know the money is mine, inherited from Mum’s father, and I can do with it as I please.