Matthew had thought about it like chocolate cake.

He loved chocolate cake. One of Matthew's earliest memories was snatching a cake during one of his mother's garden parties, balancing it precariously in one hand as he scrambled up a tree to eat it in secret. He'd gorged himself on it, stuffing handfuls of the cake into his mouth until Matthew's stomach rebelled and he was sick all over the rhododendrons. He hadn't eaten chocolate cake for two years after that.

Sleeping with Isla had been the same idea.

Satisfy a craving. Stave off madness.

Only Matthew hadn't stopped to consider that when you had a bite of chocolate cake, it only made you want more of it. You became addicted. Starving.

He also hadn't considered that women and chocolate cake were very different. For example, Matthew had never wanted to shove a Black Forest Gateau against the wall and have his way with it; the same couldn't be said for Isla.

No.

Sleeping with her had been a terrible idea.

But Matthew didn't regret it. Couldn't regret it. Not even now, as he half-heartedly listened to Benedict's vows, which sounded more like a eulogy. Especially given that it was shitting rain outside.

"Melissa grew up in Whitby," his brother said, waving magnanimously, "the home of whaling and greasy fish and chips. Mercifully, she had the good sense to leave and attend Durham University..."

Matthew sighed, took another sip of tea, and turned back to the piano.

The music room at Thorngrove Estate was his favourite. He'd tried his hand at many instruments over the years — violin, drums, guitar, — but none had ever impressed Matthew as much as the piano. Playing a Steinway reminded him of driving a car: all raw power and untapped potential, released with the press of a pedal.

"We met in a pub at first year," Benedict carried on. "Melissa was wearing a Ted Baker dress and sipping a gin and tonic. She told me that she wanted to join the polo team, and I knew she was the one."

Matthew played a few more notes. Paused. Checked his phone. Two missed calls from his PR manager, Claire. A text from Noah asking if he wanted to grab a drink before the race in Silverstone this weekend. No word from Isla.

He put it away.

"I love Melissa's style," Benedict droned. "I love her elegance. I love her eloquence..."

Matthew frowned. For God's sake. How hard was it to send one text? Isla had been busy at work this week — he knew that — but it had been six days since they slept together. Surely she could manage a reply to his call?

He checked his phone.

Put it away again.

Good lord, Matthew thought in horror. What have I become?

"I promise you, Melissa, that I will be your partner," Benedict said. "In life and in business. I'll be the Marks to your Spencer. The Proctor to your Gamble. The Warren Buffet to your— sorry, am I boring you?"

Matthew started. "Pardon?"

"What was the last thing I said?"

"Oh. Er." Mathew lifted his hands from the keys. "Something about Melissa and taking a gamble on her?"

Benedict's mouth twisted. "It was an analogy, idiot. And a damn good one." He took a sip of whisky. "I could ask Walsh to help me with these, you know."

Matthew shrugged. "Ask him, then."

"He's in London," Benedict added. "Before the race."

"Good for him."

"I really will ask him."

Matthew played a scale. "Go ahead. I'm sure Saint Lucas is full of untapped poetry just waiting to be let out."

Benedict narrowed his eyes. "What's your problem with him?"

"Other than the fact that he tried to kill me in Monaco?"

"If I recall correctly," Benedict said, setting down the glass, "you ran Walsh off the track. After dating his ex-girlfriend, I might remind you."

Matthew struck up a tune. "I'd rather you wouldn't."

"Not to mention the boat incident."

"It was a yacht," Matthew said mildly. "If we want to be technical about it."

Benedict sighed. "Do you ever take anything seriously?"

Matthew stopped playing. "Not if I can help it." He rose from the bench. "I'm going for a walk. I need some air."

Matthew glanced at his phone. Needed to clear his head, more like, although he wasn't about to admit that to Benedict. His brother stared at Matthew as if he'd suggested chopping the piano into tiny pieces and eating it.

"Now?" Benedict asked.

Matthew shrugged. "Why not?"

"It's raining."

"I like the rain." Matthew crossed to the sideboard, snatching up his worn gloves and a wool scarf. "Anyway, it's meant to rain all week."

"Even on race day?"

"Especially on race day," Matthew said.

Silverstone was going to be a nightmare. Blinding spray, terrible wind, skidding off the track... driving in rain was a bloody business. Matthew couldn't wait. There was nothing like a torrential downpour to shake things up.

"Good luck on the vows," Matthew said cheerfully. "I'm sure they'll improve."

He'd reached the door when Benedict called out.

"Matt?"

Reluctantly, Matthew turned. Benedict was sitting at the writing desk, silhouetted against the rolling green countryside. The sky was milky grey, settling around his brother's shoulders in a hazy mourning shawl.

"If you're going to call Isla," Benedict said, his voice very serious, "don't bother. Leave her alone today."

Matthew paused. "Excuse me?"

"She's busy."

A sense of foreboding filled him. "What do you mean?"

Benedict turned back to his vows. Matthew started towards him, his voice rising sharply. "What do you mean, Benedict?"

"She's with Lucas," Benedict said.

He might as well have rammed into Matthew with a ten-foot battering ram. A thousand emotions flickered through him. Disbelief. Hurt. And a painful, searing jealousy, so hot and bright that Matthew couldn't ignore it.

"Explain," Matthew growled.

Something in his face must have been dangerous because Benedict leaned back slightly. "Her parents invited him to tea this afternoon."

"Does Isla know that Walsh is coming?"

"Does it matter?"

Matthew took a step. "Answer the question."

"No." Benedict shrunk back. "She doesn't."

Matthew swore colorfully, crumpling the scarf in his hands. He itched to throw it at his brother. If only it wasn't so bloody expensive. "I'm sick of this. So fucking sick of it, Ben. You're my brother. Can't you be on my side for once?"

"You're joking," Benedict said flatly. "I've seen the way you are with women, Matt. Lucas loves this girl. He'd do anything for her. And now you're flaunting her in front of him?" He shoved his pen away, rattling the cupholder. "How on earth do you expect me to take your side in this?"

"It's not a game," Matthew said. "I like her."

Benedict snorted. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Fine," Matthew said. "Don't believe me." He wound the scarf around his neck. "But at least tell me what restaurant they're going to."

Benedict's face grew wary. "Matthew..."

"What restaurant, Benedict?"

He pressed his lips together. "I'm not saying."

"Tell me," Matthew repeated. "Right now. Or I'll call Melissa and explain that you slept with one of her bridesmaids."

It had the desired effect. Benedict paled, his face going the same dull grey as the mist outside. Matthew waited to feel a stab of guilt, but all he could feel was the rush of hot blood, the terror pumping inside of him. Lucas. Lucas sodding Walsh was about to ruin Isla's lunch, and she had no idea.

Matthew flexed his hands.

God, he hated the bastard.

"That was years ago," Benedict said hoarsely. "Before I even met Melissa."

Matthew shrugged. "I doubt she'll see it that way."

"You wouldn't tell her."

"Try me," Matthew said.

The two brothers locked eyes. Brown and blue. Gentleman and rogue. Matthew could count on one hand the number of times that he had bested Benedict, but there was no victory in this. His brother slumped in his seat.

"Lady Audley's," Benedict mumbled. "They're at Lady Audley's."

Matthew turned to go.

"You won't be able to keep her, Matt," Benedict called. "She belongs to Lucas. Always has, always will."

Matthew stiffened. If it had been anybody else, he would have responded with a snarky comment, something about owning ropes and being good at tying down women. But this was Benedict, and Matthew was fed up with his brother's shit.

"Your problem, Benedict," Matthew said quietly, "is that you think love is about keeping someone. But it isn't. Love is about choosing to stay." He wrenched open the door. "Oh, and for the record, I've heard GPS directions more moving than your vows. They're horrible."

Matthew slammed the door behind him. Then he pulled the collar of his wool coat up, hurrying into the wet drizzle.