Cocky Duke: A Modern Aristocracy Billionaire Romance (Endowed Book 1)

by Sara Forbes

  Alex spreads his arms. “I admit it, the YouTube thing was unfortunate. And I need to explain all that to you … someday. But Hayley, your uncle was in deep shit, with or without my help. I needed to know what I was letting myself in for, having you here. Hence the files.”

  I laugh hoarsely. “In case what? I try to assassinate the prince? Or maybe you just don't trust me around your paintings and needed to check up I wasn't some kind of criminal like you're convinced my uncle is.”

  His mouth flattens. “Nice theory, Hayley. Except do you really think I'd give you the keys to the gallery if I thought you were a thief?”

  The logic of this hits me hard but my temper flares way out of control. “But still you think you need to dig out my family records and display them to this prince. Is this what you do to all riff–raff who enter your palace? Oh, I know, it doesn't matter about my privacy because I'm just a commoner.”

  Alex struts around me in a wide circle, shaking his head. “You want to know about privacy, well, how about this?” He yanks out his phone and points to it. “Every move I've ever made is common knowledge. You're worried about one YouTube video? Try a hundred. And the prince has records on our family dating back to the sixteenth century. He doesn't just know what I had for breakfast, he knows what my great–great–great–great–grandfather had for breakfast in bloody 1702.”

  I'm stunned, more at the fact that he's so agitated than anything he's saying. I watch the lines of agitation on his forehead increase and then recede. .

  “Yes, and this is why Seb would never let anyone stay in the house. Ever. But that's his approach. I'm doing it my way. If that means extra measures, it's my responsibility and I do take it seriously. Even if—” he looks at me sternly. "I'm not as good at subterfuge as Seb is. Anyone snooping around will find out what they want."

  “Seb? Why the hell are you talking about Seb?” I'm yelling to cover my own feeling of guilt, because, yes, I was snooping.

  Alex snaps his gaze away. “Forget about him." After a long, terrible silence, he adds in a much softer tone, "Don't do this. Give me a chance, Hayley. Please. Give us a chance.”

  He reaches out, beseeching. His need is raw and genuine. He's never played games in the way he uses words. He's never tried to manipulate my feelings or hide his own. That means so much to me, regardless of the stuff he does behind my back.

  I'm melting into a puddle of goo, almost buying the story about the Saudi prince's need for security. It stings like hell, but if it's the price to pay to be with this man, then I'll pay it. I'm not someone who does the silent treatment thing when it goes against my deeper wishes.

  “I got a shock,” I say in a conciliatory voice.

  “I should have told you.” He caresses my cheek. “I apologize. I've been running around like a mandan recently, and I didn't see it through your eyes and of course it was deplorable of me. In the future, I'll share everything I get from my source with you. That's a promise.”

  “There's going to be more? Sounds like I'll have to behave myself,” I say, still shaken at the idea that Alex really does have spies working for him.

  His eyes glow in the low evening light. “No. Nobody's tracing you anymore...except me.” His hands snake around my waist and pull me into his hard body. I mold myself against him, hungry for him. Sliding his fingers up under my T–shirt, he cups his hands over my bare breasts, trapping my nipples tight between his fingers. Breathing against my stretched neck, he murmurs, “Forgiven?”

  I nod. Because he is.

  24

  ALEX

  I MAY LOOK COMPOSED as I sit here with Ken and Letty in the conference room, but I've got the jitters. The teleconference with Prince Al Faisal bin Oman starts in five minutes.

  I'm wearing my trusty chalk–stripe suit from Gieves & Hawkes. Hayley had fun helping me get dressed this morning. She couldn't believe how many silk ties I owned, and I couldn't believe how fantastic they looked on her when she tried each of them on her naked body. She said the navy blue and silver one brought out my eyes best and made me look serious, so I took her word for it, and then I used the tie to … enhance our morning routine.

  “Is it okay to show some skin?” Letty asks, waking me from my dirty thoughts.

  “What?”

  “Some skin. Is this prudish enough?” She's tugging at the lace trim of her dress sleeve.

  “The prince doesn't expect western women to defer to his country's dress code any more than he expects me to drag out the cloak and coronet. Just relax, you're fine. We've every chance of winning this,” I tell her in my most assured tone. “I'm going to conduct the intro in Arabic. He'll appreciate that.”

  “But his English is perfect. He went to that private school in Geneva,” Letty says.

  “It's only polite to try.” I turn the laptop camera on and check the visuals. We're seated so I'm in the middle and my siblings to either side of me, Father's portrait looming overhead. Lighting is perfect. The microphone is picking up everything clearly. We're all set.

  As the video link is made, we adjust our postures and smile into the camera. The prince and entourage are seated at a large oval table, surrounded by gold and cream decor and fresh white lilies in huge white vases. “Good morning, Prince Faisal,” I say in Arabic to the assembly of white–robed men—and one veiled woman.

  The prince's eyes gleam in surprise at my greeting. Nods all around. I'm guessing the old fogies over in Abbeydale can't even pronounce the Prince's name correctly.

  “How long have you been learning Arabic, Your Grace?” an aide to the right of the prince asks in Arabic. I'm gratified that he's using my title. Of course I should expect no less from any aide of this very well–read, cosmopolitan prince.

  “A few weeks.”

  “Impressive.” He gives a tiny nod. "I am the interpreter, in case I am needed."

  “Thank you.” I consider the ice broken, and I settle back a fraction on my chair, giving Letty a covert wink.

  “We appreciate all the effort you have put into your application,” the aide to the left of the prince says, in only slightly accented English. “And for full compliance with our deadlines and preferences. As you are aware, His Highness desires a low–key wedding.”

  “Inta mithlayy,” I say, looking directly at the prince. You're like me. For my own pride, if nothing else, I need to engage the top man in the conversation and not just let his aides do all the talking.

  A quick frown crosses the prince's smooth brow. His whole party goes deathly still. His Highness turns to his interpreter who leans in and speaks in low tone.

  “What'd I say?” I mumble to Ken and Letty.

  The consternation continues on the other side. Finally, the interpreter straightens and produces a forced smile. “Did you, Your Grace, mean, perhaps, to say, inta mithli? ‘You're like me?'”

  “Uh, yes. That's what I said.”

  The interpreter slowly shakes his head. “No, you said inti mithlayy with a shaddah on the final syllable.”

  “I did? Does that mean something else?”

  “It means, ‘You're gay.'”

  I sink my head in my hands. Letty and Ken inhale sharply.

  My head's spinning when I look up again. “My sincere apologies, Your Highness.”

  There is some more murmuring. More heads bent. The Prince waves off his interpreter and says in crystal, sharp International Boarding School English. “I think it might be better if we proceed in English.”

  “Yes, Your Highness, of course.”

  There's a twinkle in his eyes, but whether it's because he's got a sense of humor or he's envisioning my death by stoning in his local town square, I can't tell. “Yes, my dear cousin, I attended boarding school in Switzerland for four years where I learned French and English. It is rusty, as they say. However, I will endeavor to avoid any errors.”

  He's using “cousin,” a term that the British Royalty use toward a duke. Ironic humor, perhaps. And he's smiling again. “You have a most beautiful home
. Tasteful and secluded. I do, however, have concerns regarding publicity and security.”

  He pauses for dramatic effect. I let the moment stretch out. Only a fool would jump in now and offer information.

  “My advisers have also called attention to some of your activities on social media, my dear duke. I hope you are not planning on insulting me publicly like you did your unfortunate US ambassador?”

  Again, I can't tell whether he's joking or not. “That was a misunderstanding, Your Highness. We're all friends now.”

  “Good. I also understand your brother has managed the estate until recently? All business matters of import?”

  Damn those Saudi intelligence agencies. I nod in resignation. I've no idea where this is going and I just want him to get to the point. Have we won or not?

  “So why is he not at this meeting?”

  I pause. “Following the death of my father, I have chosen to take the reins, Your Highness.”

  The prince turns and mumbles to his advisers on his left.

  “I must inform you that we have chosen to do the wedding at Abbeydale.”

  My stomach plummets. We all sink back into our chairs. Then anger bubbles to the surface. He'd already decided and just wanted to show how much info he'd unearthed about Seb. Why? Power?

  “Please do not take it so harshly. I decided with my advisors some days ago after weighing up all the options. It was a difficult decision. However, the reason I insisted on this face to face meeting is another matter.”

  “I'm all ears, Your Highness.” I'm utterly unable to keep bitterness out of my voice now and I don't even try.

  “My esteemed cousin, I hear you are a pilot, yes?”

  “I can fly small planes or a helicopter, yes.”

  “We require a fast, comfortable, reliable and utterly discreet transportation from Kent to Oxford. It is extraordinarily difficult to arrange with local services. Therefore, I am appealing to you.”

  “You want me to give you a ride?”

  “I will reimburse you for your trouble.”

  “No trouble. No reimbursement required,” I say automatically. “It would be my pleasure.”

  There's a flurry of confusion and discussion. Finally, the prince turns to me. “Would one hundred thousand pounds cover it?”

  My eyebrows shoot up. “It might, if we ran the thing on Dom Pérignon.”

  The prince offers a polite smile and then looks me directly in the eyes. Even though digital media I feel the weight of his authority. “I'm paying for the discretion, not the fuel. Please accept, or I shall be obliged to take my business elsewhere.”

  “You've got a deal,” I say quickly.

  After the call, we sit in stunned silence, Letty, Ken and I.

  “Well,” Ken says.

  “I'm sorry,” I say, unhooking the webcam. “I was so sure we'd pull this wedding off and start a snowball effect. For now, it's back to the drawing board.”

  “But the consolation prize is shiny,” Letty says.

  “And with no effort hardly at all.” Ken pats my arm. “Gives you an excuse to get up there again, no?”

  I shrug. “Yeah. Shame not to do it. Seems to be all I'm good at.”

  That night, I discuss it with Hayley. It's the first night since we've been together that I don't want to jump her bones. I feel so defeated.. "I just thought it was going somewhere. You know, a new start in a way. Something that was mine … something that wasn't … Seb's." I sink back against the pillows.

  She slides her hand up and down my shoulder, perfectly sympathetic, but I wonder if she really understands the significance of this. And I wonder if the Saudi wedding bid symbolizes my dukedom in a way––a high profile shot in the dark that didn't quite work out. Now I have to face up to reality and trudge my way through Seb's business again. I have to show Hayley I'm the man she thinks I am.

  "Hey,” Hayley's voice is soft and seductive. “Don't give up just because the first one doesn't work out. The next bid will be easier, I guarantee you."

  I clasp her hand in mine and press it to my heart. "Don't worry, Darling. It'll all look brighter in the morning.”

  25

  ALEX

  WE ARE WELL INTO HARVEST season and a cool breeze wafts across the castle grounds from the east. It's been two weeks since the call with the prince. I won't lie and say it still doesn't sting, but I'm focusing now on my new reality—harvesting plans, quotas, fertilizer procurement for autumn, crop rotation planning for next year. Settling squabbles between tenants is another task I was previously unaware of, but I actually enjoy that bit. It's a lot to do, and I know I'm still not completely on top of it, but I'm getting there.

  Hayley's uncle has popped up in the news, but only way down the agenda, almost invisible against the furor of what's happening in the government. He seems to be back doing his normal job as ambassador after his purported "break for health reasons”. I suspect Marty has instructed him not to contact us because Hayley hasn't heard from him. I can't say I'm devastated. Marty says he doesn't know the details but confirmed that the danger has passed for sure, and that if I wanted to buy stocks in a certain oil company, he could probably give me a recommendation. Both he and I are happy to close that chapter. I burnt the files on Hayley and her family.

  Our next open house day is tomorrow and Ken, Letty and I are going over the last-minute logistics. I truly don't care if the lace place–mats cost £2.99 or £3.99 and frankly, I doubt I ever will. I don't have time for this. My siblings have been a great help though, taking over most of the work on that front while I concentrate on the farms.

  Meanwhile, Hayley has cleared out the west wing section of the gallery and made it public ready. She's only had a shoe-string budget—from my own savings—but the floors have a new coat of varnish and new curtains have been draped of rich cherry red. It looks superb. And Hayley looks so happy, so fulfilled. She even admitted to enjoying this aspect of the art world more than being an artist cooped up in an attic.

  I'm keeping our gallery experiment extremely low key for Mother's sake. She's still queasy about letting the hoi polloi anywhere near Father's “dungeons” as she calls them. So, the gallery is just a whisper of a suggestion on the bottom of the sign in the ticket kiosk, like a coy afterthought. But I know from experience that some people are very good at reading fine print and that news will travel by word of mouth if the pioneering visitors like what they see.

  “I don't know whether it's the public she dislikes most or the fact that it's my idea,” Hayley grumbles as I visit her at lunchtime with a basket of goodies I nabbed from the kitchen on my way down. Her tender face is all scrunched up with worry. My patience with Mother for continuing to act frostily toward her is wearing thin. Especially as Spetember is looming, and the start of Hayley's term is just two weeks away so I need desperately to come up with a plan. And it would help if everybody at Belgrave Castle were to be more than welcoming towards my girlfriend.

  “Mother has no say in it.” I lean in and kiss her. “Or this.”

  She grins into the kiss and I'm heartened to see her looking more cheerful. We're kissing and hip grinding our way down the corridor so we can eat in the sunny alcove at the end when we see Ken ahead, so we detach from each other.

  “Alex, just coming to get you,” he says, voice sharp. “Someone drove into the private car park. I don't recognize them but maybe you do.”

  “I'll check it out.” I turn to Hayley. “I'll be back in a minute, sweetheart. Just work away on the sandwiches yourself. They're your favorite.”

  When I get outside, there's a maroon Mercedes squatting at the end of the family driveway. Nobody I recognize. How dare they park there? If it's a limousine service, I'll put them right out of business.

  Ken slides up beside me. “Is George off sick, or what? He should have stopped them.”

  “Not that I know of.”

  He grabs my arm. “Alex, don't do anything rash.”

  I shake him off and scuttle down the steps. I'v
e no patience with trespassers. But as I stride across the gravel toward the car, I get this buzzing in my head. An awareness, a sixth sense. This is no limousine service. I'm supposed to know who this is.

  A tall, tousle–haired figure in a black shirt and black jeans emerges from the driver seat and confirms what my heart already suspected.

  Seb.

  At first my legs won't move. I just stare while the waves of incomprehension wash over me. I didn't expect this. A part of me must have decided he was dead, or if not clinically dead, then so furious with the situation that he considered us dead to him. I falter, stumble, and then run toward my older brother. We embrace tightly.

  “Seb?” I'm laughing, panting, fighting for words. “What the hell?”

  He pushes me back. He looks grave, but otherwise healthy. His hair's messier than I remember it, tumbling down over his forehead to meet his dark brows and eyes. He'd look relaxed if it wasn't for his perpetual expression of misgiving. He's wearing black, his favorite color.

  “Where the hell have you been?” I ask.

  He turns to Ken, who's just run up, and embraces him too. We stand as a trio of brothers for the first time in two months. It feels incredible, but disorienting.

  “You join a cult or something? I mean, look at you.” I pause to wait for his answer as you have to do with Seb, if you want any answer at all.

  “I stayed with friends for a while,” Seb says vaguely.

  A million new questions roar up in my mind, but duty dictates they wait. “Quick, we must tell Mother. And Letty. They'll be over the moon. Come on.” I'm attempting to drag a hundred–and–eighty–pound man toward the castle entrance but he's not budging an inch.

  “Mother already knows,” Seb says quietly.

  My hands slacken and drop away from him. “Oh.”

  “I told her I was coming home,” Seb says.

  So I'm the last the know. Well, Ken too, and Letty.

  “Good,” I say, trying to keep my tone light. “This is where you belong.”