Earl Power: A Modern Aristocracy Billionaire Romance (Endowed Book 2)

by Sara Forbes

  “I’m okay,” he says, voice creaky with underuse. “Doc says I’m responding well to the antibiotics. It’s just in the left lung so I can be thankful for that.”

  I wince at his wheezing cough. This man isn’t moving any time soon, and that’s a fact. Sympathy wells up within me as I sit at his bedside and pat his needle-free arm. “Not the way you imagined the aftermath of your daughter’s wedding, huh?”

  “Just get me out of here, Mara,” he mutters.

  “When the doc gives you the green light, I will,” I say sternly. “Not before.”

  He groans. “You don’t have to stay, my dear. I mean, what the hell did you say to Mike?”

  “That I’ll be working remotely for the next few days.”

  Dave’s eyebrows rise. “How’d he take it?”

  “Oh, there were death threats and adjectives that were new even to me.” I catch Dave’s concerned expression and add, “What’s he going to do—hire someone above the minimum wage?”

  Dave’s face relaxes into a smile. “Can’t see that happening. I appreciate you being here, Mara. I really didn’t relish the idea of going it alone like you young people are always doing. ”

  “You won’t have to,” I say soothingly.

  Afterwards, I traipse down toward the living room. The long shadows creeping around the tall, dark Victorian furniture render the space far too spooky. These people don’t go in for bright lighting. I poke my head in the doorway. I’ve been keeping to my own room the past two evenings, refusing their cordiality. But, seeing as Seb isn’t around, I venture in.

  Letty and Liv sit with their legs tucked under them on one sofa and Ken is sprawled on another, which is positioned at right angles to them. A newspaper is spread out in front of him on the coffee table. I’m totally lost as to what expected behavior in this place is. Hayley talked about lavish dinners served religiously at six every evening. Am I supposed to partake? It’s quarter before the hour now. Guess I’ll soon find out.

  “Mara,” Letty enthuses. “How nice.” And I swear, she is the only female to be able to say this in a non-catty-sounding way.

  “What are you up to?” I take the seat next to Ken, who has edged up to one side of the sofa, offering me room.

  “Letty’s sorting out a new music score,” Liv says. “Ken’s choosing his winners for tomorrow. And I’m just keeping them company in my own silly way.”

  “Winners for...?”

  “Goodwood, tomorrow,” Ken murmurs, still studying the paper. “The Celebration Mile.” Looking up and seeing my puzzled face, he adds, “Racing?”

  “Ah.”

  “Horse racing,” Letty adds.

  “Oh.” I smile. “Right.”

  “How’s Dave?” Ken asks. “Any improvement?”

  I shrug. “He’s in fighting form, but the doc—I mean, your Uncle William wants him to stay put for a little while longer.”

  “Yes, we shouldn’t take any chances,” Ken says. “Will’s one of the best in the country. Still, you don’t need be chained to Dave’s bedside either.”

  Both women nod their agreement.

  “Will you be dining with us tonight?” Kens tone is light, merely curious. He has that aristocratic way of always seeming to offer an elegant way to back out.

  “Well, I—”

  “Oh, go on, it’s just a family supper,” Letty says, much more forcefully, thereby smashing any elegant back-out to pieces. “Just us.”

  “Sure, okay.” I hope “just us” means just the people in this room.

  “And why don’t you come with us tomorrow?” Liv asks.

  “Uh, where?”

  “Why, to Goodwood.” Ken bats his newspaper like the answer’s right there.

  “Where is that?” I ask. I don’t want to stray too far from Dave.

  “Sussex. Not far. It’s the best racecourse—a mile long for three years old and up. The leading horses usually go on to compete in the Queen Elizabeth stakes. We’ll be back in time for supper.”

  “We’ll all squeeze in the Bentley,” Liv adds, “even if we’re five. You will come, won’t you?”

  I’m nodding before I figure out the math. There are four of us in this room so the fifth must be …

  “Seb’s coming too,” Letty says, with a note of steel in her voice. “Whether he likes it or not.”

  They all nod like it’s a conspiracy. If I suddenly back out just because Seb’s going, it’s going to look weird. Besides, I’m kind of curious about him and Liv.

  ◊◊◊

  We don’t have to squash into the Bentley the next day after all, as we’re only four. Letty got called away at the last minute to fill in for a sick friend’s lunchtime piano session in some lounge in London. We set off after breakfast as a quartet—Seb, Liv, Ken and me. Beside me in the back seat, Liv explains that the Belgrave siblings took today off from their respective duties—or at least Ken and Letty did , while Seb is gracing us with his physical presence as he keeps up to date with the important stuff on his phone.

  Seb’s quiet as he drives, navigating heavy traffic and keeping his eye on incoming messages on his phone in a totally illegal fashion. Ken, in the passenger seat, is immersed in racing details. His near-monologue lasts for the whole four-hour drive, listing his favorite horses, sharing the latest gossip on the jockeys and the trainers, and predicting the chances of each horse. Liv interjects with a comment or two as she peruses something on her phone.

  “Shouldn’t we call in on Charles?” Liv asks the front seats, as we stop at a traffic light.

  “Let’s leave it up to chance,” Ken says. “He’s sure to be around. We’ve no time to lose.”

  “Who’s Charles?” I ask, eager to make conversation now that it’s about a human, not a horse. Presumably.

  “Charles Gordon-Lennox, Lord Settrington, heir apparent to the heir apparent. His grandfather’s the Duke of Richmond, and the racecourse is on their estate,” Seb rattles off from the driver’s seat.

  “Oh.” Well, thank you for that explanation, Mr. Business.

  Ken chuckles and looks at his brother. “Pity they don’t create dukedoms like that anymore, eh?”

  There’s a silence in the car. Liv presses a hand delicately to her mouth and Seb does that little flinch of his head that’s starting to become all too familiar. It means he’s ticked off about something but in denial about it. I give up on this conversation. I mean, why do I even bother?

  As we drive off again, Liv leans over to me and says in a hushed voice. “The dukedom of Richmond was created by Queen Vic for an illegitimate child of Charles the second.” She throws a meaningful glance at the back of Seb’s head. “Ken’s idea of a joke at Seb’s expense.”

  “Yep. Got it.” I wish there was an app that decoded the messages of the aristocracy. In any case, it makes me like Liv more for at least trying to explain.

  My mood lifts soon after we arrive at our destination. In the midday sunshine, Goodwood Racecourse is absolutely breathtaking. The gathering has all the atmosphere of a glorious, overblown garden party. I’m fascinated by the massive white grandstand—early-nineteenth century neoclassical architecture at its finest, but with a modern upgrade: The stand is crowned by a brilliant white fabric roof, floating above the lower tiers. This tented roof is perfect for the relaxed, summertime ambiance. I resolve to find out who the architect was, or is.

  I glide from enclosure to refreshment room, arm in arm with Liv, my unlikely new friend, channeling my inner duchess, nodding at the well-heeled groups who greet us. For a millisecond, I glimpse why Hayley might enjoy this lifestyle. There’s so much respect for these people—not ostentatious sycophancy, but respect all the same. I sense the Belgraves and Liv are unaware of it—the way people’s eyes light up deferentially when they recognize nobility, and the way extra space is made for them to push their way through the crowds. But I see it.

  By the time we’re sitting in prime seats in the grandstand, Liv has decided which horse to bet on, and it turns out to
be the same as Ken’s. I take one glance at the list and, in mere seconds, make the choice that’s taken them three hours of painful deliberation. I simply choose a name that looks good—“Purple Moon.” I reckon all horses and jockeys must be at a fairly similar level, not that I will ever care about this stuff.

  “Are you copying me?” Ken asks Liv with a teasing note to his voice.

  She fans her face with her race brochure. “No, this is the result of deep thought and dastardly calculation.” But her smirk is giving the game away. He’s laughing too.

  Watching their blond heads bob in the sunlight, I wonder if Seb minds his brother encroaching on his territory, and how the seating arrangement ended up being Ken, Liv, Seb, me anyway. I can’t help feeling a zap of vindictive pleasure at Seb having a potential problem holding on to his Lady Liv.

  He only has himself to blame, of course. He’s had plenty of chances to talk to Liv but he doesn’t use them. She in turn, seems guarded in her approach to him—there’s respect there, yes; fondness too, but nothing approaching what I would call intimacy. Dare I say it, she seems to have more fun with Ken.

  But I shouldn’t delude myself—when it comes to aristocratic marriages, fun doesn’t necessarily enter into the equation. And when it comes to Seb, fun sometimes seems to run off and hide in a dark corner. Like Gollum.

  Liv and Ken chatter excitedly when, after a race of sheer adrenalin, their horse, Demon’s Quest, wins. In unison, they jump up to go collect their winnings from the booth even though, strictly speaking, only one person needs to go.

  “That’s another hundred quid I’ll never have back,” Seb says beside me, clapping dust off his palms.

  I’m surprised he feels he can just talk to me as if nothing has happened. “Didn’t you just say a moment ago that it’s not about the money, it’s the thrill of beating the odds?”

  “So you were listening.” He smiles, and it lights up his face in a way I have to admit would be pretty devastating if I weren’t so ticked off. He reaches down and takes up his soda. “The thrill can be taken too far, though. Ken takes it too seriously.” With the sun caressing his hair and the drinking straw sticking out of his perfect mouth, he looks unbearably cute right now.

  Damn him.

  “Well, we’ve all got our vices,” I say lightly.

  “What are yours?” he asks, so low I barely hear it.

  You? My skin prickles all over, remembering his mouth hot and hard on mine and how much I wanted him to just take me. “I have none.”

  “Good to know.” His dark eyes peruse my face from forehead to chin, and in the sunlight, they’re not simply brown; there’s a thin purple circle in the middle, encircling the pupil. “Tell me something else about you.”

  Anyone can say “tell me about you” but few men can say it in a way that rises above a pick-up line, and even fewer can say in in a way that communicates a genuine desire to know. With Seb, it sounds like that. My entire body tenses under the intensity of his gaze. I’m not used to this kind of attention. It makes me nervous. It would be easier if he just kissed me.

  “There’s not much to know, really,” I say in a stiff, offhand voice. “My life is architecture and then I sleep.”

  He nods solemnly, so I continue, eager to prove to him that I’m on top of my game. It may not be a salubrious game, but it’s my game, played by my rules. “My boss gets me for a pittance; he knows I need to do my three years of internship with him, as there are few other options. But when I’m qualified, I’ll have a whole lot more freedom—and he’s promised me his office, so I’ll run my own business then, so it’s all good.”

  As I speak, his eyes intensify, shrink down, as if he’s sharply focusing on my words. He turns his ear slightly towards me in a way that suggests he doesn’t want to miss a detail. And so, without worrying he’s going to interrupt or contradict, I feed him more information about my job and college life.

  “Will you specialize in historical buildings?” he asks at one point. “You have a talent for it.”

  “Maybe. I have big plans.”

  His expression hardens a fraction. “Nobody’s going to hand it to you.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t expect them to.” My eyes dart up to meet his—which are, as ever, observing me, his head swaying a fraction to the other side now, exposing his thick neck as he seems to be considering something big and profound. My traitorous body is on fire with the delight of the steady male attention.

  His chest fills with a breath and he inches his fingers over to cover my hand in my lap, his long fingers lightly enveloping mine in their warmth. My mind is in such a whirl all I can do is stare down in dismay to where my hand seems incapable of pulling back. I’m swimming, drowning, in the simple pleasure of his fingers grazing my knuckles, and the confusion of knowing he’s intended for someone else.

  He lets out a ragged breath. “Mara, I—”

  But he’s cut off because Ken and Liv come tumbling back into their seats, flush with victory. I gasp and shove his hand off my lap.

  “You’re not copying me this time,” Ken says.

  “As if,” Liv replies, laughing, and flopping in the seat beside him.

  Ken and Liv continue jabbering at each other, quarrelling over the best horse to pick for the next race. Seb turns to them and launches smoothly into the discussion.

  I sit simmering on Seb’s other side, glad to be blocked from their view. My gaze is fixed down at the garish colors of the jockeys and horses coming from the viewing enclosure, getting ready to leave for the track.

  What was he going to say? “Mara, I …” what?

  “Mara, I … think this is a bad idea?”

  Well, good, because I do too. For starters, your intended is on the other side of you. For another thing, I’m out of here in a few days.

  The races follow in a blur, a steady stream of random choices on my part, petty arguments between the others, jubilation and disappointment. One of my horses actually wins and I won’t deny it gives me a thrill of beating the odds, especially as it throws Ken into a hilarious flurry of confusion when I tell him I just chose the horse because I liked the diamond pattern on the jockey’s shirt. He refused to believe it.

  All the way home in the car, I’m silent as the conversation is lobbed between Ken and Liv, and very occasionally, Seb. He hasn’t as much as glanced at me since that moment—at least not when I was looking, anyway, and I’ve tried to keep those occasions to a bare minimum.

  Turns out aristocrats are every bit as capable of mind-fuckery as the rest of us plebs. The sooner I’m back in Laxby, the better.

  10

  SEB

  RACHEL REPLIED TO my email, leaving a two-day gap between them. That gave me the impression she wouldn’t have anything new to say.

  It goes to show how utterly wrong one can be.

  My dear Sebastian,

  I was overjoyed to hear back from you.

  I have some news that I would like to share with you as it is relevant to our situation. Orla just announced that she’s pregnant! Yes, she’s already at the end of her first trimester (12 weeks) and we are very excited, needless to say. She is keen to get to England before it’s too late to travel. So we are aiming for her seventh month, December.

  This came as great surprise to me yesterday. She had been keeping it quiet, you see, until she was sure. You may well wonder about the father and that is a complicated matter. He does not want anything to do with the child and he has disappeared to all extents and purposes. I do not expect him to be capable of providing child support anyway. He can barely support herself. Orla has learned her lesson and she’s keen to get started on a new life in England, finish her studies—she’s a veterinarian nurse—and leave the past behind. I will support her every step of the way.

  Our priority now is to settle in a good community with a school and a shop within easy reach. If you know of anywhere in your locality, please let me know. We can rent out a little 2-bed apartment and we’ll be just fine. I have s
ome savings that will cover us. I just need some guidance on where to start looking.

  I hope this doesn’t change your mind on staying in contact. I promise we won’t be a burden to you or to your family.

  All the best,

  Rachel.

  Orla … pregnant. That makes me an uncle. Half-uncle, I suppose. It’s strange that the first child of the next generation connected to me is this unknown one, one I can’t even openly celebrate. Orla seems young to be having a baby, but she’s the same age as Hayley. This is my wakeup call that people of my generation are becoming parents now.

  Rachel and Orla are less likely to disappear as soon as they get bored with Fernborough. Orla’s baby will force her to stick around, and if Rachel wants to play grandma, she’ll be fairly tied down here too. Assuming, of course, she’s managed to pick up any maternal tendencies in the past twenty-eight years.

  There is, of course, no way of truly knowing, but instinct tells me they’re not flush with cash. I have no idea whether Father ever provided her with any money for herself and Orla, but I intend to find out and rectify that retroactively if need be. Alex won’t argue against it.

  One thing’s for sure: I will not have my birth mother and half-sister squatting in some two-bedroom apartment being screwed over by a rogue landlord—an all-too-common situation, the housing crisis in this country being what it is. As part of my family, they can expect a decent, comfortable home in a good community like Fernborough, where our family name carries weight and where they’ll be respected and have access to the best health care the country has to offer.

  I could murder the man who abandoned Orla with her baby. No woman deserves that—and it’s a loose end. Chances are, the blackguard will turn up on her doorstep once he hears she’s connected to the aristocracy.

  The upper bedrooms of the Millhouse would make a perfect nursery for the baby—the middle, south-facing room. Mara said the windows wouldn’t even need replacing. We just need to insulate the house, remove any hazardous materials if there are any, and move into the rooms, one by one.