Picky Viscount: A Modern Aristocracy Billionaire Romance (Endowed Book 3)

by Sara Forbes

  Everything is above board now. We no longer have to go stealing horses from hostile abattoirs in the remote countryside, although the memories of doing just that always bring a smile to my face.

  Letty, I see all the time—because she’s my employee now. I had to poach her from Seb’s enterprise and he wasn’t too heartbroken by it. He said she wasn’t very efficient with the books anyway. I’m finding the opposite—she’s a natural with horses and with people, and I couldn’t run my charity without her. Men fall at her feet at money-raising functions, eager to donate money to the cause, hoping to get a favor from her afterward. Little kids adore her too, always wanting to be in her group.

  Whenever the topic comes up, and I keep it to a minimum, Letty tells me Ken’s gone back to his old habits… skulking in his study, writing his magnum opus, deleting entire sections of it and rewriting it, working for Seb, working out his frustrations in their gym, sleeping, repeat. I don’t ask for details but she tells me them anyway. Today, she managed to throw in the tidbit that’s he’s back to being “picky” when it comes to women.

  “I have to laugh,” I say, “because you, Letty Belgrave, are the pickiest of us all when it comes to men. Your prerequisites are that they’re tall, dark, and nonexistent.”

  “Not nonexistent—elusive,” she says, laughing her big laugh. “I have a theory though.”

  “What?” I groan. Yet another Letty theory about her future husband, James Bond?

  “Well… you know the secret location of Sill?”

  “Yes.” Ken went completely paranoid about Sill, telling everyone that if he put him in a normal yard—-or a sanctuary like mine—he’d be the target of a plot for revenge. So Sill’s been hidden in this secret horse yard since then. Only Alex and Ken know where it is and they won’t tell anyone.

  “Well, it’s at his home.” Letty stands up triumphantly, brushes the straw off her riding cap, and slaps it on her head of blonde locks. “It’s Martin Spelling’s home.”

  “No!” I exclaim in mock awe, shaking my head.

  When she leaves, I let out a sigh. Letty does remind me of Ken. It wasn’t so obvious before, but when someone’s painfully missing from your life, you start to see them everywhere, especially in their siblings’ faces.

  Although I feel on top of my life now, it feels hollow inside. I tried online dating and even agreed to a date when the first guy answered back. He was nice, but just seemed so wrong for me in every way. I couldn’t explain it to him or to myself. He left in an understandable huff after I said we shouldn’t go for a second date. I deleted my account after that.

  Still, I’m only twenty-five. I have ten years before I have to really worry about this stuff. In the meantime, there are horses to save and communities to build.

  31

  KEN

  AT QUARTER PAST MIDNIGHT on a Friday in early February, I put the final period to the manuscript. To say I am sick of this manuscript would be an understatement, but I’m also proud of it in a way I’ve never been proud of anything I’ve done before.

  It’s not the first time I’ve reached the end, but it’s the first time it feels right. In this rewrite, I’ve told Sill’s story, right from his thoroughbred birth to his retirement on Martin’s estate. After Doncaster, Sill won one more race and in December, I decided to take him—and me—out of racing.

  Now I need the gym, a beer, and a funny movie to take my mind off… whatever. It’s crazy that five months later, the one person I want to call and tell that I’ve finished the damn book… is her.

  It occurs to me as I bench press the weights that maybe now that I’m not going to be writing about horses, I’ll also stop thinking about beautiful countesses who have dedicated their lives to equine welfare. I’ll stop dreaming of working where my sister works on Liv’s sanctuary, instead of hunched over the laptop in Seb’s overly efficient office.

  The fantasies of having Liv as my boss, involving riding crops, and sexy tight jodhpurs, and bundles of soft hay, may begin to wane. That’s my hope. Because I don’t think my dick is going to survive another day of this torture.

  There is an upside to my writing career. I love the public attention I’m getting for my book. It’s being seen as a polemic on the state of the British racing industry wrapped up in an easy-to-swallow story about beating the odds. Needless to say, the press are lapping it up.

  Even without a firm publication date set, my agent has booked me in for readings all over the country. I suppose that could be fun. Some of them are paid. I won’t say no. She tells me my noble heritage and my looks are partly responsible for the ease of booking dates. I’ll take that too. I’m not a cocky bastard like Alex, but I can’t say it hurts my ego to be in the limelight for once.

  My money worries are over. A fierce battle between two publishers pushed my advance up to a half a million pounds. Yeah. The price nearly made me choke on my tea. The general public shrug and say “Oh, they’re worth billions anyway, all those Belgraves, that’s just pocket money for them,” but they have absolutely no fucking clue. I am more than humble in accepting this windfall because before this happened, my net worth was way less than zero.

  I finish in the gym and go upstairs, past my study and up the tiny staircase that leads to the south turret. It’s a particularly clear on this freezing night and I can spot Strathcairn Castle through the binoculars. There’s a light on in the third-floor window that I know is hers. She’s there in the isolated room, beyond hearing range of anyone else—something we were very glad of on those nights of lovemaking. What I wouldn’t do to get one hour of that back again. One minute…

  I’m picturing those nights—her face, her breasts, her sweet round ass bobbing in the air. I release my cock from my sweatpants and pump it fiercely in my fisted hand. A dog howls in the distance as I get closer and closer to relief. Freezing wind makes my nipples hypersensitive to the point of pain but it intensifies the effect. When I come with a choked cry of relief, a pair of pigeons coo as if in indignation that I use their nesting place for a spot of dirty relief.

  “Yeah, well, we don’t all have it as good as you do.”

  One bird has the temerity to coo back.

  “All right, all right, I’ll do something about it. No need to go on about it.”

  32

  LIV

  I’VE PARKED MY VOLKSWAGEN in the underground parking near Waterloo station when my phone buzzes. I expect it’s someone from the sanctuary telling me that some disaster has struck, now that I’m taking my first day off in ages and am truly too far away to help with whatever it is.

  But the caller ID says otherwise.

  “Peter?”

  “Hi Liv. Long time.”

  “Yeah, Daddy’s funeral.”

  “So, what are you up to these days?”

  “Oh, saving the world,” I laugh, “one horse at a time.”

  “Yeah, I hear that’s going well for you. Saving the immigrants too.”

  “No, they’re the ones helping me,” I say snippily. Since when did Peter care about Fernborough’s refugee population? Since never, that’s when.

  “You’ll be up for the Nobel peace prize yet.”

  “Peter,” I slam my car door shut. “What can I do for you?”

  “Well, seeing as you’re in London, I thought maybe a drink wouldn’t hurt? Please? Old times’ sake.”

  “Um…”

  “Say nine pm? The Oliver Cromwell. You’ll love it. Googlemap it.”

  “Yeah, okay.” I’m only agreeing so he’ll get off the line and let me get out of this creepy underground parking as soon as possible. I scuttle to the exit stairwell. This is the kind of place where women on their own tend to get mugged. Yes, I’ll admit it, I’m the country bumpkin getting nervous in the big city.

  It’s only when I’ve reached the surface and am crossing the street that it occurs to me how freaky this whole thing is. How did Peter know I was in London? I didn’t tell him. Of course, it’s possible that he rang home looking for me
and someone told him, but something tells me that’s not it.

  It’s as if he knew exactly where I was going.

  No, impossible.

  The bookshop I’m going to is within walking distance from here according to the Gospel of Googlemaps.

  As I pass by the large front window I peer in at the old-fashioned display of hardbacks. In the center, displayed proudly, is Ken’s book, simply entitled The Silmarillion, not to be confused with its namesake, The Lord of the Rings —prequel—or sequel, I could never remember which—although there are copies of that one placed opportunistically around, too. Ken told me the name was all Seb’s fault, as he is the big Lord of the Rings fan. Ken likes blaming Seb for all kinds of silly stuff—it’s a Belgrave family thing—but this one is probably true.

  Then I see the poster of the author. I inhale a sharp breath. Ken looks amazing with his blond hair longer and shaggier than I’ve ever seen it, in a white shirt—as always—back-lit with an orange light that makes his green eyes glow even warmer. The colors are beautiful, not that he will ever be able to appreciate them, but more than that is the way his intelligent personality seems to shine through this portrait—Ken looks like a mature man, one whose heart is aligned with his integrity, one whose mission in life is burning and clear. I would buy the book on the basis of this poster alone.

  Which, of course, makes me a very silly female indeed.

  I shake my head and chastise myself for thinking like this. Probably half the women attending this book reading are of the same frame of mind—namely, oooh, handsome young rich eligible nobleman in the house, because a fair proportion of them are early to mid-twenties and looking rather more glamorous than the crowd you’d expect at a book reading about a horse.

  I find myself assessing them one by one, as I skulk around the Home & Gardening section, pretend to be flipping through books. Is she prettier than me? Slimmer? Classier?

  Oh my God, stoppit.

  I can’t really be jealous, can I? It must be celibacy getting the better of me.

  I stand in in line to buy Ken’s book and then make my way to the semicircle—four rows deep of plastic chairs surrounding the lone chair where the author will sit. I perch myself on the furthest seat at the edge of the fourth row. It seems particularly ironic that I come all this way to see my next-door neighbor and then can’t muster up the courage to be seen by him.

  My nerves are acting up now. I fumble with my phone, unzip my handbag, plop the phone in. I take it out again because I’ve forgotten to switch it off. The second I switch it off I switch it on again because I still need to find my way to The Oliver Cromwell.

  Is it too hot in here or is it just that poster? Why are all these women so drop-dead gorgeous?

  It’s 8 pm. Any minute now, he’ll walk out. The reading will last half an hour and then there’s a little reception, drink or whatever. I had been looking forward to maybe… just maybe… getting to talk to him there. On neutral territory, away from the influences and memories of home. Like one of those couples who pretend to be strangers as a prelude to some hot sex. Yes, I’m horny. I’ve been secretly looking forward to this moment ever since I heard he’d be doing a public reading in London seven weeks ago.

  But—I check Googlemaps—if I’m to get to the pub that Peter mentioned, I’ll have to leave exactly now if I go walking. The tube will take just as long. A taxi will be impossible in that traffic. Why did I agree to this?

  Fuck.

  This is so annoying. I hate missing appointments. I never let people down, it doesn’t matter who they are. Why did I agree to this without knowing where the stupid pub was?

  A svelte brunette beside me frowns at my fumbling and then turns to whisper something in the ear of her equally gorgeous pal. They giggle together and cast furtive Bambi looks my way.

  It’s the final straw.

  I rise. I can’t do this. I’m out of here.

  33

  KEN

  THE SHOP ASSISTANT GUIDES me from the staff room where I’ve dumped my coat, to the door to the shop. Beyond that door is my first audience and I’m feeling a little nervous and a whole lot self-conscious. I don’t mind interviews at all but this is my first time doing one of these reading things. It brings back bad memories of having to read aloud from insufferable books in Mrs. Kimball’s English class in boarding school.

  And Christ, it’s warm in here.

  “Full house,” the assistant says. He’s mid-twenties, like me, but from a different planet—a hipster city boy, pale and wiry, with intellectual glasses, and a shirt with a lot of weird patterns on it. “Nervous?”

  “I’m good.”

  I stride through the door and nod at my audience—a semicircle of mostly women. Women read more than men, right? But I thought my book would appeal more to men. And maybe an older crowd. Still, not complaining.

  A few smile at me and bat their eyelashes. Wow, they’re really young. Some can’t be long out of secondary school. Well, I’m glad my horse’s story has such broad appeal.

  I settle on the chair, which is plastic and uncomfortable, and scan the room, looking for exits. There’s a glint of glass as the main door opens and people come in. A woman is struggling to get out past them. Something makes me look twice at her.

  Is that…?

  “Liv?” I call.

  All heads turn to look at the door. It is her. She stops and glances over at me. But instead of acknowledging me, she scuttles out into the street like a frightened rabbit and disappears from view.

  What?

  “I’m sorry,” I tell my rapt audience. “I just need one moment.” I set off sprinting after her.

  “Liv,” I yell after her down the street, but she’s disappeared into the evening shopping crowd.

  Well, damn. I’ve never been so tempted to abandon my duty and go after her, but forty-some people have made the effort to come here tonight to hear me read to them about my horse, so I’m going to do that. I’ll have to figure out everything else later when I call her. Like, what is she doing here? Why couldn’t she stay? When will I see her again?

  After a shaky start, my reading goes by in a blur. I’m sure my voice is dead as I battle with a distracted mind. I shorten the reading to leave more time for questions as it feels more natural to talk about the book and my experiences than to read from it.

  Luckily, their questions are excellent. Some are concerned about the sport’s image, some about the death of its old-world glamor, others about the mathematical chances of winning. I feel I have a whole new tribe when I’m done.

  A pair of barely-out-of-their-teens beauties are the first up when it comes to the book signing which, frustratingly, is also part of the ritual. Can’t they see I just want to get out here.

  “We know where she went,” the taller one says, leaning over so I can see right down her cleavage.

  “Excuse me?” I slap the book shut that I’ve signed for her.

  The other leans in at a similar angle and says in a conspiratorial whisper, “The Oliver Cromwell pub.”

  “How do you know?”

  “We sat beside her. She was using an app and that’s where she was going.”

  “That was quite nosey of you,” I remark. “But enterprising.”

  She grins and gives me a sultry look. “That’s my middle name.”

  “Yes, quite. Any idea where this pub is?”

  “Yeah. And unless you want to be stuck all night, come with us. It’s on our way home.”

  “Do you have a car or something?”

  Are you old enough to drive?

  They turn in unison and point to their chairs. Two motorcycle helmets sit there.

  “Oh yeah. Now we’re talking.”

  ◊◊◊

  We’re speeding through London traffic like maniacs, the wind flapping at my clothes. I got the spare helmet from the girl called Lucy and I’m clinging onto the leather jacket of this eighteen-year-old or whatever she is as she flies though impossible gaps. I thought I was a
risk taker but this is insane. Still, I’d rather die than look like a sissy by asking her to slow down.

  Finally, she slows to a halt at a traffic light whose upper light is on. She gestures at the pub which, indeed, says ‘Cromwell’ in large letters. I jump off the bike, yank off the helmet and put it in the container at the back.

  Before I can turn and ask what they want as payment, they wave to me and drive off.

  I’m bewildered, slightly dizzy, as I make my way towards the door of the pub.

  “Jail-bait, Belgrave. I must say I expected more of you,” a horribly familiar voice says to me. “Or maybe I didn’t.”

  I look up. Standing on the step to the pub door are Peter and Liv, looking like a happy loving couple going for a normal drink on a Saturday evening. Or coming out after having a drink.

  My heart aches to see her with him. This can’t be right. Did everything about her change in five months? Surely not. I’d been keeping watch on Strathcairn—their Mrs. Henry acted as my faithful spy—and I know for a fact Peter didn’t set foot in the place. Liv may have gone to him though.

  “Peter. Liv,” I snap, my gaze only on her face. “Good evening.”

  Liv’s eyes seem to implore me.

  “See?” Peter turns to her. “He’ll go off with anyone… even underage sluts on motorbikes. I’m surprised he even bothered to hold his book reading. I was sure he’d follow you immediately. Let’s give him credit for that, shall we? But now he’s going to see what it’s like to have his nose broken, and maybe a rib or two and whatever else is on the menu.”