“Now, I can choose who will be heir regardless of gender or birth order. What started out as a quaint little bid for power cloaked under the guise of promoting gender equality by certain women in the House has actually worked in my favor. Whomever I deem most responsible and most able to handle the pressures of the estate will be the heir to Bracon. These days, often the oldest child doesn’t even want the estate. Sometimes it’s the youngest. Sometimes it is none.”
I stood up sharply, anger in all of my hard lines.
My father pointed a finger at me. “Sit down. I’m not finished.”
Breathing heavily through my nose, I obeyed. If I were going to formulate a counterattack, I would need as much information as possible.
“In six months, I will decide if it is to be you or Brontë who will take the Dukedom of Bracon and have the privilege of living at Wodehall. In the meantime, I don’t want to alert the press that anything has changed. You will continue acting as heir apparent with the appropriate titles, including Marquess of Damford. While a junkie marquess may be great for selling papers, it’s abominable to think you would be a duke of anything. Bracon deserves better.”
“Brontë has no idea how to run anything but the bill up at Hermès,” I hissed.
“Like you’re so much better. I know your type, son. I was your type. My father tried to disinherit me and took his case all the way to the High Court. While he failed due to some obscure 1706 law, I will not, thanks to those abominable women and the new Alexander laws. Progress can be beautiful, don’t you agree?”
I threw my crystal tumbler into the fireplace, relishing the sound of it smashing into a thousand pieces, and immediately wished I’d had the foresight to gulp down the alcohol first. This was my birthright, something he had pounded into my head from the moment I was born, and now he was using it as a weapon against me.
“What exactly would make you change your mind?” I asked.
“First, I want you to quit frequenting the clubs. It was bad enough when your friends thought you were too much of a liability to have on their boat. Forget a field day—the press had a week with that one. Now, they keep bringing up my past, which I fought hard to overcome, as shall you. No more London, period. Second, you will attend all social functions in the country as my representative and heir. Third, you will either find an appropriately titled or monied mate, or you will accept the one I choose for you.”
“You go too far, old man.”
My father stood up, and while his bones creaked, his hard jawline and the stiff upper lip that had served him so well in wartime left no doubt about his seriousness.
“I don’t go far enough. You’re lucky I haven’t sent you to rehab, and that’s only because I don’t want anything more leaking to the press.”
“That was a plant by someone,” I replied sullenly, “but it’s nice to know you favor your reputation over my health if it came down to it.”
My father cackled. “Then I suggest you figure out who you can trust—and soon. And don’t fuck the local girls in the meantime.”
With that, he turned and left for his midday nap or however he occupied his time. I wouldn’t have been the least surprised if he still terrorized tiny children for sport. Trust my father to use the new laws meant for equality to stick to his outdated ways and arrange a marriage for me.
I shuddered, thinking of the eligible aristocratic women he would choose. There was a reason I spent my time in London and Paris, in Malta and Monaco—pretty much anywhere but here. I knew all of the titled girls, and while most were fine for a night, that was the extent of their appeal. They were too much like me: jaded and depressed, wilted English roses.
Chapter Six
Poppy
“Yes, like that,” I murmured. “Mm, don’t stop.”
My fingers roamed upward, circling my hard nipple and making me moan. My imaginary, faceless male sex slave flipped me around smoothly with one arm and bent me over.
It sounds sexy, but it was honestly easier that way. I didn’t have to figure out what face I wanted on him if I made my imaginary male sex slave do me dirty, doggy-style. Nothing but strong hands and tastefully manicured nails ravaging my body. Melding my body to his, feeling his hard stomach against my back, thrusting roughly—there! Almost…
No, don’t flip me back around. You’re supposed to be faceless!
A certain boy I remembered from childhood kept surfacing. I wondered what he possibly looked like now.
No, stop doing that, you’re losing it!
I circled, I pictured abs, I pinched harder, but it was useless. The O was gone. And me? I was defective. Ever since leaving LA, I hadn’t been able to orgasm. I was clearly overworked and under-sexed.
Or, you know, defective.
I banged the back of my head against my pillow a few times and tried to ignore the water damage in the ceiling. Way too many things needed to be fixed, myself included. It was enough to overwhelm a stoic.
I yielded to defeat and swung my legs off my four-poster bed. There were a few tiles missing from the black and white checkered floor, giving it the air of an abandoned chessboard out of an Alice in Wonderland adventure—at least that was what I told myself. It sounded more romantic than the truth: that the whole place was decrepit, dying, decayed.
I’d been there two weeks and my brother still hadn’t graced me with his presence. He’d even missed the small ceremony I’d held for our father. Dad’s body hadn’t been recovered, so it was just a picture of him and his favorite hunting dog, Cleopatra. He looked young in the photo, vigorous. Only two other people had bothered to show up, what with Dad dying in disgrace and all.
Nobody in society was quite sure what the truth was, but they knew divorce in the upper classes wasn’t done due to a simple difference of opinion. Something earth-shattering had happened between my parents.
Either way, the knowing and the not knowing, meant my family was excluded from most society events. Why change the status quo in death?
I was thankfully numb from my own convoluted grief. I couldn’t sort out the strands. Once upon a time, he’d been my hero: kisser of skinned knees, wiper of tears. Now he was nothing but a marker on an empty tomb.
I needed to shake it out, dance party style, but I couldn’t even bring myself to do that, let alone the contracted dance parties I was supposed to be streaming on a daily basis. I needed to keep my wallowing private life separate from my professional, but I was finding it increasingly hard to get back into the groove of things.
Beyond sending the promised promo to Sophia, I’d done nothing for my account. Daily ad opportunities went without a response, the coffee table book I was in contract negotiations for stalled, and everyone was beginning to wonder. I’d finally done a quick update of me at the manor when my followers started a petition to notify the police of a missing person.
Bless their hearts.
Before my dad’s death, I’d been considering hiring a few assistants. Now, the idea of a “happy” brand made me want to shoot rainbow laser beams out of my eyes and gun down innocent unicorns.
I walked down the stairs, wondering if I’d ever get back into it. There was so much on my plate here, but surely my bosses would understand. A light and airy voice shocked me out of my melancholic musings.
“Oh my God, it’s true. You’re back.” An elegantly dressed woman stood on the threshold, holding open the front door. She took one look around the foyer and tut-tutted. “Stone is a first class ass.”
“Simone?” I called. I recognized her, but barely. She was a year younger than me, which meant I had hardly paid attention to her when I lived here. I had been too busy trying to run with the older kids, just like she had.
Now, Simone could have twinned with a young Elizabeth Hurley. She had that large mouth and those emerald green eyes under dark, fringed bangs. In other words, she looked the titled part, even if she wasn’t technically titled. Only her older brother would inherit their father’s baronet title and get to be called Si
r.
Simone slammed the door shut. “Get your Americanized bum down here this instant! I have to get a look at you.”
With a bit of trepidation, I went to meet the woman with the very posh accent. What was Simone like now? Surely, she still hung out with Stone, but it seemed not here, not at Clarion.
Simone air-kissed and gave me a hug. “I can’t believe it’s you! How long will you be staying? We heard some local girl came back, and with your father’s passing, I knew it had to be you. I’m so sorry, by the way. Horrible business. Is it true? A mountain, of all places.”
I nodded as Simone took in more of the grand entry.
“Your brother really let it go to shit.”
“Have you seen him lately?”
Simone tossed her hair. “The usual. My brother—you remember Madden, right?—well, he went off on a sailing trip to Antigua and left Stone, Essie, and—get this—Finlay behind.”
At the sound of his name on her lips, I couldn’t hear anything else. Simone was saying something about a bender, but I could only picture the boy.
Dark hair, a bit of magic in his eyes when they sparkled. Strong, wise, capable. A clear leader, but not spiteful. He didn’t know the golden power he had over me whenever he came near. He didn’t use his charming power for anything except for our good fun.
Until…until that day.
“So will you come?” Simone asked. I got the feeling it wasn’t the first time she’d asked.
I swallowed hard. “Sorry, what did you say? The jet lag is really getting to me,” I lied, trying to push Finn out of my memories.
Leave me alone.
“Dinner, my dear. Madden and the boys will be back tonight and they’re throwing a grand dinner party. Do come! It will be so much fun to surprise them all.”
“Will Stone be there?”
Simone lowered her voice, confidantes confiding. “Madden says nobody has seen Stone in days. Probably shacked up with some whore in the City. Last time, they found him in Amsterdam doing all sorts of coke and shit. He’ll probably stumble in sooner or later.”
I pinched the space between my eyebrows. At least he had the sense to leave English soil and Clarion Abbey, or I hoped he did.
Aside from the possible presence of my half-brother, I really didn’t want to rub elbows with all the shitty people from my old life. My mom used to say the British were pale and lifeless looking because they were stuck so far up their own asses. She wasn’t completely wrong.
But, it was either society dinner party or dig for earthworms and curl up next to Boris for the night. It felt like I was walking on eggshells, waiting for Stone to show up in self-righteous rage. Some fresh air and bubbly might do me good. I couldn’t bring myself to mention his name, though. I could only hope he stayed with Stone.
I smiled. “Okay, why not?”
“That’s the spirit! Oh, we’re going to have so much fun. It’s easy-breezy fun tonight, so don’t worry about impressing anybody, you poor thing. I will have everything you need to relax and forget.”
“Uh, thanks.”
“You need a chance to enjoy all your title has to offer. Stick with me and you’ll be fine. Be at Hills Hall at seven!”
And then Simone was gone in a whirl of goodbye kisses and Chanel Number 5.
I carefully washed and dried my white sundress in the early May sunshine. It was the only acceptable dress I had besides the plain black one I’d quickly ordered for my father’s funeral along with a couple t-shirts and comfortable pants to work in around the manor.
Judging by the state of the place, I’d be going through a lot of clothes.
Boris got a few cold cuts thrown in his general direction from the safety of the window while I tried to figure out how to lock up the place. After going through approximately a billion old keys in a terribly ancient door, I gave up. Thieves were welcome to the lot.
By the time I got to Hills Hall, it was a quarter past seven. I hoped that was okay. I had a thing about being on time.
Twinkly lights sparkled on the green lawn and the moon rose over Simone’s ancestral home, which was built on the rather large hill it was named after. Simone and her family weren’t technically peers since her father was the lowest level—a baronet—and King James I had started handing those things out like candy for anyone who could pay when he needed the funds, but it was inherited, so after her father Sir John Bendoir died, her brother Madden would become Sir Madden Bendoir. Nothing was left over for Simone, but she seemed okay with that. Her money helped. I’d quickly Googled her and found out she was a buyer at Selfridges and very into fashion. I hoped she wouldn’t mind my sundress at her nice event. I couldn’t bear to wear the black funeral dress again.
She rushed over, kissing me on both cheeks, and handed me a glass of sparkling champagne to toast.
“I am thrilled you came! These things are so dull lately, but all the boys will be back from Antigua tonight. Still no word about Stone?”
I shook my head, taking a delicate sip.
Simone guided me through the party, whispering in my ear about who was fucking which businessman in London and who refused to go to Paris for finishing school because they were fucking businessmen in London.
Most of the girls went to Le Cordon Bleu, not to actually graduate, but to get the basics of French cooking before spending six months in Barcelona for Spanish and six more in Rome for Italian before then coming home to marry nice, titled, English lads.
They dressed in enough silk to keep a sweatshop in business, their shoulders bare despite the chill of the English spring. They clinked their champagne glasses as they laughed at whatever bullshit stories were being woven by the entitled men who had never worked a day in their lives.
At the ring of a silver bell in the gloved hand of a servant, the chatter moved into the dining room.
Simone, that traitor, sat at the head of the table and left me next to someone so old and boring their name was literally Lord Bland.
All our old friends filtered into the dining room, but I barely recognized them.
None of them were the same little boys I remembered. They’d grown hard and fast, always flush with money and whatever that money bought them, which was usually the world. I doubted the men they’d grown into were much different from the petulant boys they’d been—the same at best but likely much worse.
The first course came out on silver trays with silver serving forks arranged perfectly. The waiter bent down with the tray, allowing us to serve ourselves as much or little as we wanted. It was a little terrifying how quickly and easily all the customs came back to me. Fork, knife, wine glass. Ladylike sips, no slurping the soup.
Worse than all the rules were the boring table companions. Sir John’s friends mingled with Simone and Madden’s, but there I was seated next to Lord Bland. I hoped he might keel over during the soup course, but it seemed to perk him up in time for the main.
By the lamb course, I was so bored, I prayed I’d keel over. Thankfully, Simone rose and everyone went to the drawing room where old Gainsborough portraits of the Bendoir ancestors stared down at us while the traditional brandy and cigars were passed around.
Madden bent over to give me a light, but I declined, shaking my hand over the match.
“I’m so very sorry to hear about your father,” he said, puffing his own cigar. “But it’s nice to see you back.” He was completely tanned with dark lines around his eyes from his sailing trip. I assumed from wearing sunglasses on deck with no shirt all day. I also assumed he was skipper or whatever they called the guy in charge of the boat without Finn around. Captain, probably.
Madden had always been levelheaded. Even as a kid, when it was clear Finn was the leader of their little gang, Madden was the glue. He would never have that je ne sais quois that could persuade knights or rebels to cross distant lands and fight for him like Finn did, but he was a perfect right-hand man. The adult had grown into his aristocratic cheek bones and tall grace whereas Finn clearly had fallen fro
m it. Maybe he had only needed a war.
“Thanks,” I said. “It’s all been a whirlwind since I found out about my father. I hear you just arrived from abroad yourself.”
Madden crossed his legs and sat back. I could see his socks. They had tiny sailboats on them. Hm. So not as stuffy as the rest.
“We did. Thirty-three days on the water. I’m 10kg lighter than when I left!”
“Wow, what did have to eat? Hardtack and limes?”
Madden chuckled, letting little puffs of the sweet smoke. “It felt like it most days. Actually, I was curious if you had plans to see Damford?”
I gulped. He’d gone there. My hands went to the hollow of my neck where I liked to twist my old necklace between my thumbs. After all these years, I still had that nervous habit.
“No plans.”
“He’s not here, but I’m sure he’ll be unavoidable in the future.”
I cocked my head. How much did he know?
“It will be fine, Madden. It was a long time ago.”
He nodded, handing me a glass. I accepted the brandy, ticking down the minutes until I could leave. Ten more had to be acceptable.
“Really, Poppy, I’m happy to see you. I wish it were under nicer circumstances, but that’s how it goes sometimes.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you know how long you’ll be staying?”
I shook my head. “Until I get in touch with my brother and figure some of the estate out together.”
Madden clinked his glass with mine. “Good luck with that. Cheers.” He moved off to host, and I considered making a break for it in my stilettos.
The couch sagged and I grimaced. Now I had to make more inane small talk and think of a good excuse. Weights pulled at my eyes and a headache hummed behind them. I was stressed, overwhelmed, tired, yet I turned and gave my best California girl smile—and immediately remembered why I’d never wanted to return here.
A Manor of Faking It (The Clarion Abbey Series Book 1) Page 4
