My mind could not function regarding practical, sensible matters. “Uh…um…three weeks. Yes. That’s enough time, right?”
“If I help, it will be.”
That helped. “Cocky much?” I asked.
His mouth twitched. “Only when it’s true. I’ll leave you here. Shall I arrive bright and early tomorrow?”
“No need. I can handle Clarion on my own. Just stick to your end of the deal and get the media here. Good night, Finn. Thank you for dinner.”
The minute he left, I sank against the door and stuck my hand between my legs to press back against the pressure. I needed a release soon. After the urge subsided, I banged my head against the door a few times.
Why me?
All the next morning, I lost myself in the feeling of roots being ripped from the soil. It felt amazing to yank, sweat, and feel the earth give in to my demands. At least something did.
If I concentrated hard enough on something so simple, I didn’t have time to think about Stone and his insidious remarks or the way he’d so stupidly squandered Dad’s inheritance like some big, dumb Victorian cliché of an heir. Even better, I didn’t have the energy to picture Finn, who was the most insidious of all with his good looks and centuries of charm and wit bred into his bones.
I would not let myself be sucked down that black hole. Not again.
I realized I hadn’t wondered about my old life in a long time. So time does heal all wounds, or at least the superficial, papercut variety wounds, which was how I now thought of my time in LA. I was starting to get the fizz back in my life, that effervescent POP! I used to always carry with me.
In fact, I hadn’t actually been living a real California lifestyle in a long time. Sure, I’d seen certain A-list celebrities puking outside the Chinese Theater, surfed in the sunshine, hugged a redwood, and eaten enough avocado toast to choke a fitness blogger, but never because I wanted to—except for avocado toast. That’s delicious and nutritious and no one will convince me to put down my chia seeds.
Instead, it was always for the perfect picture. I barely enjoyed my food, and even my toast was usually soggy by the time I’d captured the perfect shot and got to eat my Instagram masterpiece.
Back here, I’d finally slowed down. I wasn’t ready to give it up yet. I wasn’t ready to let this home go. I wasn’t going to let Finn cloud my vision.
When I got back inside, I had a missed call and two texts from Finn. He’d scheduled a few bloggers to interview me while I worked on the garden. He said it would be a prep piece for the bigger media event of the dinner.
Finn: Do you want me there as a buffer?
I jabbed out a response.
Poppy: I don’t need a buffer. I’ve been managing the media for most of my life.
Finn: Not British ones. I’ll be there at noon to help with the cleanup. Bloggers arrive at four p.m.
Great. Just great. I flopped back. Lord, give me strength to resist his powerful magic. I was still feeling cranky and unresolved after the night before, and being around him couldn’t possibly make things better. I needed to throw myself into work to ignore the achiness between my thighs.
The royal bastard.
Finn arrived an hour later bearing tea and scones with clotted cream. He laid everything out on the table in the great hall, and I started to explain my to-do list for the day but got the feeling Finn was only watching me.
“Are you listening?” I said irritably. “Either help or get out. I don’t have time to play nursemaid to you. There are a billion and one things to do before the event, and—argh!”
Finn stuffed a scone in my mouth. “Relax, Poppy. We’ll get it done.”
He’d tried looking the part of a diligent worker, but I had a feeling those torn jeans were only masquerading as ripped and ruined and actually ran somewhere in the thousand-dollar range. Same went for his perfectly proportioned gray t-shirt, which barely held in his biceps.
I swallowed the scone. “As I was saying, let’s shut down the west wing and focus on the east for now. It has the great hall, library, and kitchens. The west is only a family room we never used and the chapel, which we also never used.”
“Lead the way, milady.”
I put my waves up in a ballerina bun and got to work, willfully ignoring the golden pulse that always began to beat steadily whenever he was near. I’d never managed to accomplish this, but I was strong. I could overcome it.
I hoped.
Until Finn moved into my space, forcing me to smell him, forcing me to feel him without even a touch, and it was all I could to focus on the work gloves and black trash bags I held.
He was nothing more than a man looking to get laid, I reminded myself. Although, that couldn’t be quite true. There were doubtlessly vast swathes of the population ready to jump into bed with the Marquess of Damford, heir to one of the largest estates in the country. So what was his angle?
I handed him the bags and grabbed a broom, focusing on gripping it hard enough to give me strength, but only managing to give myself a splinter.
With a wince, I stuck my finger in my mouth and tried not to let him see. “I’m going to work on this floor. Later, we can look at some electrical videos on YouTube. There are a few lights out in chandelier that I want to use for the dinner. For now, can you focus on the dining room? The candlelight helped hide the truth last night, but it’s a disaster,” I said, immediately regretting bringing up the previous night.
Finn’s blue eyes darkened as he swept them up and down, like he knew exactly what I looked like without clothing. Okay, he knew what one boob looked like and could probably extrapolate the other. Big whoop.
“Of course, milady.” He bowed.
“You can stop with the ‘milady’ stuff. You know you outrank me.” I mock-bowed. “Your Grace.”
“But it’s so much fun to annoy you.”
I twirled away, bag over my shoulder. “Too bad I’m not annoyed. Now get to work, peasant.”
He laughed deliciously as I flounced down the great hall. Today, I was going to clean out the numerous fireplaces on the first floor. They would look magnificent with real fires for my dinner, and magnificence was a top priority if I wanted this to be a success.
The first one I tackled was clearly a Tudor chimney over Jacobean wood beams. The moldings, classical columns, and wallpaper were all Georgian, however. Generations of candle smoke had stained the hand-blocked trefoil paper, and the last ten years of neglect certainly hadn’t helped, but I thought maybe I could still save it.
I scooped all the debris into my bag then started spraying disinfectant and scrubbing it down with my bristle brush. Decades of soot and abandonment flaked off, and I could begin to see the elegant decorations my ancestors had carved into the stone. The twenty-meter clerestoried great hall was going to be my masterpiece.
For the next few hours, I worked at cleaning every inch of the east wing I could reach, removing dirt and stains. Only rarely did I catch sight of Finn’s large figure, also diligently cleaning away, but I always felt that hum. It enveloped me, warmed me, held me in place. The gold dripping through my veins intoxicated me.
By lunch, we’d piled up twenty bags of trash, and I was starting to feel slightly better about my situation. With Finn helping, it seemed perhaps I truly could pull this off.
Finn brought me a sandwich and a bottle of water and took a long gulp of water. We sat on the porch in the sunshine, looking out over the grounds. I took a bite.
On the outside, it looked like a simple ham and cheese sandwich. On the inside, it tasted like the most beautifully balanced sandwich in the world, worthy of a Michelin star.
“Woah, what’s in this thing?”
“Ham hock, cheddar cheese, malt vinegar mayonnaise, spicy piccalilli, and some fried crisps for texture. I like the crunch.”
I took another bite, savoring the play between savory and spicy. “Where did you get it? I might have to become a regular.”
“I made it.”
Afte
r almost choking on a chip, I recovered with a drink of water. “Maybe I should hire you to cook my Battle of the Nile dinner.”
“Unfortunately, you’ve pretty much seen the limits of my skills. I showed everything off up front and now I’m revealed as the charlatan I am, not that it’s a metaphor for my personal life.”
“Too bad. This sandwich is phenomenal.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“Don’t get used to it.”
We munched in silence, feeling oddly at ease.
“What the hell is Stone’s problem?” Finn asked after a beat. “I know he has mommy issues, but your mom was no wicked stepmother.”
I fiddled with the bottle cap, screwing and unscrewing. “He has no reason to be so pissed off at the world. I think he was always jealous of the attention I got as the new baby with the new wife, which is really a tiresome old story across history. He thought I would usurp him or something.”
“Which you ended up doing,” Finn so helpfully pointed out.
“Right, well if he hadn’t always been such an ass, that wouldn’t have happened. Dad knew he couldn’t trust Stone not to run Clarion into the ground. Only problem, he about did it himself first. I’m not even sure I can save it,” I admitted.
“I can help.”
“You have to help. We agreed.”
Finn shook his head. “No, I mean financially.” He crumpled his butcher paper and threw it in one of the trash bags we had lined up in the foyer. “After I pass this little test set by my father, I could—”
I flung my work glove at his head.
“Ouch! What was that for?”
“Let me stop you right there. If you mention handing me Bracon money again, you’ll get worse than a glove.”
He held up his hands. “Of course, milady.”
I threw the other glove, which he ducked.
“Well, I’m sure you have to get ready for tonight…” I trailed off.
Finn grabbed a leather bag he’d dropped on the table that morning. “Don’t worry, I brought everything I need.”
“You want to shower here?” I asked doubtfully. “I thought we discussed this last night—don’t you need Alistair to help you get undressed?”
I was only half-kidding. My dad had his butler help him all the time when I was a kid, except he called him a man servant, like that was more modern or something.
He grinned. “Are you offering?”
I flushed and cursed myself. Never give Finlay Creedwell, 15th Marquess of Damford, an opening.
Chapter Thirteen
Finn
A media van pulled up the drive, pouring out bloggers from across England. Poppy greeted them with a smile and offered everyone a bottle of water and a biscuit to begin the tour.
She looked like a natural.
A tall blonde in a pencil skirt and a navy blue blazer with perfectly coiffed hair beelined in my direction. This was the price to pay; I just hoped Poppy wouldn’t notice. Evelyn smoothed back her nonexistent stray hairs and introduced the rest of the bloggers and reporters.
She worked for The Weekly Mail’s seedier section. We’d met at an event in London I couldn’t remember—and didn’t care to. She’d spilled her drink on me and cornered me to ask a bunch of intrusive questions under the pretense of “cleaning me up”. I could never tell if she actually was excited to be fucking a future duke or was only doing it for her career. It was a win-win either way. I gave her a few good stories, and she connected me with the press when I needed it. On account of the mass number of her connections alone, one had to wonder how many of them she was fucking as well.
Or was that the cynic in me?
“Gather round,” Evelyn called, apparently thinking she was going to be in charge here. I crossed my arms and waited to see how Poppy would handle this. There were going to be bigger sharks than Evelyn in the world of the elite, but this was a decent first test.
The bloggers gathered in a circle and Evelyn prepared to make her announcement, but as she opened her mouth, Poppy swiftly moved in. Good for her. I leaned back, satisfied for the moment.
“Thank you all for taking the time to visit Clarion Abbey. I’m Poppy Perrinton, 10th Countess of Arun, and this is Finlay Creedwell, 15th Marquess of Damford. We’re excited you’ve arrived and can’t wait to show you all that’s been happening around here.”
Evelyn raised the pencil in her hand and opened her mouth, but Poppy stopped her in her tracks.
“Don’t worry, there will be plenty of time for questions as we continue. First, I want to lay out the tour for today, because not all areas of the manor are open for the public. Some are still under construction, so I wouldn’t want anyone wandering off and hurting themselves on a rusty nail. My insurance can’t afford that!”
Most everyone laughed good-naturedly, but not Evelyn, who pursed her bright red lips and gave me a pointed glance. I shrugged in return. There was no need to get so cozy with me in front of Poppy. The news of our relationship had broken after our appearance at the garden party. We were together, and if anyone wanted to gossip, they could eat the scraps I flung at them for the rest of their miserable careers.
Poppy moved, angling closer to me. She slipped her hand in mine, no doubt aware of the subtext passing between Evelyn and me. A hot arousal rose inside of me at the subtle squeeze of her fingers around mine, and I almost dipped her back to kiss her against her will.
I held out fairly well, until she looked over and smiled at me. God, she was too good at this fake girlfriend thing. The way she calmly claimed me in front of an obvious rival was sexy as hell.
Poppy talked and walked, first pointing out the drive leading up to the manor home. “In the 1600s, they used to hang men from these trees when my great-times-three grandfather was the warden of the royal forests.”
I was finding it hard to care, especially when she was wearing her white sundress again that bared the tops of her breasts, but most everyone else looked interested and took notes.
Poppy took questions about the exterior then brought everyone inside. “We have fourteen bedrooms and eighteen bathrooms, and the grand banquet hall dates to the Tudor period. Notice these tiny windows everywhere?”
Everyone but Evelyn nodded, taking in the still-resonating grandeur of the castle despite the somewhat shabby appearance and lack of tapestries. Poppy pointed out the small windows that barely let in sunlight.
“Even into the nineteenth century, attacks were common, and windows needed to be slim to keep out enemies and arrows,” she explained.
“Today, we invite the wolves right in and give them wine and hors d’oeuvres!” I quipped.
Everyone tittered politely, including Poppy. She clenched her fists, like she itched to smack me, but restrained herself in front the guests. I grinned at her behind their backs and was rewarded with an eye roll.
“Moving on.” She gestured toward the kitchens. “There’s a hidden passageway I found from the kitchen to the cellars, although I doubt it was very secret to the dozens of chefs who worked in these kitchens over the centuries. It was full of cobwebs and mold when I found it as a curious kid years ago. Notice the original copper pans from the Victorian period of Clarion Abbey. Back then, the earls of Arun would host up to a hundred people for their dinner parties, much like we will recreate in only a few weeks. Follow me this way, please.”
Evelyn slid in next to me. “Where’s the real story, Finn?”
“Lord Damford.”
Evelyn squinted her eyes.
“It’s Lord Damford,” I repeated pleasantly. I knew I was messing with fire after what she’d recently done for me, but the boundaries needed to stay clear.
“Oh, my apologies. I thought fucking in a bathroom, on your bed, in a chair, in the shower, and from behind allowed us to move past such formalities…Lord Damford.”
I kept a pleasant but now slightly venomous smile on my face. “This is the real story. I reconnected with an old childhood friend and there you have it.”
“Perhaps.”
I extended an arm for her to go first into the library, everyone having already exited the kitchens. “Write what you will. I could never stop the press.”
“No. You couldn’t. And the RAF story?” she asked.
I grabbed her by the arm and spun her back around to face me, her musky perfume suffocating. “You got your money. Don’t let emotions get in the way. We fucked, it was fun, it’s over.”
She laughed. “The story will come out eventually, Lord Damford. Why wait?”
I pulled away. “That’s my business.”
Because I couldn’t let it ruin Poppy’s event. Or her view of me. Because it was as horrible as it would appear.
We rejoined the group as Poppy explained a mural on the way to the library. “—done by a famed Parisian artist escaping the guillotine during the French Revolution. Welcome to the library,” she said, opening the doors. I knew she was dying a little on the inside since most of the antiques were gone, carted away by Stone.
Everyone was polite as she pointed out a first edition book of poetry by John Donne while continuing down the bookcases on her rolling library ladder.
“What’s that?” Evelyn interrupted.
“I’ll let Finn answer that one,” Poppy said.
I rolled my eyes. It was a princess battling a dragon, which I’d sketched on the wall the day after Poppy followed and beat me in the forest. I’d done it for her. Without going into too much personal detail, I explained it was a childish prank I’d hidden for Poppy.
“So you two have known each other for quite a while,” Evelyn continued, clearly prying.
“Yes,” I said. One-word answers were best at this point.
She nodded, typing her notes furiously fast. “Brilliant. This will be a fun personal piece. Don’t worry about that.”
“That’s exactly what I’m worried about,” I muttered under my breath. Poppy raised an eyebrow at me. I forced a smile and led the way back to the front. As the bloggers were led away to write what they would, Poppy turned to me.
A Manor of Faking It (The Clarion Abbey Series Book 1) Page 9
