A Manor of Faking It (The Clarion Abbey Series Book 1)

by Hadley Harlin

  I groaned again. As long as there wasn’t video evidence. I felt and—let’s face it—looked like an extra in a zombie slasher flick.

  Somehow, I’d gotten home and to bed. I checked under the covers. I was still fully dressed, which I called a win. There was a glass of water with a note tucked underneath it. The handwriting was masculine and sparse.

  You certainly shook up the old order, if that was your goal.

  My stomach swooped, which made me almost throw up. So maybe half a win and half something else. I cursed myself. Don’t let yourself be taken in by his charm! It’s just a note, an insanely elegant handwritten note. They’re everywhere here.

  Finn…Finn had fingered me during dessert in front of an entire table of aristocratic nobility, and it’d worked. It had freaking worked. How was that possible?

  The dark part of me said it was because he’d opened up first. He was charming, because he was practiced, or maybe I needed to stop being such a cynic. When Finn had told me about his mom, I’d gotten the feeling what he was doing was something profound, something important. I doubted anyone had ever heard that story before, and it made me ache for him and Brontë.

  At least I hadn’t mauled him and forced him to sleep with me after all that. That would have been like taking a puppy dog home and letting him snuggle in my bed because of his large puppy dog eyes. I was a sucker for puppy dog eyes.

  But what if it could happen again? And again, and again, and again…

  I owed it to myself to try. If Finn had really cured me of my rather large O problem then I should try now. With a tentative hand, I began circling my clit. My other fingers rubbed my breast, slowly moving to pinch my nipple. I had once known how to do this well. Now I felt like a stranger trying to hump myself.

  Again, I pictured a faceless sex monster, taking me roughly against the wall and pushing his cock inside and—there! That felt good. That almost felt as good as last night.

  But it wouldn’t rise; the heat was leaving. It dissipated like wisps of smoke into the ether. No!

  “Argh,” I yelled into my pillow. Nothing. I didn’t know what magic Finn had worked, and I was beyond irritated he’d pulled it off at all.

  I had to remind myself that I hated him. Okay, that was a lie. I hadn’t hated Finn for a long time, but I was still wary of him. It was the only way to protect my heart. It was clear even Finlay Damford wasn’t a magic bullet for my problem.

  I thumbed open my phone and groaned at the time. I’d slept until early afternoon. We must have drank bootleg brandy. Worse, someone had changed my background to a close-up of Brontë and me sharing a cocktail muddler as a microphone while belting American pop tunes.

  A video of our duet was already online. We moved in for the dramatic finish to Katy Perry’s iconic “I Kissed a Girl” as Finn’s body moved forward and the camera went black. There were thousands of likes, and it was only ticking up.

  I let out a whoosh. I’d need to counter this, but with what? It was clear by now that Stone was intent on making my life miserable. No reason to hand him a loaded gun.

  I needed to get out front fast. Maybe this was the perfect time to debut my new social media handle with glorious photographs of the grounds and me wearing a photoshopped tiara of some sort. I could do a Game of Thrones spoof.

  With renewed energy, I bounded out of bed and promptly fell on my shaky, hungover legs. Brandy strikes again! But I wasn’t going to let it stop my brilliant plan.

  Stone, watch your back. I didn’t plan on rolling over and dying that easily.

  Although I probably needed to be responsible first. The only current source of income I had was from my influencer campaigns, mostly on Instagram.

  I’d started small, gathering followers organically with the wild and fun personality I’d carefully cultivated. Once I reached five thousand followers, I had a few opportunities to appear in magazines and online in Huffington Post and Cosmopolitan. At ten thousand followers, major marketing firms were contracting me to post for them. I hit it at the right time. Instagram was the number one place for marketing, and I had the face and photography skills to do well.

  Until Dean and Dad.

  It was time to finally go through the massive number of emails I’d successfully ignored for two weeks. I was that Type A person. If there was even one red bubble on my iPhone screen, my chest felt all tight and stuffy. Coming off of the cheating, my mom refusing to come, Jacob, the mess of Clarion, Boris, Stone, way too much Finn—well, it’d been easier to ignore those little red bubbles than I’d have liked to admit. I opened my inbox and nearly passed out again.

  There were over two thousand unread messages. Most was junk I could delete without opening, but at least three hundred looked important. The best thing to do was prioritize. Money came first, and my sponsors wanted a meeting—immediately.

  That email had been sent with high priority three days earlier. Uh-oh. This was worse than the first video I shot for the opening night of a wine bar. I’d forgotten to turn the sound on all evening.

  I gulped and wrote a super-sorry apology email. They promptly patched me into a meeting. In mere minutes, I was staring at a circular table of black suits.

  There weren’t many pleasantries. In fact, there weren’t any pleasantries, not even a weather-related one. My stomach plummeted.

  “You haven’t been keeping up your end of the contract,” said Girl Suit.

  “Good morning,” I replied cheerily. Can’t break brand. This was an influencer hiring agency. They’d found me on Instagram when I was a lowly food blogger with a few thousand followers, though that had been enough for them to take interest and sign me on the spot. For the last two years, I’d wined and dined on restaurants’ tabs, gaining even more influence than outdated, out-of-touch, gnarly old food critics. It had been a dream job until I’d recently woken up.

  “We’ve been monitoring your posts, which is to say your lack of posts.”

  “Don’t I have a grief clause in there? My father recently passed.”

  The suits shook their heads in unison. “No, but we like to work with our young stars. Tell us you’ll be getting on a flight home in the next few days for the opening of a restaurant that’s rumored to be on track for a James Beard Award and all will be forgiven.”

  Welp, they really weren’t going to like this. “I, uh, can’t. I mean, I’m not. I’m sort of needed in England.”

  They also cocked their heads and raised eyebrows in unison. It was starting to really creep me out. “For how long?” the robots asked.

  Saying “forever and ever” felt a bit dramatic, so I hemmed and hawed. “My father left his estate to me. I’m now the 10th Countess of Arun.”

  If I thought that was going to go over halfway decently, I was wildly mistaken. Not only did they laugh—in unison, obviously—they wiped fake tears away as they terminated my contract.

  “You can’t do that!” I said, standing quickly.

  Girl Suit looked over her leopard print glasses at me. “Yes, we can. You are an influencer. Your influence is in the United States, specifically Los Angeles, California. We could maybe understand another big hub where you could convince tourists to visit these vacation hot spots, but if you don’t plan on returning to the country, what’s the point?”

  “I’m one of your biggest influencers! People go where I say they should go. They will understand if I need to take a hiatus.”

  “Perhaps, but we won’t. Pretty girls with big mouths like yours are a dime a dozen in California. We’ll be sending a termination contract along shortly. Please sign it and send it back to us as soon as possible.”

  The screen went black. I sat back in shock, trying to absorb the enormity of the news.

  No posts, no money.

  No money, no Clarion.

  I’d done this to myself by getting caught up in the life and style here. Who the fuck throws garden parties anymore? Even growing up around earls and dukes didn’t make it seem any more normal or cool.

&nb
sp; The worst part was, I didn’t even want to go home and beg for my cushy dream job back. I wanted to save Clarion.

  A stupid little niggling part of me that apparently wanted to be remembered—and later maimed—kept wiggling back into my consciousness. Maybe part of my reluctance to leave was Finn. I shuddered, hating that thought.

  I also knew it had been him the previous night, bringing me home, tucking me in. It might have been a dream, but I would have sworn in a court of law that he’d kissed my forehead and swept back my hair as he tightened the sheets around me.

  Focus.

  If I really wanted @eatingClarionAbbey to work, I only had one choice: I needed to get to get to work. The grounds weren’t the only thing in sorry shape. The upstairs could be ignored for now. I’d rope that off and only allow visitors in the dining room, kitchens, sitting room, parlor, library, and den.

  Shouldering a bag of tools, I went to the dining room. It needed to be brought back to its showstopper glory since the main dining event would take place there.

  First item on my newest list: figure out how to restore antique wallpaper. Second, restore antique wallpaper. Third, try not breathe in too many lead paint fumes. I was crazy enough taking on this estate without adding lead poisoning to the list.

  Hello, my beautiful Poppintons! I forgot to tell you…I’m actually royalty. Think Princess Diaries but set in England. Okay, I’m not the heir to a tiny kingdom, but my dad was an aristocrat, and I’ve inherited his estate.

  So, to sum up: new account, new life! Find me at @eatingclarionabbey where I’ll post all about bringing this beauty back to its former glory and all sorts of hijinks in the lives of the rich and famous. Don’t worry, there will be food. There will always be food. Hugs!

  XO -Countess Poppy

  It wasn’t proper to use my title with my first name, but I doubted the average American Instagram scroller knew or cared. I tossed my phone on my bedspread and tried not to freak out. I could do this. I could keep this estate running smoothly and in my family. It would not be my name that went down as the person—and the first woman to inherit—who lost the family country seat after eight hundred years in the Perrinton name. If it was my kid’s fault after I was long gone, well that would be their problem.

  Just kidding. Ish.

  I’d need kids first before they could royally screw up, and that was even further away. First, I needed to pull this grand dinner off without a hitch. My plan was still elusive, like a fairy hiding until midnight.

  So far, all I had typed across my computer screen was: DON’T SCREW UP.

  In smaller letters beneath it, I had: Absolutely no eyeballs or intestines.

  I’d chosen this 1798 dinner because it seemed the most modern. There were vegetables in many of the dishes, which hadn’t really been a thing before the 1800s. Apparently a carrot wasn’t luxurious enough compared to pigs’ ears and feet, or cods’ swim bladders.

  You can’t make this stuff up.

  Now, I needed to find a chef on the cheap who was comfortable with the idea of roasting a rabbit and sticking its thighbones in its eye sockets for decoration. On second thought, maybe I’d give the cooks a little creative liberty to mess with the recipes. That rabbit one sounded too gruesome, even to a history lover like me.

  Next down the list:

  Invite a mix of media and aristocracy

  Period appropriate décor—take a Xanax and check out the attic. Remember: ghosts DO NOT EXIST.

  Cut wildflowers from estate

  Finish weeding and trimming gardens

  Media frenzy

  Those first and last ones were all Finn’s responsibility. I hoped he wasn’t going to try to block me at every turn. If he could bring in plenty of sympathetic media, bloggers, lifestyle guides, and even magazine editors, this would be a success.

  He’d done well with the first round of reporters, but I could tell he was only humoring me. How long would his good humor last? I needed to convince him this was good for his image, too. That he could change, like his father had. Change was in the Bracon blood.

  Or, at least, they were very good at acting.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Finn

  After the fiasco of the dinner party, I’d tucked Poppy in and escaped to my flat in McHenry village. Based on the sheer amount of brandy consumed, I figured she’d be done for the entire day. Instead, when I returned to Clarion the next afternoon, I found her raking the gravel roundabout driveway.

  She wore a little sunhat to protect her freckles, pink gardening gloves, and a maniacal look that could scare away evil, or at least a few squirrels. I watched her silently for a few minutes, but she didn’t noticed me.

  I loved watching her among the petals. The roses at Wodehall were my mother’s legacy. Every duchess left her mark in the gardens or the halls, and proper English roses had been my mother’s gift. It was nice to see them thriving at Clarion, too.

  My throat caught as I began. I cleared it and began again.

  “Hey.”

  Poppy looked up long enough to mutter something incoherent and make me suddenly fear for the squirrels.

  I pulled the rake from her grip. “Okay, why don’t you take a break? It’s getting hot out here, and frankly, I’m worried you’ve gone Henry the Eighth level crazy. No offense.”

  “You’re crazy!” she yelped, grabbing for the rake as I held it out of reach over my head. “Crazy to think this is possibly going to work. It’s never going to work! People will know, or at least suspect. Let’s call it now. Maybe I can sell a few ancestor portraits for cash flow until I get a new sponsor, a British one. Instagram is popular here, right? Right?”

  I kept my voice deep and steady, like I was calming a skittish mare. “Right, but why do you need that? I thought you said you get thousands of quid a post?”

  “Did. I did get that.”

  “You lied?” I asked.

  She made a grab for the rake, but I was quicker. I lofted it high, out of reach. “Poppy, what’s going on?”

  “I got fired. No ads, no posts, no money. Cut off, effective immediately,” she said. “Happy?”

  “Of course not—”

  “Are you happy you were right? Pleased it ended up not being a real job after all? Would you like me to post about that? Here, I’ll take your picture.”

  I grabbed Poppy in a bear hug and tried not to enjoy the feeling of her small body struggling in mine too much before she went limp.

  Poppy’s body heaved once and then she collapsed. I supported her weight as she sobbed. Waiting for the storm to pass.

  I held her out and kept strong eye contact. “It’s all going to be okay. Let’s take it one step at a time. Where’s that blasted list of yours?”

  Poppy took a few heaving breaths before nodding. “You’re right. I can do this. It’s impossible to get everything back to nineteenth-century pristine condition in three weeks, but I’m going to at least do the drive up to the manor house and the immediate gardens. Eventually, I’d like to have two to three acres dedicated as an organic farm. Clarion will be self-sufficient for all of my fancy dinner parties.”

  “That’s quite the vision.”

  Her eyes shone with enthusiasm and love of the land. She looked at home. More than that, she looked like she belonged.

  “Poppy, I admire your worth ethic, I really do, but I think the first order of business is to call in some reinforcements.”

  “I don’t have spare money to spend on gardeners. All the money I had left from influencer posts this month is going straight to the chef and supplies. The food will be the number one element of this whole Battle of the Nile dinner. Everything else will have to be my own blood, sweat, and tears, so you’ll excuse me if I have to get to work instead of sipping tea and chatting about the weather with you.”

  I stopped her with a raised hand. “I can’t attach my name and prestige to something that will fail or look half-shoddy.”

  “Not everyone is as lucky as you, Finn,” she began.<
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  “Try not to argue with me about everything, and take my help. It’s free.”

  Just then, a van pulled up to the circle drive. When the door slid open, Poppy gasped. Out poured five of our old friends, including Essie, Madden, and the rest of my mates recently returned from their boating excursion to Antigua. They waved and grinned, trooping into the tiny groundskeeper’s cottage to look for gardening equipment.

  “I wish I could pay for decent help, but my father recently cut me off for the foreseeable future. These pricks will have to do.”

  Rather than kicking me out, Poppy laughed delightedly and pulled out her phone. “This is so going on my live feed.” She typed away, murmuring under her breath. “Countess Poppy orders her subjects to begin trimming, mowing, and doing all manner of work.” She snapped a picture of me holding her pink gardening gloves, which I had picked up to hand to her.

  “Don’t post that—”

  “Too late,” she crowed. “Finn! Trust me. I’m helping your image. Instead of coke and hookers, you’ll be a gardening god. Stay secure in your masculinity. It’s much sexier.”

  Did she think I was sexy? She was so hard to get a read on, bouncing back and forth with her emotions.

  When I didn’t answer, she prodded. “You’re welcome, Lord Damford.”

  I rubbed some dirt between my fingers, smiling innocently. “How can I properly thank you?”

  She squealed as I dashed after her, dousing her cheeks with adorable dribbles of mud while we all took selfies for @eatingClarionAbbey.

  I managed to smack myself on the toe with my hoe, which sent Poppy into peals of laughter.

  “Aw, poor little rich boy. Cuts off toe trying to use a hoe. Wait—there’s a better joke in there somewhere. Hold on. Something about being a hoe…give me a minute. I’ll think of something.”

  I scowled. “Don’t give yourself an aneurysm.”

  She ignored me and cackled five minutes later. “Aha! Hoe bites back against rude use of name!”