I rolled my eyes. “Creative.”
The truth was, I was ecstatic. Seeing Poppy in her own rose garden brought golden memories of my mother flooding back. Gardening had been her passion. I remembered her best in the gardens, dirt under her nails, wearing a floppy sunhat while she weeded and planted.
She was always weak after a prolonged illness took its toll. When I was a boy, I’d always find her outside in her rose garden, working, reading, sometimes just admiring the petals for hours. She said it made her breathe better to be in nature.
Even when I got older, I would join her outside, relishing our time spent together. Father was frequently in London, sitting in Parliament or on another business trip. He didn’t start taking me until after Mum was long dead. Before then, I’d spend a few hours with Mum in the gardens, enjoying the quiet hum of the working manor. We’d take our books and biscuits to the maze of flowers, reading out loud to each other from our favorite sections.
Then she got pregnant with Brontë. By the end of her pregnancy, even leaving her bed was an effort. I’d come sit on the edge of her quilt with a plate of biscuits and a book, reading aloud with the windows thrown open to coax in a breeze. She’d curl my hair between her fingers and listen to the ridiculous adventure books I always chose, never once complaining.
Five days after Brontë was born, she died, and I knew. I knew who was responsible. Hating Brontë was collateral damage in my constant war against the Duke. If she’d never been born, Mother would still be alive, but it was my father who’d forced her to it. He was the monster.
A dancing movement pulled me out of my memories.
Over by the corner of the iron-gated entrance to the gardens, Poppy was talking to her phone screen, dancing around like the maniac she was. I went over to investigate.
She saw me coming and turned her phone to face me. Her voice was completely different—her California voice.
“And here’s the Marquess of Damford himself! Be a good boy and say hello, Finlay!”
I scowled and crossed my arms.
Poppy turned the video back to herself and whispered conspiratorially. “And that’s his good side. Okay, Poppingtons, that’s all for now. I’ve only got a few weeks to get this place up and running for our dinner. I’ll keep you updated!”
She clicked out and pointed to the “like” count. It was at a million and still skyrocketing.
“It’s been only half an hour and we’re viral! We hit all the time zones right. It’s racked up more hits than the prince of that little Lego-sized country who woke up in a Barcelona plaza handcuffed to a hooker and a fountain! We need more hashtags.”
“You know half of those views just like to watch your tits bounce.”
She ran a finger down my jawline, sending heat waves to scorch my nerves. “If you think I didn’t know that, I don’t see what type of expertise you can offer me. Sex sells, my friend. I wore a push-up to make them extra perky.”
A blaze of jealousy quickly raged through my body. I tamped it down and threw her a smile. “What a professional.”
“You bet.”
For some reason, the jealousy monster refused to be tamed. “What happened with your last boyfriend?” I asked. “A good fake boyfriend should know the details.”
“Oh, the usual,” she replied airily. “Dean wanted to try out position number thirty-eight.”
I forced out an equally buoyant laugh. “I didn’t take you for a prude.”
She shoved me over a log on our way back to the gardens. “With somebody else. I found them together the day I found out my dad died.”
“Shit, Poppy. I had no idea.”
“Nobody ever does. Actually, he reminds me of you.”
“I may be a lot of things, but I’m not a cheater. That’s why I don’t get in relationships.” Which was why I was in this mess in the first place. My pride wouldn’t let me cheat. Loyal to a fucking fault.
“Not that. He was super into himself—flexed in front of the mirror all the time, drank a ton of wheatgrass, and adored a paparazzi moment. He’s like the California mirror image version of you that would exist in the Upside Down.”
“I do not flex.”
“I can literally pull up a picture from an hour ago of you flexing for a selfie.”
She put her hand on my forearm to stop me as she searched through her phone, igniting sparks as goose bumps erupted where her fingers touched.
I raked my hand through my hair to hide the evidence. “This proves nothing, just that my muscles bulge so much it looks like I’m constantly flexing.”
“Ha! Okay, Sir Flex-a-lot.”
“That’s Lord Flex-a-lot to you,” I said. “Come on, I want to check on the tree house again. It was enchanting seeing it after all these years. Time has barely touched it.”
Bumblebees lazed between petals and wood pigeons cooed dreamily as we left my mates to their gardening. Boris the pig nosed around the perimeter, begging for handouts. I threw him the few earthworms I dug up. Against my better judgement, he’d started to worm his way into my good graces, or at least my indifference. I wouldn’t let it stop me from enjoying bacon.
We quietly crunched over fallen twigs and leaves, but it wasn’t unpleasant. A soft breeze rustled the trees, perfuming the air with a clean, sweet scent a behemoth like London had lost long ago.
Her presence was a relief to the mind-numbing monotony of life in the country under my father’s thumb, except it wasn’t so much balmy right now as scorching hot.
Her American-style shorts rode all the way up her thighs, and I could have sworn I caught I glimpse of red lacy knickers through a ratty, tattered hole in them. It was apparently the style, as she’d informed me earlier when I asked if she needed to change. I stole another glance and felt the lust engulf me. Definitely red, and definitely lacy.
“Hey,” she said, breaking me out of my fantasy. “Thank you for helping.”
“It was part of our agreement.”
She shook her head, the sunlight flecking golden hues in her waves. “No, you’ve gone above and beyond. You didn’t need to be down in the dirt, weeding with me, but you are. It means a lot to me. I didn’t think anyone would welcome me back after all these years, but you did, even after I was rude to you that first night at Hills Hall.”
“Ah, well you see, I’m a gentleman—ouch! Why are you constantly throwing things at me?” I complained when she tossed a stick in my direction.
“Just calling you on your bullshit. It’s what good friends are for. You’re not a gentleman, but you’ve surprised me.”
The tree house shined a few meters ahead of us. It took all my willpower not to sweep her off her feet and take her like a caveman.
“Oh listen, I can hear baby birds peeping,” she whispered, touching my arm and pointing up. “How sweet.”
Molten heat shot to my core at her touch, and I reacted to it. I didn’t even try to stop myself. All I wanted—all I’d ever really wanted—was Poppy. She was the antidote to the burdens of aristocratic life. Was it pleasant in some regards? Of course. I would have been a fool to say it wasn’t, but the weight and worry of the estate and the family image, which would be preserved in history forever, was something only another aristocrat could understand. Until Poppy, I’d never found another woman who both understood that and didn’t bore me to tears. Poppy was surprising in every way. She always had been.
That was it. I couldn’t take the intimacy anymore without doing something about it.
I yanked her close, tipping her head back and kissing her fully, slowly, like I meant it. Poppy resisted, her arms pushing against me.
“No, don’t pull away. Let yourself feel this. Feel this between us.” I met her gaze, covering her mouth with mine in a turn of possessiveness I hadn’t known I harbored. I cradled the back of her head, drawling little circles with my thumb on her wrist while I held her to me. When she gasped quietly into my mouth at the light, sensual touch, I took advantage by sliding my tongue more deeply between he
r lips.
I swung her around, tilting her backward and deepening our kiss. I was properly prepared to worship her in the tree house where we’d played so many years ago, just as I’d once worshipped her, although sometimes I wondered if that night had been no more than a teenage dream.
But then she pulled away, her face a mask of regret and fear.
“Finn…” She gasped against my neck. “I can’t.”
Guilt coursed through me as the warmth of her body faded. “Poppy, I’m sorry,” I began.
“No, it’s not completely you.”
Shit!
She was crying.
“Poppy? Can I hold you?”
She didn’t move. I took her into my arms, controlling the desire that roiled through me when she buried her face in my chest.
“Shh,” I murmured. “I know what grief looks like. You shouldn’t have to carry this burden by yourself, but you are. You’re doing an amazing job. Let me help you.”
Poppy sobbed again as I held her. Closing my eyes, I hung on tightly, just feeling her in my arms, smelling her sweetness. Being here, in the moment, as she cried.
Chapter Seventeen
Finn
Once again, Father summoned me like I was an obedient hunting dog instead of his only son and heir. Worse, I was in no state of mind to spar with him. I was still mulling over the previous day’s tree house meeting with Poppy. What was I doing wrong? Never had I cooked for a woman before, let alone organized her kitchen, cleaned her house, and conscripted my friends to garden her lawn.
It wasn’t that I thought I was being overly romantic. I just hadn’t thought Poppy would be so terribly immune to my charms.
With a quick nod to the maid who answered the door, I entered, swallowing down my dread.
The library was warm—too warm, even for a chilly spring day. Father was bundled by the fire, but he quickly stood when I entered as if afraid to let me see him in a position of weakness.
He pointed to a leather chair. “Sit.”
I stood by the fireplace, my arms crossed. Father rang his silver bell, alerting the maid to bring in his two-lumps tea and biscuits. And so we waited, neither sitting, neither breaking.
Finally, when the maid had come and gone, business could be conducted.
“I never took you for an idiot,” he commented, blowing the steam from his teacup.
“In which regard am I an idiot today, Father? Because I dared to actually acquiesce to your commands? What, did you take me to be made of stronger stuff and expect me not to succumb to your threats? Sorry to disappoint. I’ve taken Poppy as my partner, and I must admit, I’m enjoying it more than I suspected I would.”
“As always, I barely have any idea what you’re talking about. No, I knew you would do as I demanded. I just did not believe you would be so stupid as to have the Earl of Arun’s scandal-ridden daughter at Wodehall. Are you fucking her or is this all about fucking me over? With you, it’s hard to tell how intelligent you really are.”
I narrowed my eyes while my father continued to berate me, per usual.
“She adds no value. Even a commoner would have been better. They don’t bring as much baggage. Instead, she offers a lower title, a crumbling estate, mountains of debt, and poor societal standing. In fact, I’m starting to believe you chose her only as a means to spite me.”
Caught on, had he?
“Listen to me, boy: you either choose someone else, or I’ll make your life an even hotter, fiery, living hell.”
It only made me pause for a second.
“Message received. Was there anything else you’d like to discuss?”
He turned his back on me, stirring his damn sugar cubes without so much as a dismissal. I spun on my heel and stalked off to the gardens to walk. Now he wanted to add more terms? I fumed among the flowers for a few minutes, but it didn’t take long for me to decide.
I called Poppy.
“Finn! I’m glad you called. I need a plumber. I can’t pay a plumber. Can you be my plumber?”
“I’ll call you a plumber, and don’t even try to argue with me. The only things I know how to do with a plunger would be of no help to you here.”
“Finn—”
I cut her off before she could object to more Bracon money, money I would happily part with to use my plumber skills all over her body. “Fancy a winery tour to pick up some local varieties? Say the word, and I’ll have my car around to pick you up. There are a few wineries I think would be perfect for your event. I’ll have my man shut them down for private tastings.”
“Are you trying to impress me, Finlay Damford?” she asked teasingly.
“If I were trying to impress you, we’d be jetting to the Maldives for a much-deserved vacation.” Lies! All of it, lies! My license was revoked and I am a grounded bird, but I’d give anything to impress the shit out of you.
“Noted.” She paused on the other end, and I could hear her light breaths. This was about the kiss.
“Poppy, I’m sorry about the tree house—”
“Don’t worry about it. You just caught me off guard. I know we’ll have to have some moments like that at events, but that one felt—never mind. I don’t hold it against you.”
Everything in me strained to ask her to finish her thought. Everything in me knew the answer already. That kiss had felt all too real to her, more real than an orgasm at a dinner party that we both knew was a middle finger to the Duke.
I’d meant the kiss to feel real. It was the only way to make her start questioning everything and start opening up to me. This was a dangerous game I chose to play, forcing her to fall in love with me, but the reserved, stiff upper lip kept me from pushing it—for now.
Somehow, I would find a way to make her mine. Even if it took years. Never mind that we only agreed to six months.
And how it would pain my father to know his little threat was actually a boon. It presented a way for me to win Poppy as I never would have been able to before. How sweet it would be to anger him, knowing not only had his game not hurt me in any way, it had helped me achieve the one and only thing I’d wanted since that night.
“Thank you, Poppy,” I replied. “You are a kind and benevolent overlord—or, should I say, over-lady. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I hung up, a smile playing on my lips. She would not be able to resist me forever. I could already feel her resolve crumbling. It was only a matter of patience.
Chapter Eighteen
Poppy
Finn pulled up alone, no Alistair to drive us in sight. Interesting. I wasn’t quite sure what to expect, but Finn driving himself wasn’t it. I guessed it was to be a proper road trip after all. He was wearing a fitted t-shirt under his black leather jacket, and he tore off his aviator glasses to examine me.
He raised an eyebrow, and I silently giggled while I twirled. I was wearing a faded Ramones t-shirt, black ripped jeans, and a blue plaid button-up tied around my waist, but he didn’t say anything about my outfit or my neon pink Vans.
I met him at the door, but instead of letting me jump in, Finn popped over and opened my side for me. He was driving a glossy, titanium silver McLaren I figured had cost more than most people’s homes in a hundred-mile vicinity, minus our estates, of course.
He smiled and bowed like usual. “Good morning, Lady Perrinton. May I offer you some coffee?”
“For a proper Brit, you drink a lot of coffee,” I said, accepting the warm Starbucks cup from his fingers. I steeled myself against the sparks a simple touch would ignite, anxiously willing the fire away.
“It’s become a dire situation,” he agreed. “Oldtimers bemoan the loss of tea while you Americans are sipping more and more every year. Fascinating, is it not?” He closed my door.
The spicy smell of Finn flooded my nose, and I took the opportunity of being alone to inhale deeply and luxuriate in the cobalt leather seats and glossy dark wood sideboards.
“I am so ready for a road trip,” I said to distract myself when he hopped in. “
I love Clarion, but it will be nice to escape for a bit. Everywhere I turn, there’s something else that’s breaking or broken.”
“This trip should cure all of that. I phoned the wine dealers ahead of time for a private tasting. They’re very eager to have the newest Countess of Perrinton showcase their wines at her upcoming Battle of the Nile dinner.”
“Well, I’ve got champagne tastes on a sparkling water budget. Are they excited about that?”
“I bet if you smile nicely at them, they’ll do it for free. Think of this as a mutually beneficial act. They get a ton of free advertisement with all the right people, and you get free booze.”
“Just like that?” I asked, sensing his pull in getting these meetings. It was alarmingly pleasant.
“Just like that.”
Finn gunned the McLaren Spider, quickly shifting the sports car into third. A shiver rolled through me. It was intoxicating to watch him drive the stick, a lost and dying art form in the States. I must say, he handled her well. It was wrong, so wrong, but I wondered if he could handle me half as well. Then maybe my little O problem would finally vanish.
No.
I could not let myself even fantasize that. It was too dangerous to forget this was anything other than a business transaction. I fiddled with the radio knobs.
“Oooh, Lana del Rey! My favorite.” I sang along to “Young and Beautiful”, feeling very Great Gatsby. Next was Lizzo’s “Good as Hell”. I continued belting American rap and pop hits, though whether it was to Finn’s horror or amusement, I couldn’t quite tell.
Once we reached A303, he pressed a button to roll down the top. All I needed was a scarf to flutter in the wind to complete the picture.
“Feeling good as hell!” I sang into the motorway.
Finn took the car to her limits, the music lifting and thrilling us, enjoying the moment. Do my hair toss, check my nails… I felt good as hell, I looked fine, and I felt it.
“Which winery are we going to?” I asked. Rolling green countryside passed outside the window, sheep dotted the lush landscape, and the sky was blue for once.
A Manor of Faking It (The Clarion Abbey Series Book 1) Page 12
