“Nope, but that’s what the internet told me, so I figured why not?”
“Oh, of course. Why not?” Simone grumbled.
I stifled a laugh. This was good for her.
We set to work, and after a couple of minutes, I deemed the magic erasers magical indeed and dampened all of them. Dust came off in flurries, bringing the beautiful images back to life. It wasn’t perfect, but it was at least visible.
We did a quick live video for Instagram with silly faces next to the elaborate, hand-painted bucolic scenes of shepherds and sheep, but my heart wasn’t in it. I was simply going through the motions.
As I scrolled through half a million hearts, one comment caught my eye. I squeaked.
“Oh my God!”
Simone stopped rolling her eyes. “What? What’s wrong now?”
“Nothing!” I showed her the comment. It was a famous English chef who had recently appeared on a celebrity cooking show—not Hawthorne’s, but some British one—and he wanted to offer his services!
“It gets better,” I said, tapping on my direct messages. “He slid into my DMs!”
“Is that good?” Simone asked dubiously.
“Definitely. I’m going to go call him.”
Chef Robinson picked up immediately. “Good morning, Lady Perrinton. May I offer my assistance?”
I grinned. “Wow, of course! I’m so excited you saw my video.”
“Who hasn’t? You’re the talk of England this week.”
I was thankful he couldn’t see my blush. “Can you come by to discuss the menu in person? I’m free all week, but I’d like you to inspect the kitchens, too. I’m afraid they’re not what you’re used to.”
Robinson’s voice echoed with mirth. “I’ve actually worked in old manor homes before. It’s why I was so keen to get in contact with you. Working at Clarion Abbey will take me right back to my first job out of culinary school as a private chef.”
My heart fluttered. Before he came, I probably needed to tell the him the whole deal. “Chef Robinson, this is by no means a reflection on your worth, however—”
Robinson stopped me. “Don’t worry about payment. Besides the joy of working in another manor house, I’ve heard the buzz surrounding your event already, Lady Perrinton. You’ve made quite the headlines, and to be honest, I’ll be happy for the reciprocal promotion for my own new project in South London.”
“I—well, yes. Finlay Damford has a way of putting himself front and center.” I tried to be diplomatic, but that ass was already ruining the event.
“I take it your romance was short-lived,” Robinson said lightly, making me wonder. Was he interested in me? He was adorable with short, spiky blond hair and a confident attitude, but I’d never thought past my good first impression of him. Finn resided in far too many of my thoughts.
“Oh, uh…it’s complicated,” I replied honestly. “Can you come by tomorrow afternoon?”
“Absolutely. See you tomorrow, Lady Perrinton.”
Chef Robinson hung up before I could correct my name to Poppy. I sighed. Maybe it wasn’t worth it.
Simone sat scrolling through her phone with her perfectly manicured nails, not a cleaning implement in sight. She looked up. “So? Was it good news?”
“Yes, he wants to help, actually. He’ll be here tomorrow to inspect the kitchens and get a prep list started.”
She raised an eyebrow. “That’s it? He slid into your DMs simply to help? I doubt Finn will approve.”
“If Finn was a good boyfriend, he’d see what a great opportunity this is.”
Simone came over to pat me on the back. “Oh dear, you’ve so much to learn. I want you to know I support your relationship with Finn, but I must warn you—he’s not the type for long term. In fact, I’ve never seen him with the same girl twice, myself included.”
My spine stiffened and my movements went robotic. I knew she was right, but don’t we all want to feel different? Special?
“Darling, I don’t say that to hurt you. Quite the opposite. I want to shield you. Best to go into this relationship with eyes wide open. Come on now, let’s finish this beastly wall before I get wrinkles or—worse—chip a nail.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Finn
I stood on the precipice of all my decisions. The tug of missing Poppy and the guilt of my missteps dangled over my head, threatening to fling me over the edge of the abyss. What was the remedy in this situation? I couldn’t even be sure she wanted something more than our original deal. She’d never said as much. She’d only screamed my name at the cottage. Earth-shattering orgasms were hardly the same as love.
So now, we were at a crossroads. We could go our separate ways, none the worse off for it. She wasn’t defective, and I was still going to be a duke—except I couldn’t because I was in love with her. It had happened ten years before, and I couldn’t change that.
With reluctance, I called Madden.
“I was hoping you’d get in touch,” he quipped. “Saves me the trouble.”
I laughed weakly.
“So,” he continued, “hanging in there, mate?”
“By a thread.”
“That’s all you need. How’s Poppy?”
“She won’t speak to me. It was never fake to me, but I doubt she’d believe a word I said.”
Madden mmhmmed.
“I love her.”
More mmhmm.
“I want to be with her.”
“Hmm.”
Now I was irritated. “Anything more helpful rolling around your brain? Sort of spilling my soul here.”
Madden laughed. “Listen, it’s not complicated. Did you fuck up by keeping secrets? Of course. You’re a stunted little man-child. But, you didn’t cheat on her—fake relationship or real one—and the trust can be salvaged from that if you try hard enough.”
“But she doesn’t need me anymore, and being with her is a complete complication for my own goals.”
Madden showed no mercy. “I guess you’ll have to reassess your true goals. May I suggest a list?”
“Wow.”
“Lists are helpful. You’re used to being in charge of all situations, but that’s not possible in a genuine relationship. So, make a list.”
“Thanks, Madden.”
“Any time. Now don’t be a knob. Figure out how to fix it and do it.”
We said goodbye and I hung up, completely exhausted by my emotions. Little did Madden know, I already had a list, but it wasn’t pleasant.
For my first bit of business, I had to find my future brother-in-law. I’d warned him once, but he hadn’t gotten the hint, or perhaps he was in too deep. It was clear Stone needed the money for his habit, but to stoop to arson was something else.
Stalking along London’s streets where I knew how to be seen and not seen was the easy part. Getting Stone to come out of his hole to talk to me was something else. I ended up scaling the red bricks of his London flat to the Juliet balcony and banging on the window until it popped open.
I stumbled through as Stone threw open the front door and lost his footing, tumbling down the set of stairs. I leapt over his rolling body and grabbed him by his polo.
“What’s the rush?” I asked, tightening my fist on his shirt. “Just old mates stopping for a pint, wouldn’t you think?”
“What do you want, Damford? I’ve stayed away from Wodehall, although isn’t that something? The minute a pussy shows interest, your best mate is suddenly inconvenient to you.”
“Maybe I didn’t make myself clear: you threaten and endanger Poppy, you have problems bigger than strained familial relationships.”
“My half-sister is nothing but a whore and a gold digger. She never once spoke to Father in ten years, but she came running back the moment she heard the thunk of gold coins and a title for the taking.”
“Poppy didn’t even know about the title. She came back for the funeral. And last I saw, not only did you squander any inheritance, you drove Clarion Abbey into the ground. What a
cliché you turned out to be,” I scoffed.
“I am the rightful heir. I am the eldest. I am the son,” Stone spat out. “Wait until your inheritance is threatened and see what you do.”
“So you’ve been selling off your blessed inheritance for what? Coke? Framing me and then snorting it later? What a good warden of Clarion you’d make. I can see why your father trusted someone he hadn’t even laid eyes on in a decade rather than accept what was right under his nose.”
Stone took a swing, but having baited him perfectly, I caught it midair and twisted his arm around, bringing his back flush to me. He was really letting himself go with all that blow.
I bent down, like a tender lover, to whisper in his ear. “Stay away from Clarion. Stay away from Poppy. Don’t make me regret not breaking your bloody nose today or turning you over to the police.”
I threw him away from me, letting him tumble down the steps where he fell like a bag of hay and swore.
“And ‘best mate’ is a bit of a stretch. When have we ever seen each other outside of pints? Be real—you have no mates.”
Stone’s words rolled through my brain the entire way back to the country. No one outside of Wodehall but Poppy knew my inheritance was dependent on her. What had I chosen to do? Lie, put up a charade, threaten. How different was I from Stone in certain aspects?
The things we did for our titles.
Speaking of which, I had one more confrontation for the day. My father might have thought I’d be cowed, and historically, he’d have been correct—but not this time. I was willing to fight for my title, Wodehall, and Poppy.
I would have all three.
My father was in bed, coughing. Everything was dark and stuffy, like he was under the care of a medieval doctor. It smelled like the old man he’d become.
The moment he sensed me, battle instincts must have kicked in, because he quickly stood, attempting to stifle his cough. I moved to open a window.
“You really should get out more,” I said amiably.
“Have you dropped the Countess yet?”
“I guess pleasantries are over.” I relentlessly pulled curtains back, wondering if his true vampire side, the bloodsucking demon of my youth, would finally melt under direct sunlight. I watched with some interest.
Alas, no such luck. What a shame.
Instead, he stayed wrapped in a wool blanket, standing near his bed with a look of horrible power despite the slippers. How the hell did he cultivate that air?
Steeling myself, I sat in his chair, playing the unhurried conversationalist. “I met with a solicitor today. Not Bracon’s, in case you were curious why you weren’t immediately informed.”
“Get on with it, son. It’s clear you think you have the upper hand, but I am looking forward to dashing those dreams.”
“You’ll find out soon enough. I just wanted to see your face when I told you I will have Bracon’s title, Wodehall, and Poppy Perrinton. Also, of course, to make sure you didn’t keel over and die. That would be a shame. I want you to see her walk down the aisle in Versace lace and Mum’s diamonds.”
“You’re an impertinent pup. That’s your downfall.”
“We shall see. Goodbye, Father. I’m off to help my girlfriend with her dinner party for the media.”
I stood, savoring the look of uncertainty on his withered face.
“Nothing is over, Finlay. You’d do well to remember that,” he called to my back.
With one last turn to look at him, I dipped my head. “True. Nothing is over until you’re dead.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Poppy
“Brontë?”
My hushed voice echoed around Wodehall’s inner chambers louder than the church drunk.
Nobody answered. I looked around cautiously, worried the Duke—or worse, Finn—might catch me snooping. Where was that girl?
She’d sent me a frantic text message to come to Wodehall ASAP or “regret life FOREVER”. Brontë had truly missed her life’s calling in the dramatic arts.
I sent her a quick text before planting myself against the wall and skimming up the steps. It was a little difficult due to all the gilded portraits along the grand, iron-trimmed staircase, so I resorted to sprinting until I reached the top. There was a small window in the winding turret. I snuck a quick peek and saw a crowd of people on horses outside, swinging polo mallets around for practice.
Finn was there, looking disgustingly dashing on top of a horse. I leaned against the windowsill, pressing my nose to the glass. He’d slicked his hair back and was about to put on his helmet. I could imagine his intense blue eyes even from this distance. Right now, they were focused on smoothing the mane of his chestnut horse, but their intensity could have been on—
“What are you doing?”
The sound of Brontë’s voice made me jump into the wall, rattling all the pictures in their expensive-as-hell frames.
“No, no, no, don’t fall,” I begged them.
Brontë gave me a cocked-head smile with her arms crossed. Today, she’d gone for an underground rocker vibe. Her black tights were artfully cut up while her black leather miniskirt seemed like it would seriously inhibit movement, though she’d somehow managed to sneak up on me.
It was stupid Finn with his stupid face distracting me.
Add that to the list of reasons why he sucked. Too good-looking—made me clumsy.
“Just, um…rearranging,” I lied lamely.
“Right. It doesn’t take a genius to know you’re ogling my brother. But why ruin a good day by talking about that bastard when I’m the real bastard I want to discuss?”
“You’ve lost me.”
Brontë jerked her head. “This way.”
“Where’s the Duke?” I whispered as we tiptoed upstairs on the Persian rugs.
“Sleeping, as usual. I doubt an English hurricane would wake him, so you don’t have to keep your voice quiet.”
I did anyway, because the Duke was terrifying.
“What do you mean by ‘bastard’?” I asked when we rounded the corner into what was clearly an office. The walls were lined with built-in bookcases, paneled walls, and creamy leather chairs. A golden globe sparkled under the window.
Brontë pulled a drawer open on the mahogany carved desk to reveal a safe box and winked. At my wordless question, she produced a small key from under her bra. I made a face at that, then watched the safe door swing open and Brontë rifle through the papers. She let out an “Aha!” and handed me three documents. My eyes widened with each scan, and I scanned them five times before covering my mouth and biting on a finger to stop any squeals.
“You’re not the Duke’s daughter?” I asked finally.
“Nope,” she replied, popping the P on the end with relish. “Just a straight-up bastard, which I’m shockingly fine with. I’ve had a day to process since finding these papers. Going through Father’s study proved much more interesting than I anticipated.”
“Do you think…”
“He forced my mom to go to that ship naming event because he knew? Obviously. There’s no way that old man was still porking her. I can’t wait until the bastard croaks. But this is great news for you and Finn!”
“Brontë, this doesn’t change anything for us. Finn still lied to me.” I held up my hands at her ferocious look. “Okay, fine—he withheld information. But why do you care so much? Neither of you like each other.”
Brontë tossed her hair. “I care about the truth. Finn wasn’t lying. He was trying to protect you because he’s an emotionally stunted baboon, thanks to the Duke. Also, I care about you and I can see the way you look at him. Weird, silly, completely daft to fall for my brother, but you are hopelessly in love. It’s cute.”
“You’re daft,” I said grumpily.
“You’re missing the point! Don’t you see? The Duke is bluffing! He’ll never really choose me over Finn. That means you’re in the clear. Use Finn to get what you need now for your dinner party. Make it a roaring success and call it re
stitution for him being a dick. Be secure in the knowledge that even if you appear ‘together’, the Duke is not really going to disinherit him. Put him through the hoops for lying until you’re satisfied, or be together because you still want to for that aforementioned daft emotion called love. Either way, it will all be fine. Okay, so what do you need from me? Media appearance? Jaspar can get you on his show tomorrow morning in the City. Interested?”
I watched her, grateful beyond measure. “Why are you still helping me? You don’t need to anymore.”
She grinned. “Anything to piss off dear old Dad. And I said it: I like you. Not for your title or money, because I’m still more titled, and let’s face it, you have no money—no offense. I like helping you because you’re fun. It’s probably the same reason why Finn’s head over heels. You’re a ray of fresh California sunshine. It’s adorable.”
Despite the fact that a nineteen-year-old called me adorable, I smiled. “Thanks. I like you too.”
I ignored the part where she said Finn was head over heels in love with me, because that butterfly feeling was too cozy and wonderful, too sinisterly dangerous.
“Also, I’m looking forward to you figuring out you’re in love with him. It all sounds very romantic, and I love a good romance.”
I swallowed hard and cleared my throat. “Ah.”
“What else do you need? Chefs?” Brontë clapped her hands. “How’s the food going?”
“Actually, I have a meeting with Chef Robinson tomorrow.”
“Ooh, fancy. How did you snag him?”
“How else? Instagram.”
Brontë sighed. “Ah, the American life. Now let’s get you to that fucking wanker’s show!”
The papers flew out of my hands when I jumped. “Um, what?”
“We’ve just broken up, so do be sure to give him a swift kick in the balls on your way out. I would wait until after the show, though. He can be a real grudge-bearer.”
“Oh joy.” I swallowed painfully. “Tell me what happened.”
A Manor of Faking It (The Clarion Abbey Series Book 1) Page 16
