She wrapped her arms and legs around me, letting out an ear-splitting squeal.
“A secret hobby of mine,” I stated.
Poppy unhooked herself from me, dropping to her feet. “Finn, I’ll have to post videos. That’s the game. Clarion’s fans are following every step—and misstep—we take. This is a huge win!”
I ran a hand through my hair. “The things I do for you.”
She kissed me long and deep, making everything completely worth it. Poppy pulled away first and went to find an apron.
She threw a frilly pink one at me. “Oh, we have to use these!”
“You are trying to dismantle the aristocracy one outrageous video at a time,” I said, catching it in midair.
“All part of the master plan.”
We spent the rest of the day at the market, writing out lists of ingredients and an intensely detailed schedule of preparation that would have made my ex-RAF commander weep with joy.
The following day, she set up her recording equipment, and we began roasting the bones to extract the marrow and pounding whole spices to flavor it for the bone marrow torte.
“Hm, rosewater and candied lemon peel? Is this supposed to be a savory or a sweet dish?”
I raised my shoulders. “Guess we’ll find out when we try it.”
“Wait, it says the bone marrow is optional. We could make it sweet.”
“But it wouldn’t be as much fun to watch those pale, stale lords and ladies squirm, now would it?”
She smiled. “Oh, you’re evil.”
She had no idea.
News outlets had picked up our live stream, and I had a feeling we’d make a few nightly news stations. Poppy was doing it—she was really getting her shit done. My chest expanded in pride as I watched her dance around the kitchen, tapping a few spices into her puff pastry here and rolling out dough there. I helped her stuff an ox tongue inside of a chicken without gagging and somehow managed to stuff that inside of a goose. I’d never felt so bad for a goose before. Or myself.
But for every victory, there was always a setback. After the chef quit mysteriously, a series of articles ran, including interviews given by Poppy’s ex-boyfriend Dean on their relationship. What a fucking sell-out, taking tabloid money and five minutes of fame.
I winced, showing the least heinous of them to Poppy. Instead of freaking out, she laughed.
“What’s so very funny?” I demanded. “He called you cold in bed and worse than a stereotypical British summer.”
She wiped her eyes. “It’s all I can do. It’s his version of events. He looks like a sad, power-sniffing media whore, which is what he is.”
“If you say so. Would you like to respond? I have friends…”
“You know what my mom always said? ‘Least said, soonest mended.’ Ignore it.”
“That’s big of you.”
“I know.”
I’d caught Poppy staring at me a few times, looking as if she was on the verge of revealing some great secret. Finally, I took my hands and sat her down by the steaming bone marrow tortes.
“What’s going through your mind? Something besides bones has you in twist.”
She took a deep breath. “Finn, I know Brontë told you about your mother, and I know I ask this all the time, but…are you sure you want to go on? This fake relationship is more than a farce now, and your father doesn’t even want it.”
Poppy’s large hazel wood eyes stared at me, her lips parted slightly as she waited for her fate to be decided. She was scared I would stop this charade and leave her for good. After everything, she was still scared of me and the power I held over her.
It was a sobering thought.
“Seedling, this changes nothing between us. I’ve loved you from the moment you beat me over the head with a wooden sword, and that won’t change. It only changes my strategy for outwitting the Duke, and the fact is this relationship isn’t fake. Frankly, it never was.”
She came to curl up in my lap, her head resting on my shoulder as I brushed her hair between my fingers and gently kissed her neck, both of us needing simple physical contact in this moment and nothing more.
That thought was the most sobering of them all.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Finn
The next day, Clarion Abbey was chaos. Servers from Wodehall, local village kids, and friends had arrived, all wanting to help. Bloggers and reporters were also streaming in to get their shots. Soon, the rest of the guests would appear, all wanting a tour of the grounds while they sipped sparkling wines we’d handpicked and ate medieval delicacies.
Brontë bounded into the kitchen. “What can I do? Stuff another ox tongue? I saw your rather disgusting video online and thought it would be right up my alley to do the next.” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively. That had to be the gardener half in her.
“How about you focus on not ending up in a flower pot tonight,” I suggested.
Poppy did a double take. “What?”
“Ah, flower pots.” Brontë nodded sagely. “After the dinner at the Duke’s that night where we sang and danced on pool tables, I might have woken up outside in a flower pot. Not my finest hour, but let’s blame Jaspar and get on with our lives, eh?”
“If you say so. Dinner next Thursday?” I asked. When we’d left that pub, we’d promised a truce and monthly dinners. Everything seemed to be intact. It was up to me to prove I’d changed my hard feelings toward her, but she had the greater task—learning how to forgive me.
“Only if Poppy comes. You know how some people say ‘better half’? She’s like your better 99.999 percent part.”
“Don’t make me write you out of the will when I take Bracon’s title.”
“The Duke will have to die first,” Brontë said cheerfully, “and I have a feeling that old codger won’t go down easy.”
“We’ll see about that,” I muttered.
Poppy swirled off, radiating an enticing scent of exotic spices and her own clean smell of raspberries, which I inhaled from the crown of her head. She was still wearing her prep clothes, which included her ubiquitous yoga pants and a rather tight crop top that made her breasts appear like plump grapefruits. I twirled her into me the next time she passed.
“Sneak off with me.”
She half-heartedly pushed against my chest. “There’s too much to do.”
“It can wait a few minutes,” I murmured, massaging her scalp as I backed her into a closet. It was almost pitch black except for the sliver of light coming through the crack at the bottom of the door. We could hear reporters asking questions and milling around the waiters and even heard our names a few times, but I was too busy flipping up her crop top and exposing her pert nipples to care very much. I held her against the wall and kissed her neck.
“A few minutes,” I promised into her mouth.
She bit her lip. The live stream cameras were set up around Clarion to catch all the guests arriving and most likely us going into a closet and not coming out, but I grinned, moving down to those beautiful breasts. So much skin to ravage, but I focused on one part. The rest of the world melted away the second I touched her.
As I rolled one nipple, making it hard as a pebble, Poppy put the back of her wrist in her mouth to muffle her moans.
“Perhaps a few minutes,” she said breathlessly.
“That’s my lady.” I went back for seconds. “Now be quiet like a good girl.”
She smacked me for that but still proceeded to tug down my pants and put her mouth around my cock.
It stiffened, growing harder—if that was possible—and I pinned her body against my hips. She took me deeper, her warm mouth promising better things to come. I lifted her up after a minute and slid her right on, both of us beyond wet and delirious. Plastering her tightly to my body, I fucked her hard and fast, watching her breasts bounce up and down, her erect nipples so pink.
If I never had this again, if the Duke tried pursuing his current course of action, I would be destroyed. There would be no
pieces left to pick up, no body parts to identify from the blast. But so would he, after I used every weapon in my arsenal.
“Come for me, Poppy. Come all over my cock,” I said, already feeling my balls tighten in anticipation of my own release.
Poppy leaned her head down on my shoulder and bit into it to deaden her groaning, and it brought me to the brink. I pumped into her as she came, too.
When we were done, she lifted her head from my shoulder and looked at me sheepishly. My warm cum was dripping out of her as I helped her off and pulled up her yoga pants.
With a gentle tug, I pulled down her crop top and kissed her gently on the forehead, nose, and mouth. “Go get ready, beautiful. Tonight’s your night.” She gave my butt a squeeze, and we opened the closet door, blinking at the sudden brightness, then exited the closet as casually as two people who’d just fucked in a fucking closet could. I watched in satisfied glee as Poppy had to walk side to side after having me inside of her.
Everyone was dressed in their finest, as if Downton Abbey truly existed for a night or Admiral Horatio Nelson was about to trumpet inside. They were eating our perfectly executed fried oysters and vol-au-vent poulet aux truffles, unsuspecting of the fact that I’d ravished the most beautiful woman in the world mere steps from where they stood.
I grabbed two of each appetizer and winked at her.
“Those are for the guests,” Poppy admonished. I popped an oyster in my mouth and grinned, leaning over to give my girl a kiss as she went to freshen up and change into her gown. She slipped upstairs before anyone could flag her down with idiotic questions about truffle oil.
It seemed, for the moment, as if I’d actually pulled this off. Poppy knew my secrets. I knew my father’s. My lawyers were drawing up papers as we spoke to make everything official concerning his mental capacities. I would have Wodehall and Poppy. Nothing could deflate me.
I floated over to bloggers and regaled them with a few stories to direct their attention away from the staircase as Poppy made her escape.
The attending press pool oohed over the story of finding a nest of tawny owlets in the fireplace they were standing near and chortled at the imagery of a marquess covered in soot, doing manual labor. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Stone entering Clarion with the Duke.
I narrowed my eyes and clapped a hand on the nearest blogger.
“Will you excuse me? Thank you so much. And be sure to taste everything tonight. If you’ll believe it, I had a hand in the cookery as well!”
I left them laughing, but nothing felt right in my gut.
Chapter Thirty
Poppy
I ran upstairs, my fingers on my swollen lips and a smile playing across them. I dodged questions, feeling the stickiness of my thighs. Quickly hopping in the shower, I washed off Finn’s cum and slipped into the dazzling Alexander McQueen blush pink chiffon dress he’d gifted me weeks earlier, then rejoined the party.
As the silky fabric rustled against my skin, I couldn’t stop smiling. How had my world turned upside down so quickly? I’d only come here to say goodbye to my father one last time. Now I knew I would stay. I would build my life here, and I prayed Finn would always be mine.
Nothing was the same.
Nothing could ever be the same.
I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.
To everyone else, Finlay was an unemotional, entitled womanizer. No lies, he was all of those things. Luckily for me, he was so much more. The man he truly was only came out under the best of circumstances, but that was a man worth waiting for.
I slipped my George the Dragonslayer necklace around my neck, and it settled into the hollow of my neck. I truly believed my father would have approved of what I was doing with Clarion Abbey. Part of this entire thing was closing the book on our open story. To make up for refusing to speak to him while he was alive, I would restore his family’s legacy at Clarion Abbey and bring honor back to the Perrinton name. Already, my grief was becoming a more bearable thing. It’s a memory becoming more distant with every day.
There was no need to pause in front of the gilt mirror and stare sadly at my reflection, wondering what my favored father would think of me. I knew he was proud. He’d loved history and Clarion as much as I did. Bringing back these dinner parties that had been so frequent in my childhood with a historical twist was the best way to preserve his memory. This was it. This was my time.
Ready.
Set.
Shine.
Chapter Thirty-One
Finn
I could have lit the entire manor house with the fire raging in my veins. My fury was a furnace, and I hadn’t even glanced at the papers my father had brought.
I addressed Stone first, saving the bigger fish for last.
“I thought I told you to stay away from Clarion,” I said through gritted teeth.
We were in the library, and Stone had the audacity to finger all the Perrinton family heirlooms he had pawned off for coke money. With two powerful steps, I was in his face, forcing him back against the desk he would have also sold given enough time.
“Why do you act like you are the lord of this manor?” he sneered. To be this confident, I thought he must have something good. My eyes narrowed.
“Get on with it. What do you have?”
The Duke raged between us, limping over with his wolf cane’s snarling face set in silver and forcing it under my nose. I noticed his wrists looked frailer and his knuckles were white.
“You don’t deserve Bracon. You are ruinous. Look at your latest scandal. For Poppy to stay by your side, you must have dirt on her as well.”
I laughed without mirth. “You’re in love with the sound of your own voice, aren’t you? You’re practically fucking yourself with it right now.” I shook my head. “Poppy is spotless, but I’m sure your people already told you that. No. I have dirt on you.”
The Duke tried not to react, but his body was old. He turned his head slightly.
“And it’s Lady Perrinton,” I corrected him.
He smacked his cane on the ground. “I keep no secrets.”
“You kept your wife’s secret.”
To his credit, the Duke barely missed a beat. “I will disinherit you. I don’t care if Brontë isn’t my blood. You are worse.”
“If I’m so much worse, do it,” I said, calling his bluff. He said nothing, staring at me with venom. When he looked at me, I couldn’t decide if he saw too much of my mother or too much of himself. He despised both.
“And what do you get out of this?” I pointed at Stone. “You’ll never have Clarion. Your father was very clear on the inheritance with no chance to change it. The fittest is Poppy. Just look at this event. While you were ready to sell off your history piece by piece, she created a phenomenon.” I scoffed and looked down at him. He seemed weak, but that’s when cornered animals bite. “Tell me then—what do you get out of this?”
“If you leave, she will be heartbroken. If you leave, she will be overwhelmed. Without you around supporting her, she will crumble. It will be so pleasing to see Clarion Abbey crumble, and sweeter to see it crumble thanks to her.”
“Look around—she’s already a success. With or without me, she will survive.”
“If that’s not enough to make her bounce away as she always does, maybe the next time the fire won’t be so contained and no one will be there to help.”
I glanced once around the room, wondering about my witnesses. “So you finally admit you set that.”
“Of course.”
After I received confirmation, I let loose. My fist connected with Stone’s jaw. I heard a crunch, but I didn’t stop. He ducked and punched me in the side, but my fingers were already dug into his jacket.
I yanked him closer and threw him across the room. He crashed backward into the chairs, toppling them and cracking the wood.
“Get up,” I ordered. “You don’t deserve to pass out yet.”
Stone reeled to his feet, propping himself against the
chairs as sweat drizzled down his cheek. He threw a jab to my face and placed one before I pummeled him, landing blow after blow.
“You belong with that whore,” he coughed out.
Fuck it. A black eye would be the least of his worries when I was through with him. I rained my fury into his stomach, barely seeing anything but Stone’s face crushed between my feet.
With his wolf cane across our shoulders, the Duke smacked us into submission, as if we were just rowdy school boys and not towering six inches over his aging body.
“Enough!” he roared. “Take a look, son, and pick your end.” He tapped one set of legal briefs then the other. “Either you inherit, doing everything I command like a good boy, or I will see Brontë take the manor. Which will it be?”
I stood up, heaving from my bout with Stone, and glanced at the papers. This would never end, and all I wanted was Poppy. I didn’t even care about being a fucking duke anymore. I cared about Poppy, her wellbeing, her desires—her.
Stone had asked me how I would react when my inheritance was threatened. Here was your fucking answer.
“I renounce my titles and forfeit my right to Wodehall freely and of sound state of mind.”
The Duke scoffed. “You wouldn’t dare. Wanting this has been bred into your very blood and bones. Take the damn papers and sign them. Finish this ridiculous spectacle and I’ll speak to the right people at the Royal Air Force. I think we’re all through with these antics. It’s time to grow up.”
The two sets of documents stared boldly at me from the table, and I grabbed them both.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Poppy
My dress hugged me in the right places, my hair waved down my back, and my necklace sparkled in the flames of Clarion’s man-sized fireplace. Everything was perfect, down to the buzzy feeling between my legs. I could live like this always.
A Manor of Faking It (The Clarion Abbey Series Book 1) Page 19
