Cocky Duke: A Modern Aristocracy Billionaire Romance (Endowed Book 1)

by Sara Forbes

HAYLEY AND I HAVE been together five nights in a row, love–making, fucking, whatever you call it, because I no longer know the semantic difference. With her, it's all intense, dirty, fun, and fucking amazing.

  Even with Ken needling me even more these days, Letty being meddlesome and Mother, tragic, nothing can get me down, because my spirits seem suspended in some strange post–coital heaven. I've never had a live–in lover before, maybe that's the difference. But something tells me it's not just that. After our sessions, I get this sense of peace with myself that no woman has ever given me before. Just that—a simple peace. Women normally make me nervous or flat–out bored by the second date, always putting me on my guard. But every time I wrap my arms around Hayley and breathe in her scent, it just gets better and better. Perhaps it's true that some people are just meant to be together.

  Philistine that I am when it comes to art, she's teaching me. The details often go over my head—school of this, style of that, post–this and neo–that, I can't see much difference. It's comforting that somebody like her is looking after Father's legacy, and I love listening to her talk about the paintings like they're living entities with opinions of their own as to where they should be hung and whose company they should keep.

  In a strange way, with Hayley so involved in his obsessive hobby, Father seems closer now. I wish she could have met him when he was alive. They'd have got on well. She'd have challenged his stubborn opinions on good taste, steered him away from the truly hopeless artists—I suspect there were plenty of those—and he'd have adored her for it.

  During breaks in work, I go into the gallery and I always pick her up just before six so we can … get dressed for dinner together

  Today, as she's sitting at the dressing table, brushing out her luxurious, chestnut hair, she's talking again about the collection of prints by a Welsh painter called Myles Lillienthal maybe being worth something. I think she means those canvasses with Jackson Pollack–like random splashes of paint. She's getting that same manic look in her eyes that Father used to adopt whenever he'd discovered someone “new.”

  “I researched him. He's already sold one for fifty thousand in the Philippines, and one is Paris for twice that. He's getting popular. Our specimens are much bigger though, and all done in his peak phase between 2000 and 2010. We just need to open the gallery up, spread the word, and bring in prospective buyers,” she says. “They'll want to see it firsthand, not just internet photos.”

  “Sure it's not just a bunch of crap?” I'm wary of anything that'll make me look silly or pretentious.

  She shakes her head firmly. “This is the real deal. We find the right buyer, I reckon it would solve your tax problem.”

  I look at her in surprise.

  She bows her head. “Letty told me, Alex. About the looming tax bill being your immediate worry and that the farming accounts didn't add up this spring. Sorry. But this isn't just a quick fix, Alex. This could be a long–term plan.” Her glowing hazel eyes, full of hope and tenderness, scan my face. My heart thumps out a record–breaking drum solo when I read between her lines. Never mind the money, is she actually thinking beyond September? Because I know I am, but I also know that the best way to send Hayley running is to suggest anything to her about how she should live her life.

  “Long term … sounds good,” I say casually.

  “Yes.” She looks down and examines her fingernails. “It kinda does.”

  The bell chimes out six and we rise to go for dinner. I suspect she's as glad as I am for the interruption.

  ♦♦♦

  “Care for a duel?” Ken asks as the puddings are cleared away.

  My first reaction is to want to scream, “Hell, no!” in my best American accent. I want time with my woman. But when was the last time Ken asked me to do something with him after dinner, just for fun? Right. Never. Or not since Father died, anyway. So I agree and mutter to Hayley that I'll catch up with her later, but not too much later. I'm not quite sure I'm going to win this fencing bout, so I don't ask her to come watch. She seems happy enough to skip off to the living-room with Letty anyway.

  “Is this your way of settling some argument?” I ask Ken as we stroll together to the hunting room where the fencing gear is stored. I'm still somewhat peeved as I take down my protective chest padding and blow off the dust. “If so, what did I do wrong?”

  “No, you idiot. I need a few bouts of practice before my course starts up again in September.”

  “Are all your recreational activities combative?”

  “It helps with the anxiety.”

  “I can think of other things.” I flash him a grin.

  He responds with a long–suffering look. “In my experience, that's combative too.”

  “Maybe you just haven't found the right one.”

  He cocks an eyebrow. “And I suppose you have?”

  I slide on a glove. “Yes.” Because there is no other way to say it. Why make up complications when there are none? Why downplay a feeling that's natural and glorious? The only problem Hayley and I have is that her life's in Oregon and mine is here and that the clock is ticking on us. Mercilessly.

  “Are you actually serious? Alex. Think about this.”

  “I've done all the thinking on the subject that I need to.”

  He shakes his head. “It won't be easy on her, fitting in. And you're giving up your chances of marrying your way out of financial trouble.”

  I tighten the straps on my chest guard. “Jesus, Ken, were you always this romantic?”

  “I'm just trying to help.”

  “I appreciate your concern, but focus on your own dating life. Or lack of it.”

  I'm all dressed but he's having problems putting on the protective jacket, which should be snug, but not this snug. “That used to fit you perfectly,” I comment.

  “Yeah.” He tugs at the side zip, which is never going to get past his rib cage.

  “If you'd stop all the boxing workouts and the protein shakes, you might have a chance. It's unnecessary.”

  “Damn it.” He rips off the chest guard and hangs it back on the hook. “Problem solved. Can I trust you not to stab me in the heart?”

  “Depends on how much you piss me off.”

  “Hey. I'm a worrier. That's what I do.”

  “I know.”

  We're finally ready to go, helmets and gloves are on, and we've drawn out lines in the clay beside the pear orchard. The ground is most level here and shaded from the wind by the high stone wall.

  “En garde, prêt, allez,” Ken says, in his phony French accent. He may be more mathematical than me, but linguistically, he's a disaster.

  We parry. Our foils gleam and clink in the evening sun, scaring off the ravens from the surrounding oaks. Ken's lunges are impressive. Both of us are rusty on the footwork, neither of us particularly nimble, but at least we're even.

  We're silent, both concentrating on not letting the other man score any points. Ken's as competitive as I am when it comes to sports. Of course, as soon as he's two points up, he decides it's time to chatter so he'll distract me and keep his lead. “Mother's driving herself to distraction about Seb.”

  “I know.”

  Ken backs up to the start position. “I told her to wait. But what else can we do?”

  “Beats me,” I say. I'm not being completely honest here. I could organize a search party the length and breadth of Britain if I really wanted to. I'd pull in favors from other members of the nobility. I'd persuade Marty to dig deeper. But these days, I'm only paying lip service to the whole idea of Seb returning. I've actually told Marty to call off the search and focus instead on Hayley's uncle. Yes, I want to know that Seb's safe, but if he doesn't want to come back, then maybe it's not quite the disaster I once thought. I'm perfectly prepared to leave it up to him.

  “Maybe he's become a Buddhist monk,” Ken says as he parries.

  “Seb?”

  He shrugs. “Anything's possible.”

  “In that case you're all stuck
with me.”

  Ken stills for a moment. “You're not doing such a bad job, you know. ”

  My heart swells with this rare praise and I'm caught totally off guard when the tip of his foil presses into my chest protection, to the point of pain. Another win to him.

  I can't see his expression through the grille of the mask. “Are you talking about fencing or being the duke?” I ask, just to be sure.

  “The latter. Your fencing will always suck. But at least you made a serious indent on our email backlog and sorted out those grain prices. It feels like there's a boss in the office again. So, is it Hayley's influence?”

  I lunge at him. “Are you kidding? She's driving me crazy.”

  He leaps backward over a gnarled tree root. I chase after him, laughing. We're out of bounds now, no longer following fencing rules. He's stronger than I am which is all the more reason not to let him think for one moment that he can beat me.

  It turns into a swashbuckling replay of every sword fight we've seen in the movies, from Caribbean pirates to Jedi battles. We hum the theme tunes, tunelessly, but Letty's not around to scold us. This feels so great. So freeing.

  Afterward, exhausted and sweaty, I whip off my helmet and throw my gloves inside. We sit on two tree stumps, gasping in the humid evening air, drinking cool water from the pump by the boathouse.

  Ken doesn't seem to want to talk, so I begin. “Tell me, am I crazy? I want her to stay. Beyond the summer. I've a feeling this could work out.”

  Ken clenches his hands together and says nothing, just watches my face, so I continue. “With her attracting pundits to the gallery, perhaps even potential buyers for some of the lesser pieces.” I wince, and wait for an explosion of argument but he's still silent.

  “Even if hosting high–profile weddings doesn't pan out, I'm thinking we may have a viable business on our hands with a gallery like Hayley's planning it. I know it's a departure from the usual, but so what? It's good business and we may manage to cut down on the public days even more.”

  I look at him again, my chest tight with anxiety. I've laid it all out here, my gut feelings about how business could be run at Belgrave.

  He throws me a look. “Sure it's not just your dick overruling your brain?”

  “I'm not sure of anything,” I retort. Except that I want her to stay.

  My brother says nothing for a full minute. Then he tilts his head slowly side to side. “Alex, she's got a whole life over there. She's up against all hell here. Does she even know the extent of it?”

  “But you're not opposed, per se?” I hate that I'm begging for acceptance for someone three years younger than I am whose disposable income from Father's will gets swallowed up periodically at the horse races.

  He throws up his hands. “Who cares what I think anyway?” He catches my earnest gaze. “It's Mother you have to worry about.”

  23

  HAYLEY

  WHILE ALEX IS FENCING with Ken, I head toward the living room, hoping for a view of them out the bay window, but the room is occupied by Letty and her piano tutor. I'm not in the mood for music. I glide past, aiming for the library. I stop at the second floor, Alex's room. Well, our room now, I suppose.

  Inside, I linger by the window, relishing how the Belgrave estate stretches in all four directions, offering majestic views as far as the eye can see. It's amazing how quickly you get used to living in exalted circumstances. I'm going to miss all this when I leave.

  When I leave. I quash that thought. We've only just started. I need so much more time to understand how this place works, how this society works and to find my little niche in it without stepping on anyone's toes.

  I step back and bump into something. I look down at the mahogany writing desk. There's an array of office utensils neatly laid out, that beautiful Cartier pen I saw on day one, and a whole set to match. I run my fingers lovingly over them. It's the kind of table where, in an age gone by, a man would sit down to write a beautiful love letter to his lady. I toy with the idea of writing Alex a little love note and leaving it on his pillow. Something funny and obscene.

  The coaster that I first wrote my name and number on is there on top of the little cupboard built into the desk. My heart glows as I lift it, the memories of Jayvee's flooding back, my awestruck first impression of Alex, the utter confusion that followed, the first time I saw him standing outside the main door of Belgrave Castle. Our wild goose chase to find Uncle Stig in a bowling alley.

  Sitting down on the worn leather chair, I pick up the pen and pull out a blank sheet of paper and start doodling. First I draw the beautiful clock perched in the middle of the table. My swinging legs kick against something hard under the table that wasn't there the last time I sat here. I look down. It's a black briefcase with brass clasps. I look at it, think, no, and keep doodling. After five minutes, the fruit of my labor is a sketch of a suitcase with an explosion of fireworks, twirls, and question marks coming out of it. The universe is trying to tell me something.

  So I bend down, sighing at my own curiosity, pull out the briefcase and click the clasps, fully expecting it to be locked. But it opens. There's a stack of A4-sized papers, all uniform. Tenants' accounts, I'm guessing. Alex must have brought work back to the bedroom for once.But then the name on the cover of one dossier catches my eye. “Stig Lawson.” I frown, and dip my head closer. Did I read that right? He's got a file on Uncle Stig? The next one causes me to cry out loud into the room. “Hayley Cochrane.” And yet another: “David Cochrane.”

  I grow cold. My skin tingles all over. Bad enough me … but Dad? What could this mean? I glance over to the door, which is closed. With quivering fingers, I lift my own folder up.

  The MI6 stamp on the top left looks official, not that I've ever seen one before. Frantically, I flick through the dozen or so pages. It's roughly printed black and white document with hurried looking date stamps in the upper left corners of each page. There's a list of “sightings”—terse accounts of my whereabouts in London since I arrived in the country. Along with that, a background history—my schools, grades even. A grainy photo taken from my blog. The details of my flight from Portland. And the one I'd booked but cancelled. I gasp.

  What is he doing with this?

  Next up is Dad's. My blood runs cold with fury. He's an innocent man who has nothing to do with anything and he's never even set foot in this country. What is this? Is it even legal?

  Dad's file lists the stuff I know. The date of my birth. Mom's death. There's a passage on Mom, her father, the location of her gallery. Then a further couple pages about her father, my grandad, his famous newspaper business. There are some articles about misdeeds committed in order to bolster the business—extortion, blackmail.

  I slam the report shut. I'm so mad, I could rip these documents to shreds, kick over this table, set the place on fire. I need to do something. Preferably something destructive.

  But I won't. Because then I wouldn't find out why. I need to know, and for that, I must stay calm even if it kills me.

  ♦♦♦

  What seems like hours later, but only registers twenty minutes on the clock, I hear his footsteps in the corridor, slower than normal, as though he's tired. I bolt upright on the chair where I'd been simmering in anger. Seconds later, the door opens. Alex takes a step in and then rears back when he sees me.

  “My darling, am I glad to see you.” He strides toward me.

  But my heart is made of stone. “Don't you ‘my darling' me. What is this?” I jerk my thumb at the files open on the desk.

  He looks down. It doesn't seem to register with him for a moment, but then he winces. “Oh.”

  “What's this about, Alex?”

  “They're nothing. A routine check, that's all. I've a friend—”

  “Routine?” I laugh bitterly. “What were you looking for? Criminal charges? Evidence of STDs?”

  “If you'd let me explain.”

  I rise from the chair, pick up a folder and slap it back down on the table for emp
hasis. “Believe it or not, we're innocent.”

  “But of course you are.”

  I ignore him. “You have nothing on my uncle either, so don't bother trying to insinuate that. Nothing that compares to what we have on you. Possession of classified documents? Spying on me? I should report you. Something tells me it wouldn't go in my favor. I demand to know why.”

  “Hayley, I know it's unpleasant for you to see this.” He takes another step closer and I back off, toward the window.

  “No, Alex. I need an explanation. Give me something.”

  “Fine.” He holds up a palm toward me. “I owe you that.” He flops down on the bed but I remain where I am, standing by the table with my back to the window.

  “You know we're bidding for the Saudi wedding, right?”

  I half turn. “Uh–huh.”

  “Well, the prince's aides are extremely fussy about security. They wish to know the identity and history of anyone resident here and ensure there are no connections to anyone who might be plotting to kill him, and by all accounts there are enough of those, from Taliban officials to members of his immediate family. Unless we comply with their every desire, we don't have a hope of beating the competition who will no doubt provide all they're asking for and more.”

  “Oh please,” I scoff. “You expect me to believe that?”

  A flash of hurt crosses his face but I'm too far gone to care. “Yes, actually, he says.”

  “Well, that's very convenient, isn't it, just like everything else in your life. How manipulative, Alex, keeping everything on a need–to–know basis.”

  His jaw clenches. “Not manipulative. Protective. Remember you came to me crying for help.”

  “Because you got us in the mess in the first place with your crazy attempts to get on the front pages! Yes, Alex. So how does ruining Uncle's reputation, and mine, fit in with your desire to appear squeaky clean to the Saudi princes of this world, tell me that?”

  He takes a step closer. For a moment, I wonder if I'm going to weaken and let him smooth talk his way out of it, because he probably could if he reached out and touched me.