by Sara Forbes
Earl Power
Endowed, Vol. 2
SARA FORBES
©Sara Forbes 2017
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be considered as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
www.saraforbes.com
Acknowledgements
The courtly critiquers: Brittany, Susie, Marisa, Debby, Jhawk, Robin. The blurb queen, Sasha Gold. The majestic editor, Elayne. The beats countess, Tammi. The king of cover design, Neptunian.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
1
MARA
BACK IN MY FIRST year of architectural college when I used to dream big, it was all parabolic skyscrapers and geodesic domes, not this mundane crap. It’s nearly midnight and I’m rinsing out an array of coffee cups—my boss Mike’s and mine.
And now the sink is clogged. A mustard-colored sludge lies in the basin, foaming at the edges, refusing to drain and stinking of old cheese. I already stuck a ruler below the surface, but nothing happened. I don’t want to have to put my hand down there.
My Skype tone rings. I toss the ruler onto the counter and book it back to my desk. Hayley’s happy face appears onscreen. Her loved-up glow is a given these days, but tonight her hazel eyes twinkle with added luster. Alex must have done something special. Again.
It’s been a year and I’m still amazed by how strong her relationship with her charming British duke is. I never tire of hearing about her aristocratic life over yonder since she abandoned me here in Oregon. I’ve got to hand it to my best friend. She dated ‘up’.
I click the video icon. “Morning, Britain.”
“Evenin', Portland.” Hayley’s walnut hair is scraped into a neat side part, fastened with a bejeweled hair clip. She’s wearing a prim, pale-blue blouse. Gone are the slogan T-shirts and ripped jeans of her student days. The bitten nails are now manicured ovals. She looks, paradoxically, both younger and older.
In her background, the dawn streams in through huge, multi-paneled windows and a vista of rich parkland stretches beyond. She’s eight hours ahead in Fernborough, Suffolk, England, Parallel Universe.
“Mike?” she asks.
I duck from the camera so she gets a view of my surroundings—the dank, gray office with paper storage issues. “Gone home.”
“What you up to, Mara? Sleeping in the office again?”
I scratch my neck with the end of my pen. “Design deadline, for tomorrow.” My eyes trail down to the bottom right of the screen. “Uh, today.” I hold up the printout to the camera. “It’s a glorified bike shed. I mean, in the grand scheme of things, who gives a shit?”
Hayley grimaces.
“It does have a corrugated roof, though,” I say.
“Well, I’m sure there are cyclists who care deeply about such matters.”
“Yeah. So, what’s up over in Poshville?”
“You’ll never guess.” Hayley’s voice skitters up an octave on “guess.”
“No. What?” I mimic her.
“We’re engaaaaged,” she squeals, flapping her hands in front of her face.
“Whoa.”
What the fuckity fuck?
“Oh… that’s wonderful. You must be…” I search for the word, embarrassed that I’m not more effusive than this.
“Scared as fuck!” she says.
I laugh, relieved. “Hold still so I can see this rock.”
She grins and waggles her ring finger in front of the camera. It’s just a blur at first, but once she stops moving, it’s clear the white-gray blob is a stone that set Alex back a sum that would be impolite to speak out loud.
“Wow. You’re going to be a duchess!”
“I know!”
“God.” I swivel my chair and scan the office as the idea of Hayley getting married sinks in. She’s twenty-two. Isn’t that too young? I’m two years older than her and nowhere near that point. Then again, this time last year, neither was she—she hadn’t even met Alex. I know Alex is under pressure to produce an heir and a spare and he’s not taking any chances, but this is very sudden. I’m trying to remember what age Kate Middleton was when she got engaged.
“When’s the wedding?” I ask, seeing as she’s just gawking at me with a loopy expression. They’ll do it right—long engagement, a year or two of fun and travel, and then they’ll pop out their two or three kiddos at two-year intervals and have the whole business well wrapped up by age thirty.
“We’re planning for August.”
“More than a year then. That’s sensible.”
“No. This August, in two months. Why wait? Alex didn’t want the media buzzing all over us. So he proposed to me last night. On bended knee. In our bedroom. Oh my God, I couldn’t believe it.” Her hand comes flapping under her eyes again and she gives a delicate sniff. “He really caught me off guard. But it’s what I want.”
“I’m so happy for you.” It’s finally hitting me. My best friend is getting married. In eight weeks.
“You’re going to be my maid of honor, of course. Please tell me you can make it?”
“What? Yes, of course.” I should have been expecting this, but, like Hayley being proposed to last night, it’s catching me off guard. But it doesn’t matter. There’s nothing I wouldn’t drop for her on her special day.
“I’m thinking jade,” Hayley says dreamily.
“Jade?”
“For your dress, silly. It’ll go with your red hair, trust me. And Letty will be bridesmaid. Two’s enough, isn’t it?”
I nod, picturing Alex’s sister looking stunning in a jade dress. Of course, she’d look stunning in anything—she’s the female embodiment of the persistent Belgrave beauty genes. I can’t believe I’m actually going to meet the blonde bombshell soon, and all the other players in Hayley’s fairytale life—the three Belgrave lords.
“Which of course brings me to your favorite topic.” Hayley’s perfectly groomed eyebrows jiggle up and down.
“Which is?” My stomach clenches with the first stirrings of unease.
“Sebastian.” She draws out all three syllables of his name. I think she even manages to stretch it to four.
Now that I’m actually going to meet the oldest brother, I skate into panic mode, backtracking wildly. He’s going to be her brother-in-law. “Oh no, no, no. I’m over all that. Really, it was just—”
“An eleven-month crush?” Hayley finishes.
“Yes, but…" I wave frantically at the camera. "It doesn’t count. None of it does. Forget everything I said to you. I didn’t mean any of it. I’ve never even met him.”
She grins. “Most crushes are like that. Rem
ote.”
“Come on, I—I just liked the way he talked to you that one teeny time, and the Skype image was all blurry anyway so… who’s to say, really?” I puff out my cheeks and tuck my hands into a tight arm-fold on the desk so they won’t twitch. I order my heart to slow down and my voice to stay calm, bored, even uninterested. “No, really. It was the work of a starving libido but hey, it’s over. It couldn’t be more over.”
“Oh, are we not starving anymore? Should I add a guest to your invitation?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Thought so.” She chuckles. “Well, you know the tradition. Best man? Maid of honor?”
“No, I’ve never heard of that tradition.”
Hayley laughs. “He looks sickeningly good in a tux, Mara.”
2
SEB
AS EVERYONE SETTLES for lunch around the dining table, I steal a glance at my phone under the tablecloth. I’ve been watching a two-year-old John Deere combine harvester on eBay which would do nicely for the corn this year and I’m determined to have it when bidding closes in … three minutes and forty-seven seconds.
An irritating, clinking sound makes me look up. Alex is tapping a teaspoon against his glass.
“My dear family,” he says in his phoniest talking-to-the-media voice. “We have an announcement to make.” He grins down at Hayley who's sitting beside him, blushing.
“Mother, Seb, Ken, Letty—” he regards each of us in turn— “Hayley and I… we’re engaged.”
There’s a stunned silence.
My whole body seems to have turned to lead. Then words start forming—simple words. No. Wait. Stop.
Ken is the first to react. He drops his spoon. “Glory be.”
Letty leaps from her chair, clapping her hands. “Oh, you devil, Alex, I can’t believe it! You guys are insane. This is sooo great!” She’s up and around the other side of the table in a flash, hugging and kissing and fawning over the ring, Ken close on her heels.
If Mother’s pinched smile is anything to go by, she’s not exactly awash with euphoria. In all the ways she might have imagined the thirteenth Duchy of Fernborough to extend into the future, and for her official status as dowager to be established, it sure as hell wasn’t this.
I rise, forcing my features into an expression of pleased surprise, and wait for Mother to extend her greetings, which are dispensed with economic politeness.
I order champagne from our housekeeper, Mrs. B, kiss Hayley, and round on Alex. “Congratulations. What’s the time frame on this then?”
My brother exchanges a glance with his bride-to-be and runs a hand across his jaw. “Soon, actually. Rather soon, you could say.”
“We were thinking…” Hayley says, eyes shifting.
“August,” Alex finishes.
Fourteen months. Could be worse. “That’ll give the queen enough time to put you down in her agenda.”
“This August, Seb.”
It’s worse. I blink at him.
He claps me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, old boy. We’ll hold it right here.”
“Who’s worried?” I mutter.
“It’ll be great,” Letty enthuses, dashing up to us. She’s overheard this.
When I find my voice again I ask, “Who’s organizing?”
Alex shrugs. “Us?”
And Mother’s heard that. She throws me a glance that mirrors all the horror I feel, and glides out of the room.
“You’ve got to change it,” I say. “You won’t even get a church in two months.”
“We’ll just get old Reverend Jones to come here,” Alex counters.
“So you’ve asked him?”
“Well, no.”
“Alex,” I groan. I consider the options, the most of appealing of which is run away, now.
“Why can’t it be later?” I demand.
“I asked Prince Faisal already and that’s the day we agreed on.” Alex’s mouth is drawn in a determined line, and I know it’s useless to argue this one. He values his friendship with the Saudi prince even more highly than his connection with the Windsors. I wince as I imagine their royal reaction. I can’t see them being too amused. No way am I telling them.
One thing is clear—the wedding has to be held here at Belgrave Castle, not just because of the last-minute impossibility of booking anywhere else, but because it’s the only location where we can ensure privacy without hiring outside contractors—for which there is no time.
“Nobody else is to leave this room,” I say, in my sternest voice. “That includes you, Mrs. B.”
Our housekeeper stops mid-stride and sets her tray of dirty dishes back down on the table.
Everyone’s staring at me, open-mouthed. I suppose that did come out rather sharply. I pace the dining room floor, up and down. “We need a plan. I don’t know what kind of plan, but I’m going to find out.”
“We could hire a planner,” Alex says, sounding less sure than before.
“And spend hours—no, days explaining the logistics of this place and compromising our privacy? No, this has to be an inside job. Low-key, done right.”
Mrs. B. is nodding at the undeniable truth of this. Letty and Ken soon join in.
Alex looks like he’s going to protest, but he backs down, his puzzled expression telling me he hasn’t considered things this far. The privacy argument is the clincher though. He’s been extremely vigilant since Hayley came into his life. The last thing he wants is a centerfold splash in Hello magazine on every aspect of his wedding to the “American Duchess,” dragging up images of their scandalous first meeting which involved a wet T-shirt (hers) and a Cosmopolitan being thrown over a crotch (his) . Fair dues to my younger brother—he’s stayed out of the spotlight since then. And I think he wants to keep it that way.
I plant my fists on the table. “We gather in the drawing room, nine sharp tomorrow, by which time I will have a game plan.”
When I look at my phone again, the John Deere has been sold—to someone else.
◊◊◊
Alex just doesn’t get it, or is willfully ignoring it. So typical of him—he’s always embodied the life of the leisure class of pre-Thatcherite days. But I don’t know a duke in Britain who doesn’t count his pennies and work like a dog to avoid being buried alive under the weight of his rambling inheritance. Alex is the exception; he’s got me.
I’m keeping the promise I made to Father on his deathbed. He knew Alex wouldn’t manage it. I promised I’d stay until I got the farm back into the black. I’ve been working the business hard, keeping the tenants satisfied and profitable, and preparing for the day I would hand over the reins to Alex and Hayley—sometime in the near future, I’d imagined, after Alex started to show a taste for it. That was supposed to happen before any goddamn marriages or babies started appearing.
Then, my theory went, I’d be a free man, no longer the bastard older son lurking in the shadows of the flamboyant duke. Escaping Belgrave Castle, I’d build my own residence. Maybe even marry. Then and only then I might be able to gaze magnanimously on the ducal offspring and play the doting uncle.
But with this shotgun-style announcement yesterday, it’s all turned upside down. I’m stuck. And for all I know, Hayley may already be carrying the fourteenth Duke of Fernborough underneath that prim linen dress she’s wearing for the occasion.
I cancelled all appointments for today, telling the suppliers, the county vet, and the farmers that I’ve come down with something contagious and vaguely deadly. These hardworking people don’t deserve such lies, but this is an emergency. I’ve drawn up a hasty battle plan with the help of a website entitled How to Plan a Wedding (in a Panic). Weddings are even more complicated than I thought.
We’ve gathered in the Elizabeth Room, squeezing together on parallel sofas, separated by the coffee table. I stomp around as the final attendees slink in the door. They’re fidgeting, giggling with all the maturity of a junior scout troop waiting for their mission orders. At least nobody’s missing.
I hold up my tablet though I know they can’t read the screen. “First things first, I’ve sorted the date with Reverend Jones. Alex and Hayley, you’ll meet him tomorrow afternoon in the vicarage. The rest is up to you.”
He flashes me a grin. “No worries, Seb, I’m marrying an angel.”
Ignoring him, I turn to the other sofa. “Letty, Rawley’s Florists for church and table arrangements and bouquets, that’s you. Hayley, you’re wearing your mother’s dress and you’re absolutely sure it’ll be couriered in time for the adjustments?”
Both women nod.
“Alex.” I swing around to him. “You’re going to have to organize your suit yourself, and shoes. Do it well before, don’t leave it until the Friday, they’ve a half day. And do it late afternoon or else they’ll hold you there all day. You know how slow they get when it’s one of us.”
Alex nods solemnly. “Gotcha.”
“Mrs. B is on top of dining arrangements, the sweets, the barbecue, and the buffet the following day.” I throw our hyperactive housekeeper a look of encouragement. She’s sitting apart on a chair by the fireplace.
I slide my finger down the list on my tablet. “George, the bride’s car?”
“Aye, all sorted, my lord.”
I give him a smile. At eighty-two, George, our groundsman, is the most reliable person in this room. I’ve included him in the security plans—on a need-to-know basis.
“Mrs. B, accommodation for Hayley’s guests while they’re here?”
She nods.
“Any other guests will stay at Fernborough Inn.”
“Photography?” Hayley asks.
“Yes, filmography and pre-wedding shoot are booked. I got that Dreamtime agency you mentioned.”
Her eyes widen. “But they said they were totally booked .”
“They changed their minds.”
“How did you do that?”
The American still doesn’t accept the power of a name in this country. But no time for this. I shake my head. Hayley makes eyes at Alex instead, who gives her a smug I told you so smile.