Earl Power: A Modern Aristocracy Billionaire Romance (Endowed Book 2)

by Sara Forbes

  “Bridesmaids’ dresses.” I try to make eye contact with Letty but have to wait several seconds because she’s whispering to Ken. “I’m lost. How many rounds of alterations?”

  “I’ll handle it.” Letty grins.

  My finger continues down the list. “Favors and thank you gifts. Are these really necessary?” The very notion seems tacky.

  Hayley bobs her head rapidly. “It’s a US thing, Seb. I’ll figure it out.”

  “Fine. Remember to use the expedited option on anything you do. Okay … wedding rings. Masons and Granville said they’d have engravings done by 4 p.m. on the Thursday, but you have to get rings first.” I’m gritting my teeth at how idiotic this sounds.

  “We’ll get them,” Alex says. “Don’t worry.”

  “And I’m working on the invitations with Letty tonight,” Hayley adds, “With Wren Press.”

  “Then it’s just music and decorations.” Having reached the end of my list thus far, I exhale a ragged breath. “I presume you can sort out your honeymoon yourselves?”

  “What?” Alex’s eyes are wide. Hayley’s hand flies to her mouth.

  My heart sinks. They want me to organize that, too? I finger my collar, trying to think of a tactful way to phrase this. “Okay, I thought—”

  Then they’re snickering like schoolkids. Relieved laughter spreads throughout the room.

  “Seb, you idiot,” Alex says. “You think I can’t sort out my own honeymoon?”

  When I allow myself to believe he is, in fact, joking, I ask, “Where then?”

  “South America.”

  “Big place.” I fold my arms.

  “Yes,” Alex chuckles. “We were thinking Chile, Bolivia. Maybe Peru, if we have time.”

  I don’t trust Alex not to finagle his way into some government-restricted zone, possibly by chopper. It’s not him I’m worried about though. Hayley could end up spending her honeymoon in a police station, or worse, a cockroach-infested cell. Have they even sorted the necessary vaccinations and visas?

  “Fine. Let’s reiterate the action points to make sure everybody’s clear, and then I can call the meeting closed.”

  After the others have left the room, Ken wanders over. My youngest brother’s been quiet, most unlike him.

  “Good work,” he says, a flash of admiration in his green eyes. “We may even pull this off.”

  “We don’t have a choice.”

  “Trust Alex to want to do it last minute. You reckon Hayley’s pregnant?”

  “You’re asking me?” I laugh bitterly.

  Ken holds up his palms. “Well don’t look at me, big bro .” His expression grows solemn. “I hear you have a date to this thing.”

  I frown at his tone, which is almost accusatory. “Liv MacKenzie is hardly a date, Ken. It’s to keep Mother happy and you know it.”

  The heiress to the Earldom of Strathcairn decided to spend her summer break here in Suffolk this year rather than jet-setting off somewhere warm, and Mother felt compelled to add her to the invitation list as my guest last night. Alex and Hayley thought it was a marvelous idea.

  “Just an obligation, huh?” Ken whacks my shoulder as he struts out the door. “Poor you.”

  It’s then I notice Hayley lingering, without Alex, pretending to examine the Sergeant painting, which she’s seen a hundred times before. I rarely talk to her because of our very different schedules but I do like her, even if I often feel she’s from a different planet. She’s very American—bubbly, adventurous, and snarky, just like Alex, who embodies those characteristics insofar as an Englishman can. They’re a great match, although it took several months for Mother to thaw to the idea of Alex marrying an American artist. But everyone else took to Hayley straight away.

  “Seb.” She draws closer, her eyes darting around. With a little finger, she’s scraping at her nail varnish. I brace myself for some new complication. “So, I have two bridesmaids.”

  “Yes, I know. Letty and Mara.”

  I feel she’s scrutinizing me. Little does she know I have a razor-sharp image of her red-haired best friend, with her long, elegant neck and defiant brown eyes, ever since that Skype call a year ago that I happened to be present for. Lingering behind Hayley for reasons I now forget, I looked into her screen and Mara’s eyes met mine across eight thousand kilometers. I got a strange feeling then, and that strange feeling returned last night when I heard she was going to be Hayley’s maid of honor.

  “Mara’s flying over for the rehearsal the day before. Is that okay, or does she need to be here earlier? She needs to book the flights soon. She’s coming over with my dad.”

  “It’s all perfect,” I say. “My plan isn’t quite that detailed, you know. I’m just winging it here, same as everybody else.”

  “Okay.” Her eyes are bright, her cheeks flushed. “Thanks, Seb. I appreciate all this.”

  “Thank me afterwards,” I say gruffly. It’s not that I don’t appreciate her acknowledgement, which is more than I’ve gotten from Alex, but I don’t like to jinx events by getting self-satisfied.

  She leaves the room and I’m alone. I sink down onto the couch, close the planning spreadsheet, perch the tablet against a stack of magazines on the table, and take a moment to breathe before I force my mind back to farming and dealing with the current crisis surrounding post-Brexit grain export prices.

  My email program displays a score of new emails. One stands out. At first I think I’ve read it wrong, but no. The sender is Rachel Sawyers.

  In confusion, I accidentally topple the tablet off its perch. Rachel Sawyers has not had contact with me since I was eighteen—and even then it was grudgingly brief on her part. I never expected to hear from her again. Especially as she completely ignored my last email. Her disinterest hurt like a sickening blow to the back of the skull, and the dull pain has accompanied me through the decade since.

  What the hell does my birth mother want with me now?

  My finger gingerly traces the subject line. “Contact.”

  Well, that tells me fuck-all. I wince and press the open icon. Whatever it is, I need to know. She could be dead, or contesting something legally or God knows what.

  Dear Sebastian,

  I know you’ll be astonished, and perhaps angry, to hear from me after all these years of silence on my part, and I can understand that. There’s a lot for us to patch over if we decide to go down that road, and I’m not saying that’s something we should do. But I would hope you might consider giving it a thought. Please hear me out.

  My daughter Orla (she’s twenty-one) is keen to move back to England. Things have not gone well for her here and she wants a new start. So do I. That’s the short version of it. I’ll explain if you want to hear the whole story. I know you will be surprised to learn you have a half-sister on this side of the family. She’s a wonderful, beautiful person, just like you, I am sure. I was unable to tell you before, as your father forbade it. But the way I see it, things are different now.

  Please believe me when I say that leaving for Australia ten years ago was for the best at the time. We don’t expect help or charity now. I just want you to know that we’ll be back in Britain again. At the least I’d feel bad being in your country and you not knowing. But I would like a chance to meet you and to talk.

  Write to me anytime. My phone number is below.

  With love,

  Your mum, Rachel.

  I snap the cover of the tablet shut and stand up. A black hole of angry, adolescent pain has opened up inside me, one that could easily swallow me whole if I were to let it. I know myself too well. I need to wall off that section for now, before I even picture her face—a stranger’s face. Wallowing is not going to turn her into a worthy mother. And it's sure as hell not going to get me though my schedule.

  I’m under no illusions. If Rachel could walk away from me when I was born, she’ll have zero problems doing it again. My parents were reasonable: Provisions would have been made for Rachel to have access to me after my birth, but s
he chose not to go down that road. I’m not going to delude myself that she actually wants to settle here for my sake, tempting though it is to think that. No, this is some escape from trouble, by the sounds of it. I’m happy to help in any way I can, of course. But they need not think I’m interested in getting to know them.

  3

  MARA

  I'M JOLTED AWAKE by a lurch of the plane.

  “Here you go, Mara,” Dave says. “Reckoned you’d appreciate this when you woke up.”

  I sit forward, blink, and check my chin for drool. Hayley’s dad slides me the gin and tonic he’s been saving me on his tray.

  “Mm, thanks.” Judging by the half-melted ice cubes, Dave’s been saving it for some time. I wouldn’t have had the discipline. Half of it disappears down my throat in a single gulp.

  “We’re somewhere over the west coast of Ireland.” Dave gazes at the window wistfully. “My grandfather’s country.” He looks happy, relaxed—and as the pink light of dusk bathes his proud, freckled face, so similar to Hayley’s, he does look Irish.

  Far below, the Atlantic gleams azure against a jagged edge of coastline. “Ah yes, the mighty Cochranes, now traitorously hitched up with the Sassenachs,” I tease, stretching out my arms as much as I can in the cramped space. “I should marry a British duke too, so I can travel first class and get one of those beds you can stretch out on.”

  “There’ll be no women left in America at this rate,” he says.

  “Maybe you’ll encounter an enchanting English widow, a dowager,” I say. Hayley’s dad has been a widower for nearly twenty years and it’s high time he put his charm to better use. With Hayley gone, his cabin on the Colorado River gorge is looking decidedly empty.

  We sit in comfortable silence, gazing out at the fluffy clouds. If this were my own father, he’d be lecturing me on the Norman conquest of England or something. I wouldn’t get the window seat, or be allowed fall asleep if he was awake. I shudder.

  My mother would have been worse, of course. Her parting words last night were that I should pick up a “gentleman” husband while in England instead of killing myself in a musty architect’s office. Which is ironic, because until Hayley announced her engagement to Alex, she’d been “that poor deluded girl throwing away her career.” But now it seems it was the smartest move Hayley could have made and I’m the deluded one, trying to make a go of things, interning in Mike’s office. It’s kind of nice to be five thousand miles away from them… and counting.

  “Getting excited yet?” I ask Dave.

  “More nervous than anything. What if I fall asleep during the ceremony, or worse yet, start bawling?”

  “Tell you what, I’ll kick you if I see you nodding off.”

  “Deal. And if you’ve got some trick to keep me from crying, all the better. I bet all these stiff-upper-lipped aristocrats haven’t shed any tears since they were infants.”

  “I can kick you for that too,” I offer. I can’t remember crying in front of anyone since infancy either. I should feel right at home in England.

  The landing in London City airport is smooth, and the twilight city lights gleaming over the Thames hold the promise of excitement. The airport is slap-bang in the center of London, not some outpost miles away, like Heathrow. Hayley assured us that the best way of getting to Belgrave Castle in Fernborough was to grab a taxi. On no account should we attempt a train. She said this like it would be suicidal to even consider it. We shouldn’t even worry about the cost.

  Hayley’s cavalier attitude toward money is one of the changes I’ve noticed in her since she started dating Alex. I mean, she’s still the same old Hayley, but I’m kind of glad that Dave will finally get to see her in her new habitat. Maybe then he’ll be reassured of the quality of his daughter’s new life. He’s been getting more despondent lately, feeling he’s “lost” Hayley in some way. I’ve begun visiting him more often to keep him company because I hate the thought of him sitting in his cabin alone, day in and day out. Besides, he’s pretty good company and I can’t say that I have many friends in Laxby. Any, for that matter.

  I’m in a gin-infused, sleep-deprived cocoon of semi-wonder all through Immigration, baggage claim, and finding the taxi. The Pakistani driver treats us to a narrated tour through the center of the city, trundling along behind a red double-decker bus at a reasonable speed now that rush hour is over. London is everything I imagined—a mish-mash of cultures, a jaunty pace of life, a mix of familiar and new brand names jumbled together, massive black taxis, tourists, bankers, hipsters. Even the odd punk, as in good old-fashioned punk, wearing tartan and Doc Martens, drinking alcohol out of a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag. Few skyscrapers, if you could even call them that. I love how the twilight sun slants in at an angle and gilds the shops’ awnings.

  I’ve decided I love Britain.

  Two long hours later, it’s pitch dark and nobody’s loving Britain, least of all me. We’re “somewhere outside Fernborough village” according to the taxi driver—who has taken to swearing in his native language. Now, I’m pretty sure we’ve gone down this road before, because I recognize the stone wall, but the two men in the car beg to differ. In any case, we’re on some mud track with grass in the middle. I’m sure it’s very picturesque in daylight, but it sure doesn’t seem to be leading to any castle.

  Dave is wringing his hands beside me in the back seat. We’re nervous wrecks from driving along incredibly narrow, winding roads with no sidewalk and no shoulder. Tall hedges whizz by, inches from the side of the car, as the taxi driver hugs the edge of the road. I can’t count how many times I thought we were goners as cars came barreling toward us from the other direction, and neither we nor the other car slowed down, but somehow squeezed past each other with inches to spare. Getting stuck behind huge lumbering tractors was pretty nerve-racking too. This is probably confirming all Dave’s fears about traveling outside of the US.

  “It’s not on the GPS?” I ask the driver, motioning to his ancient-looking Garmin. It’s not like any of the roads around here can possibly be new or developed since the Industrial Revolution.

  “They’ve all the same names, these roads, Miss. Or no bloody names at all, more like. But it’s got to be around here someplace.” He heaves out an exasperated breath and turns off the meter—which has already clocked up one hundred seventy-five pounds sterling, well over two hundred dollars. “I’ll not charge you for this part.”

  “Thanks,” I murmur.

  Dave is clutching his phone as if squeezing the thing is going to make a signal appear. I know he’s regretting not calling Hayley when we had the chance, but he wanted so much to surprise her at the castle door. All this rate, I’ll be the one surprised if we ever make it to that door.

  Another bumpy lane further, a tentative phone signal appears.

  “Wait,” I cry out. “Stop here, and I’ll make a call.”

  I try Hayley, but after ten rings, it’s clear she’s not answering—she had said something about going to a spa. She’s probably getting a facial as we sit here. I have Alex’s number, too, so I try that. Again, no answer.

  The driver’s pointing dagger eyes at me in his rear-view mirror. “Okay, drive on,” I say, defeated. I’m so tired and hungry, I’m ready to suggest we turn around and head back into that main town whose name I forgot about thirty minutes back.

  The driver slows the car to walking pace as he approaches the next junction. His choices are to stay on this “main” road, or branch off onto either of two even tinier, stonier dirt tracks and risk getting the wheels stuck in the mud. A large black crow sitting on a rusting gate caws at us gleefully and flutters off into the night. Lucky bird, I think; he has a nest to go to.

  When we pass the six-foot high wrought iron gate with the weather-beaten “No Trespassing” sign hanging off it, I know for sure we passed this way before. Beyond the rusting gate, barely visible in the dark through the brambles, a majestic old ruin rises to the height of the surrounding oaks. My guess is Georgian, a three-
story mansion which they probably called a “cottage” back in the day. Judging by the state of disrepair and overgrowth, no one’s lived here in quite a while.

  “We’re definitely going around in circles,” I declare.

  Dave nods. “If we don’t find a new road, let’s just turn around and hit that bigger road we were on before we… turned off.” He shoots me a despairing look.

  I nod, even though that made absolutely no sense.

  “Ah, hang this,” the driver mutters and yanks the gear stick into reverse.

  But then, strolling down the narrower of the two dirt tracks, a figure emerges out of the darkness—two figures—a man walking a dog.

  Hallelujah.

  The taxi driver grinds to a halt, frantically opens his window and pokes his head out.

  Cheek pressed to the cool window, I see the dog first—a beautiful red setter prancing around in an excited circle, illuminated in the taxi’s headlights. Then my gaze moves upward to his owner, also bathed in the stark light as he peers in at us—a tall, slim, broad-shouldered man in a weather-proof jacket; strong jaw, hooded eyes, a mass of dark hair tumbling over his forehead. My pattern recognition faculties go into trippy overdrive. This is unmistakably Alex’s older brother, Sebastian Belgrave.

  Holy crap.

  He's so much more impressive in real life than on that Skype call—the one I told Hayley I couldn’t remember. It’s not a face you’d easily forget. Under the heavy eyebrows, his eyes seem to see everything. He’d look melancholy if it weren’t for the slight upturn of his mouth on both sides. His somberness has a kind of languorous quality to it, a softness. And now, standing as he is with his head cocked backwards in a knowing manner, he looks like he’s been expecting all this to happen, because, you know, life is full of adversity.

  He dips his head toward the driver. “May I help you?”

  My first inclination is to giggle. He sounds so… British. Haughty and deep-voiced to the point of gravelly, like Benedict Cumberbatch. If I was in any doubt before that we were in the Kingdom, it’s crystal clear now.