Forbidden: Her British Stepbrother

by Smith, Lauren

  “Good.” His father disconnected the call.

  Tristan turned his car into the short, curved driveway and parked it in front of the main entrance. The only other people in residence were a small staff, consisting of a cook, a maid, a butler, and Tristan’s best friend Carter Martin.

  Carter was the son of John Martin, the current steward of the Kingsley estate. Tristan and Carter had grown up together, playing in secret when Tristan’s father wasn’t around. The old man was bloody strict about knowing one’s place in society. The future Earl of Pembroke could not be friends with a steward’s son. But Tristan rarely obeyed his father’s dictates, which meant that he and Carter had been inseparable since they’d been old enough to toddle about the Kingsley gardens.

  Fox Hill was quaint in comparison to his father’s home, but it was fairly large as cottages went, with six bedrooms, a library, two drawing rooms, one study, a kitchen, and a dining room.

  The electric lamps in their gilded sconces were dim as Tristan entered the front hall, but he could see the delicate gold arms of the grandfather clock at the foot of the stairs, showing that it was half past midnight. Everything in the house had that old English feel to it, unsurprising given that the house itself was over a hundred years old. His mother had kept the property updated but the look was relatively unchanged.

  His mother, Elizabeth, was an only child and had married well in hopes of pleasing her parents. As the daughter of a viscount, her marriage to an earl had been one well above her station and quite an accomplishment. But his father saw her social climb differently; as he had once put it, “I was young and let beauty foolishly lead my decisions.” He failed to value Elizabeth and didn’t even care to acquire her “quaint little country home,” which had suited his mother just fine. She’d kept the cottage outside of their marriage arrangements, and when the time had come for Tristan to go back to university for his Master’s degree, he’d asked his mother if he and Carter could stay there. They both attended Cambridge, and the cottage was a short drive away.

  “You’re back late.” Carter stood in the doorway leading to the library, a grin on his lips. “Up to trouble again?”

  Tristan smiled. He and Carter were the same age, though Carter was fair where Tristan was dark, and his eyes gray where Tristan’s were blue-green. Celia often called them her pair of angels, one fair and good, the other dark and fallen. Accurate to some degree. Carter was a good man and one of Tristan’s confidantes. He often reined in Tristan’s reckless impulses. However, Carter was no angel himself.

  “How was Celia?” Carter asked.

  Tristan flashed him a smirk. “Well, I suppose.”

  “You suppose? Does that mean you didn’t see her?” Carter pushed away from the door frame he’d been leaning against. “Weren’t you having drinks with her tonight?”

  “I did see her,” Tristan admitted. “But I had to leave before I could really talk to her.”

  “What on earth for?” Carter’s puzzlement only made Tristan want to laugh.

  “Because I had to chase down a most fascinating little creature instead.”

  Carter rolled his eyes. “You and your women. What’s this one like?”

  My women . Tristan shrugged. He’d slept with his fair share of them, but never anything serious. Women were fun distractions.

  Kat, though…His blood heated at the mere thought of her. She’d captivated him tonight at the Pickerel, and he’d chased after her.

  He’d finally caught up to her and seen her through the ice-frosted windows of the bakery…her hair wild and free about her shoulders, the classically beautiful features of her face temporarily caught in an expression of hunger and desire as she’d eyed the cakes. He’d wanted to take her to bed then and there, to make her look at him with that expression of need.

  “Let’s just say, this particular woman is different.”

  “Different, eh?” Carter laughed. “Well, I hope Celia wasn’t too upset.”

  Tristan slipped out of his coat and raised an eyebrow at his friend. “Not terribly. We’re having lunch tomorrow, if you’d like to join us.” He waited to see if Carter would rise to the challenge. For as long as Celia had been in their lives, Carter had been in love with her. Not that he would ever admit to it.

  “Lunch tomorrow?” Carter mused.

  “Yes. I know she’d love to see you.” Tristan hung his coat in the closet by the door. Mr. Whitney, the butler, was usually asleep after ten. Tristan and Carter had grown accustomed to taking care of themselves in the evening.

  “Perhaps I shall. Are you going up?”

  Tristan nodded. “It’s been a long day, and I have much to do tomorrow.”

  “Do you, now?” Carter followed, a hint of teasing in his voice.

  “I do. You ought to worry about what you’ll wear when you see Celia.” Tristan left his friend with that parting shot as he reached his bedroom.

  With a sigh, he leaned against the door once he was inside and tilted his head back. As tired as he was, he wouldn’t sleep well, not when he knew he would dream about her .

  She will be mine. She just doesn’t know it yet.

  Chapter 6

  K at settled into a corner of Pepys Library, taking advantage of the quiet reading rooms. With its many windows framed by buttery gold brocade curtains and rich blue carpets, the atmosphere felt cheery even during the winter months.

  Tall, dark wooden bookshelves lined the wall opposite the row of windows. Reading desks and display cases alternated through the middle of the room. The library had originally belonged to Samuel Pepys, who had served as secretary to the admiralty for many years. He’d contributed a unique collection of three thousand books and manuscripts to Magdalene College.

  Everything was preserved the way Pepys had left it, right down to the glazed bookcases that he’d had made by the dockyard joiners over the years.

  She smiled as she studied the room. So full of history. This was what made her love Cambridge. When her father had taken the job in London and asked if she wanted to attend the university over here, she’d jumped at the chance. Every few weekends, she’d catch a bus back to London to see her father, but hadn’t done so recently. With exams drawing near, she needed to stay focused. Which was hard, given how the previous night had ended—Tristan Kingsley pinning her to the wall and kissing her like…

  A shiver moved through her, and she tried to shake off the wave of desire that accompanied it. What had happened between them had been a one-night experience, nothing more. It’d been an explosive introduction to a passion she didn’t know she had. Kissing him had been like waking up from a strange dream where everything had been dull, quiet, and muted.

  Tristan had burst into her life like a supernova. Overnight he’d given her a taste of sensuality. In the space of a few kisses, he had shown her that some adventures weren’t buried between the pages of her books, but could be experienced in the arms of a dark, handsome stranger on a snowy night.

  A sigh of regret escaped her as she stared out of the library windows. The odds of seeing Tristan again were slim. He was a student here, but not at her college. And it was unlikely that he’d try to find her, not when there were plenty of other girls interested in him, like the ones at the Pickerel Inn. He could have his choice, and she highly doubted that, after her refusal to let him stay the night, he’d go after her again.

  It was almost laughable.

  They were too different, like birds and fish, their worlds infinitely separate. Yet when they’d talked, everything seemed to click and make sense. He seemed to understand her obsession with classic novels, and he liked that she knew strange things like what fractals were. Just as she liked how he responded intelligently when she talked to him, and how he stared at her with such an intensity that she felt he was actually listening to what she was saying. But it was more than that. He seemed to see straight into the heart of her, somehow. They were connected by the need to think about the world on a deeper level than other people and appreci
ate the beauty of things, even sad things. Anyone could have common interests and discuss books, but with Tristan it was different; he understood her, the way she viewed the world. No one else seemed to understand her the way he did, and she had the feeling that she understood him in the same way, by the way he talked about things. Like Butterflies and stained glass . Anyone else might have laughed at their conversation in the pub, but it had been one of the deepest, frankest discussions she’d ever had with anyone. Tristan had made it easy to open up. Of course, it was also impossible to ignore how irresistible he was. The man had everything a woman could want: looks, brains, and that sheer power of true animal magnetism.

  Kat wouldn’t even start on his drugging kisses…That didn’t need an explanation. She’d wanted so badly for him to stay the night, even though it went against all her instincts to keep herself protected from him, not just physically but emotionally. Kat didn’t think for a moment he would hurt her, but she could fall for a guy like him, and when you fell, it could break you. She’d seen her father live with a broken heart. Never dating, never going out, never living. She didn’t want that to happen to her.

  I want to live …That little voice in the back of her head just wouldn’t shut up. I’m already acting like I’ve had my heart broken. Would it be so bad to take a risk?

  Her exams were too important, and she couldn’t let her focus drift to thoughts of Tristan. Especially not how wonderful it felt to have his body wrapped around hers, his hands exploring places that still tingled with the memory of his touch. Her entire body had threatened to come apart at the seams when his lips and hands traced patterns on her skin.

  “How was last night?” Lacy appeared out of nowhere, breaking into Kat’s naughty thoughts of Tristan.

  “What do you mean? I spent last night with you.”

  Lacy scoffed as she grabbed one of the extra chairs nearby and dragged it across the floor to put it next to Kat. She plopped down into the seat and dropped her backpack to the floor.

  “Oh no, you are not getting out of this.” Lacy shook a finger at her. “Mark and I saw Mr. Hotness ditch his girlfriend and leave the bar to go after you. We were worried, so we followed him. We saw him meet up with you at the bakery and walk you back to the dorms. So…what happened after that?” She brushed her blonde hair out of her eyes and assumed an attentive pose, which, for someone like Lacy, who seemed to be in constant motion, looked a little funny.

  Obviously, Kat wouldn’t escape Lacy’s interrogation. She set her textbook and notebook aside.

  “So…he walked me home.” And rocked my world .

  “Uh-huh. And then what?” Lacy propped her chin in her hands, waiting expectantly.

  Kat would have to edit some of the night’s events or her friend would demand to know everything that’d happened. What she and Tristan had shared was a secret she wanted to keep. Talking about it might make it disappear or fade away. A silly thought, but it was how she felt.

  “He came to my room, and we shared some chocolate cake.”

  “And hot sweaty sex?” Lacy added with a cheeky grin.

  “No!” Kat laughed and tossed a pen at her friend.

  “No hot sweaty sex?” Lacy sighed in disappointment. “Don’t tell me you weren’t tempted. If Mark and I weren’t together, I’d climb that man like a tree.”

  “Lacy!” Kat gasped, torn between horror and amusement. Thank God no one else was in this part of the library. She and Lacy could get kicked out for being too much of a distraction.

  Her friend shrugged. “What? A girl can’t own up to desire? I think it’s healthy.”

  Kat rubbed her eyes, an exasperated laugh escaping her. “You know I’m not like that.”

  “Oh, I know.” Lacy toyed with the pen, tapping it on the polished surface of the reading table.

  “So, who is ‘Mr. Sexy as Hell’?” Lacy asked. “I swear, it’s strange, but I feel like I’ve seen him somewhere before. Maybe on campus?” She pursed her lips.

  “Tristan Kingsley.”

  “Kingsley?” Lacy asked. “I know that name…Let’s see what Google can tell us about him.” She pulled out her tablet and typed away on the screen for a few seconds, then smacked it down on the table. “Oh…he’s…bloody hell. Take a look.” She spun the device toward Kat, who saw a webpage for a magazine.

  “Monarch Magazine ?” Kat leaned forward and stared at the website.

  “It focuses on the royals here in England and around the world. My mum’s a huge fan. She reads all the articles and keeps me updated. I thought your Mr. Sexy-as-Hell looked familiar.” She pointed to the article.

  “What’s it say?” Kat sat up in her chair and leaned closer to Lacy.

  “It’s him, your mystery man. Tristan Kingsley. He’s the future Earl of Pembroke.”

  There on the top part of article was a picture of Tristan, her Tristan, in an expensive suit, lounging against the doorjamb of the grand entrance to a huge manor house that looked to be in the country outside of London. The article was titled “Tristan Kingsley—The Life of a British Playboy.”

  Kat slowly scrolled down the page of Monarch ’s article, reading the captions and staring at the photos. There was one of Tristan in a tweed hunting outfit, a rifle loose on one arm as he stood at the edge of a field, an older man stood next him holding a string with a pair of dead pheasants hanging from it. The next photo was of Tristan in slacks and a sweater in a beautiful billiard room, bent over, cue in hand as he aimed for the brightly colored balls. His dark hair fell across his eyes and the debonair look of him was all too reminiscent of how seductive he could be.

  The next page displayed a red-and-gold-colored coat of arms. It was the crest she’d seen on his silver lighter and the signet ring he wore. So he hadn’t been lying when he’d called it a family heirloom. Beneath the coat of arms was a lengthy description of the earldom’s history. Twelve names dating back several hundred years showed the lineage. The most recent showed Edward Kingsley as the current earl. A family tree outlined the latest descendants. Elizabeth Harlow had married Edward Kingsley and given birth to Tristan Kingsley.

  “Heir to the earldom of Pembroke?” Was this real? She’d been kissing a man who was a peer of the realm of England? First in line for the title of “Earl of Pembroke”?

  There was no way she’d spent last night making out with a future earl. No way . It just didn’t seem logical that he’d be here at Cambridge. Didn’t future earls have estates to run or something? What was he doing here? The British aristocracy, even in this day and age, tended to stay with their own kind. They didn’t date American girls. They might sleep with them quietly on the sly, but she hadn’t heard of them actually dating anyone outside their own social sphere.

  “He’s getting a Master’s in business. Why would he need that if he’s going to inherit money, land, and a title?” Kat studied the photos on the Monarch website again. They were stunning, but had nothing on the flesh-and-blood man.

  Her friend shrugged. “Well, running an estate is pretty intense. It’s all about business, so it makes sense for him to get a business degree.”

  Lacy had a point. “Well, if he’s taking business classes, I probably won’t run into him.”

  “Maybe not, but you have to stay away from him if you happen to see him.”

  “I agree. But you were all for climbing him like a tree two seconds ago.”

  Lacy shifted in her chair and brushed her hair back from her face. Only then did she meet Kat’s eyes.

  “He—what’s that thing you Americans say—‘gets around’”? Besides, a man like him will be in the spotlight all his life, especially once he takes his title. He’s from one of the oldest families in England, and they don’t often marry outside their own kind. If I remember correctly, he’s supposed to marry a viscount’s daughter. Funny, I never listened to Mum before when she droned on about all this stuff, but now it’s coming back to me.”

  A man who gets around? Those girls from the pub were right about him.


  And one who would end up close to being royalty in a few years? That was definitely the last thing she needed. Someone like him, his life always under a spotlight, and society scrutinizing his every move…If she was with him, she’d be a part of that life. It wasn’t something she wanted, to expose herself like that. What if she let her barriers down and he got inside her heart? When they broke up, it would be so public. The thought made her shudder.

  We never even had a chance to figure out what it might have been like to be together .

  That realization left a burn inside her. She rubbed her chest and glanced away, hating that for some silly reason her eyes stung. She was not going to get upset about Tristan. Not when they didn’t know each other at all.

  Trying to hide her pain, Kat laughed, but the sound was hollow. “Thank God, I’m too young to date anyone seriously. Besides, he’s not my type.”

  “Tall, dark, and sexy is every woman’s type,” Lacy said, grinning again. “So he’s out for real, but at least we can fantasize about him.” She picked up her backpack.

  “He’s too intense for me,” Kat admitted.

  “‘Intense’? What happened? And don’t think about not telling me everything, because if you don’t, I won’t tell you what I heard when I was in your favorite bookstore.”

  “G. David?” The place was Kat’s private refuge from the world. They sold all sorts of used books, including rare and antiquarian tomes. She’d spent many an afternoon there sighing over the more expensive editions.

  “Yes. You talk, then I will,” Lacy said.

  There was nothing like friendship blackmail to make her talk, and Lacy had it down to an art form. Kat would have to tell her about the kiss.

  “Okay, fine. When Tristan came over, he kissed me again after we had cake.”

  “And…” Lacy waved for her to continue.

  Kat hesitated, but only for a second. “It was crazy intense.” The memory of that scorching moment, the way he’d touched her, inside and out, with his erotic kisses. He’d overwhelmed her senses and taken her for a ride that had left her breathless and aching in dark, secret places.