Picky Viscount: A Modern Aristocracy Billionaire Romance (Endowed Book 3)

by Sara Forbes

  “Here.”

  “Good,” she says. “All settled then.”

  ◊◊◊

  I take the back fields to Liv’s stables. I want to sit there and wait for her, as a surprise. I want our reunion to be just us, not moderated by staff or her mother or God knows who else. And I’m always most at ease when we’re outside, mucking about in the stables. She is, too.

  I check in on the new horses, Dawn Glimmer and Stratosphere, because I need to talk to someone. “Hey, you girls are looking chipper today. Do you know what your cousin Sill is up to tomorrow?” I tell the attentive mares the whole story. They don’t get all judgmental about the beating up of Greer. They whinny at all the right places.

  I hear something, and spin around.

  There she is.

  “Giving them the director’s cut?” Vestiges of a smile linger on her lips.

  “Yeah,” I grin, and saunter towards her with as much cool as I can muster, which, let’s face it, at this moment is not a lot.

  “Oh, Ken.” She sinks into my chest.

  My world rocks back into place. At some level, everything is all right. I caress her hair, her neck, her shoulders.

  When she pulls back, her face is troubled.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m worried about Daddy.”

  “Is he worse?”

  “Well, no. But what’s worse, what’s better in this situation? I mean it’s just so... unless… everything.” She flaps her hands.

  “You need a break from it all. Let me look after you tonight.”

  She nods and snuggles into my chest.

  “And then we’ll drive up together tomorrow. We just have to pick up Letty and my mother on the way. Hey, maybe even your mother would like to come too?”

  She draws back, surprise all over her face.

  “Ken, what are you talking about?”

  I cock my eyebrow at her. “Doncaster?”

  “Oh.” The way her face creases, it’s clear she’s forgotten.

  “Liv?” I laugh, “How could you forget?”

  “How could I forget?” Bitterness laces her words. “Maybe it’s because I have a father dying upstairs.”

  I sigh. Her Daddy’s been on Death’s door so long, it seems to me that Death doesn’t feel like inviting him in. “All the more reason to take a break and experience something great. He’ll be fine.”

  “You don’t know that.” She turns away.

  “Liv.” I reach for her, but she takes a nimble step away.

  “Look, I’m proud for The Silmarillion, I really am, but it’s just one horse. Right now, I’m rather more concerned about humans.”

  “It’s not fair to equate the two,” I say.

  “It’s not fair to expect me to drop everything to attend a race which Sill has little chance of winning, all things considered.”

  “Well, thanks. You’ve just jinxed the race, woman,” I growl.

  She rolls her eyes, something she’s never done with me, and it turns my blood to ice. “Deal with it, all right?”

  I throw up my arms. “Fine. Consider me dealing with it.” I shove my fists in my pockets.

  The air crackles between us as we stare each other down. Her face is tight with emotion. She looks like she’s going to say something but thinks better of it at the last moment.

  The idea flashes through my mind of grabbing her and kissing her and then fucking her to oblivion until she agrees with everything I say, but for once, my mind says, Ken, watch it. She’s fragile now. I can’t force myself onto her.

  “I’m going home. I’ll leave you in peace.”

  “Ken, wait.”

  I swing around again, hope flooding into my system at the raw neediness in her voice.

  “Just… well, good luck to Sill tomorrow,” she says sheepishly. She attempts a smile but it comes across as forced. “Call around to me afterwards?”

  “Yeah, thanks, I will.”

  It’s the first time I’ve ever felt glad to get away from her, and it’s got to be the worst feeling in the world.

  24

  LIV

  WE HAVE THE TV set up in the drawing room, especially for the race. Mother has even graced us with her presence.

  “I need a distraction,” she says.

  “Tell me about,” I murmur and flop down beside her on the sofa. I wonder if I shouldn’t indeed have gone to Doncaster and brought her with me, leaving Daddy in the care of our able staff. He wouldn’t even know. And it would have been a fun day out for her, dolling up in her dress and hat, vying for a prize in the best-dressed lady competition. Maybe Ken had a point when he said we needed it.

  Still, it wouldn’t have felt right.

  The race isn’t until four, but the sports program is giving coverage of all races from two o’clock onwards, so we’re making an afternoon of it. Or, more accurately, our staff is. We’ve given them an unofficial day off, and in a reversal of roles that would make the staunchest of Marxists happy, we’re the ones serving them food and drink.

  The spectacle of horses strutting around the parade ring is eliciting squeals from Mrs. Henry. “Oh that blue one’s going to win, I’ll bet. Number eight, number eight.”

  “You’ve bet enough, Mum,” says her son, Fergus, who’s sprawled on the sofa beside her.

  “How much?” I ask him.

  “Hundred quid, to win. And with the odds at eight to one she could be eight hundred up soon. Come on, Sill boy.”

  “And you?” I ask him.

  He reddens. “Two-fifty, but each way. I’m not totally crazy.”

  I grin at his reasoning. I declined to bet at all on Sill. Ken’s accusation that I’ve jinxed the race isn’t sitting well with me, and I’d feel disingenuous putting money on a horse I condemned as not having much of a chance.

  “I’ve found a site online that’s streaming it too.” I announce, holding up my phone. “I’m going to bring this up to Daddy,” He’ll enjoy hearing the race too even if he can’t watch it up here with us.”

  “That’s a lovely thought, Liv,” Mummy says. “Would you mind terribly bringing him that iced water too?”

  We share a look. Daddy will have no interest in the race. He’s barely able to drink. He’s lost all sense of hunger. His vision is getting weaker too. It feels like he’s on a rapid slide now. All I can do is make sure he’s on an adequate pain regimen and that he’s not suffering. But we’re still going through the motions, bringing refreshments to him, more for our sake than his.

  We’ve put Daddy in his library on the ground floor to accommodate the hospital bed. He seems peaceful, and I stand by the bed, listening to his raspy breathing.

  I put the bottle of water on a side table. In the last couple of weeks, we’ve already had a sense of what it means to have him leave us. His mind seems to be floating off somewhere else most of the time. His priorities have changed. Maintaining a personality just seems to be too much cognitive effort for him—all his fierce pride, his wit and sense of dignity, are gone. It’s been so gradual that we couldn’t even mourn—just a gradual feeling of futility creeping into our bloodstreams.

  This is what he wanted, though—to stay here at home surrounded by family and staff he knows and trusts. He was sharp enough in his mind when he drew up his will and comprehensive lists of things he wanted done. He refused hospitalization or life support. I do get that, but it makes me feel inadequate at times.

  The doorbell goes. I’m nearest, so I shake of my feelings of despondency and go to it. Today feels like an open house day with staff members and their dependents coming and going as they prepare for the spectacle of the race. Word has spread in Fernborough about all the free food and drink that’s going in Castle Strathcairn.

  When I open up, the last person I expect is standing there. My smile drops.

  “Peter?”

  My mother hovers in the background, curious.

  “Oh Peter!” she says. “Liv, let him in for God’s sake.”

  I throw her a
look. Has she forgotten everything I told her about our marriage?

  She deflects it with a mild eyebrow raise, as if to say, ‘that’s your problem, not mine, I have no beef with your ex-husband.’

  Peter beams at her. “How’ve you been, Lady Strathcairn?” So he’s back to using formal titles now, is he.

  “Well, some good days,” my mother says tragically.

  Peter saunters in with his lord-of-the-manor attitude. “How is he?” he asks in a low, concerned tone. Okay, so that might be genuine. They did get on well together.

  “See for yourself,” I say, crossing my arms. “He’s in the study.” If he’s going to be here he might as well make himself useful and take over some of the watch while I go back and watch the TV.

  I retreat to the living room where the excitement is palpable. The race is about to begin. Sill appears on the screen being led by a walker in the parade ring.

  “Have you ever in your life seen such a fine-looking stallion?” Mrs. Henry asks her sons.

  “Not I.”

  “Amazing.”

  I slump down in the sofa. This day is dead for me. Over. Peter contaminates this house just when I’d gotten to the point of feeling free from him. Then again, I can’t deny him access to my parents.

  God. Maybe I should just move out. Sell the castle, the estate, and live in the Bahamas or something.

  Where the fuck is Ken when I need him?

  Of course, I only have to glance at the TV to know where Ken is. I wouldn’t be surprised if the camera spots him and makes love to his handsome, blond face as he sips Bollinger in glittering company in the owners’ bar because for sure that’s where he is and what he’s doing. If he’s not engaging in some brawl somewhere.

  25

  KEN

  LETTY HANDS ME THE binoculars but I wave her hand away. I can’t watch. I can’t talk. My stomach’s in bits.

  Doncaster is a left-handed, pear-shaped track of one mile and seven and a half furlongs, mostly flat. The race itself is two miles and two furlongs long. I just have to survive that. I won’t get my hopes up. I’ll watch it like a disinterested observer. As Seb says, it’s enough that Sill is running again. That’s what I keep telling myself.

  But when I glance over at my older brother, he’s not his usual calm self. With his arm around his wife Mara, they’re jigging up and down, noses pressed to the glass as the horses thunder by. A flash of envy sears through me. They’re such a great couple, both highly serious in their own way, but so deserving of the love and respect they hold in the family and wider community. And something tells me that when they’re alone, they’re not very serious at all.

  Alex and Hayley, on the other side of them, are the quintessential socialites, very much at home in this environment or any environment where money, entitlement, and champagne are the order of the day.

  I know Liv’s watching this at home. I’ve been so tempted to call her but at the last minute I don’t. All she’ll hear is the blare of loudspeakers and people cheering, reminding her of the fun she’s not having. I’ll make it up to her when I get back.

  Everything seems to be moving in slow motion. I see how my horse, number four—ridden by Sean in the high-contrast chevron pattern—is stuck in a bunch that’s breaking out in front. It’s all between three horses now, unless they all drop dead, which is not an unknown occurrence. I know Sill’s enjoying this, being back in the race. Not all racehorses enjoy racing but he lives for it. His personality is as restless as mine.

  “Come on, Sill,” I say under my breath. “Show the bastards. Do it.”

  For once, I didn’t bet money. Because I don’t want this to be about money. It’s vindication. It’s sticking it to the assholes who want to ruin the sport of kings. It’s not as if it’s not already under attack from all sides. Why ruin it from within?

  Sill’s story is one of fighting against the odds and of survival. Regardless of the outcome here, I hope his performance will be an inspiration to other horse owners for years to come and draw some attention to the worthy cause of making British racing cleaner, by reducing the flow of young meat into the industry.

  Greer had the nerve to show up. Of course I could hardly expect him to miss the Doncaster Cup, but I didn’t think he’d show his ugly broken nose in the owners’ bar knowing that I’d be here.

  The bruising around his eye is gratifying. I wonder what he tells anyone who asks. Marty says we’ll need hard evidence before we can even think of taking legal action against him. This is exactly what I knew he’d say. This makes me even gladder that I did something about when I did.

  My family’s heads turn to me as the horses thunder up the final straight. Any of them could win. I tell myself I don’t care. As long as it’s not one of Greer’s horses. And it isn’t.

  The commentator is shouting wildly, “Silmarillion, Jagged Edge, MaryLou,” over and over.

  Letty stuffs her fist in her mouth. “I can’t bear to watch!”

  Then there’s a final yell.

  “Photo finish,” I say to Letty.

  “Oh God, more torture.”

  When it’s announced that Sill won, it’s like a fog of unreality descends over my world. I’m crushed by bodies. Seb, Alex, Letty, Hayley, Mara. Everyone crowding in around me in jubilation, wanting a hug, pumping my hand, yelling things in my ear, kissing my cheeks. Even my mother is laughing in excitement.

  “Drink up,” Alex says, pouring more Champagne.

  No, I want to drive home tonight.

  I glance over to where Edward Greer had been sitting, but he’s vanished. His empty chair is more satisfying than any prize I’m about to receive.

  I rush out to greet my jockey. Sean’ll be delighted. It’s his second win this year. His career is made.

  There’s more hugging and jubilation outside. Old and new acquaintances. The press seems as keen to talk to me as I am to talk to them. Promo for my book can only help my cause. I give them my attention in turn—all the biggies: the BBC, Channel4, ITV and RTÉ.

  Sill is snorting, sweating, restless with adrenaline. “Oh, you are going to get your favorite apples for the rest of the week,” I tell him.

  Floating on air. I step away from the crowd of well-wishers and pull out my phone. I guess she won’t mind me calling her now and sharing my joy with her.

  But there’s no answer when I try calling her. Celebrating too much to hear? I don’t know what message I should leave so I don’t leave any. I’d rather say it in person.

  26

  LIV

  “He is more or less comatose,” I explain in a hushed tone to Peter as I show him into Daddy’s quiet room. Peter glances around at the walls, then at the bed, and finally comes to stand beside me. My ex is thinner than I remember, but exquisitely turned out in a cream blazer, pink cashmere jumper, and brown slacks. I don’t like his new cologne; it’s too heavy for him and it feels cloying in this sick-room full of frail antiseptic smells.

  “My friend David’s a palliative-care specialist and he says they’re even not aware of what’s happening,” Peter says. “You don’t have to worry that’s he’s in pain or anything, or that he can understand what you’re saying.”

  “Hmm.” If there’s one thing I know about Peter, it’s that he doesn’t actually care whether my father’s in pain, or if I’m distraught thinking about Daddy’s pain. Peter doesn’t possess the ability to empathize. He may cover it up well with cleverness and charm, but you can’t be married to him for two years and not find this out.

  “Dear Liv, you’re so brave, going through this on your own.”

  “I know.”

  He’s standing too close, shoulders loose, arms dangling down as if he wants his hand to accidentally brush against mine. I step away from the bed and go fiddle with the flowers in the vase there, for something to do.

  “It’s most considerate of you to come all this way in support for my mother,” I say, not turning to look at him. “I only wish Daddy could have been well enough to talk to you
.”

  “Actually, I came to talk to you.”

  My heart sinks. I swing around and face him.

  “Yes. I wanted to see how you were getting on.” He pulls a face. “That’s not a crime, is it?”

  “It’s a free country.”

  “And your new business? Thought you might need some advice on getting investors because it’s clear you’ll need some. Are you ready yet for an injection of venture capital?”

  “I’ll need a little more time to get to that stage, Peter.” Is he seriously talking about this? Here? Now?

  Then the sound of distant whoops from the gang upstairs comes echoing through the walls.

  “Goodness gracious, what a din,” Peter says.

  “The race must be on,” I explain.

  “Don’t you want to see it?” His dark eyes search my face with keen curiosity, hoping, no doubt, to find a vulnerability.

  I lift my chin. “No. Not really.”

  Actually, I’m glad not to be watching it. It seems too far removed from my life at this moment.

  “Oh yes,” Peter says in a bored tone. “The resurrected horse. Who’d have thought?”

  My temper flares. “What do you want here anyway, Peter? You were going to help, and bring experts, and you didn’t. So why are you here now?”

  “I had to see him myself first to ascertain what kind of state he was in.”

  “Well, there he is.” I wave at the bed. “Ascertain away.”

  Peter nods and walks over to the bed, stops and cocks his head. I cross my arms in irritation and stare out the window at the gathering rain clouds. I’m just about to check my phone for the race results when Peter speaks.

  “Liv?” he says quietly.

  I glance over at him. Something about the way he’s peering dispassionately at the figure of my father makes my heart lurch. “What?”

  I spring up and run to the bed.

  “He took a breath, a slightly louder breath… about a minute ago. But that rattle… did you notice, it’s stopped.”