Small Town Duke: A Modern Aristocracy Billionaire Romance (Billionaires of Ballytirrel Book 1)

by Sara Forbes

  “Well…maybe I’ll think about it.” She peers up at me through those thick eyelashes. “Mr…uh, Duke…uh—what am I supposed to call you anyway?”

  I smile at her confusion. It’s final proof—not that I needed it—that she’s not a gold-digger. “Just Danny. And it’s my pleasure, Shannon.”

  I walk out of there, tea in hand. Not only am I going to teach her how to feed those horses, I’m going to teach her how to ride them. That is, if I manage to keep her here even after the gossip-mongers have had their way with her.

  8

  SHANNON

  It’s been the weirdest half-day of work ever and I can’t say I’m sorry that I’m leaving. The work itself has been damn boring. Mopping the kitchen and scullery floors, dusting the picture frames in all the drawing-rooms and living-rooms, filling the coal buckets in two of the rooms.

  Setting up camp in their fancy-schmancy drawing room after my lunch break was nice though. So was getting back on the internet.

  There’s something to be said for working surrounded by luxury for a change. My head was full of distractions, but I got about two hours’ work done in the four-hour period, sitting on an ornate sofa propped up by silk cushions. And I’m sure I’ll improve on that tomorrow when everything isn’t so new.

  The thought of returning to Nuala’s simple cottage is a comforting one. It’s my home away from home. I don’t know if Duke Danny and Lady Ellen expect some sort of official leave-taking ceremony. If so, they can tell me tomorrow because I’m outta here.

  But just as I’m in the hall picking up my bag to leave, the doorbell bing-bongs, making me jump. It’s definitely the doorbell this time and not one of their silly tea-bells which, in fairness, neither Danny nor his mother has used beyond that one failed attempt.

  Well, I’m closest, so I might as well. I head to the door and open it.

  A svelte, blonde woman in a khaki jacket is standing outside. She’s about thirty, I'd say, with angular cheekbones, merry eyes and a wide mouth which is currently smiling, displaying even teeth.

  I’m so tempted to ask if she’s a Jehovah’s Witness.

  Words start tumbling out in her rapid Cork dialect. “You must be Shannon. Nuala’s niece from Texas? I’m sooo glad to meet you.”

  “You must be…sorry I have no clue,” I say.

  She laughs and offers her hand to shake. It’s cool and smooth. She tosses her woolen mittens carelessly onto the table in the hall. “I’m Cliona. Has Danny not mentioned me at all?”

  I turn into Blanky McBlankface. “Uh…nope.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’s had his nose stuck in the books or in the ruins, and hasn’t said a word to you all day, am I right?”

  “Something like that,” I lie, remembering the sheen of sweat and grime on his well-toned arms, the outline of his chest and abs through the damp vest, the closeness of our faces when he leaned over the breakfast bar like that, nearly making my heart stop. “I’m just getting up to speed around here.”

  “Oh, it’s all very routine.” She laughs again and I’m trying to decide if the sound is irritating or charming. “You’ll get the hang of it in no time.”

  “Hope so,” I say.

  She sashays along the hallway with the ease of someone who feels totally at home. I stand at the door to let her know I’m not going to follow her and be at her beck and call in case she needs a goddamn cup of tea.

  Cliona turns around, probably because she’s just realized I’m not a lapdog. “How’s Nuala?”

  “Oh. She’s doing okay.”

  “And Sean?”

  “I’ve only seen Nuala,” I confess. “I’m going to meet Sean now though at the post-office.”

  “He’s gas craic.”

  I look at her questioningly.

  “Good fun. Always giving free sweets to Lorcan though.”

  “Well, uh, yeah.”

  Her sharp eyes rove over me again as if calculating something. “Lorcan’s my son,” she explains in a tone that suggests she’s surprised I don’t know that.

  “Okay, nice,” I say automatically. “How old?”

  She beams. “Six.”

  I bob my head and try to think of some follow-up question. But then a floorboard squeaks. Danny’s joined us in the hallway. I didn’t hear him descend the stairs. Both of us are staring at him.

  It suddenly feels awkward. I look away, pretending to be interested in something on my phone.

  “Cliona,” he says.

  “Hi,” she says without going over to greet him. “Just getting to know Shannon here.”

  “I was just leaving,” I say. I thrust my phone back into my coat pocket.

  Cliona smiles indulgently at me. “I’m only passing through myself. I have to get to the shopping center before it closes. Danny, just so you know—Lorcan’s football starts a half hour earlier in the morning. You need to be at the clubhouse at seven, not seven-thirty.” She makes a face. “Will that be all right?”

  He nods. “It’s fine.”

  “I won’t keep you,” she says. “I’m rushing off.”

  His gaze darts over to me. “Could you drop Shannon off at Nuala’s on your way?”

  “No, I’m fine, I can walk,” I protest. “And I’m going to Sean’s shop first.”

  He shakes his head. “It’s raining.”

  This I can’t deny. There are dots pelting on the frosted windowpane of the door.

  “I’d be delighted to drop you off,” Cliona chirps. “Come along, Shannon.” She struts past me toward the front door.

  I don’t want to be churlish so I follow after her.

  ***

  Inside Cliona’s warm Audi, I look out on the mossy green fields and wrestle with my curiosity. Would it be rude to ask? Then I think what the hell? What do I have to lose? I can build up to it gradually.

  “So Lorcan plays football?” I ask.

  “Yes, he’s been in the juniors’ team for a year now. He seems to like it. When it’s not raining anyway.”

  “That’s nice. So, Danny brings him there a lot, does he?”

  “Yes, we take turns. It’s his week this week.”

  “Right.”

  An awkward silence stretches out. I curse myself for not getting the lowdown on Danny’s situation before letting myself get interested in him.

  She makes a tsking noise. “Ellen or Danny should have mentioned Lorcan to you, seeing as having him under your feet half the time will affect you.”

  “That’s alright,” I say. “There was a lot of detail and she probably didn’t want to overload me.”

  “No doubt,” she says softly.

  Another awkward silence ensues broken only by the swish of her wipers. I’m feeling deflated. Outside, the village is getting drenched, but there’s a glimmer of sunlight trying to burst through from behind a slate-gray cloud. The weather here is kind of schizophrenic—it can’t seem to decide what it wants to be.

  “Well. Here we are,” Cliona says. “Lannigan’s shop—center of the universe.”

  We’ve pulled up to the post office I saw when I first arrived in the taxi—a traditional, squat stone building painted in cheerful pastels with modern advertising splattered all over it and a bright red door.

  “Thanks, Cliona,” I say, summoning my Southern cheerfulness. “Nice meeting you, and I sure am looking forward to meeting Lorcan.”

  “No bother at all and nice meeting you too,” she says and zooms off.

  I saunter into the post office. A bell rings overhead when I open the door. All heads turn and do the gaping thing, like I’m an out-of-town cowboy walking into a saloon in the old Wild West. I wave at the strawberry-blond-headed man behind the counter that I instantly recognize from the photos Nuala showed me yesterday.

  “Is it yourself?” Sean asks. “My long-lost cousin?” He comes from around the counter and holds his arms wide in a welcoming gesture. He engulfs me in a bear hug and I have to say it feels good. He’s the first male relative I’ve ever met and I like that
he’s affectionate and dramatic.

  He draws back to inspect me, hands heavy on my shoulders. “My, my. What a beaut. My mother wasn’t lying.”

  “And you haven’t changed since you were a baby in diapers sitting on the bench in Phoenix Park,” I shoot back.

  He hollers out a laugh. “Oh no! You got the photo odyssey? You saw me in my nappies! My mother’s a terrible one!”

  “Afraid so,” I say, joining in with his laugh.

  “You just hang on there,” Sean says, frantically patting the space in front of me. “I’ll be getting off in a few minutes.”

  He turns to the counter where there’s already a line of people waiting for him all watching me with keen interest. I toss them a smile.

  “We’ll head on over to MacAuleys,” Sean says.

  I look at him blankly.

  “The pub.”

  “Oh. Sure.” I sit down on a wooden bench at the front window which seems to serve as a kind of café area, and I watch Sean dealing with the last customers. He’s friendly, gossipy, and yet efficient. They linger, exchanging all kinds of gossip and jokes with him, throwing me sideways glances. It takes some time for the place to clear. Then he locks up the various drawers and boxes and comes over to me.

  “Is it far where we’re going?”

  “MacAuleys? We can walk over. It’s literally across the road.”

  “As opposed to figuratively?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “Never mind, a grammar joke.”

  “That’s right, you’re a writer, ma tells me. Well, I’ve got a treat for you. W. B. Yeats once had a pint in this very pub. You’ve heard of him? The great Irish poet?”

  “Only vaguely,” I admit. I’ll add him to my list.

  Within minutes, we’re sitting by a magnificent fire in MacAuley’s and two Guinnesses have materialized in front of us. Sean didn’t ask what I wanted to drink so I’m just going to try this.

  “Patrick sure is missing out on this,” he remarks, rubbing his palms together. “Meeting his long-lost cousin.”

  “He’s in Qatar, Nuala said?”

  “Yeah. Has been for four years. Having a grand time by all accounts. But enough about him.” He lowers his voice. “What did you make of the folks up at the mansion?”

  “So far so good,” I say.

  “Any trouble and we got you, love. Just come to me.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Any kind at all,” he says.

  I shrug. “Sure.” Whatever he’s imagining, it’s peanuts compared to dealing with Brett.

  “This is good,” I say, putting the pint glass down. It tastes bitter, but there’s something to it.

  He nods. “Best pint in Cork.” He taps the side of his nose. “That’s a secret we keep to ourselves around here.”

  I laugh. “That’s okay, I can keep a secret.”

  “So, how’s it going with yer man?”

  I frown at him.

  “Danny. The Duke of Cork?”

  “Is that what you call him?”

  My cousin chuckles. “And other things besides.”

  “I don’t know much about dukes to be honest,” I say. “So, I didn’t know what to expect. But he seems alright.”

  Ha ha. Understatement of the century.

  “Dukes…. Dying breed.”

  “How do you mean?” I ask.

  “Under Irish law, they’re not allowed to create any new titles, just hand the existing ones down.”

  “I see. So, do you know him well?” I ask.

  “He comes to my shop every week.”

  “But you’re not friends as such?”

  Sean chuckles. “God, no. I make a bit of an effort with him when he comes into my shop, though.”

  The hairs rise on my neck. Danny can be brusque, but that doesn’t explain why being friends with him is unthinkable. I would have thought his quiet humor and his intelligent observations would go down well with my cousin. Of course, there’s the class difference thing, and Danny’s definitely upper class. I just didn’t think that type of thing mattered so much these days.

  I notice Sean’s pint is almost empty. “I’ll go up,” I say.

  “Nah, stay right there. Fergus will see us.” My cousin holds his hand up and circles the air with his forefinger. The barman nods in our direction. Sean looks back at me. “Same again?” he asks.

  I nod. The taste is starting to grow on me.

  When he turns back, I ask, “Who are the Callaghans?”

  He glances around and nods to the window in the corner. “That’s their spot. If we’d come in a bit later one or all of them would be standing right there.

  “To understand who they are you have to understand who they were. The Callaghans were this great clan in Munster, chieftains, owning tracts of land from here to Limerick and Clare. You can trace their roots back to the twelfth century. Their castle—the family home—was even built on the site of an old ring fort. The clan was held in great renown down through the centuries even though they were landowners—a hard act to pull off. Now they’ve no tenants and have no influence politically, but they still own a great deal of land and they run a hugely successful hotel.”

  “And the Moores?” I ask.

  “Were English blow-ins in the sixteenth century and never popular. They lost a lot of land recently to the Callaghans, but kept the fertile tracts north of the river. That’s where they have their horses.”

  He takes another gulp. “See it was the Irish system of nobility back then. The Callaghans were kings. If it wasn’t for the English coming and taking over the land, there’d probably still be a system of Irish Kings all over the place, but they all got pushed onto bad land. So, there’s never been love lost between the Moores and the Callaghans.”

  “History has a lot to answer for,” I say.

  Sean nods thoughtfully. “Especially around here.”

  “So, tell me about Cliona Stephenson. She was up at the house and gave me a lift here.”

  He chuckles. “Another grand family. You must think it’s weird three big families being in the same tiny village?”

  “There does seem to be a high percentage of rich people in this one-street village, yes,” I say with a smile.

  “Again, a trick of history. This Stephenson baronet from London was in love with a Moore lady way back in Regency times. After making his fortune in the Napoleonic wars, he came over here and built a cottage at the edge of their estate. I think he died soon after, but the house remains. Cliona and Lorcan live there and her younger sister Deirdre pops in from time to time too.”

  I exhale slowly. So, Cliona’s some kind of nobility, too. Someone as pretty, cultured, and probably as rich as that wouldn’t normally be single, even with a kid, so there must be something going on between Danny and her. But if Lorcan is his kid, then why wouldn’t they be definitively together?

  It’s time to ask the biggie. “So, are Danny and Cliona...?”

  Sean winces. “Mm…nobody sure if they will or they won’t.”

  “Get together?” I ask breathlessly.

  “Get married.”

  I slump back in my seat. “OK. And, uh, Lorcan…?”

  Sean regards me for a full five seconds. He scratches behind his ear. “Yeah. Best to ask him yourself about that. Danny, I mean.”

  Irritation ripples through me. Why couldn’t he just tell me? I don’t want to ask Danny.

  It’s probably a sign that I should stay out of this mess and just do my job—both my jobs. I don’t need other people’s problems. I have enough of my own that I can barely bear thinking about, let alone solve.

  Sean lifts his glass again. “Tell me about America. Texas. Is it really like the films?”

  I laugh. “Yeah, Sean, Texas is exactly like the films.”

  He rubs his palms together. “Maybe it’s time I applied for my passport.”

  I proceed to tell Sean about the fictitious paradise—ranches where we bask in the sun all day, and where the
re are no crazy ex-boyfriends stalking you, or defacing your best friend’s car, or breaking into your house drunk, in the dead of night, whining that he wants to get back together. I’m weaving the alternate reality as much for myself as I am for him. We finish up our pints and he walks me back to Nuala’s place.

  Tomorrow, I’m just going to ask Danny straight out if Lorcan is his.

  9

  DANNY

  The easterly breeze is biting as I dig my hands deeper into my pockets. Twenty-two six- and seven-year-olds race around the field in front of me, some going after the ball, some with their own little agendas. Goals are scored more often by accident than by design. But they’re having fun.

  “Go on, Lorcan,” I yell as number 11 finally manages to get the ball. He cruises along for two meters until the opposing team clashes with him and three boys trip over themselves, the ball rolling off pitifully. Well, possession counts for something.

  The blonde woman beside me who’s been looking me up and down for the past half hour finally says, “Your son’s playing well.”

  Dublin accent. Flirtatious smile. I know where this is going and I’m not going there.

  “Mm-mm,” I say. “Yours too.” I don’t know which is hers, neither do I care. I hope my tone is cool enough to put her off without being impolite.

  “What’s his name?” she asks.

  “Lorcan,” I say, flashing her my polite smile.

  “Lorcan, nice name.”

  “Yes. His mother’s doing, not mine.”

  I cast my gaze around and I spy Lorcan’s water bottle. “Sorry, I better get down there to give him his water or he’ll have a fit. You know how it is.”

  She simpers and nods in understanding.

  I leave the seat and head toward the bench where Lorcan is now sitting as a substitute. I hand him the bottle.

  “Drink something,” I say.

  “Did you see me, Danny?” he asks, all red-cheeked and starry-eyed. “I had the ball.”

  “Sure did, big guy. Some fancy footwork there. Keep it up in the second half.”

  “I will! I’m going to score.”

  “I know you will.”