A Manor of Faking It (The Clarion Abbey Series Book 1)

by Hadley Harlin

  Grief had dulled that very logical reasoning while I was sitting in the cab and deciding where to fly, but here it sat right in front of me, wearing full smoking jacket attire complete with cigar. The walking cliché scooted closer, thumbing his cigar as he stared at my breasts without shame.

  “You’re sitting all alone. That can’t be any fun,” said the entitled—sorry, titled—man. His belly barely fit into his waistcoat anymore, and his hair was all but gray.

  I nodded politely. “I assure you, I’m fine. Just catching my breath and recovering from jet lag.”

  “Ah, American. Even better.” He winked, slipping an arm around my back and trailing a finger along my bare shoulder.

  I cringed visibly, but it didn’t throw him off. He was old enough to be my father, and come to think of it, he probably had been friends with my father. If there was one thing I knew, it was that the mere mention of my father was enough to send the lords and ladies scurrying to keep from being tainted.

  “Did you know my father, Lord Perrinton?’ I asked, innocently batting my lashes.

  The man’s finger jerked off of my shoulder, and my flimsy strap went with it. I hastily pulled it back up.

  “How unfortunate.”

  “What? That you know me or that my father died disgraced on the side of Mount Everest, having never quite lived down the shame of his early scandals?”

  “That is no way to speak, young lady. You may have forgotten how things are done here, or perhaps it’s the bad blood running through your veins, but we do not speak to our elders that way.”

  “When you say ‘bad blood’, are you referring to my father? If you’re referring to my mother, let’s remember your beloved Winston Churchill was a halfie.”

  “Just like your father, you do not belong at any dignified events—”

  A shadow fell over our corner. Even under the haze of alcohol and flickering candles, I recognized him. As if I could ever forget. He was undeniable. Radiating power and status, he could quiet a room simply by entering it. Women were already inching closer, hoping to catch his notice. The room stilled so they could hang on to his every word and savor each one to the last syllable. I never wanted to be that desperate.

  I was so that desperate.

  “Thank you for your thoughts, Lord Cooper,” the newcomer said. “Please give my regards to your daughter, Lady Eliza. I hear she’s expecting a child. Does she plan on getting married first? I’m sure it will be a grand affair. I hope my invitation doesn’t get lost in the mail.”

  Lord Cooper’s face drained of color. He quickly uncrossed his legs and stormed away in a hazy cloud of cigar smoke.

  I blinked a few times, wondering if this man was real.

  Of course, he was real. My body hummed wildly when he was near, and I could barely move due to the vibrations.

  My heart sputtered and my fingers went cold. This couldn’t be right. Madden had said he wasn’t here tonight. I knew I should slap him and stalk away, leaving my dignity intact for my father’s sake, but my fingers had grown numb from the golden pulse that beat rapidly in my veins, that always beat rapidly when he was near. An old, familiar ache settled in the pit of my belly.

  Traitorous body.

  I did the next best thing to a slap. I stared him down while frozen in place, pretending like I had reserved all the disdain in the world for him, waiting for him to remember me, shocked at what he’d become.

  So this was what the boy of my childhood grew up to be. And they say you can’t have everything.

  His square jaw matched his powerfully built figure in a quite unfair way. He had striking cobalt-blue eyes that stood out against a shock of black hair, which he nonchalantly flipped back with a flick of his head. His white shirt was tucked elegantly into his pants with an air of carelessness, but his dark blue blazer was tailored to perfection. The British elite oozed sprezzatura. They carefully designed themselves to look like they’d just rolled out of bed in the most elegant fashion.

  He had that sort of gaze that centered on only you while the world melted away. Before, it had been entrancing, getting me to do things I’d never dreamed of, like search for fairies in the dark of a full moon, and all it’d taken was a look. Now, I knew it was the sort of look that made women clench their thighs together to massage their ache and also do things they’d never dreamed of doing. Did he have a girlfriend now? Worse, did he have a wife?

  I scowled, helpless to stop myself from picturing Finn and his beautiful hands making faceless women burn.

  He bent to kiss my fingers and introduce himself. “Finlay Creedwell, 15th Marquess of Damford, but everyone calls me Finn.” He stared at me from his half-bow position, looking as if he were trying to figure out a puzzle, almost as if he could remember the girl I’d been if he stared long enough.

  My fingers itched to smack him. It would be so easy. He wouldn’t even seen it coming. Somehow, some way, he didn’t recognize me. Granted, the last time we spoken, I had been a slobbering, sobbing mess of a girl.

  But still.

  He should have at least remembered.

  “Thank you, but I was handling Lord Cooper perfectly well on my own.”

  Finn nodded. “Oh yes. It looked like it.” He gave me another once-over. “You’re American.”

  “How insightful of you.”

  “Americans are unaccustomed to some of the…let’s say, peculiarities of our lords.” Finn winked and leaned forward, like we were sharing a secret. “They like to fuck anything new.”

  My hackles rose with every word out of his stupidly-perfect mouth. “And you look very different from your old lords in this moment.”

  Finn smiled, clearly interested to be sparring with a woman he couldn’t place, one he didn’t remember. The prick. “Do I detect a bit of sarcasm? After I saved you from the clutches of these lords and ladies?”

  I bit the inside of my cheek, willing myself not to slap the arrogance out of him or allow myself to be beguiled by his gorgeously thick eyelashes. Knowing Finn, he’d probably sue me. It pissed me off that the angels weren’t singing and the proverbial light hadn’t shined to remind him of my importance, once upon a time.

  I bristled. “I’m no damsel in distress. I don’t need saving. Especially not a pale, stale man’s help.”

  Unless it was at the Los Angeles DMV or some other bureaucratic bullshit. I’d had to deal with so much legal paperwork since my father’s sudden naming me to his earldom, it was ridiculous. Cut a sister out of the red tape. But here with Finlay? I needed no help.

  “So it appears.”

  Finn stepped closer. We were only inches apart. I could still remember the taste of our first kiss…his wild, earthy smell…the intensity of his grip. That was the day before I turned into a sobbing mess.

  “I’m sure you find men following you everywhere,” Finn said quietly, his voice hitting deep in my chest.

  I shook off as much of his charm as I could. “Much like your guilt follows you?” At his raised brows, I cut him off. “Shall I get down on my knees and kiss your royal rings in thanks? Would you like me to suck your cock while I’m down there? I’ve been told I’m quite good.”

  Finn cocked his head. That got his attention. He was still trying to place me, desperate to know. Well-bred, titled English girls don’t say cock in polite company, or any company—probably not even in the bedroom. I was something to be gawked at and considered. He watched me in a carefully controlled, cool assessment.

  I smiled sweetly. “Congratulations on another incarceration, by the way. You make your people proud. Goodbye, Finlay Creedwell, twenty-billionth-no-one-cares Marquess of Damford.”

  I stalked away from a powerful man for the second time in a week, feeling fantastic.

  Chapter Seven

  Finn

  A fierceness followed her, and something else. That tilt of her head, the angle of her eyes—it was there and gone, and I remembered it well. It was a look of secrecy, memories, desire. Her hair was much longer than it had b
een when we were young, but it had that same amber wave and a spray of matching freckles.

  There was enough sameness to remember the girl who haunted my dreams and to recall the things I’d done to her, but she’d changed. Of course, she’d changed. She was harsher—even her cheekbones were sharp lines, aristocratic despite her American twang. Hollywood was branded on her body with her perfectly straight teeth, her deep tan, and her blonde mass of waves down her back.

  Poppy. How many letters of mine had gone unanswered?

  While many things had changed them, those hazel wood eyes still sparked with fire and fun. Well, mostly fire, currently. She was a proud little thing.

  Say something fucking charming, you bastard.

  “Poppy, don’t go. Madden texted me you were here, and I couldn’t resist seeing if you’d remember me.”

  Okay, or go straight for the full truth, you bastard!

  Poppy waited half of a heartbeat, her face inscrutable, before striding past me toward the door. I ran to catch up and grabbed her bare elbow. Unlike the rest of the wankers here, she’d come as she wanted: no gloves, no hat, no pretentions. She smelled of clean linen and lilacs, and I was tempted to scoop her up and inhale as deeply as my lungs could bear. I longed to embrace her and keep her innocent and safe, far away from this place.

  “Wait, Poppy.”

  “I must admit I’m shocked your brain can function after all the drugs and alcohol.”

  I chose to ignore that. “I heard about your father. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know if I should attend the funeral given…”

  “They couldn’t retrieve his body due to weather conditions on Everest. There was only a small memorial.”

  “My God, I’m sorry.”

  “Then you also heard I inherited Clarion Abbey. You may call me Lady Perrinton.”

  My gut clenched. No wonder Stone had gone wild in London. He must have been too embarrassed to tell anyone, although he had to know we’d all find out soon enough.

  This was exactly what my father intended to do to me, if I let him. With a rough step, I pinned her to the hallway wall under a coat of arms and bent to her ear. She jerked back but didn’t slap me. Instead, her breathing became heavier.

  “Stone’s a fucking pussy,” I murmured.

  Poppy tut-tutted softly. “Still as classy as always, I see.”

  “One in my position must adhere to class distinctions at all times, milady.”

  Poppy pushed against me, but I didn’t move.

  “Look, about that time—”

  She crossed her arms, standing straight as a steel spike, creating space. “Which time, Finn? The time you ruined my family or the time you came to my room? Or maybe the time Stone told you to put a leech on me and you laughed when I cried as the blood dripped down my arm? I really don’t care. They all come out to the same feeling.” When I said nothing, she clarified in a tone that could have dried paint. “A shitty one. Good night, Lord Damford.”

  With that, Poppy swept into my life like a forest fire and right back out between heartbeats, leaving charred blackness in her wake.

  She’d appeared suddenly, much like the fairies she was always so obsessed with, so much so that I was unsure if it had happened—except it burned where I’d trapped her against the wall and I could still smell her sweetness.

  I plodded back to the party, unable to shake the memories as they flooded into my consciousness. She was three years younger, always tagging along after Stone, that wanker.

  We never played at Wodehall. My father terrified the other kids too much. Clarion Abbey was sprawling and close enough that we went there, and she was always there, always questioning, always popping up unexpectedly. Little Popping Poppy Seed.

  Over the years we explored, we fought, we played. I gave her dares I thought no respectable girl would ever do and she wouldn’t hesitate, as if to spite me. Or to prove herself to me, as if she needed to.

  She stirred up uncomfortable feelings I’d mostly managed to keep down for the last ten years, feelings of my own inadequacy. The RAF had helped me allay those for a little while by giving me something meaningful to do with my life, but it never lasted long.

  The rest of the sailing crew had broken it to me over pints one night. Madden had sat me down, his eyes grave and a little sad. While his mother had also died at a young age, Madden had found a way to become serious and respectable, watching over his little sister Simone and learning about the business of running a dying estate. I, on the other hand, went wild.

  I could afford to, since our money was safe. My father had ensured nobody could touch large percentages of his fortunes except to use specifically for our manor, Wodehall. So I did, safe in the knowledge that it would be fine. It would always be fine.

  Madden clinked our pints together and took a foamy sip. I remembered the foam. It reminded me of the sea spray we’d be surrounded by on our upcoming trip. Madden had always been the strong and silent type, so his silence wasn’t strange…until it went on too long.

  “Something wrong with the boat, mate?”

  He shook his head. “No.” Regret was carved into his features.

  “Spit it out. I can handle it.”

  “Okay. For the safety of all involved, we’ve decided it would be best if you stay behind this go around. You need to get healthy.”

  I exploded to my feet, sloshing beer everywhere. “You can’t do this!” I lowered my voice, hoping to prove my point. “I’m not going to fuck up the boat—”

  “We’re more worried about you falling overboard because you are fucked up, Finn,” he said mildly, his even tone of voice irritating me further.

  “This isn’t right.”

  “You know it is. Use this time to heal. Think about what I said last time. She’s not coming back. It’s been ten years. You tried. She never answered.”

  I regretted my moment of weakness in confessing to Madden my agony over Poppy. He didn’t mean to use it against me, but it hurt all the same.

  “Here, let me help you home,” Madden finished.

  I shook off his arm. “Fuck off.”

  He let go. “Essie isn’t coming either. Of the two of you, I fought for you. I thought the sea air might do you good, but I was outnumbered. My advice? Stay away from Essie. Quit drinking. Get some perspective and join us in Monaco next month.”

  I left the bar, pissed beyond measure, seeking to find some solace by screwing some girl’s brain’s out that night…and the next night, and the next, and the next.

  Tonight, they were back, and by the look on Madden’s face, I hadn’t passed their little test. They’d all seen the news of my arrest and allegations of cocaine. Madden lifted his eyebrows.

  “I didn’t expect you to come thrashing over the minute I texted you she was here.”

  Bloody hell.

  Was I that obvious?

  Of course I was.

  Essie offered me a Molly. I looked at the small pill laying in the palm of his hand, the tempting tug of release almost overwhelming me.

  “Fuck off,” I said instead, shoving him away. I needed to be alone, but not for long. Now that Poppy was back, I wouldn’t be able to stay away at all.

  Chapter Eight

  Poppy

  I knew it was only a matter of time before I crossed paths with Finlay Damford. His family estate was only ten miles from my family estate. My brother had gone to school with him and our families had always hunted, dined, and attended social events together. Foxhunting, banquets, elaborate dinners—all those things that sounded like they came straight out of a period drama, we did every weekend.

  He’d been inescapable in my youth, until the divorce. Then, no one had wanted to touch us. There were only murmurs of what had broken my parents apart, nothing concrete, but it was enough to blacklist us. My mom fled immediately with me to her parents’ house nestled in the Rocky Mountains, and I’d lost all the friends I’d thought I’d had. Turned out, they were only friendly because of my father’s title, and secretly hor
rified he’d married an American he met on a holiday ski trip.

  In fact, my family’s entire social standing spiraled down the drain. If I’d stayed, I wouldn’t have been eligible to be announced in society, the invitations would have dried up, and ours would have been ignored. When social events were literally all there was to do in life, it left a sucking hole of darkness. My idol had toppled from his pedestal, and all I wanted to do was hide and grieve in peace.

  I didn’t have any benchmarks for knowing at which age divorce does the most damage to a psyche, but the awkward age when you’re still unsure of yourself and madly in love with your family’s betrayer isn’t the best. It was even worse when my family’s gossip was blared across every society page in the U.K.

  Maybe that was why I projected the perfect image to my million followers but never looked for it in real life. I knew real love was as fake as a social media account. Even real friendships and real relationships were fake. Not one of my so-called friends from LA had called after my dad died or when I found my boyfriend doing number thirty-eight in my bed with someone else.

  And what if I wanted to do number thirty-eight? How come nobody had ever asked me to get kinky? I could; I’d just never really thought about it. Dean and I were fine with the standard positions—or so I had thought. It’d felt good, mostly…although I’d never actually orgasmed unless my fingers were involved in the fun. I harbored a sneaking suspicion that manmade orgasms were as fake as fairies, and now I couldn’t even get off alone.

  Even worse, I had a sneaking suspicion it was because I’d seen Dean enjoying all sorts of kink with someone else. Now that I’d seen him testing out other positions with another woman, it made me question everything. Had it been me? Had I been holding back the fun for him with my inability to climax?

  Bam—just like that, it was all gone.

  Worse, the burning look Finn had flung at me in a darkened room had made me feel…things, things I’d never felt with boyfriends in the past. Sloppy sex, unimaginative blow jobs—what a waste of everyone’s time if just Finn’s eyes did this to me.