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

by Hadley Harlin

  Only a few minutes and I was already thinking about agreeing to be rehabilitated into British high society by His future Grace.

  I kept trying to tell myself it wasn’t the worst plan in the world. Worse plans included trying to keep Clarion Abbey running by myself with quickly dwindling funds. I hadn’t posted to any social media since I’d arrived back in England. Sure, it was a sort of relief to detach, but that meant lost revenue from my sponsors.

  Worse plans included waiting for my brother to come back full of wrath at being disinherited.

  The number Simone had programmed into my phone scrolled across my screen as my phone blared. I picked up. “Hello?”

  “Come outside!”

  My eyes darted to the window and I leaned out. “What are you doing?”

  “Come outside! I’m waiting!”

  Simone hung up and motioned for me to hurry up, so I grabbed my Wellies and ran outside. “Is there a fire? What’s going on?”

  “We must find you more appropriate clothes for the rest of the summer engagements. Everything is heating up. There’s the races, a few polo matches, and English Wine Week, which they’re trying to make a thing. I’m sure I could squeeze in a shoot at Hills Hall, if you’d like.”

  I pulled back. “Simone, I can’t afford to go shopping right now. I’m trying to keep Clarion Abbey afloat.”

  “But you need something for the garden party this Friday!”

  “Oh God. Not garden parties.” I’d hated them when I was a kid, and I couldn’t imagine liking them any more now. “I was really hoping they would have died out in the last few years. So they still exist?”

  “You better believe it, white parasols and all. Put on your drinking dress. We’ve nothing to do but swill away our wealthy little existence here in the country. You can borrow one of my fascinators. I’ve got a light brown one that will really highlight the amber tones in your hair.”

  I shook my head. “Thanks, Simone, but I have way too much work to do here.” I didn’t mention that I also sort of had a fake-date, meet-the-parents-type situation going on much sooner than I would have liked.

  Simone threaded her arm through mine and tugged me toward the door. “Dear, you must. All the eligible bachelors will be there. All work and no play makes Poppy a dull, dull girl.”

  “I’m not interested in eligible bachelors.”

  “Whether you are or aren’t, you’ve inherited one of the biggest estates left to the original family. They will most certainly be interested in you. Wouldn’t you rather watch them in their natural habitat first? This way, you can see who behaves badly and who’s wooing you for your title. No one knows your face yet, but give it two days, three tops. Your mug will be splashed across every tabloid from here to Saudi Arabia.”

  I blanched at that. Would I get international suiters?

  “Seriously, I have no interest. I just broke up with my boyfriend in the States, learned my father died, and took on a money-sucking estate. I need time to adjust.”

  Simone motioned for her driver to come open the door of her slick Jaguar. “Of course, you do, but you also need time to relax and ease into the social scene. I’ll help you. First, you need some more appropriate clothing. Not that your little white dress wasn’t inspired the other night, but it will help if you look the part.”

  Why was everyone suddenly offering to help me assimilate? The sinister side of me knew it was the title.

  When I didn’t answer, Simone tried another approach. “Listen, it’s so dull at these things, and I’m looking forward to having a partner in crime. We’ll get drunk and dance all night.”

  I blinked. If all Simone was looking for was a friend, I could do that. “Okay, but I have something going on that evening. I’ll need to leave early.”

  “Oh, how mysterious. Do tell.”

  Simone was cool and all, but I felt like playing these cards close to the vest for now.

  I played it off. “Then it wouldn’t be mysterious.”

  She sighed like I was mistreating her, and maybe I was. “If you must, fine. Now get your cute little Americanized bum in the car.”

  I flopped onto my bed five hours later. Beverly Hills socialites had nothing on Simone. She knew all the clothing designers in the area. After getting me pinned and pricked for a few custom dresses, she’d whipped through their available stock and found me a few garden-party-suitable dresses to “tide you over”.

  Given that I was pretty sure Simone didn’t eat, I was now starving. Boris probably was, too.

  I rifled through the kitchen. “These pantries are so Downton Abbey,” I muttered, hoping to find anything that hadn’t expired during the last king’s reign. “Oh my God, that’s it!” I spun around, accidentally flinging a tin of stale biscuits across the ancient kitchen.

  I threw Boris the biscuits and vaulted up the stairs to my computer. My fingers flew across the keyboard as I laid out my grand plan. This was so going to work. I could see it all now: sponsors, media, elegant parties, a blog. Clarion Abbey would blossom under my ideas and everything would be okay. I would save it from being sold and demolished. Even better, it would spring to life under my care like it used to be. Maybe I could hire Jacob back sooner than I thought!

  I imagined my new profile and smiled. Those smug aristocrats wouldn’t know what hit ’em.

  I also needed to catch up with my mother. I’d managed to be busy every time she called, but I had to come clean eventually. Well, maybe not completely clean. Maybe half-clean, like when you’re in a hurry so you rub some hand soap on a washcloth to scrub under your armpits, dry it really quick, and swipe on deodorant instead of taking a real shower. That sort of clean.

  While my FaceTime connected, I noticed my eyes had blackened circles underneath them and my skin didn’t have its usual shine. Crap. Mom would notice—she always did.

  The moment she picked up, my mom’s hand went to her mouth and she gasped. “Oh Poppy Seed! What’s happened to you? Your aura is completely… Poppy, tell me what’s happened. Why is there red in your aura?”

  I resisted the temptation to feel sorry for myself or annoyed with my mother. Her descent into new age treatments was how she coped with loss. Sure, it’d seemed silly when I was a sulky teenager and she had forced me to sit outside in the mountains in winter to commune with the natural world, but now I saw how I’d protected myself from loss by doing the very same thing: finding something to cling to and using it to make sense of the world. In my case, it was becoming Poppy the influencer.

  “There is no red in my aura,” I said, a little weary. My mom had a rainbow of yarn woven into her hair and silver glitter sprinkled across the bridge of her nose like freckles.

  “You know I can tell. It’s a real thing. I sent you that article—oh, what was it called?”

  “Synesthesia. Yes, of course I read it. I’m not saying you can’t see my aura. I’m just saying I’m not mad or anything.” Mostly because I refused to argue about auras anymore.

  “Red can mean passion, too,” she corrected me. “And yours is shot through with it.” My face must have reacted in some small way only mothers can see because she pointed a finger at me. “Ha! I knew it. Who is he? Tell me he’s not British.”

  “Boris. He’s three hundred pounds of pure meat and completely delectable.” I smacked my lips for effect.

  My mom’s eyes practically rolled to the back of her head. “My God, you didn’t. The prime minister? Honey, really.”

  “Calm your chakras. Boris is my pig. If there’s any red in mine, it’s pure love of the land.”

  “What do you mean? What land? Surely not Clarion—”

  I bit my lip. As far as my mom knew, I would be on my way to Denver any day now to let her help me take stock of my life and decide what to do. She loved doing that. It would blow her mind to think I’d inherited Clarion and intended on staying, which was probably why I’d avoided the whole conversation.

  She had no idea I had lost sponsors and was living off the rest of my
savings from my influencer position in an ill-fated attempt to avoid the wrecking ball, or that I was sipping champagne and attending garden parties with the people she hated so much.

  Worst of all, she didn’t know I was seriously contemplating fake-dating a future duke. For that, she would momentarily forget all of her peace, love, and pot, and drag me out by my hair.

  I took a deep breath. “I’ve decided to stay at Clarion Abbey. Dad named me heir. I know—wish you would have seen that one coming in your tarot cards.”

  Distract, distract, distract!

  My mom snapped her fingers. “I’m an idiot! When I was conducting your weekly card reading five weeks ago, I saw that you’d inherit property, but I couldn’t for the life of me think what that could possibly be, except for my death. Of course! It was your father’s impending doom. But Poppy, you can’t possibly run that estate alone. Those years that shall not be mentioned almost tore me down to my barest essence. That estate sucked the life right out of me. It will do the same to you.”

  “It can try.”

  “It will,” my mom swore. “Poppy Seed, this isn’t a good idea. Your aura is reading disturbingly delicate right now. You don’t sound like yourself. You sound…disrupted.”

  I winced at her portrayal of my attraction to Finn. The image of him so exquisitely beautiful, shirtless in front of my tree house barged its way into my mind. If she knew what I was considering…

  “Listen, sweetie, did you get those supplements? I’m going to overnight you my favorite CBD products, stress-reducing essential oils, and maybe a few crystals. I wonder if I still have that black tourmaline.” She set the phone down, and I could hear her banging around her small apartment, probably nosing through her impressive crystal collection to get a feel for the perfect one.

  “Mom. Hey, Mom. I can’t see you. Hey, can you hear me?” I let out a sigh. It was no use. She could be gone for twenty minutes and completely forget her phone was on. It’d be better to hang up and text her later.

  “I’m going to go, Mom. Call you later.”

  I ended the call and texted her a quick apology. Time to party—garden party.

  I dressed carefully in my new silver-green silk dress that swished and hit at mid thigh, pairing it with comfortable nude patent leather pumps, sensing Kate Middleton would be especially proud of my blowout. Simone had left her tan fascinator for me, which I pinned into my hair before adding a swipe of pale lip balm to pouf my lips.

  The real problem I had was getting around. I didn’t have a car in England, or a driver’s license, for that matter. Every time I needed to go anywhere required a private car to pick me up, and those rates were beginning to skyrocket as I needed to be transported way out in the country.

  I wondered if a horse would be cheaper. I hadn’t ridden in years, but when I did, I felt free. I felt alive. Nothing beat the wind whistling around us and the drumbeat of hooves as I urged my mount over hills and through brooks. The feeling of being one with a powerful creature, doing the one thing both of us liked more than anything else was a special sort of magic.

  By the time I arrived from the boonies in my rented ride, the garden party was in full swing. People mingled on the lawn, sipping cocktails and laughing with each other.

  All the men wore morning dress, including formal trousers, a short waistcoat, ties, and the long, cutaway coat with tails that looked more over-the-top than a big top. A four-person band played near a white tent, croquet was set up on the far side, and little tables with food dotted the pristine, lush green lawn. It was quintessentially quaint English countryside complete with Union Jack bunting.

  I didn’t see Simone anywhere, so I found an empty table to stand near. Little pink clouds of raspberry meringue studded with pistachios, pillowy marshmallows that tasted of sweet blood oranges, and tiny finger sandwiches overflowed on silver serving trays. I savored everything until a woman about my age bumped into me.

  Her eyes were already unfocused, even though it was only three thirty in the afternoon.

  “I’m wearing a vodka tampon,” she slurred in my ear. “Fancy a go?”

  I prayed to the old gods she meant a new one.

  “You know, I’ve got one of the old-fashioned kind already inserted,” I lied, “but thanks.”

  She bumped away, and I started to wonder how long I should wait for Simone. There were others, women and men, eyeing me with curiosity and a little hostility. It was barely disguised under their fake eyelashes and faker smiles, but I took comfort in the fact that one was wearing a fascinator that could double as a poop emoji.

  I drifted toward a clump of middle-class-looking attendees. This I knew how to handle.

  “Hello.” I smiled, introduced myself neutrally, and chatting about gardens and garden parties.

  A man moved in behind me as I laughed at some small joke. I knew who it was immediately. I could smell his masculine scent and feel his unique presence before needing to turn around. When he whispered hello in my ear, swirling the hairs along the nape of my neck, I shivered with them.

  “I see you found a dressmaker.”

  I kept my cool outwardly, not even turning around to face him. My voice stayed low to match his. “Yes. Simone took me. I would have thought helping me ease back into society by buying my dresses was something you were supposed to do.”

  Finn twirled me around, catching my elbow, and brought us face to face. Instead of the traditional morning dress and ridiculous top hat, Finn wore his RAF uniform, which hugged him in all the right places. He looked powerful and virile with that hint of danger I’d always associated with him. I clenched involuntarily and scowled. This was Finn. Just Finn.

  I wanted to tell him I rejected his offer. I wanted to tell him I hated him and he deserved nothing but to rot in hell, but my resolve rippled before cracking into a million shards of glass. The now-familiar surge of warmth flooded through me. I berated myself and desperately tried to regain control. In fact, I kept repeating those very words over and over.

  You can control your feelings. You won’t get wet at the sound of his voice…his deep, deliriously delicious voice. Get it together!

  It worked…mostly.

  Finn smiled. “But I already did. Your wardrobe is waiting back at Clarion Abbey.”

  I stepped away, appraising him. “I was kidding. This isn’t the nineteenth century, and I’m not a kept whore. I’m a successful businesswoman who’s taking a good deal when she sees it.”

  Finn gave me a sardonic smile. “So you agree to our little arrangement?”

  “I do, although we should discuss the terms.”

  “I cannot wait.”

  “Oh good.” I pulled up the notes section of my phone and scrolled through the list. “Number one: no sleeping together.”

  Finn put his warm hand over mine, swallowing it whole. “Perhaps somewhere more private, although you do put the fascination right into that fascinator.” Finn fixed the crookedness and set it right while I tried not to flinch at his touch. Whether it was out of disgust or something else was up for debate. “You know,” he continued, “you run quite hot and cold. This is an American trait we’ll have to work on. In the meantime, let’s wander and be seen. It’s time to spread the word about our relationship.” He sent me that dark look I was beginning to hate and anticipate.

  He pulled my arm into his body while we sauntered to the bar and ordered two flutes of crisp rosé.

  “Did you really send clothes to Clarion?” I asked.

  “Of course. You can’t wear that white dress everywhere this summer.”

  I saw Simone standing near her brother Madden and waved. We made our way over, and I felt a little glee watching Simone’s eyes widen at the protectiveness Finn displayed toward me.

  She covered up her surprise with a tut. “Well what do we have here? You’ve been busy, Poppy!”

  “It’s your regular, good old-fashioned reconnection love story. I couldn’t help it if I tried. Honestly”—I shot Finn a look—“I couldn’t.�
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  “So this is your mystery for later?” She cocked her head. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  I bit back the truth, which carried more embarrassment than mystery or any desire to deceive.

  “I’m sorry. We only decided a few minutes ago to throw it all to hell and come out publicly.” I glanced at Finn, who gave me a kiss on the cheek as if to comply.

  Madden punched Finn in the shoulder, and they moved a few paces away. I couldn’t help but overhear a little of what he said. Well, I suppose I could have, but I didn’t want to help it.

  “This is a new look for you. I don’t hate it,” Madden said. “But in light of your past feelings, I am worried.”

  Finn looked over, and when he saw me watching, he smiled and angled his body away. I couldn’t read his lips anymore.

  “So what is this garden party for?” I asked Simone, trying to distract myself. I did not need to eavesdrop on my fake boyfriend. He wanted this secret kept the same as I did. Worried, though? Why would Madden be worried about Finn? It should be me! I was the one wronged by him.

  “Oh, I haven’t a clue. Let’s see, plenty of rough-looking types about without proper morning tails. I’d say actual gardeners.”

  “I need one of those,” I muttered.

  Simone nodded at a handsome, older man. “Run away with that one. I won’t tell.”

  I giggled, letting the laughter begin to heal me. “Finn would love that.”

  With a sideways look, Simone nodded toward the boys. “So it’s serious then? In the old world, you would be one of the most powerful couples here today.”

  “I guess so.” I shrugged. “Now I’m one of the most indebted. That gardener should stay far, far away.”

  “Have you thought about what you’re going to do with your earldom and Clarion if you marry Finn? He must take Wodehall.”

  I opened my mouth, gaping like a fish, and stumbled for words. “I, uh…not sure…”

  The guys walked over and Finn slung his arm around me, moving me into his hardness like I was a mere prop for cameras to capture and post all over their social media feeds.