“What did you think?”
“You were brilliant.” I kissed her on the forehead, and, shockingly enough, she let me. “Informative, adorable, and authoritative. Very well done. Now you just have to tame my father.”
Poppy bent her head to look up at me. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
To be perfectly honest, so was I.
Chapter Fourteen
Finn
Wodehall was so profitable, Father employed over two hundred full-time and seasonal staff for the busy summer and holiday months when most of the tourist traffic came through for Bracon Days.
Staff ate up money, and the majority of manor homes couldn’t afford to keep them full-time. Besides Wodehall running enough to keep it afloat, Father’s investment banking business was more than enough. He’d even hired a few extra staff to serve at dinner tonight.
A few of the curators were polishing the silver for the evening’s dinner while another inspected the medieval swords crisscrossing the state dining room’s fireplace where the main course would be served. The head gardener and head shepherd had gone home for the night, but the maids and the waiting staff remained.
I dressed carefully, knowing Father would approve. It pained me to put on a dark blue tuxedo and bow tie, but one had to play the game, and this game was intellectual and deep. He liked to feel the part of a grand, old, estate owner, a true Duke of Bracon. I wondered if I’d feel the same once I became duke or if it would all feel ridiculous as it did now. It was outdated and, frankly, boring.
What to do with Wodehall wasn’t my question yet, however.
I inspected the table, a warm jolt of lightning striking through me as I rearranged a tall, gold candelabra. I was nervous. It wasn’t enough having women around the world interested in my title and, more to the point, my money. I wanted Poppy to be impressed by these things. She barely raised her eyebrow for anything more than a medieval monk’s script, but I had plenty of those to show off, including five red figure Grecian urns that, by all rights, should have been in a museum.
This little extravagant dinner wouldn’t do it, but I’d figure out what made her glow. I had less than six months to do it.
I heard Gordon open the door and announce Lady Perrinton. With a quick fiddle of my bow tie in the gilt mirror, I hurried to guide her to the state dining room. The family crest and motto mounted over the door read: Veritas et pulchritudo.
What a joke. Only Poppy embodied truth and beauty, and she wasn’t even a part of this family—not yet.
Poppy glided toward me, radiant in a metallic, rose gold gown I’d picked up from Harrods for her. The bronze color accentuated her California tan, and the spaghetti straps were begging to be shimmied down her toned arms. It draped to the side in a small bow tied at the base of her spine, right above her ass, which I wanted to take handfuls of and lick.
She had her dark blonde hair twisted up with a few tendrils around her face, which she was nervously flicking away.
I reached the bottom step of the grand foyer and took her hand.
“Thanks, Gordon. I’ll take Poppy on a tour, shall I?”
Poppy handed Gordon her sheer, sequined cape, which had cost more than most workers’ weekly salary, and offered me a small smile. “Can we see the library?”
I guided her to the massive oak-framed room. “I’ve already had the staff lay out some of our more interesting pieces. Care to see a few handwritten letters between King Charles II and my ancestors about compensation for the Restoration?”
“You remembered!”
“Who could forget the time you almost chopped my hand off with the Royalist sword? I’ve ordered it put away for tonight in case you get any more bright ideas about swordplay.”
Poppy wound her fingers in her shimmering gown, pulling it up slightly to make it easier to walk in. “I’m more worried about your dad. He’s terrifying from what I remember. How do you manage?”
“Years of practice. I think he enjoys the title and old-world ways. Appearances mean you don’t go waltzing around with a baby on your shoulders. Your father was quite the exception.”
She squeezed. “Was the duke always that way?”
My mood blackened. “Yes and no. He got worse as time went on. It peaked with Brontë’s birth, but he always enjoyed the feel of acting a grand duke in the manner of the past.”
Poppy’s face contorted. “What would your sister’s birth have to do with it?”
“I have my suspicions.”
“Tell me,” she said softly. “If you want to share the burden.”
“Do you truly want to know what he did?”
She nodded slowly. “I want to understand you.”
With an air of resigned fear and perhaps a bit of hope, I took a deep breath. “I didn’t always hate my father. Once, I respected him. He epitomized the tradition and spectacle of old-world money, which was the only world I knew. By the time I was six or seven, his womanizer days were over. I knew nothing of him but the esteemed Duke of Bracon. It was easy to idolize a figure from afar, especially when he put the fear of God into everyone by simply walking into a room. That, I knew, was power. That, I could respect.”
I hadn’t even noticed I was running my fingers through my hair until Poppy reached out to grab my hand and squeezed it to stop the raking motion.
I squeezed back, squaring myself.
“My mother gave birth secretly. I noticed, but only in the way a child does, not really understanding what was happening or what it meant, and certainly not comprehending why my father was furious.”
“Oh my God, Finn.”
“Oh, it gets much worse. Dad had events to tend to for Parliament the next day, some ship naming ceremony. He dragged her out of bed, angry she’d allowed herself to get pregnant against his wishes, and forced her to attend with her practiced wave and sweet smile. She couldn’t stop bleeding.”
I stopped, my voice beginning to sound choked and full of emotion. So, instead, I concentrated on her, stabilizing myself in her presence.
“Are you sure we have to go see him?” she asked. “Maybe I’ll send a handwritten note explaining our ‘relationship’ instead. That sounds Victorian, right?”
With a firm grip, I took her chin and made her stare deeply into my eyes. “My dear, he’s old. What did you say about pale, stale men? Put him at the top of that list and don’t worry what he says. You’re utterly delightful.”
Poppy nodded, breaking my grasp, although I wanted nothing more than to sweep her into my arms and kiss her the way she deserved.
“Anyway, he’ll barely remember you. Even if he does, you’re perfectly suitable. In the old days, we’d already be married with four kids. You’re a countess, for shit’s sake.”
I stopped her hand from unknotting and re-knotting the necklace between her breasts for the thirtieth time and took the opportunity to graze her nipples lightly. The little peek I’d gotten had been intoxicating.
She slapped my hand away and I saw her itching to smack my face, too, for good measure, but some of the well-bred English nonsense came out and she restrained herself. Instead of reassuring me she could conform to aristocratic elitist standards again, it made me want to punch a hole in the wall and take her far, far away to save her from the dreariness of propriety.
“Shall we head to the dining room? The maids and curators have been busy for three days putting it in order. There was a shoot earlier today, but I knew you were busy with Clarion. You’re welcome.”
She eyed me.
“For releasing you from your girlfriend duties,” I elaborated.
“You are too kind, Your future Grace.”
“As you wish, Lady Perrinton.”
Poppy finally stopped fiddling with everything and looked me in the eye. It sent chills rolling down my spine. Just a look sent me back, like staring into a waking dream.
“Since this is your event, what do you expect in front of your father? Holding hands, a chaste kiss, a declaration of intent?” she aske
d.
“Hand-holding isn’t necessary. It’s not exactly an aristocratic thing.”
She grimaced.
“What?”
“I was remembering something my mom used to say. She thought the English were always pale because they had their heads stuck so far up their asses they couldn’t get any sunlight.”
“You’re half an ass, you know.”
“Only the good parts.” She clapped her hands once. “Okay, let’s do it. Get me a glass of something. I don’t even care what.”
We sauntered into the state dining room, where gilded pictures of my ancestors hung on every wall and the ceiling. Frescoes by Thomas Barker in the late 1700s depicted bucolic maids and shepherds sharing a secret kiss on the hills beyond Bracon and lords with their hunting dogs traversing rocky outcroppings.
A server handed Poppy a champagne flute and we clinked. The rest of the diners filtered into the dining room. It was the usual suspects: Lord Bland, Lord Cooper, Sir Bendoir plus Simone and Madden. Father didn’t care for children, even grown ones, but I’d convinced him they’d cause no trouble. I was given a special seat as his heir—to watch him work and develop respect for his position or some horseshit like that.
Once the room was full, my father clinked his glass for an announcement, but I smoothly cut in. “Actually, before we begin, I’d like to introduce my girlfriend.” Here, I shot Father a venomous, impossible-to-misinterpret look. “May I present Poppy Perrinton, 10th Countess of Arun.”
After a round of applause and a toast, we mingled for a few more minutes, waiting for dinner to be called.
Madden came to stand near me, and we watched Poppy chat with Simone. “So,” he said, “it’s serious then.”
I shifted my weight and gave him a sidelong look. “Like a pregnant hooker.”
Madden snorted. “Right. Well don’t knock her up yet. And anything you need, mate, let me know.”
I nodded my thanks. “Actually, we could use help getting Clarion Abbey into fighting condition. Fancy some hard, manual labor tomorrow morning?”
Madden clapped a hand on my back. “Always. I’ll pick up Essie, Stone, and a few others. We’ll meet you there.”
With a scowl, I watched an unannounced and uninvited Stone saunter up to Poppy, shocked he’d managed to hold back this long. “Not Stone.”
“Aye. Bitter about the title, I take it?”
I watched him through narrowed eyes. “And something else. Excuse me.”
I joined them in time to hear Stone insult her again. It was funny when it was in the city with drunk girls who didn’t matter. It was less funny how much I cared now. My scowl deepened.
“So,” Stone was saying, “it’s not enough to steal my inheritance—you want to take Damford’s too? Countess isn’t good enough for the American. You must be Duchess, I suppose?”
And I thought I was bitter.
“Lady Perrinton can’t take what is given freely,” I said, coming to stand protectively next to her once more. This fucker.
“This is a farce. I know it is,” Stone accused. “You’ve been plotting to disinherit me from the beginning.”
“I don’t remember seeing your name on the guest list,” I cut in coldly. “I think you should leave before you cause a scene.”
At the call to dinner, I grabbed Stone by the elbow and escorted him roughly to the door. “Now, before I make it worse. You’re not welcome at Wodehall anymore,” I whispered, my voice deadly quiet in his ear, “and I know you’ve been pawning heirlooms. I know everything.”
Stone pushed me off, straightening his lapels and dusting himself off in agitation. “Get off me, you traitorous bastard.”
“With pleasure.” I slammed the door behind him and went to find Poppy.
She was waiting for me at the entrance to the dining room. “Is he gone?”
“Yes. That bloody wanker is dead from the neck up if he thought he was going to waltz into my manor and treat you like that.”
“Finn, I really don’t need your help. I’ve been battling Stone since I was born.”
“No doubt, but I enjoy helping all the same.”
She slipped her arm into mine and we found our seats. Father and I sat at either end of the twenty-foot oak table with Poppy seated to my left. I noticed he’d scattered the “ankle-biters” throughout, presumably so we didn’t get rowdy. That left Poppy with an old buzzard, Lady Bland, next to her.
I clinked her glass. “Drink up. It’s going to be a long night.”
With the first course, talking ceased to a low rumble as everyone dived into prosciutto-wrapped asparagus with wild spring garlic and a poached duck egg.
Poppy leaned toward me. “Wow, this is ridiculously good.”
“It gets better. I personally looked over tonight’s menu.”
“Are you trying to impress me, Lord Damford?” she teased.
I smiled back. If she only knew.
The second course arrived, a flawlessly executed tarragon gnocchi in an anchovy compound butter sauce. Everything went smoothly, much to my father’s exacting satisfaction, which he showed by snapping at all the servers. They brought the main course mere minutes after we finished our white wine. White gloves passed on our right to pour another bottle of port, perfectly decanted and temperature controlled.
It was painstakingly dull and some special sort of torture with Poppy’s bare shoulders on my left, begging to be kissed. She sipped and chatted nicely to the old buzzard. I couldn’t tell what they spoke of, mostly because my focus was on the nipple that had tightened, beading up under her dress. She must be cold with her bare shoulders exposed.
Or was it something else? A man could hope.
The head waiting staff arrived with a silver tray and matching cloche. “For your next course, freshly shot at the beginning of roe deer season by His Grace, Lord Damford, a hay-smoked saddle of venison accompanied by salt-crusted celeriac fondant and finished with a blackberry sauce.”
Everyone clapped for me as the ten waiters removed the domes with a flourish and set them in front of us. It was ancient spectacle, pure and simple. After another hour of port and dull conversation where I couldn’t even have a private word with Poppy, dessert was finally announced.
I watched Poppy suck on a silver spoon of raspberry sorbet and crunchy meringue dollops. She picked out a raspberry and put it between her bright pink lips to nibble before popping it into her mouth.
Meanwhile, I adjusted my pants, feeling my erection stiffening against my jeans and belt buckle. How uncomfortable. This woman made me hot as hell. Just watching her circle the rim of her wine glass with an elegant fingertip made me want to suck them.
I leaned over her, ostensibly to point something out in an approved-level whisper, but in reality, I grazed her inner thigh with my thumb. Poppy jumped. I covered her reaction with a cough and went higher.
“Finn,” she whispered angrily in my ear.
“Yes, my dear?”
With a vicious look, I couldn’t help it. I grinned and circled her sensitive nub at varying speeds. Her back stiffened and she wildly looked around the table. With my father at the far end, engaged in conversation with Lord Bland and Lord Cooper, no one but perhaps the old buzzard suspected much. The aroused but horrified look on Poppy’s face was worth any gossip. In fact, it made everything that much more believable. We were in love—deeply, fuck anywhere, anytime, in love.
I continued exploring, deftly pushing aside her lace knickers and parting her folds, all while keeping my right hand at table level. Dessert would finish shortly and the cheese course would be brought out, so I went in, finger-fucking her and pinching and rubbing her nub as Poppy’s knuckles whitened around her fork. Her breath hitched and her legs spasmed under the table. I almost came myself at the pure eroticism of it.
As she climaxed, the fork clattered to her Wedgwood china plate, and everyone’s head snapped down the table to us. All they saw was me scooping up my melted sorbet and Poppy squirming a little in her chair. O
dd, but understandable. These chairs were from the eighteenth century.
I leaned back in my own chair, my arm snaking around Poppy’s shoulder. The hunger for her didn’t fade. It was only heightened by this palate cleanser, as any good nibble should do.
“As you can see, Father, we are very much in love. In fact—”
Father slammed his silver wolf cane down. “Enough! Keep to your modest place.”
Screw my father and his outdated mannerisms. I moved closer to feel this woman again, perhaps kiss her in front of everyone, but that was the moment Brontë decided to waltz in blitzed out of her bloody mind.
My little sister was barely nineteen and she certainly acted the part. Her skirt was riding up, her slim belly was showing, and her dark eyeliner shone from across the room. She looked like she’d stepped out of Covent Garden circa 1970, not into a grand estate where heirs were meant to look the part.
With a guilty glance, I detached myself from Poppy’s alluring side and straightened up as Brontë finally pulled away from sticking her tongue in a man’s ear. I saw she’d pierced it. And this was who Father wanted to inherit Wodehall?
Father rapped his cane on the ground three times, utterly annoyed by his heirs, but Brontë didn’t notice. She was giggling too hard, her arms wrapped around whatever wanker suited her purposes to piss off Father this week.
He finally threw it against the wall, shattering the wood in splinters, a loud crack echoing through the dining room.
“Get out!” he roared.
Chapter Fifteen
Poppy
I groaned. The previous night was a bit hazy. There had been wine and cognac and brandies, Finn’s horrible father, his father’s horrible friends, and Finn. I vaguely recalled kicking off my heels and dancing with Brontë on top of what I could only assume was a centuries-old billiards table used by Sir Francis Drake or the Duke of Wellington. We sang a duet, something about kissing a girl, which of course led to kissing girls. I remembered Brontë’s tongue ring clinking against my teeth.
A Manor of Faking It (The Clarion Abbey Series Book 1) Page 10