“Devon first for the only reds in the region, and then Giraffe Peak in Cornwall for whites and sparkling whites.”
“Oh, that’s near the ocean!”
Finn jerked his head to the space behind his seat. “Which is why I packed us swimsuits.”
“You thought that up all by yourself? You do have layers.” I giggled.
“Alistair might have helped.”
“Ah, the truth always reveals itself.”
As the words left my lips, I wondered. Was that true? When would Finn guess the truth about my feelings? They had always been there, from the day I met him, and I was finding it increasingly hard to ignore or discount them.
I wondered what he was thinking as I watched him covertly out of the corner of my eye, driving with one arm on the wheel and the other loosely on the gear shift. What was he thinking about? The truth?
What was his truth?
Finn cleared his throat. “You’re different. I mean from when we were kids. More bubbly, bright.”
I scowled. “How’s this for bright?”
“I don’t mean it as an insult. I’m just curious what happened in America. Was it really so great that it changed your entire personality?”
With a heavy sigh, I thought seriously about his question. Finally, I replied, “I don’t think so. I think it was a defense mechanism. Be bubbly, be bright, don’t let anyone get close enough to see the unpleasant bits. Nobody wants the real you in California, certainly not for selling things, which, essentially, was what I did.” I glanced sideways at him. “Kind of like your mask. You pretend to be this opaque, untouchable hard-ass when we both know you’re the boy who saved me from Stone’s worst instincts and cared enough to notice they were there in the first place.”
“I don’t deserve your gratitude.” Finn’s voice was tight.
With my boldness beginning to come back, I reached across and put my hand on his thigh. It was hard and muscular, tensing as he gunned down the motorway. At my touch, his muscles jerked, and he swelled, thickening between his legs.
“I thought that once, too.”
Finn glanced at me quickly, unnerved by my touch. “And?”
“And I have no idea what to think now.”
He lifted his eyebrows and refocused on the road. “Fair enough. I’ll take what I can get.”
The strength of what he was saying hit me like a Mack truck. “Why, Finn? Why does it matter what I think about you?”
“I’ve always cared what you think about me. I will always care what you think about me.”
With a gulp, I nodded my head. Okay then. I had everything and nothing to say to that. The only safe course was to say nothing.
But then, for the first time in a decade, I wished on 11:11 in that moment, and I had true hope it would work.
Our first stop in Devon was a small, family-run winery specializing in pinot noir and shiraz. There weren’t any amenities except for a tour, but it won awards every year at international competitions.
The vintner introduced himself and took us through his vineyard. “Thank you for thinking of us, Lord Damford and Lady Perrinton.”
Before I could correct him and insist he call me Poppy, he was off, a border collie at his feet and lambs and chicks clucking around the vines while picking for worms.
Finn raised an eyebrow at me and mouthed, “After you, Lady Perrinton.”
I swatted him and followed the man, who explained about his grapes and the climate and a whole bunch of other stuff I didn’t catch.
“We’re excited to introduce you to our reds. People laugh and scoff at trying to get red grapes to grow in our cooler climate, but the pinot noir is a hardy grape. It can take the chill.”
Finn leaned over to my ear, and I shivered as his breath swirled the hairs on the nape of my neck and the golden pulse beat wildly in my veins. In an attempt at self-preservation, I took a step away so his husky voice wouldn’t completely ruin me.
“These are the best reds England has to offer. I say we talk him into a few cases for the event with promises to work together in the future. I’d really like to get to the next winery before sundown.”
I nodded my agreement.
Finn finalized the details while I checked my list. Only a few more things left to do, which was good. Two weeks had flown by, and there was only one left before Clarion’s big debut and reentry into society.
I recorded a quick live video for social media under some lush, green, grape leaves and kissed a lamb on the nose.
My faithful followers ate it up, wishing they could attend. A few sharp-eyed fans started asking about Finlay, noticing him in every video. I promptly ignored those.
Finn strolled back over, his hands in his pockets and that charming smile on his face. He looked like a dashing fighter pilot in those aviators and jacket, but the warm flushes I got every time he looked at me were starting to drive me crazy. Could I control my body for one day around him? Just once?
“You’re all set, milady. Ready to go?”
We jumped into the McLaren and roared down the motorway the rest of the way through the Cornish countryside. An hour later, the sun crested in the sky when we pulled up to Giraffe Peak Winery. This larger winery was adorable with a tasting room overlooking a valley of perfectly laid out rows of vines, and the vintners were only too happy to greet us. It was a brother and sister who had no right to look as gorgeous as they did. Some families get all the luck.
I particularly did not appreciate the way the tall blonde sister gazed up and down Finn’s towering figure. Call me crazy, but Finn was going to stay faithful during this fake relationship. He could bump around with her after our six months was up.
Okay, call me certifiably crazy, because all I wanted was to feel Finn’s fingers again, and I was having the worst time trying to concentrate during the tour of their facilities and land. Oh great, centuries-old vines grafted onto newer ones. A climate-controlled wine cellar. Sustainable business practices. Awesome. Wow.
Finally, we went to the oaken tasting room reserved privately for us, and I couldn’t stop feeling the urge to accidentally trip Ms. Legs into her vines head first.
“We are thrilled to be on your radar, Lady Perrinton,” the brother began.
I put my hand over my chest in mock exasperation. “Please, I still feel very American. Call me Poppy.”
The vintner smiled like he was indulging me and avoided any use of my name or title after that. He was so proper, while his ridiculously improper sister grazed Finn’s arm as she poured us tastes.
“I can take you through our list, but I think it would be appropriate to know what you plan to serve so we can properly pair our wines,” she said innocently.
Oh, I was onto her.
“Good thinking.” I pulled up my courses and scanned the list. “Okay, first we’ll have a few hors d’oeuvres while tours are conducted through the main floor and gardens. That will consist of fried oysters and vol-au-vent poulet aux truffles: a chicken mousse with a piece of shaved white truffle on top. You mainly produce white and sparkling wines, correct? Can we try a dry brut?”
“Absolutely. I think our white pinot brut would go wonderfully with the white truffle and the oysters.”
We swirled and sniffed, politely letting the bubbles dance on our tongues. It was a beautiful wine. Damn her.
I explained the main courses that would pair with whites. “There will also be a chicken and sorrel soup with a poached egg and turbot a la ravigote: pan-fried turbot in a white wine sauce with tarragon and anchovies. What do you suggest for those?”
The siblings led us through a few more selections and left us to discuss. For a few minutes, we only tasted, but I immediately felt the intensity of Finn’s stare. With a stutter, I nodded to the bottles. “So, um…what do you think?”
Finn picked up the brut. “It’s light and refreshing. It will work well with those cod swim bladders.”
“Blech. Yeah, I don’t care how historical it is—no swim bladders. But
it would work with the appetizers. For the turbot course, I say we use the pinot grigio. We can use it in the white wine and tarragon sauce.”
“Do you have a chef who’s willing to take on such a peculiar menu?”
“That’s the one hiccup I still have.” I shook my head. “But I’m hoping to find someone soon.”
“Are you going to interview them or just throw yourself at their mercy?”
“The throwing and mercy one.”
“Ah. Very good, milady.”
“Finn! Stop calling me that.”
He grinned and clinked wine glasses with me. “But you’re so adorable all riled up. You get this little vein that pulses on your neck.”
“That does not sound adorable,” I said, cupping my fingers over it.
“Trust me, it is. It proves I’ve gotten your blood pumping.” Finn went to discuss the donation of wines in return for our patronage when my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, but since any media or blogger might call, I answered anyway.
“Poppy!”
Brontë’s excited voice knifed through my eardrums.
“Brontë?”
“Who else? Now listen, I have a few ideas for our big dinner.”
“Um, what?” I could hear Brontë puff out a breath of smoke and immediately pictured her lipstick-ringed cigarette between her fingers.
“The upcoming dinner at Clarion—I want to help. Not only will it piss off Father, I actually like the idea. I think it’s brilliant.”
“Thanks, but why would it piss off your father?”
Brontë laughed. “Of course, Finn didn’t say anything. What a pussy. Let me fill you in. Father told Finn to drop you like yesterday’s daily or face disenfranchisement. He said something along the lines of, ‘She’s even worse than hookers and blow.’” Brontë snorted again. “Which is ridiculous but also terrifying. I, for one, don’t fancy inheriting Wodehall. My life is too cozy for that. So here I am, at your disposal. What do you need? Jaspar, my current boyfriend, hosts that talk show where they get celebrities to do silly things like headstands and shit to promote their latest movie. Fancy getting on there?”
“Oh wow, that would be amazing, but I’m not a celebrity—not here at least.”
“No, but you are a countess. We Brits have a soft spot for aristocracy. Well, most of us.”
Finn came back smiling. I waved a finger at him to let him know I needed a minute and turned around, whispering into my phone behind a cupped hand.
“That’s really sweet, thank you, Brontë. Let’s talk when I get back to Clarion. I’m checking out wineries right now to try to score free booze.”
She laughed. “How delicious. Hopefully you’re not with my bonehead brother. While you’re gone, I’ll do a little digging in Father’s study. He won’t know the difference. At least we’ll know what we’re working with, then.” She blew a kiss through the phone.
“Ha, funny,” I deadpanned then quickly hung up. I turned to face Finn, who strode toward me, all masculine and large with his hands lazily in his jean pockets.
“You’re all set. Several crates will be sent over next week.” He noticed my pacing and long expression. “What’s going on? You don’t look excited to have crossed off a major thing on your to-do list.”
“Did your father tell you to get rid of me?”
Finn’s face hardened and his smile disappeared. “Who told you that?”
My nostrils flared. “So it’s true. And you were going to lie to me this whole time.”
“Actually, I told him to fuck off and let me live my life.”
My stomach swooped hotly. Finn wasn’t playing fake girlfriend. The same golden pulse that told me he was near told me he meant what he said.
“Your sister called me while you were negotiating,” I admitted.
“What did that walking disaster want?”
“She’s not that bad. In fact, I quite like her. Anyway,” I continued over his objections that she was, in fact, the worst, “she wants to help. Since I need all the help I can get, I agreed.”
“Why the fuck would Brontë want to help?”
I narrowed my eyes at his response. “Same reason you want to, I imagine. Besides liking me, thank you very much, she wants to piss off your father.” I studied him for a few moments. “Finn, if you have to end our fake relationship, tell me. I’ll understand. Of course, I’d still love your help, but we don’t have to do it as a couple.”
“No,” Finn said firmly. “The optics would look terrible for your dinner. We’ve only announced our relationship two weeks ago. Any and all gossip would be about our relationship’s disintegration if we announced a breakup so soon.”
“But what about your father? You don’t have to worry about your sister. Brontë made it clear she wants nothing to do with inheriting Wodehall. Neither of you want that. Your father sounds like he doesn’t care what his children want, though.”
“So you know the Duke,” he said, his eyes dark despite the lightness in his voice. He guided me by the elbow through the vineyard. “Come on, there’s something I want to show you.”
Intrigued, I followed.
We walked outside into the smell of honeysuckle as Finn took me up to a little stone cottage at the top of a rolling hill, overlooking the grape vines. There was a table and wicker chairs set up with a bottle of brut and two champagne flutes under a trellis of the aromatic white flowers.
“Finn?” I asked, my confusion deepening as little goosebumps rose along my arms.
“I’ve rented out the cottage for tonight,” Finn explained, pouring us both a glass, “and I was hoping you’d join me for dinner first.”
“You want us to spend the night?” I asked in disbelief, jolted as he handed me the sparkling white.
Finn was an aristocratic asshole, a vanquisher, a taker, but he wanted to have dinner with me. He wanted to confide in me. I couldn’t help but feel flattered.
“We haven’t even made it to the coast yet for that swim,” he said mildly after we clinked flutes. “Of course, we have to stay longer.”
“You were serious about swimming?” Luckily, my no-money-means-no-food diet meant I was currently incredibly tiny and building muscles from all of the gardening.
“I never kid about the ocean.”
I raised an eyebrow. “That’s a weird thing to be serious about.”
Finn stopped mid-drink, the glass barely grazing his lips. He set it down. “Is that my necklace?”
I clasped a hand over it. Lately, I’d been taking it out of its box and holding it. Today, I’d worn it. I hadn’t thought Finn would notice, though if I had plumbed my depths, I would have probably found I was hoping he would.
“Yes. Did you want it back?”
He pried my fingers off and bent low to examine it, breathing over my chest. More goosebumps erupted where his breath touched me, and I couldn’t help the involuntary shiver that rolled through my body. Damn him again and again!
Finn looked up at my physical reaction, grinning, and I knew it was because he could probably see my nipples hardening, even under a black t-shirt, or at least he suspected it was happening.
His hands slid down from the necklace, warm and strong. There was no hesitancy or gentleness at first. He gripped my biceps, and the places where his fingers indented and touched me felt branded, like he wanted to sear his essence to mine.
We hadn’t kissed yet, but a small moan escaped when my jeans rubbed between my thighs and everything ached.
Still, he only watched me.
Toyed with me.
I ripped my arm free from his grip and took as petite a sip of my brut as I could manage while Finn lounged back, still watching in that predatory way.
“What?” I asked innocently.
He smiled, his eyes boring into mine. Every time I allowed myself eye contact, heat blossomed and swelled. His voice drew me in again and again.
“Poppy, you are aware that I’m the only one who will truly understand you anymore, right
?”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, half-mesmerized.
“This. Your old American life is gone. You may have been a popular figure thanks to social media, but you were always seen as accessible. Now, you’re something else entirely.”
I rose from my chair. “I didn’t become Queen of England—I inherited a run-down estate. How does that make me inaccessible?”
“I alone understand what it’s like to have people pawing over you simply because of your title and money.”
“That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” I began before Finn spun me around to fit perfectly onto his lips.
“Whereas I plan to paw all over you despite your title and lack of money.” He nuzzled my neck, nipping my earlobe.
A sweet heat bloomed and grew low in my belly. It rose, threatening to consume me, and I wanted to let it. His hands hungrily searched my body, so I joined him, tracking the tight ridges of his abs and back while I tugged off his shirt.
With a growl, Finn swept me into his arms and carried me into the cottage. A single bed was made up in the middle with a quilted bedsheet that we didn’t bother to take off.
Finn tipped my head back, searching my eyes for a moment to gauge if I would let him. Without one thought or hesitation, I engulfed his lips with mine, throwing myself into the heat crawling up my legs.
I was consumed—except for that little niggling thought that all of this wasn’t real, that the winery trip, Finn, the freaking relationship was a fairy tale with an expiration date. That doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy the ride while it lasts, I reminded myself.
Just remember it’s not real. Always remember that.
We were using one another equally. This was just an added component to our mutual agreement. I had to remember that. Finn would.
He tipped my neck back and ran his fingers down my throat before tracing the same pathways with his lips. He nuzzled against my neck, inhaling, and I could feel his breath stirring the little hairs and heating up my core.
“You smell delicious,” he murmured, lips against that sensitive spot between my collarbone and neck. “Mmm.”
A Manor of Faking It (The Clarion Abbey Series Book 1) Page 13