The Duke
A Standalone Royal Billionaire Novel
Selena Laurence
About The Duke
Winston Cauldwell is stuffy, proper, and the new owner of the Chicago Norsemen hockey team. He's also the heir to an actual Dukedom. When Winston receives a phone call telling him his grandfather has died and he's the new Duke of Surrey, there's one minor stipulation: he has to marry to get the cash. Strapped for capital to invest in the team, Winston strikes a deal for a wife in name only. But Kat is not at all what he bargained for, and she might make Winston rethink everything he's ever wanted.
Kat Monroe is spunky, opinionated, and the new DJ for the Chicago Norsemen. When her boss, the "Duke of Douches" fires her for her colorful behavior, she's left with a small business loan and not even a small income to pay it. But then the same Duke offers her the chance to have her job back and her loan paid off--if she'll agree to be his bride of convenience in exchange. But Winston is not at all what she bargained for, and he might make Kat rethink everything she's ever wanted.
The Duke is a standalone royal billionaire marriage of convenience romance with a grumpy hero, a spunky heroine, and an HEA worthy of Cinderella.
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Contents
Author’s Note
1. Kat
2. Winston
3. Kat
4. Winston
5. Kat
6. Winston
7. Kat
8. Winston
9. Kat
10. Winston
11. Kat
12. Winston
13. Kat
14. Winston
15. Kat
16. Winston
17. Kat
18. Winston
19. Kat
20. Winston
21. Kat
22. Winston
23. Kat
24. Winston
25. Kat
26. Winston
27. Kat
28. Winston
29. Kat
30. Winston
31. Kat
32. Winston
33. Kat
34. Winston
35. Kat
36. Winston
37. Kat
38. Winston
39. Kat
40. Winston
41. Kat
42. Winston
43. Kat
44. Winston
45. Kat
Epilogue
Also by Selena Laurence
About the Author
Author’s Note
I love historical romances about British Dukes and aristocracy. When I wrote this book I wanted to do a modern interpretation of the classic historical Duke romance, so I included as many of those elements as I could, but tried to update them to be reasonably accurate for contemporary times.
That being said, I am neither an expert in the British legal system, nor the contemporary aristocracy. I researched and tried to make it believable, but if I’ve made errors, just remember this is fiction, have fun with it, I certainly did.
Big Love,
Selena.
1
Kat
I bounce to the music, pointing at the crowd when Nelly raps, “It’s getting hot in here.” They answer back with "So take off all your clothes" and I grin, loving that I’ve trained them already though it’s only my third week on the job. My dream job—DJ for the Chicago Norsemen NHL team.
My bestie, Darnell, nods in approval and shakes his hips. Tonight, Darnell has on skinny jeans that are the darkest indigo, along with a red t-shirt that has been snipped all over and shows his dark skin and lean muscles every time he moves. He shaved his head last week and grew a goatee a month or so ago. He’s looking super hot, and I wish one of the hockey players swung his way so I could set them up. But so far, the Norsemen seem boringly straight. The locker room is always surrounded by the standard female groupies, but there aren’t even any rumors about kink. You’d think with all that testosterone at least one of the guys would have a red room or something, right?
"Oh, baby," Darnell shouts in my ear as I press the key to cue up the intro music for the team to take the ice. "Did you see the guy in row thirteen?"
I look over the railing from my perch at one end of the arena. Darnell points below us and I see a tall guy with a blond man bun and a black t-shirt. His arms are like something out of a Chris Hemsworth movie, and while I can’t get a good look at his ass, I have no doubt it’s award-worthy.
"Why don’t you go sell him some popcorn or something?" I shout back at Darnell with a wink.
"I think I just might do that," he answers. "You want something from concessions?"
I shake my head and he leaves to do whatever voodoo he’ll do. I watch as the clock counts down until it’s time to fade the track, and the announcer’s voice comes up.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he booms over the announcement system. "It’s time to welcome your Chicago Norsemen!"
The crowd goes nuts and the intro music starts up. From here on out, I just need to press play for the songs lined up in the order of player introductions. Each Norseman has his own intro song. Some are country—God help us—some are heavy metal—because if you’re a meathead time stands still, apparently—but most are decent, and they’re big fan pleasers.
The intros are done and the players are all lining up on the ice to start the game when I see him—my boss. Well, my boss’s boss’s boss, I guess. The team owner, Winston Cauldwell, Viscount something or other. Yes, the man who owns the Chicago Norsemen is an honest to God British lord of some sort. Crazy, right?
He’s also possibly the biggest prick I’ve ever met. Not that I’ve really met him. We were introduced in the hall once when I’d been working here about six minutes. He looked me down, then up, kind of sneered, and muttered something that sounded like "well, if you say so”, before he moved off down the hall at ninety miles an hour as if he might catch something from me.
I watch as he makes his way around the top tier of the arena where I’m set up. On this level there are only the most expensive private boxes, and two high-end concessions stands, plus the balcony where my equipment is set up. The boxes are all on the long sides of the arena, so the ends have open walkways, concessions, and me.
His royal assness strides closer and closer, and I can’t help but look behind me, trying to figure out why he might be coming over here. He doesn’t need the concession stand since his box is catered. There aren’t any other upper management lurking around, and no fans, either. It’s hard not to watch him. In spite of his deplorable personality, he’s hotter than sin. Tall, dark, and handsome as they come, he almost always has on one of those suits they talk about in romance novels. Fitted perfectly to his hard frame, dark, elegant, and completely out of sync with the environment of a hockey arena.
I decide my best course of action is to pretend I haven’t noticed him, so I turn back to my setup, checking and rechecking that the right songs are cued up for the breaks. But then a fight breaks out on the ice and I stop to look at the big screen while the fans jeer and shout. Ooh, it’s Deke Cushner one of our biggest defenders. He’s up against the boards pounding on some other guy who’s stabbing him with the handle of a stick. The refs are tugging on the two of them and now the crowd has started up the Norsemen’s Viking chant. They sound like they’re about t
o raid a village. God, I love this job.
"Knee him in the ‘nads!" I yell, even though no one can hear me from way up here. "You can take him, Deke!" I jump up and down as Deke manages to pry the stick away from the other guy and tosses it aside like it’s trash, then shoves him so hard he slides backward on his skates and falls flat on his face.
"Take that, bitch!" I cheer, jumping up and down. I used to love it when my older brothers got in fights and wrestled in my mom’s living room. One time, they broke the flat screen my dad had just bought us for Christmas. They had to work for my dad at his house painting business for six months to pay that one off.
"What exactly are you cheering for?" a pissy voice asks from behind me. Oh, hell. I got so caught up in the fight I forgot that stick up his ass was heading my direction.
I turn, giving him my most unauthentic smile.
"Mr. Cauldwell—or is there some title I have to call you? I’ve never really known and when I asked my friend Darnell, because he’s all about the royal family so I figured he’d know, he said he thought it was ‘My Lord’ but that once you became a Duke it’d be ‘Your Grace’, but see, the thing is, My Lord sounds a lot like it’s some kind of dom-sub thing, and as much as I like reading about that stuff—"
I realize then that he’s turning a strange shade of purple and his eyes are kind of bugging out of his head. I stop talking and just look at him, wondering if he’s constipated or something. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that particular color on a human being before.
"Um, are you okay?" I ask.
"Name," he demands.
"Mine?" I point to my chest and look side to side as if there might be someone else here besides the two of us. I notice his gaze drop to my boobs and his jaw tenses. Yeah, they’re real, Mr. High and Mighty. And as Teri Hatcher said in that episode of Seinfeld—they’re spectacular.
"Yes," he grinds out. "Your name."
"Oh! I’m Kat, which is short for Katherine, because, you know, Irish Catholic and all that, but I am so not a Katherine. The only one who ever calls me that is my mother, and then it’s only when she’s extremely pissed."
He nods tersely. Over his shoulder, I see Darnell heading toward us. He slows, and I shake my head subtly, warning him not to approach. I wouldn’t want the shrapnel to hit him when Bossman explodes.
"Well, Miss Cat…"
I can tell he’s saying it with a 'C' instead of a 'K’. Don’t ask how, I just know, and also, if he could intentionally misspell it, I feel certain he would.
"Listen very carefully for a moment."
I blink at him and nod. Behind him, Darnell is making ass-grabbing motions because, well, he might be royal and an asshole, but he’s also hot. It’s just hard to notice when he’s looming over you about to chew you up and spit you out. I try not to laugh at Darnell, but he’s totally getting into running his tongue along his teeth, gyrating his hips, making all the juicy grabby motions with his hands. I snort and have to cover my mouth with my hand. Bossman narrows his eyes at me.
"You have ten minutes—"
I nod again because I want to give the impression of being captivated by what my boss is saying. "Yes?”
"—to gather your belongings and get the hell out of my arena."
2
Winston
"Bloody hell," I groan, slapping my hand down on the nightstand, searching for my phone that’s making possibly the most God-awful sound I’ve ever heard.
"Make it staahp," the brunette—Jessica, I think—next to me whines. I really should have made her go home before I fell asleep. I’m not really a bedmate kind of guy.
I finally connect with the damn implement of torture and lean up on one elbow as I tap the screen and put the phone to my ear.
"Hello?" My voice is gravelly and thick.
"Winston?" my mother says through the line. "Is that you?"
While most men my age would probably be concerned that their mother was calling them in the middle of the night, I’m more surprised that she’s calling me at all. Lucinda Cauldwell doesn’t call unless she needs something, and London is six hours ahead of Chicago time, something Lucinda would never bother to consider.
"Yes, Mum, who else would be answering my phone?"
"Oh, darling, it’s simply horrible," she gushes, not sounding like it’s horrible at all.
I sigh, trying to get my brain to catch up to whatever fresh hell this is.
"Mum, it’s two a.m. here. What do you need?"
"It’s your grandfather, darling."
My mind races. What’s the old bastard done this time? My grandfather, the Duke of Surrey, loves nothing more than to set up impossible challenges for me. My father passed away when I was twelve, and thus, I’m the heir to the Dukedom. Grandfather was determined that I not turn out like dear old Dad who, in all fairness, was a reprobate who spent most of his time squandering the family fortune and chasing after porn stars. My mother turned the other cheek as long as he handed her a generous allowance at the start of every month.
So far, in my thirty-one years of life, my grandfather has made me get two degrees from Oxford, do one three-year stint in Her Majesty’s armed forces, Chair some of the dullest, most backward philanthropies in the British Isles—Society to Erect Statues of British Soldiers anyone? And start seven different businesses from scratch, then telling every bank in the known western world to deny me funding when I tried to grow them.
My head aches from the mere idea of what he might have concocted this time, and I’m willing to bet it involves my newest venture, the one I’m determined to succeed at no matter what—the Chicago Norsemen hockey team.
I bought the Norsemen a few months ago by liquidating my entire trust fund. I’m literally living off the fumes of one poorly performing mutual fund that I kept to pay for a few items to keep up appearances—a car service, my apartment, and business dinners.
And the Norsemen are doing well under my stewardship. The team’s finances have stabilized and we’ve turned a profit for two consecutive quarters. But it’s been a tiny one and I’m afraid that the only way to improve that is to make some very needed improvements to the arena and our fund for new drafts. If we can’t sweeten our offers in the upcoming year, we’re going to lose out to better-funded teams, and that drags down revenues across the board.
"Winston?"
I snap back to the here and now as my mother’s voice rises in irritation.
"Yes, Mum, sorry. What has grandfather done now?"
I stand from the bed and look around for something to cover myself. Somehow, talking to my mum on the phone naked seems…gross.
Grabbing a towel from the en suite, I make my way to the kitchen with it wrapped around my waist. Once there, I start the coffee maker up. As long as I’m awake now, I may as well get some work done after I’ve been dealt the latest blow by the Duke.
"He’s gone and died!" my mother exclaims in distress.
The carafe in my hand falls to the floor and shatters.
"What? I’m sorry, I must not have heard you right."
"Darling, pay attention," Mum directs. "Your grandfather has died. You’re the new Duke of Surrey."
3
Kat
"Hello. This is. Bank One calling about your credit line." The computer voice continues as I quickly hang up.
"Who was that?" my mother asks.
"Just a solicitation call," I answer, picking at my fingernails so I don’t have to look her in the eyes. I know if I told her about the loan I had to take out for my new DJ business, she and my dad would help me however they could, but I don’t want them to. I should be doing this on my own. It’s been my dream since I was fifteen. It took me nine years to put it together. And now I’ve been fired. I try to ignore the ache in the pit of my stomach.
How I’m going to make the now delinquent payment on the loan is something I’m choosing to think about later. That and the rent. Also the groceries. Kind of like Scarlett O’Hara. Tomorrow is another day and will certainl
y include another call from the bank, or the landlord, or the credit card department.
"How do solicitors get your cell phone number?" She slides the potatoes across the kitchen table for me to peel. It’s Sunday night, and that means family dinner. Tonight it’s brisket with potatoes, because apparently we have to be a total cliché of the Irish and eat potatoes with every Sunday dinner always.
"Well, since it’s my only phone number, it’s all over the place, you know? Every time I fill out a form that asks for phone number, this is the one I put. I’m sure someone sold a list somewhere and now I get sales calls."
She sniffs as if that explanation isn’t to her liking.
Just then, my brothers come walking in, one of them telling the other two to "eff off”, which would have normally been closer to "fuck off, you motherfuckers" but he’s toned it down because he knows my mom is right inside the door.
I have three older brothers, and they’re pretty great, but since I’ve been working so hard at getting my DJ business up and running, I don’t see them often enough.
"You’re just pissed because she liked me better," Ronny tells Gerry.
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