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

  A Manor of Faking It

  The Clarion Abbey Series

  Hadley Harlin

  Henwin Press LTD

  Copyright © 2020 by Hadley Harlin

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Any appearance to real people is purely a coincidence and should not be inferred.

  Editor: Editing by C. Marie

  Cover Designer: Shanoff Designs

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Also by Hadley Harlin

  A Manor of Faking It

  1. Poppy

  2. Poppy

  3. Finn

  4. Poppy

  5. Finn

  6. Poppy

  7. Finn

  8. Poppy

  9. Finn

  10. Poppy

  11. Finn

  12. Poppy

  13. Finn

  14. Finn

  15. Poppy

  16. Finn

  17. Finn

  18. Poppy

  19. Finn

  20. Poppy

  21. Poppy

  22. Finn

  23. Poppy

  24. Finn

  25. Poppy

  26. Poppy

  27. Finn

  28. Finn

  29. Finn

  30. Poppy

  31. Finn

  32. Poppy

  Epilogue

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  About the Author

  Also by Hadley Harlin

  Cooking up a Celebrity series:

  Melted: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy

  Seared: A Sexy, Culinary Competition Romantic Comedy

  Fired: A Holiday Romantic Comedy

  Coming Spring 2020

  Burned (Blackberry Hills Farm Book 1)

  A Manor of Taking It (Clarion Abbey Book 2)

  A Manor of Faking It

  The prodigal daughter returns.

  Finn:

  I’m the privileged elite. I have money, land, and a prestigious dukedom within my grasp—until my father threatens disinheritance after my latest debacle, a dishonorable discharge from the RAF that ended my days as a fighter pilot. Now, if I don’t put up a pretty façade of repentance, he’ll give the dukedom to my irresponsible little sister thanks to the new Alexander the Great laws. To the “fittest” goes the estate.

  Poppy:

  One minute, I’m one of the highest-paid Instagram influencers in LA. The next, I find my producer boyfriend in position number thirty-eight with a wannabe actress. Sometimes, Hollywood really is that cliché. Then the real bomb drops: my father dies, leaving me his crumbling earldom, despite the fact that I haven’t been back to England in ten years. I can’t be the first Perrinton in almost a thousand years to lose the land! I’ll have to use all of my American charm to save my estate—and keep from falling back in love with my childhood savior and tormentor, Finlay Damford.

  A Manor of Faking It is the first book in a steamy new contemporary series. If you like Downton Abbey, fake relationships, second chances, betrayals, feisty heroines, and broken heroes, read on!

  Go and Catch a Falling Star

  Go and catch a falling star,

  Get with child a mandrake root,

  Tell me where all past years are,

  Or who cleft the devil's foot,

  Teach me to hear mermaids singing,

  Or to keep off envy's stinging,

  And find

  What wind

  Serves to advance an honest mind.

  If thou be'st born to strange sights,

  Things invisible to see,

  Ride ten thousand days and nights,

  Till age snow white hairs on thee,

  Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me,

  All strange wonders that befell thee,

  And swear,

  No where

  Lives a woman true, and fair.

  If thou find'st one, let me know,

  Such a pilgrimage were sweet;

  Yet do not, I would not go,

  Though at next door we might meet;

  Though she were true, when you met her,

  And last, till you write your letter,

  Yet she

  Will be

  False, ere I come, to two, or three.

  -John Donne

  Chapter One

  Poppy

  Some guys hate surprises, and some just say they do. I was about to find out which camp my boyfriend of two years belonged in. I was obviously betting on the latter.

  “Okay, try to walk quietly,” I told my companion. I opened the door leading up to the third-floor walkup apartment and lingered on the first stair. “Like, don’t even breathe. Channel a ballerina, or better yet, a mute mouse. I don’t want him hearing us.”

  Hawthorne West—my boyfriend’s favorite celebrity—raised one of his gorgeous, perfectly sculpted eyebrows.

  “You must really be something to get my higher-ups to agree to this,” he said finally, massaging his signature scruff.

  “And by your higher-ups, you mean your wife, Sophia?”

  “Obviously.”

  “Relax. I told her I’d get those promo pieces across all my social media sites in time for your new restaurant opening tomorrow. I promise I’ll make it happen. Okay, get ready—we’re going live.”

  He nodded his assent, so I tapped Go live on my phone. Instantly, our faces began streaming to my million-plus faithful @ladypoppyseed followers. Thousands of profile bubbles tuned in. I’d been dangling this surprise for a week. Everyone was looking forward to what I had planned.

  Messages started scrolling at the bottom and little thumbs-up symbols peppered my screen. My brand was happiness. I radiated it like a nuclear reactor, infecting everyone with a simple smile. Getting people a tiny slice of the good life through my promotions and sales for hot brands or even just my daily morning dance parties made the world a more joyful place. It was my mojo.

  And today was the biggest slice yet.

  Dean would probably get down on one and knee and propose on the spot. He’d sweep me off my feet and we’d spend the next week in Fiji, planning our elaborate dream wedding. I’d come back gorgeously tan and relaxed enough to not become a bridezilla. Maybe I’d even invite my father and brother.

  I hadn’t seen them in ten years, but weddings heal. Weddings bring families back together. Weddings have free alcohol.

  My adrenaline spiked as we reached the door to our West Hollywood two-bedroom apartment. I could barely keep from ruining the surprise in excitement as I motioned for Hawthorne to get closer.

  Dean fancied himself the next Hawthorne West. He was a daytime television producer who wanted to branch out and form his own company, like Hawthorne, and I’d gotten him a one-on-one meeting. I’d been with Dean since we met at a restaurant opening two years prior. He’d dazzled me with his laid-back charm and sultry smile, and we’d been together ever since, living a fairytale life of two pros who had made it in show business, him behind the camera and me as a sought-after Instagram influencer.

  I rearranged my soft, wavy hair over my shoulder and made sure my eight-thousand-dollar, white, spaghetti strap sundress fit in the frame. Fashion wasn’t one of my vices, but I’d splurged on this number for the occasion. The goddess Kate Middleton herself had worn it, which was good enough for me.

  “Hello, my beautiful Poppingtons,” I whispered. “
So here’s the deal: I’ve got none other than Hawthorne West right here in my apartment. We’re going to surprise Dean for his birthday! I can’t wait to see his face when he realizes his idol is standing in our living room! Place your bets now for his reaction and make sure to tap the link below. I’ll post our conversation there.”

  I shot a wink to Hawthorne, who rolled his eyes in return. What a sourpuss. Well, I had enough effervescent charm for the both of us. It usually fizzled over like a shaken-up soda can, which was what made my Instagram brand so popular. That, and the morning dance parties.

  Obviously.

  “Okay, Poppingtons, here we go!” I pushed the door open—and promptly lost my shit.

  Chapter Two

  Poppy

  My soon-to-be ex stared at me, his California good looks wasted on my wrath, his limbs twisted in some weird Kama Sutra pose with a wannabe actress I recognized from his latest show. They quickly pulled the covers over their bare asses.

  “Poppy! You’re early.”

  I stood in the doorway of the home we’d built together. Everything else fell away and became fuzzy around the edges. I barely remembered that my phone was on or that one of the most recognizable faces in the world stood next to me, likely feeling rather uncomfortable.

  “Is that… Are you… Uh, Poppy? You brought Hawthorne West to our apartment?”

  What bullshit.

  Dean and the redheaded slut both stared at me, looking only slightly guilty. I was so done.

  I shot Dean with a finger gun and clicked my tongue. “I always said you were perceptive.”

  “Are you…are you live right now?” Dean asked.

  I looked at my phone, outrage already pouring into the comments section. There was a lot of You deserve better, girl and, my personal favorite, Have Hawthorne tape his hairy balls to the wall!

  They were hairy.

  Hawthorne averted his gaze—probably so Sophia, his wife, wouldn’t maim him for staring at Miss Wannabe’s tits—and whispered, “I feel like I should go.”

  I flipped the phone camera back to stream my incensed face. “Well, you’ve seen it here first, Poppingtons. Don’t let his California surfer looks fool you. Dean is a cheating liar. Steer clear.”

  He didn’t even try to apologize as he disentangled himself from the other woman and our once-pristine white bedsheets. Our entire sunny apartment was now tainted.

  “Look, it doesn’t mean anything. Just a bit of fun. I, mean, you’ve been distracted lately—”

  Hawthorne shook his head. “Man, stop talking.”

  “So because I’ve been busy working, you get to sleep around?” I fumed. “That makes total caveman sense! Please, I’m so sorry I interrupted. Don’t mind me while I throw things at your heads.”

  The girl flinched at that. To be honest, I could barely tell what she looked like, and I didn’t really care. “Oh, calm down. I’m not going to throw your things. Only his.”

  And with that, I tossed his priceless daytime Emmy right out the window of our third-floor walk-up. How had he not heard me coming up those creaky stairs? Maybe he just didn’t care.

  That made my arm itch to throw more stuff. Goodbye, second daytime Emmy!

  He screamed and fled to the window as the statuettes made the most satisfying smashing sound. “You decapitated her!”

  “That’s a thing, baby, not a her—although you treated me like a statue most of the time, too.” I put my hand to my mouth as if sharing a secret with Miss Wannabe. “He can’t quite figure out the female orgasm, can he?”

  She flamed redder and began rooting around the sprawled bedsheets for her underwear. Hawthorne shifted his weight. Finally, he threw his head back and sighed.

  “I’m gonna regret this.” He towered over Dean, not touching him, and turned to me. “You want me to punch him for you? Or hold him up while you punch him? I bet I can get his feet to dangle.”

  Dean scrunched away. “If you’re going to regret it, then don’t do it.”

  “Shut up,” Hawthorne and I said in unison.

  I glanced around the spacious apartment. Besides my passport, there was only one thing I wanted to take with me. The rest of my life in LA had been a joke, one big cosmic joke with the world laughing at me. I refused to take any of that with me.

  But this I needed. I grabbed a small box from the bookshelf as the girl babbled something about being sorry and, “Oh, I didn’t realize he had a girlfriend!”

  “Listen, sweetheart,” I told her, more venom in my voice than I wanted. I toned it down. It wasn’t her fault—I hoped. I supposed she could have seen the pictures of me around the apartment and assumed it was his sister. “Listen: once a cheater, always a cheater. Get out, girl. Get—”

  I paused in my truth-telling soliloquy when my phone vibrated. I looked down and saw a Google Alert I had set for my dad scroll across the screen over the increasingly hostile comments from my live viewers.

  Even if we never spoke, I liked to keep tabs on Dad.

  The 9th Earl of Arun presumed dead on Mount Everest during a storm. Details to come.

  I sat down hard, my phone clattering out of my hand. Was it possible to die of shock? I was only 26. I couldn’t die yet. I still had to…do…stuff. I had to travel the world and write my book and…and…see my dad again.

  “Poppy? Are you okay?” Hawthorne asked.

  I stood up, composing myself so I could fall apart somewhere else later.

  “Only a true douchebag cheats on his girlfriend the day her dad dies.” With that, I finally remembered to turn off the live stream.

  My now-ex blanched, no doubt envisioning with horror how the world would slay him on social media. “Poppy! Wait, I had no idea—”

  “And you would have waited until after the funeral had you known? Save it. Also, it’s Lady Poppy to you.”

  I stalked to the door, knowing I looked fucking amazing in my white sundress and self-righteous wrath. That sort of thing makes one taller, more elegant. I should have known; I’d watched my mom do it once upon a time, too.

  “Come on, Hawthorne.”

  Except…shutting the door on my life in California didn’t feel nearly as cathartic as I’d hoped it would. Even actually slamming the door didn’t help.

  Hawthorne tapped my shoulder. I thought he was trying to comfort me in his own, awkward way.

  I sniffled once. “Is this how Sophia likes to be consoled?”

  Hawthorne snorted. “Sophia isn’t a touchy-feely person. I think she’d stab me if I tried to hug her.”

  “Wow. You two were made for each other.” I sat on the bottom stair and put my head in my hands. “What am I going to do?”

  Hawthorne sat next to me. His hulking presence made the stairwell tight, but I appreciated the calm the nearness of another body brought. I was a super touchy-feely hugger. It was the American half of me.

  “You pick yourself up, go home, and grieve.”

  I sniffled. “Then what?”

  “You live.” Hawthorne reached out his hand and pulled me up. “And hey, don’t worry about that promo for tomorrow. Two days is fine.”

  I snuffed up a bunch of snot and gave him a watery laugh. “I hope you’re joking, but I know you’re not.”

  “You know me well.” Out on the bright LA street, he hailed a taxi for me. “Let me pay for your flight. Where do you want to go?”

  I pictured my mom in Denver, thinking maybe I could convince her to come back with me.

  “May I suggest Fiji?” Hawthorne asked once my silence had stretched on for a few beats.

  I shook my head. “Thanks, but I think I should head home—to England.”

  Hawthorne pulled out his wallet and peeled off a few hundred-dollar bills. “For the cab ride. Call me when you get to the airport and I’ll arrange for you to go wherever you want. If it were me, I’d wallow somewhere warm for a while. England will be there when you’re done.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I replied with a sniff.

  He ga
ve me a one-arm pat and opened the taxi door for me to slide across the leather seats. “Oh, what the hell,” he said. “I’ll give you a week for the promo.”

  “Ha, ha.”

  On the long ride to LAX, while the stupid sun refused to stop freaking shining for even a minute, I called my mom. It was days like this that I actually missed England’s dreary refusal to have a summer. One could wallow all day and not feel the least bit guilty.

  Mom picked up before it even rang on my end. “Hey, Poppy Seed. Hanging in there? How are you?”

  “Not good.” I sniffled. Then I snorted. The waterworks were coming. Mom followed my live streams, so she already knew everything.

  She made the appropriate outraged noises and engaged in name-calling as she soothed me. “Why don’t you come to Denver? Don’t worry about the estate. Your half-brother will take care of it, and your dad would understand.”

  I laughed. “Stone? Right, because he’s always been so reliable.” From the Google Alerts, I gathered he’d graduated from terrorizing me to terrorizing the London social scene.

  “Poppy Seed, you don’t have to go. Come home and stay with me. We’ll clear our auras. We’ll commune with nature. We’ll relax. Nobody would fault you for wanting to be with your mother at this time.”