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

  I sunk against the leather seat of the cab. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”

  “Why? The man wronged me. It’s not my fault he had to go and get himself killed in some ridiculous midlife crisis.”

  “Mom!” I said, feeling very British with my scandalized tone. “How is hiding in America going to give us closure? We’ve been doing that for ten years, and I don’t feel the least bit closed.” I played with the edge of my ridiculously expensive dress, which was now the only piece of clothing I possessed. “More importantly, because he’s still my father.”

  Memories of the man before the split invaded my mind. Dad pushing me on the swing he built among the yew trees and playing George the Dragonslayer in the forest. He always let me be George while he played the damsel in distress. Dad singing bawdy bar songs at my parents’ elegant dinner parties until two a.m. Dad sweating and swearing as he built me a magnificent tree house that would put Buckingham Palace to shame.

  I dug through my purse until I found the small box and opened it. The box meant nothing, but inside was a small gold chain with a carved princess slaying a dragon. I slipped it out and looked at it. I wasn’t ready to wear it yet, but at least I could stand the sight of it.

  “I’m sorry, Mom, but I’m going home…to England.” I hung up before she could protest. If she wanted to hang on to her hurt for the rest of her life, fine. Not me.

  I couldn’t exactly call it home, but there was a certain nostalgia for the place I’d spent half of my childhood.

  My phone binged with a text message.

  Mom: CALL ME.

  I turned my phone off as the large, white LAX sign came into view.

  “Which terminal?” the cabbie asked.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  He shrugged and pulled to the nearest gate. I grasped for my purse as I exited the taxi.

  “No suitcase?” he asked, helping me out.

  I shook my head and handed him a hundred-dollar bill. “Keep the change.”

  It was time to go back, time to return to somewhere I hadn’t been in ten years, to see all the people I had tried forget. It had to be better than where I was.

  Chapter Three

  Finn

  The lights dimmed and the chatter of the crowd decreased to a dull roar. The ballroom was filled with round tables and people dripping in jewels, Alexander McQueen, and little self-awareness.

  The irony that this was a charity event for London’s homeless wasn’t lost on me. I took another swig of whiskey to cope with the hypocrisy. All sorts of eligible bachelors were waiting in the wings to be auctioned off, with me being the main event as it was my charity.

  My mate Essie, who was also up for auction, slapped me on the back and grabbed the bottle.

  “Pretentious wankers, all of them. Where should we club after this little show?”

  I rescued the bottle from his clutches. “Mate” was a bit of a strong word. I put up with his outrageous behavior because he was one of us—titled, entitled, wealthy. So what did it say about me if our other mates had decided to go on a sailing trip to Antigua without either of us? I took another slug of Jameson to drown out my conscience.

  The president of my charity beckoned us forward and cleared her throat into the microphone. Cameras clicked from all sides to capture the moment. She was composed, immaculate in Chanel and dripping in pearls.

  “Thank you all for attending tonight’s bachelor auction! We have a great group of men ready to wine and dine a few special ladies—and for a great cause! Your contributions tonight will go toward funding another crisis center in London. Each and every pound raised will change lives for the better and will be matched by the Marquess of Damford, as well.”

  She smiled as we took a modest bow, although Essie almost toasted it right there.

  The president didn’t seem to notice. “Next, let’s give a hearty welcome to our patron, Finlay Creedwell, 15th Marquess of Damford.”

  Applause rocked the ballroom as they gave me a standing ovation. I nodded my head and gave a small salute. The president smiled and pressed her body into mine. “Thank you,” she whispered, her hand over the microphone. “I’ll see you backstage?”

  She turned back to the podium before I could object to being used for my name and cock. While she was shapely enough for a night and I certainly didn’t discriminate against women a few years older than me, I wasn’t looking to sleep where I shit. My charities were the one thing still important to me. Being aristocratic, well groomed, and wealthy meant it wasn’t difficult to find beautiful women willing to spread their legs for me. I could afford to be picky.

  “Our first bachelor is the 5th Baron of Eslinger, although you can call him ‘Essie’ for your night together as his closest friends do. He’s six foot, one hundred and eighty pounds, and currently unemployed, but that means he has more time to plan your date!”

  Essie stumbled out to the catwalk where he gyrated a few times, managing to look like a drunk baby giraffe attempting the hula. He still earned ten thousand quid from a skeletal old bat with purple-streaked gray hair.

  Slowly, the rest of the bachelors were bought and filtered off stage until it was only me. I kept taking slugs behind the red velvet curtains, one for every time the president declared someone a “ladies’ man” and two for every time she said, “aristocratic catch”.

  By the time she waved behind the curtains for me, my vision was crossing from all the “catches” she’d sold to the crowd. And not a real catch among the lot of us.

  “If you’ve been waiting for the grand finale, open your wallets now, because our last bachelor is up for auction. This aristocratic catch is twenty-nine years old, six-three, one hundred and ninety pounds. He is currently an officer in the Royal Air Force, flies fighter jets, and knows how to handle a throttle. In addition to being a member of the RAF, this dynamic man is heir to the 9th Duke of Bracon. Yes, you heard that right. Please bid now for our patron, Finlay Creedwell, 15th Marquess of Damford.”

  I winced. Until the news broke about my RAF debacle, yes, I was all of those things. I was also filled with enough bitterness to begin my own bitters cocktail line.

  What an aristocratic catch indeed.

  Applause boomed around the hall, and I even heard a fair amount of squeals. A few older women—no doubt titled, doddering, old dowagers—instantly raised their paddles.

  “Five thousand pounds!”

  The bidding went higher.

  “Ten thousand!”

  “Fifteen!”

  I lost count and stopped caring. After an eternity, music flooded the room, so I had to assume I’d been bought.

  I slumped backstage, willing the world to go away, but it slammed into me harder. Two women straddled each of my legs and bent to whisper in my ear. I let them, attempting to enjoy the warm feeling and the smell of women.

  Essie stumbled over, double-fisting two bottles of Crown. “Fuck it, let’s get wasted. We earned it!”

  “I want to go to your club,” one woman purred. “Take me.”

  Her true intent was clear by the look in her eyes and the way she rubbed her leg up and down mine. It wasn’t hard to guess why she wanted to be seen with me. If only I could find it in myself to care. I slung my arm around her, and we quickly poured onto the damp and darkened streets of London where my driver and personal assistant, Alistair, waited to take me to my favorite haunts in the city.

  Without having to so much as remove my tongue from her mouth, we jumped in and arrived to strobing lights and pounding music, dipping under the velvet ropes and long lines to go straight to the section always reserved for me.

  The music pulsed through my veins. Who needed a sailing trip around Antigua with mates when there were girls? Luscious, young girls with their tits hanging out, ready to be plucked like the virginal apples they claimed to be.

  Somewhere along the way, I lost the first girl, but two more came to take her place. I sat in my perpetually reserved section and waited with a bottle of
whiskey as the nameless fuck-me girls unzipped my pants. They knew the deal, same as me.

  Their ticket to popularity would begin with the first shutter click of the paparazzi as we left the club. Being featured in the society pages was their reward, which they greedily gulped down without a thought as to how they got there. I lit up a blunt, letting the smoke swirl through my nostrils before puffing it in their faces. Both girls sat up and begged to be given a go.

  I laughed without mirth. “Lick her tits,” I told one. “Finger her pussy,” I told the other. The giggling girls barely thought before jumping on each other, which was depressing enough. They kissed for a few minutes while I watched, dark thoughts scrolling through my head.

  “Want to dance?”

  The blonde in a black miniskirt had pulled herself onto my lap and ran her hands up and down my abs. I sank further into the leather booth and watched the show.

  “Hardly,” I said, pouring only myself a glass from the bottle. This shit was too expensive for commoners. “Go dance on each other.”

  The girl attempted a sexy face and began to grind her pelvis against my leg until I pushed her off. Her friend grabbed her arm and forced her to dance. I let myself lean back and enjoy the exquisite agony of my hardening cock. Anything to strangle real emotions. Anything to keep them at bay a while longer.

  Next to the red velvet ropes and curtain keeping the riffraff out, Essie pumped his fist to the beat. “God, I love London,” he shouted, red lipstick smeared all over his mouth and his other arm draped around the offending victim. The girl giggled drunkenly and attacked his face again.

  “He’s a baron,” the wasted girl whispered with the force of a bomber jet.

  “Which is barely above a muggle,” I muttered.

  Since I was left with Essie and Stone in London, the only thing to do was get blackout drunk. To be honest, I couldn’t even remember which girl I found next in the club or if she had been blonde. It didn’t matter. There were plenty here to choose from for the night. As it happens, girls love aristocratic dicks, and mine was very gentlemanly indeed.

  It had also once been a fighter pilot, but shit changes.

  The black miniskirt rode up higher, and I traced my fingers up and down her thighs, plucking the string of her underwear to the side to finger her slit. When she moaned, it sounded about as real as her tits, but I couldn’t fucking care less. This was about me. I guided her hand to my cock. It was only the thinnest of curtains separating my VIP seating from the rest of the club, and Essie was right there with his friend, but fuck if I cared. I was finding it hard to care about anything lately.

  Right as she was unzipping my pants, Essie bounced over. It looked like he’d taken something—Molly, if I were to guess.

  “Where the fuck did Stone go?” he asked.

  “Who cares? Now get the fuck out.”

  Essie pulled the girl off of me. “You’ll regret that one.”

  The girl took a swing at him, which Essie caught easily before bringing her arm behind her back. She switched gears and cozied up to his neck.

  “What do you say? Fancy a ride? You don’t look like you can afford to be picky, and I’m certainly not.”

  Essie howled with laughter, then began mauling her face while Red Lipstick Girl stormed off. I rolled my eyes and poured a double whiskey. After a few more, the night began to pass in a blur. Black Miniskirt was on all fours, doggy-style, her skirt around her waist as Essie helped insert a tube of alcohol in her ass.

  “We should do the Tour de Franzia!” she kept shrieking while butt-chugging. A fake eyelash had come unglued from her eyelid and was stuck to her cheek while her pink lipstick was raucously smeared from tonguing Essie.

  At one point, Stone came back from wherever the fuck he’d been, shouting, “Peel me! I’m a banana! Peel me!”

  After that, I chose not to recall a fucking thing.

  The black miniskirt was tight around her rib cage as the blonde rode my cock. She threw her head back, moaning some unintelligible name, then suddenly my senses were blasted with an explosion of light.

  The brightness seeped into my alcohol-suffused pores. Either I’d died mid-thrust or some wanker was about to have his balls cut off.

  “What the fuck? I don’t know how the fuck you got a key, but get the fuck out of my room before I call security.”

  My father’s bodyguard bent down in front of me. “Sorry to disturb your beauty sleep, Lord Damford, but do you realize where you are right now?”

  I blinked fully awake. My back screamed in pain from sleeping on a concrete floor, and I was still wearing black jeans and a white t-shirt. Nothing looked like my suite at the Ritz. Instead, there were metal poles…lots of them.

  “The police said you refused your bed ‘on principle’ and spent most of the night telling RAF war stories and signing, ah, breasts, my lord.”

  Fuck. Gordon did not suffer fools, and I was a big one at the moment. The night came back in pieces. “What the fuck happened?” I groaned.

  “Alistair called me, and here’s where I found you.” Gordon dropped a daily on my lap.

  Finlay Creedwell, 15th Marquess of Damford,

  arrested on suspicion of DUI and possession of cocaine

  British aristocratic bad boy, Finlay Creedwell, 15th Marquess of Damford (age 29) and heir apparent to the 9th Duke of Bracon (age 79), was arrested again on Thursday night for driving under the influence and possession of a white substance. It has not been confirmed that it was cocaine. However, it would not be the first time the marquess has been arrested for such matters.

  After spending the night in jail, he is said to still be detained as his father has refused bail. This also isn’t the first time the duke and his wayward son have clashed after rumors of a shouting match surfaced last month. If the public will recall, the duke should be well aware of the dangers of such infighting as he was famously dragged to court in the 70s when his own father, the 8th Duke of Bracon, attempted to have him disinherited over drug abuse. The proverbial rotten apple does not fall far from the tree.

  I threw the paper against the cinder bricks without reading the rest.

  “That’s not the worst bit,” Gordon said.

  I groaned at the hangover coursing through my veins. At least it wasn’t cocaine. They were wrong about that. “What? What could possibly be worse?”

  Gordon’s face was grim. “Your father requests your presence. Today.”

  Gordon had me there. That was definitely worse than jail.

  While he arranged for my possessions to be returned, I prepped myself for what this meeting could be about. Did he know about my RAF stunt already? Was some girl claiming I’d impregnated her again? Sorry, love, I don’t fuck without a jacket.

  Next.

  I slipped on my gold Rolex, leather bomber jacket, and dark aviator glasses as a few guards shrewdly snapped shots of me being released from handcuffs. Wankers.

  Gordon handed me a hat and his coat. It was useless to pretend it wasn’t me thanks to the bloody gossip rags and reporters, but the last thing I needed was more photographic evidence. I dipped the brim low and flipped up the collar.

  The shouting and clicks of cameras dashed any hope of a quick or clean getaway as the assembled crowd went wild at the sight of me. I planned on suing the shit out of the daily for publishing the jail I was in before I was even out of it.

  Cameras flashed and paparazzi shouted questions as Gordon tried his best to hustle me into the waiting black SUV. I stumbled, my legs weak from the copious amounts of alcohol I’d consumed the night before.

  Girls shouted for me to marry them and flashed their breasts as I passed.

  “Stop grinning. You’re in an immense pile of shit right now,” Gordon said under his breath.

  “I can’t help it if the people love me.” Once I was safely in the SUV, I scrolled through the news updates about the previous night.

  “See?” I threw my phone at Gordon.

  The heir they love: Finlay Creedwe
ll, 15th Marquess of Damford,

  arrested again on pending DUI charges

  The people of the village of McHenry where Wodehall sits are abuzz with the latest news of their beloved heir, Finlay Damford. It doesn’t matter what the charges are—really, it doesn’t, as apparently hookers and cocaine aren’t enough to sway the people’s minds. You won’t hear a harsh word against the glamorous heir apparent in this sleepy little village. Whether it was a scandalous paternity test—which proved he was not the father—or fistfights outside pubs, his people adore him.

  Gordon scowled. “Your father is not going to care a whit about what the people think.”

  My stomach churned a little, either from the hangover or a bit of fear. I would probably turn ninety and still fear my father’s wrath from beyond the grave, if I lived that long.

  “Did he have something in particular on his mind or was he looking to fuck me in the ass like usual?”

  Gordon wasn’t impressed. I doubted much of anything impressed that man. He was my father’s real soul mate in every way. “I’m not at liberty to discuss His Grace’s desires.”

  “Fan-fucking-tastic,” I muttered.

  Chapter Four

  Poppy

  My heart tumbled at the sight of Clarion Abbey, my childhood and ancestral home. It sounded downright snobbish, especially to my finely tuned American ears, but I’d lived happily ever after in Clarion Abbey—before ever after ended when I turned sixteen. All my growing up—first kisses, first period, first heartbreaks—had happened right here.

  My family came during the Norman invasion with William the Conqueror in 1066. The Conqueror brought castles and chivalry, but the original manor home had long since burned down. All that was left of the eleventh century were a few stones my ancestors had stacked into a wall along with lead paneling and one slab of stained glass in the center of the maze of gardens. I couldn’t wait to see it again. The lacy stonework rose in my mind, healing my wounds—or, at least, it began to dry them out.