Earl Power: A Modern Aristocracy Billionaire Romance (Endowed Book 2) Page 3

  “Belgrave Castle?” the driver says, flapping his hand at the useless GPS.

  He nods. “You’re not far—”

  “Do I continue this way, or what?”

  Sebastian winces. I don’t like that he’s wincing. “For a bit. But the next left can be tricky to spot in the dark and you have to swing to the right immediately after, and then the turning off to the…” He stops and rubs his chin. “Tell you what, why don’t I guide you? It would be more efficient. Just follow me.”

  “Hop in,” the driver replies. “Quicker.”

  “Yes, but the dog.” Sebastian pats his thigh and the red setter scuttles over to snuggle against his legs.

  “Not a problem,” the taxi driver says, whisking papers off the passenger seat beside him. “You’re one of them Belgrave nobs, innit?” he says as Sebastian slides in gracefully, ducking his head.

  “Yes, I’m Sebastian Belgrave.” He beckons the dog, who leaps, in one precise jump, down to his feet, head on his lap, as if this were something they practiced every day. My heart fills with good cheer again as the car fills with cool, fresh, moss-scented air. He ruffles the dog’s ears.

  “It’s a bit of a labyrinth around here.” He’s turned his head toward me and Dave in the back seat. It's not an apology, just a statement of fact.

  “I’m Hayley’s dad,” Dave says, all despair gone from his voice, replaced by his usual warmth. “Pleased to meet you, Sebastian.”

  He nods. “Likewise. Glad you could make it.”

  “I’m Mara. Maid of honor.” I’m so glad it’s dark in here and he can’t see me blushing. Because I am. Furiously. Damn Skype anyway. Filling my head with silly notions.

  Before he can reply, the dog gives a cheerful bark and we all laugh. In the darkness, I think I detect a small flash of recognition in his eyes but I could be mistaken.

  “Typical of Alex to have left you in the lurch,” he says. “What was he thinking? You could have been driving around for hours.”

  “Don’t worry,” Dave assures him. “We haven’t lost much time.”

  “No,” I agree. “Just got here, really.”

  Sebastian doesn’t answer, but turns around to face the road. “Up here,” he commands the driver.

  I give a nervous chuckle. “I’m just glad we don’t have to stay in that spooky, neo-Georgian house down by the junction. I’m not prepared for a Rocky Horror experience tonight.”

  His shoulders seem to stiffen. He remains silent.

  I press my spine back into the seat. Okay, that wasn’t what I was going for.

  Touchy.

  Out the window, the oppressive hawthorn bushes have now opened up to a wide expanse of field. We’re driving uphill on a long, straight stony road, past ghostlike sheep, toward a copse of trees. Dave gives me a wink as if to say he finds this all as bizarre as I do. This time, I barely manage a smile.

  Soon after driving under a canopy formed by tall sycamores, we emerge into a courtyard and the castle looms before us, vast and wider than I thought it would be, with four turrets and a selection of separate buildings that roughly form three sides of a rectangle. Several windows of the three floors are illuminated. Dave and I gasp in unison.

  Sebastian is already out of the car and coming over to my side to open the door. I shove my phone in my purse and reach for the handle. I can’t let a man open a door for me, especially one who’s too serious to laugh at my lame jokes. Maybe my humor is too American for him.

  But my hand is left clutching thin air as the door swings open. Damn.

  “I have to pay the driver,” I say ungraciously, rummaging in my purse for my wallet.

  “Already done,” he says.

  “What? No. I can’t let you pay for that.”

  “Don’t worry.” He smirks. “I’ll make Alex cough up.”

  I stop fidgeting. “Oh. Well, in that case.”

  His hand is held out and I know I’m undoing several decades of feminism by taking it and letting him guide me out of the car like a helpless female, but his cool touch is so firm and gentle, I don’t question it. I look into his face and feel myself drawn into the depths of his brooding eyes, like he’s communicating something only I, in this entire universe, can comprehend.

  “It’s Georgian, by the way,” he says.

  “What?”

  “The house. Georgian, not neo-Georgian.”

  “Oh.”

  The dog bounds around in a happy circle around us, thinking it’s some kind of game, and maybe it is, because Sebastian is still holding my fingers. His eyes continue roaming my face in a confident, unhurried way that makes me feel giddy inside.

  The dog’s antics seem to break the spell. Seb clears his throat and releases my fingers.

  As Dave reaches to take a suitcase from where the driver left it, Sebastian holds out a restraining hand. “George will take your luggage.”

  “It’s not heavy,” Dave protests.

  “Nonetheless,” Sebastian says, “George would be mortified if you carried it yourself. I’d advise you to humor him if you want to be friends.”

  Dave throws me a confused look. I shrug back.

  We enter the cavernous hall with its gilded arches, vast paintings, weaponry displays, and real honest-to-god suits of armor. It takes me right back to childhood memories of Scooby-Doo cartoons. I’m ecstatic to see Hayley flying toward us in an excited blur of purple bathrobe and matching slippers. She and Dave hug joyously. I stand back and catch Sebastian’s eye. He’s looking at them contemplatively, as if he’s never seen a public display of affection before.

  She turns to me and hugs me tight. “I’m so sorry. I had the phone on airplane mode since the spa and hadn’t realized. God, I’m such a ditz.”

  I laugh and squeeze her arm. “No, you’re a bride two days before her wedding.”

  When our squeals of pleasure die down and I break free from the embrace, Sebastian is gone.

  “How was your trip?” Hayley asks, bouncing up and down in excitement. “Tell me everything. I see you’ve met Sebastian already.”

  “We got lost for a while, but he showed up and rescued us,” Dave says. He looks around, presumably to locate him.

  “Yes, he’s always wandering around at all hours. Well, I’m glad he showed you the way.” Hayley’s waggling her eyebrows, making it oh so clear that when her dad’s gone off to bed, she’s going to quiz me on whether Sebastian lived up to my high expectations.

  And I think I know what my answer’s going to be.

  4

  SEB

  I'M LOITERING WITH LIV at the back of the party room, taking a breather from the speeches. Alex is sure to steal the show tomorrow and I’m beginning to suspect the father of the bride, Dave, has an oratorical streak in him, too, for all his appearance of meekness.

  Ken saunters up. “So far so good,” he says with a jaunty clap of his hands. “Nothing to worry about. Everything will be perfect tomorrow.”

  “The musicians just cancelled,” I tell him.

  “The lead singer’s asthma flared up," Liv says.

  Ken's eyes widen a fraction. “Got a replacement?”

  “Working on it.” I hold up my phone.

  “Oh, tell Ken about the allergies,” Liv says, unable to conceal her glee.

  “Two guests have announced nut allergies and lactose intolerance, and the main course contains both. Not to mention all the last-minute paleo dieters.”

  Ken grimaces.

  “Also, the wrong shade of tablecloths has been delivered—peach instead of pink.” I point with my phone to the nearest table, where table ornaments, flowers, and tablecloth clash like a Barbie doll commercial. I consider this the comic relief in our litany of problems.

  “They look pretty though,” Liv says, her fingers grazing against my forearm. My gaze swings down to her face. There’s nothing but wholesome concern in her expression. She looks like an angelic doll, with delicate features and blond tresses. When she's standing beside me, people smile a lot brigh
ter than usual—especially men.

  Ken’s quiet on the tablecloth subject, and I remember he’s colorblind. Or maybe he’s just focused too hard on smiling.

  “Should’ve used our own house white linens,” I say. “Also, the bridesmaids’ dresses are in a state of flux. Letty’s in charge, so I can only guess the extent of their deficiencies.”

  “Ah, hence the pink t-shirts and jeans.” Ken swings around to look at our sister, who is lounging in the doorway surrounded by three men. “Unless it’s a feminist statement, in which case, more power to them. Who needs a puffy dress anyway?”

  Liv giggles. Ken’s smile widens.

  Letty and Mara have been prancing about all day in those t-shirts, repurposed from the hen party. The pink shirts leave little to the imagination. It’s not like I haven’t seen Letty flaunt her figure before, but it’s hard to ignore the way Mara fills out her shirt in a tidier and more erotic way, offering an alluring peek of her cleavage, just enough to tease.

  Speaking of teasing, she’s been catching my eye from across the room. I’m sure it’s accidental, but every time it happens, I flare up like a teenager at his first disco. Does she remember the Skype call too? She was wearing a black t-shirt like the one she’s wearing now, but she’s even more stunning in real life, if you can call a wedding rehearsal ‘real life.’

  “Seb, you need to relax,” Liv coos.

  I unfold my arms and offer her a smile that hopefully says ‘hey, I’m relaxed.’

  Ken pats my shoulder. “Have a whiskey, for God’s sake. How are you enjoying yourself, Liv?”

  I promised Mother to show Liv a good time. But poor Liv’s had to listen in on me making phone calls, shouting orders, and re-hashing items in Excel sheets on my tablet more than anything else. Still, she’s taking it all very good-naturedly, so much so that I suspect she gets a perverse thrill from last minute hitches.

  “I always prefer rehearsals to the real thing,” Liv gushes. “So much more spontaneous and fresh, don’t you think? And when it’s over, it’s not really over… it’s like the day before Christmas!”

  “Exactly.” Ken’s still grinning inanely. If we were alone, I'd tell him to stop doing that—but then again, if we were alone, he wouldn't be doing it.

  As Liv chats with Ken, I study her face, her perfect poise and impeccable orthodontry. In fairness, Mother wasn’t too far off the mark when she set us up. Liv is good-looking, accomplished, and seems to have a sensible head on her shoulders. I’d actually forgotten that women could be calm and supportive because I’m surrounded by drama queens—Mother, Letty, and even, to some degree, Hayley. It’s not just the women, though. Alex and Ken are the biggest drama queens of all.

  Liv’s the eldest daughter of the Earl of Strathcairn, one of the oldest Scottish earldoms and one of the very few that can actually be inherited by daughters.

  “I beat primogeniture,” she’d said triumphantly.

  I didn’t need to comment on how primogeniture had affected my life. Everyone in our circle knows, and pretends to forget, the story of my being outed as illegitimate by the Daily Mail ten years ago. Between raging at my parents, reeling from the sudden news that I had a different birth mother to my siblings, and dodging the media clawing at our gates, there wasn’t much time to celebrate becoming an adult. Many people—women especially—still consider me tainted, but Liv doesn’t seem put off.

  Liv already has a title and money, of course, so it doesn’t matter whom she marries. But her father is fussy about pedigree, and it appears that, of the slim pickings of young aristocrats in our country, he finds me the least objectionable.

  Of course, I haven't told her—or anyone—about my biological mother contacting me. That's banished to the back of my mind for now. The less I remind people of who I really am, the better.

  Letty comes prancing up, looking flushed. I look around for her partner in crime, Mara, but don’t see her. I haven’t had a chance to talk to her at all.

  “I have the solution,” Letty says with a boisterous laugh.

  “To?”

  “The music, you dunce.” My sister indicates the grand piano in the opposite corner of the room, currently serving as a table for the wedding gifts. “Voila.”

  I glance at the piano, then at her. “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not? I know plenty of dance tunes.”

  “Which sound perfectly fine—when you’re sober.”

  She pouts. “You know perfectly well I can play after a few drinks.”

  “Letty, this is your brother’s wedding, not some impromptu sing-song in the JCR at Oxford.”

  I feel a tug on my other arm. Liv. “Give Letty a chance, Seb. She’s really good.”

  I swing back to Letty. “Have you sorted the bridesmaids’ dresses?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Yes, Mr. Bossyboots. Honestly, you’re even worse than usual.”

  I hold up my palms in surrender. “Fine. Give it a whirl and we’ll judge whether you can do the honors tomorrow.”

  Letty struts toward the piano and removes an array of wedding gifts from the lid. Her playing the piano would have the advantage that if the power suddenly blows, we won’t be left without sound. And in the absolute worst case of Letty being unable to play—and by that I mean being too inebriated—there are bound to be other pianists in our midst who can take over.

  Ken pushes a crystal tumbler of whiskey into my hand. “Drink up. Viscount’s orders.”

  Liv giggles. “You heard him, Earl Power.”

  Liv is already familiar with the Belgrave lingo. Viscount is Ken’s nickname for himself, while mine is Earl. We borrowed the secondary and tertiary titles which officially went to Alex last year when he became duke. Traditionally, the non-heir sons get no titles other than “Lord” but our nicknames have somehow stuck. Even the tenants and the general public refer to me as “the Earl,” and to Ken as “the Viscount.” Alex has graciously declared he that he can survive without those extra titles. So we get to keep them as consolation prizes. My phony title warped at some stage into "Earl Power" to rhyme with "girl power". Ken's doing, I think.

  We’re interrupted by the sounds of rapid chord progressions on the piano. I glance over, then do a double take. Mara is standing beside Letty brandishing a pile of music books and they’re rummaging through them, heads bent together. It must have gotten chillier, because Mara is now covered up in a turquoise woolen sweater with a high neckline.

  “Let’s see what this amounts to,” I say.

  “Se-bas-tian.” Liv’s tone is chiding, like we’re an old married couple.

  “Well, I’m getting drinks,” Ken says. “Liv, another rum and Diet Coke?”

  Kudos to Ken for knowing what she’s drinking. She nods at him and hands him her glass. Oh dear, her glass is empty. That was my job.

  “Knock it back, bro,” he says to me. He’s giving me that withering look he’s famous for.

  “It’s a thirty-year-old,” I protest, but then do knock it back, because nobody argues with Ken if they want to have a quiet life. “But that’s it for me.” I relish the smoky explosion in my mouth and the burn all the way down to my stomach.

  “It’s not a true test of the music until we dance,” Liv says, cocking an eyebrow at me.

  I set down my tumbler on a nearby ledge. Best to get it over with. “Would you do me the honor?”

  In my arms, Liv is a competent dancer, as expected : light of foot and keeping perfect time, happy to let me take the lead. I dance only when I have to—on formal occasions. Alex is the great dancer of the family. He does it for pleasure.

  After two waltzes, I have to hand it to Letty, she’s dug up a collection of perfect dance tunes and plays them well. I’ve never heard her practicing these particular tunes. I’m always over in the tower working on the accounts or out on the farm while she’s banging away in the drawing room. If she repeats this performance tomorrow, she may unwittingly secure a career as a wedding troubadour.

  Another waltz start
s up. Liv’s commenting on the chandeliers when my eye is caught by a blur of red hair in my peripheral vision . It’s Mara, dancing with Ken. He’s got his hand further down her back than is appropriate for a waltz—his thumb is actually hooked in her belt loop. I suppose he thinks anything goes just because she’s wearing skinny jeans as opposed to a ball gown. Her head is cocked toward him, exposing the nape of her long neck. They’re flouting the whole concept of personal distance and their waltzing is all the sloppier for it.

  I smile away a sudden swell of irritation. “Enjoying yourself?” I ask Liv.

  “Oh yes. Letty’s amazing, isn’t she?”

  “She is.”

  The waltz finishes on a flourish of bass notes. There’s a lull and then a round of spontaneous applause for Letty who’s shaking out her long mane like a talent show diva. Liv and I detach. I look down at her speculatively. I don’t mean to be rude, but can I really afford the time for another dance? There’s still so much to do. We hover awkwardly by the edge of the dance floor until the final claps fade and then we shuffle back toward the piano in unspoken agreement that we’ve had enough.

  I turn to Liv to say something to mitigate the awkwardness. But I’m looking at empty space. I glance around and see her caught up in Ken’s arms.

  Well, that was quick.

  I step backward until I’m pressed up against the piano, feeling the vibrations of Tchaikovsky in my lower spine.

  I scan the room for Mara, and when I find her, she’s hovering by a table across the dancefloor, directly opposite me. She’s swaying in time to the slow melody, her graceful arms caressing the air around her, lost in her own world.

  I don’t know how long I stand there, watching her, lulled by the music. My world is perfectly still for a blessed moment. Then, slowly, she lifts her head and intercepts my gaze, full on, as if she knows I’ve been staring at her.

  Without thinking, my body moves across the floor, dodging the whirling couples. Standing before her, I offer my hand in formal request. Her head shoots up to meet my gaze, her dark eyes filling with questioning, and for a moment, I sense her impulse to flee. But something must finally reassure her, because she accepts with a tiny nod, her cheeks glowing.