Earl Power: A Modern Aristocracy Billionaire Romance (Endowed Book 2) Page 5

  “I’d best head off,” I say as the last notes are played. “Beauty sleep, plus I need to check on Dave. It’s not like him to go off without saying goodnight.”

  “Well, goodnight.” Ken plants a gentlemanly kiss on my cheek.

  I refuse to look at Seb as I leave the room. Out in the main hall, I ask the housekeeper, whom everyone calls Mrs. B, where David Cochrane is sleeping. This is high priority now. Hayley won’t enjoy her wedding day if her dad isn’t in top form.

  Mrs. B pulls a piece of paper out of her apron pocket and unfolds it. “The third door on the left on the second floor, dear. Take the back stairs, it’ll be quicker.”

  The house is quiet now, as all but the sleepover guests have left. I traipse up the creaking staircase to the second floor in the dim light. I rap on the third door on the left. After about half a minute, I hear a rustling on the other side. Dave opens up, bleary-eyed and pale.

  “I thought maybe something was wrong because you left so suddenly,” I explain, feeling foolish now for rousing this poor man from his sleep when clearly all that’s wrong with him is jetlag. “Sorry, it was just so unlike you.”

  He gives me his lopsided grin and holds a hand to his forehead. “I just didn’t want anyone to see how badly I waltz. I’m a little feverish, but that’s just from all the excitement. Now don’t you worry.”

  “No, no, I was just passing,” I lie. “Just curious.”

  He coughs and I sense he’s itching to get back to bed. “Okay, well, good night then.”

  In my own bedroom, I sit on the windowsill in the light of the crescent moon, knees hugged tight to my chest. I’m replaying the kiss in my mind. I run my tongue over the rawness of my lips where his stubble grazed against them as he opened me wide. My stomach spasms as I remember how he gripped me, like his very life depended on it. Nobody’s ever done it like that before. And then that moment where—like a demon vanquished—his demeanor reverted back to calm, controlled indifference.

  My jade green dress is all laid out on the bed, glowing eerily, fit for a ghost princess. At least tomorrow the playing field will be level as regards formal attire. That dress is fucking amazing.

  I hope he doesn’t look sickeningly good in a tux.

  6

  SEB

  THE GUESTS ARRIVE in stately fashion through the tall oak doors of St. Michael’s—Mother, Ken, the Countess Grainger, Sir Rupert Tellsworth, Lady Penrith-Clarke. Mrs. B and George and our gardening staff stick together in one group. They’ve scrubbed up nicely too. The official guest count is now one hundred fifty. A gaggle of tenant families hug the very back pews, hoping for a spectacle.

  The paparazzi are notably absent, because they’re over in nearby St. Luke’s where our decoy wedding is going on. Two college students agreed to participate in my scheme for a tidy sum, and it looks like it paid off.

  The family is all here except Letty, who I’m guessing is in a last-second panic over her dress. No, there she is—waiting outside, greeting guests with the most humongous of smiles, as though it’s her own wedding. The dark green bridesmaid dress looks “fetching,” as Mother would say.

  My focus shifts back to Alex standing next to me, gazing at his shoes, very much devoid of his usual cockiness.

  “Letty’s here.” My announcement makes his head bolt up. After some debate, we’re doing this the American way, the bridesmaids preceding the bride, rather than following. Either way, once they enter through those doors, there’s no turning back. Alex finally looks nervous. He’s had this blasé attitude ever since he announced his engagement, pretending small details don’t mean anything, that I’m overreacting at every step, that love is all that matters. All that horseshit.

  “Good,” he says with a pitiful note of anxiety.

  “Let’s hope the bride makes it too.”

  “Watch it,” Alex growls.

  I grin. “Come on, you know she will.”

  “Mark my words, revenge will be sweet some fine day.”

  I snort. I can’t picture myself in the groom’s shoes, and frankly, I can’t wait until this is all over. The bookkeeping for the auditors needs to be done by mid-month and can’t be delayed another second. Neither can the nutrient cycling or the disease control planning, for that matter. At least I managed to answer Rachel’s email before the delay became embarrassing. I kept it brief: “Yes, I think we should stay in contact. I will assist you when you arrive in Britain in any way I can.”

  When the doors open again, I catch a glimpse of the second dark green dress. I swallow past the lump in my throat. Mara looks … well, incredible. With her hair piled high on top of her head, I’m treated to the full glory of her long neck. She’s regal, magical, commanding of attention—and she’s certainly got mine. The dress is tight over her body in all the right places, exaggerating her subtle curves. The skirt flares out just above her shapely ankles, the delicate fabric fluttering in the breeze against her skin in way that must surely tickle her. I may be in a place of worship but my mind is turning to sin.

  I readjust the shirt collar digging into my throat, and it’s precisely then that the bridal match starts up. A hush descends over the congregation. The doors open wider and Mara and Letty join forces and sweep up the aisle, like two princesses, Hayley and Dave following behind them. I’m careful to not let my eyes linger where they desperately want to. There are far too many hi-definition cameras around for that.

  I focus on the bride instead. Hayley looks stunning in a dress that’s held up well, given it’s her late mother’s and is from the eighties. She and Dave must be feeling the pang of her absence now. I’m utterly determined for this this day to work out.

  In a nod to English tradition, the bridesmaids and the best man and groomsmen sit with the rest of the congregation during most of the ceremony. We rehearsed this yesterday; Letty sat to my left, Ken to my right. But now Mara slides in. It all comes back with a waft of her coconut scent—everything from last night that I’d managed to suppress—the supple smoothness of her skin, the taste of her mouth, her blazing, hot need for me, or for what I was giving her.

  There’s a magnetic field around her, charging the ions in my skin, all down my arms and legs making my hairs stand on end under my tux. My gaze roams down her legs. I like the sparkly heels she’s wearing, and how they make me imagine her with only those on, in my bedroom, up against the wall, as I take her from behind…

  “Hi,” she says in a breathy voice. She sounds nervous. Not overcome with passion like she was last night. Just nervous.

  I square my shoulders and look resolutely at the crucifix on the altar. “Hi.”

  There’s some kind of fuss as the cameraman gets ready. It gives people a chance to relax and murmur.

  “Nice dress,” I say.

  “Can you believe it?”

  “Thank God it was ready in time.”

  She snorts. “Who should we really thank? God, or you?”

  Her voice rings out in the cavernous space. Several heads turn toward us, frowning, including Reverend Jones at the altar.

  Oh, great.

  I rub my hand over my jaw. The reverend was hard enough to persuade at the last minute. I had to pledge an obscenely large donation to his charity. He made it clear that he was not in the habit of offering favors for money , especially when it came to performing services for a duke who’s more famous for parties than piety, and I pretended to believe him.

  He gives a very un-Godly shake of his head.

  I feel Mara quivering beside me. Her shoulder bumps against my arm as she attempts to get a grip on herself.

  Oh no—church giggles. Not good.

  When Rev. Jones takes Alex aside for a pep talk, I turn to her. “Behave,” I mutter.

  She nods, but beads of sweat glisten on her forehead. She’s digging her nails into the heel of her thumb but it’s not working.

  “What’s twenty-four times eighteen?” I ask.

  She glances up at me, eyes wide with surprise.

 
“I need to know,” I press. It’s a trick I’ve used with my siblings since childhood to control inappropriate laughter.

  Her answer comes quicker than I expected. “Four hundred thirty-two.”

  “Divide that by sixteen.”

  She inhales sharply. She’s frowning now, not laughing. It’s working.

  “Too slow.”

  “Fuck you,” she mouths back.

  As I flick my gaze back and to the right, scanning the congregation, I spot Liv. She’s with her parents, the Earl and Countess Strathcairn, and she’s looking very regal with her dainty white hat, which matches her mother’s. She glances up and gives me a covert wave. I nod back.

  And just like that, Mara’s church giggles seem to have been cured.

  MARA

  Yes, he looks sickeningly good in a tux. But as Seb shares his silent communication with Liv, I want to smash that perfect, brooding, British face of his. Yes, I wrangled it so that I get to sit beside him, but it’s Liv he’s exchanging secret signals with. I look away from him, straighten my spine, and pretend none of this is affecting me.

  I refocus on the altar where my best friend looks heart-stoppingly amazing in her mother’s ivory dress. I get a heavy sensation at the back of my throat when she exchanges a glance with Dave as he departs from the altar. Dave is fighting hard not to break down in tears. I’m almost tearing up myself.

  The look Hayley gives Alex—a mix of awe and helpless love—is priceless and I know I’ll remember it forever.

  As the ceremony proceeds, all other thoughts fly out the stained-glass windows. I forget about Mr. Poker Face, inasmuch as I can forget somebody who’s sitting hard and solid to the left of me, emitting some serious pheromones that are making my head spin. But I’ve decided to forget him in the sense of not being interested in what happens with him from here on out.

  After the ceremony, I make sure to focus all my attention on Letty, to my right, and once out of the church, I rush to Hayley and remain near as she greets what seems like an unending flow of guests. Soon it’s time to leave the church and drive the fifteen miles back to Belgrave Castle.

  The castle looks splendiferous in the sunshine now breaking through the clouds, and of course the opener to every conversation is, “Lovely day, isn’t it?” The parking lot is chock-full with Jaguars, Audis and polished old-timers. The staff form parallel lines at the entrance waving and throwing rice. I’m surprised at the number of staff who have crawled out of the woodwork—part-timers and groundsmen, probably.

  The grand hall has been transformed into a colonial-style lounge with a semicircular bar in the center around which the guests spiral out to the far alcoves, lounging on antique furniture, loitering by the walls. The dress code is formal, all stiff collars and demure hemlines. The conversations are full of prim laughter and even the shiny-faced children are well behaved.

  Garlands of white roses have been thrown over the two suits of armor to make them seem more festive. I’m fingering the petals to check if they’re real when the air around me becomes electrified.

  I swing around. It’s Seb.

  His gaze flickers over me, warming me from head to toe. “That’s Percival. Been standing there for two hundred years.”

  “Poor old Percy.” I bang on the tin man’s chest to produce an empty sound. “Remember that movie where Bill and Ted are in the suits of armor and Bill says he feels like the dude from the Wizard of Oz?”

  His lips quirk a fraction. “Can’t say I do.”

  “Never mind.” I smile, feeling awkward. “It’s kinda dumb—”

  “I’ll look it up,” he says. “Is everything going well for you?”

  “It’s perfect. I’ve never seen Hayley happier.”

  “Nor Alex.” His face relaxes into a smile and I want to stay here forever just watching that.

  But then he apologizes and departs, leaving me staring after him.

  I take refuge in the center of the activity. Hayley’s face is flushed with pleasure as an endless stream of people approach her and Alex and offer their congratulations, take photos, and discuss future plans. I make sure she gets plenty of water in between the champagne and cocktails. Alex is forever being pulled away by Sir This-and-Thats and Lord-Whomever and has little time to spend with his new bride, but he always manages to slide back to her and steal a kiss or two. I admire his ease at navigating through the crowds.

  My other tasks are to make sure everyone signs the guest books and knows where to deposit gifts. All other duties are handled by the staff which gives me some scope to sit back and enjoy the ceremony. The day seems to be flashing by in fast forward. When I’m not concentrating, my gaze keeps gravitating to Seb and Liv, who are never far apart. But never too close, either.

  At dinner, I’m sitting at the long top table and, to my relief, Ken’s to my left, and Letty to my right. These two are such clowns and I love them already.

  “He’s not here, I’m telling you,” Letty hisses at Ken, as we bask in lethargy after chocolate mousse parfait topped with forest fruits. My stomach is in knots thinking about the dancing that’s about to commence. I’m not sure I can even stay in the ballroom if Letty plays the same tunes again. Watching Hayley dancing her first two dances will be more than enough for me. Then I’ll get lost somewhere and just come back to see Hayley and Alex off.

  “Who?” I’ve zoned out of the siblings’ conversation with all my plotting.

  “Alex’s friend,” Letty says, “who shall not be named.”

  “Alex’s friend in the foreign service,” Ken explains. “We’ve never met him.”

  “Oh, Hayley told me about him,” I say. “Martin, right? He found out about her uncle doing the naughty with those Azerbaijanis last year.”

  “The very one,” Ken says. “Pretty much saved him from himself.”

  “I just thought he’d be here.” Letty sounds wistful. “A man of intrigue.”

  “Maybe he’s in disguise,” her brother suggests.

  “Or changed his name,” I say.

  Letty jerks her head at the board of seating arrangements just behind her. “Okay, who on the list has a phony-sounding name?”

  “Rupert Banville-Stewbotham?” I venture, picking one at random.

  “No, he’s real.” Ken motions with his eyes toward a squat, balding man whose face looks like a King Charles Spaniel’s. “Very real.”

  “Maybe Marty will present himself to you, Letty,” I say. “An attractive man will suddenly ask you to dance, and you’ll just know it’s him.”

  Like me, last night.

  I push that thought away.

  Letty laughs her huge laugh. “Now, that would be nice.”

  I slide my gaze over to Seb’s empty seat, and Liv’s beside it. Hayley’s and Alex’s seats are vacant too. Just as I’m about to remark on this, a woman rushes past our table, barking, “Throwing of the bouquet. Now, girls, now!”

  “We’re doing that, are we?” I murmur.

  “Of course.” Letty laughs, and leaps up. “Let’s go.”

  I don’t have a choice. I traipse after her out to the main hall where Hayley’s standing in a dramatic pose a few steps up the main staircase. At the foot of the stairs, a small crowd of excited women has gathered, their hands outstretched in gleeful anticipation. Letty charges into their midst. I hang back. I’m not going to catch this thing even if Hayley aims it at me, as I know she will. The trick is to stand beside someone who looks extremely eager, which is pretty much everyone.

  “One, two, three!” Hayley lets the bouquet of roses fly over the outstretched arms.

  I flinch back but there’s no danger of it coming to me; the arc is too short. A hand reaches into the air and grasps the bouquet neatly. I crane my neck to see who it is.

  Liv.

  Well, how about that? Now I wish I had caught the damn thing.

  The skin on the back of my neck prickles and I sense someone’s watching me. I turn around sharply. A crowd of onlookers—mostly abandoned men—has gath
ered at the entrance to the hall. Seb stands at the edge. His expression is one of curious interest in the spectacle of squealing women.

  Liv rushes toward him, brandishing her bouquet and grinning. She practically thrusts it in his face, making him step back. Then a gaggle of excited women closes in on them and I can’t see him anymore. I wander up to Hayley instead.

  “You were supposed to catch that,” she says huffily. “I threw it right at you, butterfingers.”

  “You’re a lousy shot then,” I return.

  “It’s not like Liv needs any help,” Hayley says. “Look at her.”

  But I can’t. I just can’t.

  SEB

  Liv raises the spoils of victory high—ribbons fluttering, petals flying—as she’s hoisted on their shoulders and carried in the direction of the ballroom amid squealing and alcohol-fueled excitement. Attempts are made to pull me along but I decline politely. This tradition is baffling to me and I’ve never seen so many grown women get so unanimously excited about anything. There’s an equally bizarre parallel tradition of throwing the bride’s garter to the bachelors. I may give that one a miss.

  Mother slides in beside me, her gloved hand fluttering to her mouth. Her face is bathed in delight, an expression I haven’t seen in a very long time. Even though I am her favorite and we get on well, she doesn’t often focus on me one-on-one. Maybe that’s why I’m her favorite—I don’t need the attention. But now her keen scrutiny is unsettling. I can only imagine all the thoughts crossing her mind.

  “Isn’t chance a fine thing?” she says, finally.

  “It is indeed.”

  She presses into my arm. “You know the Strathcairn estate abuts ours?”

  “Of course.” She knows I know. It’s a Scottish earldom in name only, not location. The MacKenzies lost their Scottish land two centuries ago. I’ve been trying to buy some acres off the earl for bloody ages, especially those neighboring Miller’s Lane, which would be great for implementing a drainage system, but the stubborn old goat won’t see reason.