Chapter 2
2
E llis spots me about five seconds after I step into the lobby.
The chilled air is an immediate relief from the August heat outside. Today’s temperature is high, even by summer’s standards. And made more stifling by the attention that’s followed me around ever since I arrived an hour ago. Scrutiny that doubled as soon as I opened my mouth and confirmed I’m a foreigner.
My cousin herds me into one corner, past the grand piano and to the left of one of the stone archways. Both eyebrows lift in a silent question that he voices a couple of seconds later. “Where’d you go?”
“Took a walk.”
“You missed meeting the Howards. And Violet DuPont. She’s the redhead I was telling you about earlier.”
I nod, barely listening to Ellis. I’m too busy scanning the small groups gathered in the mahogany-paneled lobby for a head of dark hair and a blue dress. It’s more crowded in here than it was when I left, likely because the polo match just ended.
“Ava Wilson practically swooned when I told her you’re a duke.” Ellis grins.
If you ask my cousin, aristocracy is one big joke. He’d probably set a new record for getting thrown out of the royal box at Wimbledon.
I exhale, my sweep of the room complete and no sign of Lili. It’s probably for the best. I’m acting like my pussy-obsessed twenty-one-year-old cousin. Like a former version of myself I can no longer afford to be.
Ellis sees my new title as amusing and maybe attractive. He grew up in the States. He has no clue what weight comes along with the history and privileges of being the eighth Duke of Manchester. No idea that losing my father was equivalent to having the bottom of my life fall out and that subsequently learning the truth about my family’s finances was like being spun around in endless circles and then told to walk straight.
It’s bloody exhausting—the crushing responsibility and the mounting stress. I’m beginning to better understand why my father attempted to drink himself to death rather than deal with any of it.
A grim smile twists my lips. At least my—dark—sense of humor is intact.
Ellis is oblivious. Grinning at me expectantly, waiting for me to comment on a woman I remember nothing about.
My cousin misinterpreted me asking him to introduce me around my stepfather Derek’s fancy country club as my needing assistance with finding a female to shag.
“I don’t care,” I state.
His smile doesn’t dim. “They’ll both be back—I guarantee it. I had no idea the whole duke thing would be such a hit. One hell of a pickup line, seriously. Is there a title for a duke’s cousin? Like squire or something? Think I’ve heard that one before. Maybe I could use that.”
I sigh, glancing around for investor prospects.
“Oh! Some guys I golf with said that Elizabeth Kensington is here. I’ve been trying to?—”
I’ve had enough of Ellis’s commentary. “I’m not here to stroke the ego of a vapid heiress who has nothing to do except wonder about how much of daddy’s money she can spend today. You said important people would be here, Ellis. That’s the only reason I came.”
God, do I sound bloody bitter.
I’m learning the hard way it’s a lot more difficult to have had something and lost it than to have never experienced it. I wish I could go back in time and be ignorant again. Or jump ahead to some solution. Not be stuck in this purgatory of not knowing what the next fucking move should be. Of having nothing except an empty title, plus an aging grandmother and a younger sister relying on me to fix everything.
I couldn’t have bought my entry today. The only reason I made it past the guarded gate of Atlantic Crest Country Club was because my mother married a man twice her age, five times as wealthy, and far too kindhearted for her lecherous tendencies. He’s allowed my aunt and her two grown kids—Joanna and Ellis—to live in his Hamptons home since May.
Ellis appears unfazed by my irritated outburst, taking another swig from the glass he’s holding as he surveys the crowded room.
He has no clue how precarious of a position I’m in. I doubt he’d care, even if he did know about the massive pile of debt my father left behind. His life is unaffected by my father’s decisions, and my mother’s recent choices allow him to golf and flirt all day.
“You sound like you really need a drink, man,” Ellis tells me, then takes another sip.
I do. But this isn’t the time or place.
“What I need is for you to introduce me around to some men I can make business connections with.” I enunciate all the important words, hoping it’ll finally get through to him. “I don’t need or want your help getting laid.”
Ellis heaves a sigh. I have no idea what he’s irritated about. “Yeah, yeah. Come on.”
He leads me toward a middle-aged man standing next to an oil painting of a majestic stallion. The man is typing on his phone. Unless he’s texting a mistress, his lack of attention is promising. Businessmen who are more focused on checking emails than enjoying the drinks and appetizers being circulated around are the type of investors I’m looking for. Ones who study balance sheets and business plans rather than anatomy and pathology.
“Mr. Cushing!” Ellis calls out as we approach.
The man glances up from his device, recognition evident in his expression as soon as he spots Ellis.
At least Ellis wasn’t exaggerating about how well connected he is here. Since his mother moved their family into Derek’s summer place, Atlantic Crest Country Club is where he’s spent most of his time in the Hamptons.
I paste a polite smile on my face as Ellis introduces me to John Cushing, who owns a technology software company. I barely understand half of what he explains about his business, but that isn’t the point. Moguls of more than a dozen industries are in this room. Introductions to Americans with deep pockets and important connections can only benefit me, the broke Englishman. I have to start somewhere.
So, I make obligatory small talk. Listen to Mr. Cushing’s explanation of nanotechnology until a brisk, “John, good to see you,” interrupts.
Conversation halts as a silver-haired man approaches. Not just ours, but the chatter of several surrounding groups fades as their attention swings this way.
The older man is walking with a cane. It thumps almost ominously as he nears, the steady thud of the varnished wooden stick against gleaming floorboards audible over the soft music trickling out of the piano in the corner.
“Hello, Hanson,” John replies. I see his shoulders straighten.
Next to me, Ellis’s posture also noticeably improves. “Good afternoon, Mr. Ellsworth.”
Since we arrived, Ellis has treated everyone he introduced me to with the same friendly politeness. Excluding the women he flirted with shamelessly. He’s looking at the man in front of us with a respect that’s new.
Mr. Ellsworth studies my cousin for a few seconds. “Ellis, is it?”
Ellis inflates with importance. “Yes, sir.”
The man’s attention lands on me next. He holds out a hand. “Hello. I’m Hanson Ellsworth.”
“Charles Marlborough,” I respond, shaking his hand. His grip is firmer than I would have expected for a man his age.
“Charlie is my cousin. He’s the Duke of Manchester.”
Hanson’s expression doesn’t change in response to Ellis’s boast. But he surprises me by saying, “I was very sorry to hear about James’s passing. My condolences.”
“Thank you,” I reply, stiffening some. I wasn’t anticipating any sympathies this far from home. “I wasn’t aware you knew my father.”
“Not well. Our paths crossed a few times when I was doing business in London.”
Hanson doesn’t elaborate any further, making me think he shares the same low opinion of James Marlborough that most people have. My father agreed with Machiavelli on fear versus love.
Hanson is still studying me, head tilted slightly, like he’s an art critic assessing a painting. “What brings you to—Elizabeth!” He cuts himself off mid-sentence, his attention totally focused on something—someone—behind me.
I resist the urge to look over my shoulder at who caught his interest.
“Hi, Grandfather.”
A woman nears our circle. And with a start, I realize I recognize her.
It’s Lili, the one person I genuinely enjoyed talking to since I arrived an hour ago. Her strides are smooth and confident in the high heels she’s wearing. I thought maybe she was hiding in the barn for an escape, like I was. But she appears as effortlessly poised in the crowded lobby as she did while standing alone in the stable.
I’m not the only one watching her walk. Ellis’s eyes are glued to her endless legs. Lots of heads are turned this way, many more than when Hanson interrupted.
I’ve never heard the name Ellsworth before, so I make a mental note to look the family up later. Tell myself it has to do with Hanson’s worth as a possible investor and nothing to do with his granddaughter.
“Where have you been?” Hanson asks when Lili reaches us.
“Polo tent,” she replies breezily. She glances at John. “Hello, Mr. Cushing.”
“Wonderful to see you, Elizabeth.” John greets her more warmly than he did Hanson, which I find interesting.
“I’m Ellis.” Ellis smiles wide as he introduces himself. “We met by the tennis courts, Fourth of July weekend.”
I suppress a snort.
“Nice to see you,” Lili replies smoothly, giving no indication of whether or not she remembers Ellis. She glances at me last. “Who’s your friend?”
At first, I think she’s kidding. We met less than fifteen minutes ago, and it wasn’t just an exchange of cursory pleasantries. Full sentences were shared.
But there’s no sign of teasing in her neutral expression. No spark of recognition.
For a few unsure seconds, it makes me question my own sanity.
I hesitate. My options are either to remind her we just met and had an entire conversation—pathetic and possibly rude, depending on how I phrase it—or to follow her lead on pretending this is a first encounter.
I hold out a hand. “Charles Marlborough.”
She doesn’t stall the way she did before. Lili grabs my offered palm, shakes it once, then immediately relaxes her grip.
I don’t let go right away, and there’s a flash of some stronger emotion that erases her passivity for a few seconds. It’s gone before I can determine what the change is, her hand disappearing from my hold with a quick yank. Her fingers fidget against the blue fabric of her dress as they fall to her side, like she’s fighting the urge to wipe away any trace of my touch.
Lili clears her throat. “Elizabeth Kensington.”
Kensington.
She’s a Kensington . Her first name isn’t Lili, and her last name isn’t Ellsworth. She’s Elizabeth Kensington—the woman Ellis was talking about earlier. Part of the famous American family with a net worth so staggering that no one is sure what the exact number is. Lots of zeroes that add up to hundreds of billions. Name an industry and they own stock in it.
“Nice to meet you,” I manage to say through my shock.
Lili nods once, then glances at her grandfather. “I’ll be in the car.”
“I’ll be right there, darling,” Hanson responds.
Lili heads for the imposing double doors that mark the main entrance, pausing briefly to say something to a blonde woman before continuing outside.
“Family comes first, gentlemen,” Hanson says before beckoning a uniformed employee over and murmuring something that has the man nodding. “Enjoy the rest of your afternoon.”
He strolls away without a more formal farewell, which appears to be a family trait.
Hanson’s abrupt dismissal bothers me a hell of a lot less than Elizabeth Kensington’s did.