Chapter 3
3
Eleven Months Later
T he skyscraper that houses Kensington Consolidated’s corporate headquarters is massive. From my vantage point on the sidewalk, it appears to be a physical embodiment of its name, flat roof brushing against the bottom of gray clouds that hover angry and dark overhead. Thunder rumbles ominously in the distance.
Lack of sunlight does little to temper today’s heat. The beginning of July doesn’t suggest any end to the heat in sight. The summer air is humid and sticky, more dampness soaking the starched layers of my suit, the longer I stand on the sidewalk.
I don’t want to walk inside.
I’m too proud. Too similar to my father.
I’m also rapidly running out of other options. Selling off a couple of smaller properties and making minimum payments were enough to limp through this past year without filing for bankruptcy. But not a long-term solution. Interest is continuing to pile up. Off-loading a few assets didn’t draw much attention, but selling more will create speculation.
No one except me, my grandmother, and my father’s barristers know about the disastrous state of the family’s finances.
No one’s started asking questions. Yet.
A steady drizzle starts to fall, followed by a loud clap of thunder that suggests the storm is just beginning. If I don’t move soon, I’ll walk inside soaked.
I don’t care. The stormy weather is oddly soothing. It reminds me of home. Reminds me why I’m here.
Fuck you, James.
The angry words echo in my head for a minute. I never called him anything except Papa to his face. Using his Christian name creates a little distance—space that feels necessary right now.
My relationship with my father was complicated while he was alive.
Following his death, it’s never been worse.
I’m so furious with him, wondering how he could have done this to me. To my sister Blythe. To Granny. Did he think he could fix it before anyone found out? Did he think getting pissed at a local pub and driving into a tree would be any sort of solution? Did he realize, when he lost control of the car, who would have to deal with the aftermath of his mistakes?
I’ll never know the answers to any of those questions, and that only adds to my anger.
I square my shoulders as I head for one of the revolving doors beneath the large silver letters that spell out Kensington Consolidated .
For a few seconds, my mind drifts to the only Kensington I’ve met in person. As far as I know, Elizabeth has no involvement in her family’s company. The current CEO is her uncle, Oliver Kensington.
I’m supposed to attend a polo match at Atlantic Crest Country Club tomorrow, and I can’t help but wonder if Elizabeth —or Lili, as she’s imprinted in my mind as—will be there again. And if she is, which version will I face—the enigmatic, intriguing stranger I met in the barn or the cool, reserved heiress who pretended not to know me?
Every time she’s crossed my mind in the past year, I’ve told myself that bizarre transformation is the only reason she’s of recurring interest. Seeing her in person again will simply solve a mystery I shouldn’t have been puzzling over in the first place.
The young woman working at the front desk glances up with a prepared smile as I approach the massive block of marble she’s seated behind. She brushes the bangs out of her eyes, and I read the interest there immediately. She taps a capped pen against her chin, smirking a little as my gaze dips to her tits. The silk fabric of her blouse is so snug that I can see the outline of her bra.
Maybe I’ll ask for her number on my way out of here. I’m supposed to have dinner with my mum, Derek, and Ellis before we head to the Hamptons tomorrow, and I could use something to look forward to after. If last night’s meal was any indication, it’s going to be another awkward evening.
“Charles Marlborough here to see Asher Cotes,” I tell the pretty receptionist.
“Of course, Mr. Marlborough.” Her smile is still flirty, but her tone is cool and professional. “Can I please see some identification?”
I tug my leather wallet out of my pocket, extract my driving license, and slide it across the counter. My signet ring clinks against the marble, and she eyes it with interest.
“Thank you. I have your visitor’s badge right here.” She slides a square of plastic my way, along with my license. “Please return it on your way out.”
I nod, clipping the badge to the damp lapel of my suit.
“Mr. Cotes’s office is on the fifty-fifth floor.”
I nod again, nerves constricting my throat and making it difficult to speak. Months of preparation for this meeting, and I’m bleeding confidence by the second.
Fuck you, James , I think again, then start toward the lifts.
A group of three older men steps off, one eyeing my dress shoes disdainfully. They’re saturated with water, just like the rest of me, squeaking against the shiny floor. The haughtiness vanishes when he scrutinizes closer, noticing my tailored suit and expensive watch.
The shift should be reassuring; it only irritates me more.
I look like I belong here—minus my sogginess—but I don’t. Everything about me is false. I’m a fraud, leveraging my title, along with the wealth and connections associated with it, to enter places I shouldn’t be allowed anymore.
The ascent to the fifty-fifth floor feels like it takes an eternity even though the lift doesn’t stop once. Silver doors part to reveal a more welcoming atmosphere than the sterile lobby downstairs. There’s a waiting area with potted plants scattered throughout. Another female receptionist—older, closer to my mum’s age—is seated beneath more metal letters that spell out Kensington Consolidated .
They sure do like to stamp that name all over this place.
The receptionist’s gaze lifts from the computer screen to home in on the visitor’s badge I’m wearing. “Good afternoon, Mr. Marlborough. Mr. Cotes is expecting you. His office is at the end of the hall—5523.” She gestures to the left.
“Thank you,” I tell her, impressed by the efficiency, then continue walking.
The carpeted hallway is wide, lined by large glass offices. Some doors are shut with walls frosted for privacy. Some are open with unoccupied desks and framed windows, boasting impressive views of downtown Manhattan.
This must be the executive floor. There’s no sign of any cubicles. Just sleek offices, most with a private secretary stationed outside.
Asher’s secretary is another attractive young woman. She glances up at the sound of my footsteps, tightening her grip on the chunky cardigan she’s swaddled in. Compared to outside’s temperature, it does feel like the Arctic in here.
“Mr. Marlborough, I assume?” she questions, glancing at my badge.
“Yes.” My voice shares the same consistency as gravel. I clear my throat once, wishing I had some water. Between the blasting air-conditioning and my expanding nerves, my mouth feels drier than a desert.
The secretary’s eyes widen when she hears the trace of my accent, but she doesn’t say anything else before pressing a button on her desk. “Asher, Charles Marlborough is here.”
A few seconds later, a deep voice responds. “Send him in, Indy.”
Indy offers me another polite smile, then nods toward the door.
Asher’s office isn’t constructed from the same glass I just walked past. It’s a coveted corner spot, the walls a cream-colored plaster and the dark wood door completely solid.
The brightness inside is more brilliant than I was expecting based on the office’s solid exterior. Floor-to-ceiling windows span two sides, the glass entirely unblemished. If not for the rain sliding down, it’d appear invisible. Looking out is the same vertigo as standing at the edge of a cliff.
Asher Cotes is seated behind a mahogany desk. He stands when I enter his office, smiling and buttoning his jacket before approaching with a hand outstretched. “I’m Asher Cotes. Pleasure to meet you.”
I shake his hand firmly, some anxiety draining away now that I’m here and close to getting this over with. “Charles Marlborough. Nice to meet you.”
Asher gestures toward one of the chairs facing his desk. “Have a seat.”
I sink down into the one closer to the bookcase, taking a moment to appreciate the view out the window. New York has a certain appeal, I guess.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” he asks, opening a cabinet door to reveal a shiny mini fridge. “I’ve got water or”—he glances at the bar cart by the bookcase—“scotch.”
“Water would be splendid. Thank you.”
“You got it.” Asher hands me a chilled glass bottle, takes one for himself, then returns to his chair. He leans back, entirely relaxed. “What team do you support?”
“Team?” I ask blankly.
“I know you Brits take your socc—I mean, football very seriously. Was just wondering which team you support.”
“Oh.” I relax, too, twisting the top off the water. “Aston Villa.”
Asher’s enthusiastic nod tells me he knows nothing about Premier League. “I’ll have to check out a game sometime.”
“You should,” I say, forcibly blocking out the memories I have of attending matches. Most feature my father.
He’s the reason I’m a Villan—because I believed him when he told me they were the team to support. Just like I believed him when he told me the dukedom I would one day inherit was a thriving legacy.
My fingers tighten around the handle of my briefcase before I open it. There’s a reason I put off this moment for as long as I could. Once I set securing an investor into motion, it’ll be done. I’ll be losing something I can never get back.
But if I don’t let something go, I’ll lose everything . And I won’t be the only one.
So, I pull out the folder stuffed with packets of paper and set it on Asher’s desk. “Here’s the offer.”
The corners of Asher’s eyes crinkle as he reaches for the folder. “You’re not going to ask me about the Jets?”
I give him a blank look.
He chuckles. “Never mind.”
My knee wants to bounce anxiously as Asher flips through the papers. I don’t have my own copy, but I don’t need one. I’ve spent the past several weeks poring over the documents with barristers, discussing which properties and terms to offer. I have the contents memorized.
My father was one of the best-connected men in England. There was a long list of people I could have called for advice or assistance on divesting shares. But a large percentage of those are shrewd businessmen who would have had their own interests. And the others … the center of my father’s inner circle? It would have killed him all over again, having his weaknesses exposed to the men he’d respected most.
I shouldn’t care. I’m trying not to care. He’s gone, and he’ll never know what choices I’ve made with the limited options he left me.
I can’t shake the compulsion to consider his opinion though. Habit, partially. Pride is another piece. And also … I was raised to be the eighth Duke of Manchester. Now, I am the eighth Duke of Manchester. Just because it happened in a different way than I’d ever anticipated doesn’t mean I didn’t know it was coming one day. Doesn’t make the dukedom any less my responsibility.
Asher’s nod is approving as he closes the folder. “Impressive pitch.”
I nod back, keeping my posture relaxed. It’s in my interest for Asher to consider me confident, not desperate. Experienced, not unsure. Hopefully, my father’s proclivity for selling stretched truths as facts was genetic.
And it is a good pitch. I’m offering Kensington Consolidated forty-nine percent of two five-star hotels near Covent Garden and in Belgravia. The historic buildings are worth tens of millions of pounds each, never mind the sterling reputation of the luxury businesses that were established over a century ago. I’m asking for a fair price and offering an opportunity that’s rarer than once in a generation.
Dozens of companies would beg for this offer. But I came here first because Kensington Consolidated is known as being the best. They have deep pockets and endless resources and a shockingly low number of lawsuits for its size. If I have to sell—which I do—they’re the best option.
Asher sits up straight, setting the folder on his desk. “I’ll bring this to the board. Be in touch as soon as possible.”
“Sounds good.” My tone is as straightforward as his.
I’m grateful to Asher for taking this meeting. My surname carries a lot of weight back home. Not so much here. And I’m relieved it wasn’t an outright rejection. But also disappointed.
I knew an immediate answer was unlikely. Asher might be high up in the company, but he’s not at the top. Of course there’s a process that has to take place.
I’m so tired of waiting though. Each day, the weight I’m carrying feels heavier.
I follow Asher out of his office, into the hallway that’s just as empty as when I arrived. Asher’s secretary is talking quietly on the phone, but otherwise, it’s so silent that I think I can hear the rain pattering outside.
“Holiday weekend upcoming,” Asher explains, noticing my perusal. “Lots of folks already took off.”
I nod, my high opinion of Asher improving even more. I don’t know if he had other meetings today or if ours was the only one, but I’m impressed he was willing to come in on a day when he knew most of his colleagues—his subordinates —would be on vacation.
“Hopefully, you’ll have a chance to get away too,” I tell him.
Asher grins. “Headed to Nantucket with the family tomorrow. How about you? Any plans for the Fourth?” His smile holds for a couple of seconds, then dims. Twists into a grimace. “It’s just occurring to me that might be a holiday you don’t celebrate.”
My chuckle is genuine. Which has been rare for the past fourteen months. “I’ll be in the Hamptons.”
“Oh, really? You should—” Asher cuts himself off, his attention behind me. A broad grin stretches across his face. “No way!”
I turn to see a brunette, middle-aged woman walking down the hallway toward us. She’s statuesque and stunning, her dark hair pulled back in a neat chignon and her elegant dress impeccably tailored. I’m certain we’ve never met before, but something about her appearance strikes me as vaguely familiar.
When she reaches us, Asher picks her up and twirls her around in one of the more undignified displays I’ve witnessed in a professional setting.
“What are you doing here?” he exclaims. “Crew said you guys wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow!”
The woman smirks, smoothing the wrinkles Asher added to her dress. “He follows my schedule.”
Asher nods like that response makes total sense. Then glances at me. “Charles, this is Scarlett. Scarlett, this is Charles.” He puffs his chest up with theatrical significance. “We were just discussing some important business.”
“Really?” Scarlett drawls. Her voice has the teasing, exaggerated lilt of an older sibling talking to a younger one.
“Really,” Asher confirms, still grinning widely.
Pieces are slowly clicking together in my mind. This must be Scarlett Kensington, also known as …
“Mom, they were out of?—”
Lili stops speaking as soon as she sees me, a bottle of sparkling water clutched in one hand.
Immediately, I realize why Scarlett looked so familiar. She’s an older version of the woman I met in a stable—and then a wood-paneled lobby—last summer.
The woman who’s suddenly standing right in front of me.
“Whatever we’re out of, ask Indy,” Asher says, interrupting the silence that feels glaring but has probably only lasted a few seconds. “Or I can take a look. I was just wrapping up a meeting.”
Without glancing over, I can tell he’s still smiling. Emanating a friendliness that’s much warmer than obligatory.
Kensington Consolidated must employ hundreds of people. Maybe thousands. Even considering Asher’s prominent position in the company, I didn’t expect that he knew the family personally, much less that I’d run into any Kensingtons during this short visit.
“We didn’t mean to interrupt,” Scarlett says.
“No interruption,” Asher replies.
My gaze remains on Lili as they talk. I’m still processing her unexpected appearance. That she’s suddenly … here. Fuck . My memory didn’t do justice to how bloody gorgeous she is.
She’s staring back, blue eyes sucking me in like a siren seducing a sailor lost at sea.
“… glad I could introduce you to?—”
I’m still distracted, but I register enough of what Asher said to realize he’s trying to introduce me to Lili as well. “We’ve actually?—”
“Elizabeth Kensington.” Lili holds a hand out, a polite smile I can’t see through pinned on her face as she interrupts me with the same cool confidence I’ve encountered before.
Annoyance flares in response, hot and bright and stifling. I have to work hard to keep the flood of irritation off my face, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of seeing it in my expression.
Lili’s fingers are cool as they wrap around mine, her nails painted an icy shade that matches her eyes, which don’t drop from mine. Unflinching blue irises reveal nothing, like the calm surface of a mountain lake.
This woman must play a lot of poker. And if she doesn’t, it’s a missed opportunity to add to her sizable fortune. I have absolutely no idea what she’s thinking. That only adds to my aggravation because I’m usually excellent at reading people.
“Nice to meet you,” I grit out.
Pretty sure that was my same response the last time she reintroduced herself to me.
One of her eyebrows lifts. “And you are …”
I’m silent.
A flash of amusement appears on her face, but it’s gone from her expression before I can blink twice. I’m not sure if she’s entertained by my muteness or if she’s messing with me.
Am I that bloody forgettable?
A question I’m certain Elizabeth Kensington wouldn’t have a complimentary answer to. This is the third time we’ve met, and she’s acted like each one was a first encounter.
A wrinkle forms on her forehead, the longer I hesitate. What she’s frustrated by, I have no clue.
“Charles Marlborough,” I say, wondering if Lili is experiencing the same flash of déjà vu when I introduce myself to her … again.
It’s been almost a year. There’s a good chance that she has forgotten that we’ve met before.
The possibility does nothing to improve my declining mood.
We stare at each other for a few more seconds. Lili looks away first. I shake my head once, refocusing on why I’m really here.
I turn to Asher. “Thanks again, Asher.”
“Of course, Charles. We’ll talk soon.”
Asher and I shake hands one final time. I say a generic goodbye to the Kensingtons, avoiding looking directly at Lili. I’m irrationally irritated with her, to the point that I have no confident control over my voice. Vexed with myself, too, for not foreseeing she’d pretend not to know me after how our last conversation went. Confused why I give a shit either way.
When I turn in the visitor’s badge at the desk downstairs, the only thing I say to the woman working is, “Have a good rest of your day.”