Chapter 12
12
P ersistent buzzing pulls my attention away from the flock of sparrows vandalizing the garden. White smears mar the black metal bench shaded beneath the cherry tree; its broad branches weighted with a lot less fruit than this morning.
I turn away from the windows and back toward my father’s—now my —massive desk. The tooled green leather top is barely visible, the surface of the desk piled high with papers I’m supposed to be sorting through.
My shin slams into one of the walnut drawers as I spin around in the chair. I answer my phone without checking to see who’s calling, reaching down to rub at the throbbing spot.
“Hello?”
“Charlie! What’s the craic?”
Fig’s cheerful voice is a better remedy for the pain than my palm’s pointless rubbing. I smile automatically, listening to the lilt of his thick Irish accent. A soundtrack of easier times—days when my only concern was making it to campus on time and nights when the only decision was which woman to leave the pub with.
“Not much,” I reply, picking up a pen and spinning it around one finger. “You?”
“I’m grand. No one’s callin’ me Disappearin’ Duke.”
I toss the pen toward the highest stack. It bounces off the papers and lands atop one of the curling scrolls woven into the antique rug. “That’s rubbish. I’m just busy.”
Fig clicks his tongue, his way of saying he doesn’t believe me. “Heard yer comin’ to Theo’s weddin’.”
“How did you …” My voice trails off as irritation flares.
The attention my family received used to be flattering. And advantageous. Now, it’s bloody annoying. A bright spotlight while I’m trying to fix things in the shadows.
Fig’s husky laugh rumbles in my ear. “Yer who everyone’s talkin’ about, Charlie.”
My jaw flexes at the confirmation. I haven’t attended a public event since my father’s funeral. Granny was right that me hiding away would cause talk. But me showing up is also causing talk, apparently.
“Splendid,” I say, knowing Fig will catch the sarcasm.
His family isn’t titled, but they’re well off, owning a significant share in an Irish brewery. Fig has never experienced the exaggerated societal interest that I have, but he’s familiar enough with aristocracy to understand it’s there.
“Feel like racin’ at Darwen Circuit?” Fig asks. “Take yer mind off yer … busyness?”
I lean back in my father’s— my —chair, ignoring the leather’s squeak of protest. “What the fuck are you talking about, Fig?”
Darwen Circuit is a racing track. Fig and I went to a Formula One event there a couple of summers ago. We talked about going back last summer for the British Grand Prix … and then my life imploded.
“Theo rented it for the day. Right, I’ll see you there?”
I glance at the piles of papers. One stack I … started. A dozen untouched. “I can’t.”
“You feckin’ eejit.” Fig’s accent always gets thicker when he’s annoyed. “What else are ye doin’?”
My fingers tap a restless rhythm against my thigh. “Not much,” I admit.
Now that Kensington Consolidated rejected the offer, I’m back to researching other potential investors. If I have to sell off pieces of my inheritance to a partner, I’m going to at least make sure it’s the best deal possible.
“Just give yer name at the door. Theo will have it all sorted.”
Fig hangs up in his typical efficient manner before I can reply. Protest. Apologize for being a rubbish friend for the past year.
I leave Newcastle Hall just after lunch, the temptation of an afternoon of escape hard to resist.
The drive to Darwen Circuit takes just over an hour, most of the route roads winding through the familiar countryside with stone walls and patchwork fields. I pass a golf course and a horse farm as I near the racing track, but there’s not much else around.
The guard at the gate waves me through after I give my name.
I’m lost in my own head as I follow signs to a parking area and then walk into a cavernous garage space overlooking the track. Stuck with the same swarm of thoughts that has been following me around for what feels like forever. They drone in the background like I’m ensconced inside a beehive.
A largish group—about fifteen people—is gathered ahead, next to a red car.
I crack my knuckles as I approach. I aged sixty years in the last one, transforming into a cranky old man who avoids commotion or crowds. Partly to avoid lying. But also, I just haven’t felt like being around many people. At least in New York, no one was offering condolences about my father or asking why I wasn’t at Royal Ascot.
Specific queries about topics I don’t want to discuss are much more likely in this country.
I spot Theodore Hughes first, leaning against the bumper of the race car. He’s sporting a trimmed beard he didn’t have at university, but otherwise looks the same as I remember him.
A beaming blonde is saying something to him. They’re holding hands, so I surmise she’s the woman he’s marrying on Saturday. And on the other side of her …
My next step stutters, my brain struggling to compute what my eyes are seeing.
What the fuck is Elizabeth Kensington doing here?
Lili glances my way a few seconds later, then does a double take.
Her spine stiffens, her shoulders square, and her chin tilts toward the ceiling.
I’ve seen her fighting posture before. Today, it’s followed by a rush of red to her cheeks, which tells me she hasn’t forgotten how our last conversation ended. Plus a purse of her pink lips, which suggests she had no idea I’d be here either.
Bloody hell, she’s gorgeous.
I didn’t think I’d see her again. Certainly not here .
Fig heads straight for me, followed by Theo. We catch up for a few minutes, the rest of the group—minus Lili, who seems to be intentionally looking away—sending curious glances toward our trio until an instructor arrives to give us a safety speech.
“Ye already missed four of ’em,” Fig tells me under his breath, clearly impatient to get out on the track.
We all have to sign waivers.
Skimming over the list of warnings, I think of the photos from my father’s accident. I looked at the report, even though everyone had told me not to. All that remained of his car was crumpled metal and shattered glass and strips of ripped rubber. Wreckage I’ve witnessed firsthand.
But I’m not nervous about driving. I’m craving the adrenaline rush. A chance to escape the buzzing and simply react.
Something I’ve been unable to do for months. The only relief from worry I’ve experienced was kissing Lili. A reaction so unexpected that I rushed off at the first available opportunity, before I could fully lose control.
I glance at Lili, who’s talking with a guy I recognize as Cal Winston. The man he called to during the polo match—Tripp—is here too. So is the woman who hit on me at the restaurant in Manhattan, whose name I can’t recall right now.
I scribble my signature on the last page of the waiver.
This feels like another opportunity to prove I’m different from James Marlborough. My father might have lost control—of his car, of his life—but I won’t.
We’re given suits to change into, the heavy fabric stifling as the sun’s unforgiving glare reflects off the blacktop. Four brightly colored cars are parked on the track, covered with sponsor logos. Older models no longer used for professional races.
The girls reach the row of cars first, laughing and posing for photos with the shadow of the huge stadium looming large in the background. Lili wanders toward the yellow McLaren, and I’m walking toward her before I’ve consciously decided to.
“You going to drive it?”
Lili’s shoulders straighten before she turns to face me. She’s wearing sunglasses, but I’m 90 percent sure her gaze dips to check me out. Her cheek puckers for a split second, like she’s chewing on the inside as she deliberates what to say.
“Have we met before?” she asks sweetly.
I grin, then take another step closer. She tenses even more, but doesn’t move away.
“You remembered my name just fine when you were moaning it.”
Lili flicks her ponytail off her shoulder. “Right. Good to see you again, Christian .”
My grin grows. “What are you doing here, Eleanor ?”
She rolls her eyes at the purposeful mistake. “My best friend is getting married on Saturday.”
“Your best friend is marrying Theo Hughes,” I realize, glancing at the blonde he was with earlier.
She’s staring at me and Lili … same as everyone else. Like they’re all at a museum and we’re the only painting on the wall.
“You don’t even know her name?” Lili scoffs. “What are you doing here?”
“I was invited.”
“To waste gas by driving around in circles or to the wedding?”
I smirk without meaning to. I’m already losing track of how many times Lili has made me smile during this conversation. “Tell me you didn’t fly private here, Kensington.”
Her lips stay pressed tightly together.
“I’m attending the wedding too,” I tell her.
And this is the first time I’ve been the least bit enthused about it now that I know she’ll be there. But I keep that thought to myself.
“You know Theo?” Lili asks.
I shrug. “Eh.”
Her forehead wrinkles. “What does eh mean?”
“It means we went to the same pubs in university, and I got invited to his wedding because I’m the Duke of Manchester.”
“So … you were college friends?”
I shrug again because I wouldn’t really consider us friends, but that sounds sad and suspicious to admit aloud. I don’t want Lili asking more questions about why I’d attend the wedding of a guy I hardly know. She doesn’t see me as important—because she’s American, or because she’s from a powerful family and accustomed to influence, or both—and I actually appreciate that she doesn’t give a shit about my title.
I glance at the McLaren. “You never answered my question.”
Her nose wrinkles. “What question?”
My head tilts to the left. “Are you going to drive it?”
“No.”
“You’re dressed for it,” I remind her.
Lili’s full lips part with surprise, and I decide bringing up our first conversation was a mistake. Not only did I reveal how well I remember it, but I’m now focused on her mouth and fantasies of kissing her again. The heat is no longer the only reason this suit is uncomfortable.
“Did you want a photo with this one, Lili?” The blonde—Theo’s bride—appears, glancing between the two of us inquisitively.
I should introduce myself. Congratulate her on her upcoming nuptials.
But my eyes refuse to leave Lili. “Hundred quid I win.”
Her eyebrows fly so high that I can see them over her sunglasses. “You want to race me?”
“I want to beat you,” I correct. “Again,” I add, just to be a prat.
The blonde makes an amused sound in the back of her throat. I’m assuming it’s because she knows the same thing about Lili that I do—she’s bloody competitive.
Lili crosses her arms. “A hundred dollars I beat you .”
More muffled laughter echoes around us.
Elizabeth Kensington is a multibillionaire.
I live on one of the largest estates in England.
Yet we’re bartering like broke university students because this wager has nothing to do with money.
She stares me down, and I stare right back, wishing she’d take off the fucking sunglasses so I could see her blue eyes.
“Deal?” Lili holds a hand out, likely wondering why I’m standing silent. “ Your Highness .” Her voice is teasing. Her expression relaxed.
That amusement fades slowly as my fingers wrap around hers. I squeeze her palm tighter than necessary, reveling in the way her attention remains on me. Absorbing the confusion and the anticipation crackling in the couple of feet separating us.
She doesn’t know why I’m doing this. I don’t know why I’m doing this.
After months of plotting every move, it feels fucking incredible to just act .
“The proper address is Your Grace , Americana.”
“Respect is earned, Redcoat.”
Her fucking mouth. I’m dying to fill it with my cock. See what she has to say to me then.
I’ve never had this visceral of a reaction to a woman before. My interest has always waned over time. It’s never grown like this, expanding into insatiable attraction. I blame the foreign feeling for what comes out next.
“I win, I want a date.”
Lili looks more stunned than when she first saw me here. “What?”
I’m equally surprised, but I don’t let it show. “You heard me.”
She visibly swallows. “And what if I win?”
“What do you want?”
Lili’s silent for a few seconds as she thinks. “I win, you give a speech at Theo and Chloe ’s wedding.”
My left eye twitches. Public speaking is high on my list of hated activities, and any faith I had in the institution of marriage disappeared around the time of my parents’ divorce. There’s no way Lili could know those two things about me. What she also doesn’t know about me is that there’s nothing I wouldn’t wager right now. I’m confident I’ll win, and I’m ridiculously desperate to spend more time around her, preferably alone.
“Deal,” I agree, releasing her hand. Satisfaction courses through me as I pull on my helmet and flip up the visor. “Good luck, Kensington.”
I leave Lili standing with her astonished friend, heading toward the blue Lamborghini.
One of the instructors rushes toward me, his mouth puckered unpleasantly, like he sucked something sour. “Sir, you missed the karts and time in the sidepod?—”
“I signed the waiver,” I say, tugging the zipper up to my chin.
“I know, sir, but you should really?—”
I turn and clap a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Look …”
“Milo,” he supplies.
“Look, Milo. I’m good. Sit back and enjoy the show, all right?”
Milo frowns like he’d love to argue, casting an uneasy glance toward the group of Americans. He collected the forms, meaning he knows who I am. This is the first time in a while I’ve been grateful for my title.
He caves, reminding me about the pace car and the ambulance before heading back inside the garage.
I’m about to climb into the Lamborghini when I hear, “… don’t get why you’re doing this.”
I glance over one shoulder. Cal Winston is standing next to Lili’s yellow car, blocking her from climbing inside.
My jaw tightens as I register the possessive pose of his lean. None of Lili’s other friends are trying to talk her out of racing.
There’s too much commotion around for me to catch Lili’s response. Hopefully, it’s some version of fuck off . Whatever she says, it’s enough to make Cal back away.
Lili looks in my direction after he walks off, catching me staring. Her sunglasses are gone, her eyes singeing me like blue fire. They cool a few seconds later, flames flickering down to a smolder.
I picture those accident photos again, and this time, there’s a stab of panic.
Not for my safety.
For hers.
Is she up for this?
She lives in New York, which I learned firsthand is full of terrible drivers. If she has a private jet, she must have a chauffeur in the city.
I goaded Lili into racing because I wanted her attention and couldn’t think of any other way to get it. Because I was thinking with my dick instead of my brain.
She sat through the training I missed earlier. But who the fuck knows if she was paying attention during it? She told me she wasn’t planning to race.
Bloody hell .
I jog toward the yellow car, ignoring the surprised looks from the pit crew preparing to start the race. Lili’s helmet is on, the visor up as she studies the controls on the wheel.
She glances up as I approach. I can feel the sweat dripping down my spine.
“Why weren’t you going to race?” I ask. Yell more like because it’s even louder out on the track now that they’re starting all the engines.
Lili blinks. “What?”
“You said you weren’t planning to drive. Why not?”
“I-I don’t know. This was Theo’s thing. I thought I’d be in the stands or something.”
“Do you want to race?”
Her forehead wrinkles. “What are you talking about, Charlie? We are racing. This was your idea, remember?”
I exhale, trying to expel some of my frustration. “Tell me if you want to do this or if you’re only doing it because of a stupid bet.”
“ Your stupid bet.”
I blow out another long breath. “Lili …”
She props a hand on her hip. “Is this your idea of an intimidation tactic? Because it isn’t working.”
I yank my helmet off so I can rake a hand through my hair. “I’m being bloody serious!”
“Then, get in your car because I don’t want you claiming I had a head start when I beat you, Your Grace .”
Lili knocks her visor down, so I’m staring at my own distorted reflection in the tinted plastic.
I swear under my breath, then turn and walk back to my car.
Most stubborn woman I’ve ever met .
Beatrice Campbell—Granny’s favorite for granddaughter-in-law—would have started picking out china patterns if I’d expressed any concern about her safety.
Bea wouldn’t have agreed to race in the first place .
I climb in the Lamborghini and adjust into the low seat that requires practically lying down, pushing thoughts of Lili far away. I have to trust that she knows what she’s doing—that she wouldn’t put herself in harm’s way, stubborn or not—and focus on not crashing myself.
Everyone’s watching—from the chief instructor to the catering crew.
I hang a hand outside the cockpit and spin my index finger around in the air. The roaring engine fires. I rev it three times.
The cars get rolled onto the track, and then the green flag swishes to signal the start.
The clutch has been modified to make it easier for amateurs to use. I switch gears without stalling out and ease on the gas as I approach the first straightaway. Flashing lights on the wheel signal when to shift. Three greens, then a red. I pull on the right paddle.
When the first curve approaches, I hit the brakes hard at the fifty-meter mark. I oversteer, exiting the turn, but manage to correct while easing off the gas some. Once it’s straight ahead, I switch gears again and accelerate.
My stomach gets left behind as my head snaps back from the force of the sudden momentum.
Adrenaline spreads through my system, sharpening my senses. It’s a rush I’ve never experienced before, a high I didn’t know existed to chase.
I’m flooring the throttle, my body pushed back against the seat by sheer speed. I shift until I’m in sixth gear, going flat out, the surrounding stands flashing by at an alarming rate. The spinning tires eat up the straightaway faster than I would have thought possible as I fly toward another curve. I stand on the brakes, pressing down as hard as I can, then take the turn and start accelerating again.
This is dangerous. Not just the driving. But also the thrill of speed that could so easily become an addiction. The freedom of escaping everything.
I’m ahead, but I push harder.
Three laps.
Four.
Five.
A broad smile spreads across my face when I cross the finish line first at the end of the sixth lap.
Not simply because I won.
But because of what I won.