Chapter 14
William
That evening, I was propped up on my bed in the folly with a steaming cup of tea and an ill-advisedly tall and teetering pile of ginger nut biscuits on the bedside table.
Excommunicated from my house guests, I had no reason to be wearing anything other than my red satin boxer shorts.
The letter from HMRC was shoved deep beneath the pillows, and my copy of The Broken Crown was open in my lap.
It’s the first book in the Knights-Errant trilogy proper, and I was getting to the good bit, where young Sir Gawain saves Prince Henry from an assassin’s arrow and the unspoken sexual tension between them starts to sizzle and smoke like a dragon’s set it ablaze.
There was a knock at the door.
“Bramley?”
The knock came again.
“If that’s you, Jonty, I’m not risking a turn on Indira Murray’s ducking stool to listen to you bleat on about my father’s balls again.”
“Sorry?” said a soft feminine voice. It definitely wasn’t Indira.
Perhaps one of Petey’s colleagues had come to ask me to relight the hot water system, or fix a loose stair rod or relocate the newts in the downstairs lavatory?
I opened the door to find a woman mid-curtsey, her voluminous breasts practically tumbling out of a black silk dressing gown.
“My lord,” she said, standing upright, her wide brown eyes—innocent as a newborn doe’s—meeting mine.
“Are you lost?” I asked. “Can I help you?”
She shook her head, then looked at me the way a child looks at a doughnut in a bakery window.
“No, thank you. I’ve found exactly what I’m looking for.” She brushed her décolletage with her hand. “My name’s Ridhi. Aren’t you going to invite me in, my lord?”
“I’m not allowed to talk to strangers,” I said—suddenly aware this unsolicited intrusion was going to cost me ￡10,000. I had to get rid of her.
“But the whole idea is for us to get to know each other, my lord.”
“Whole idea of what?”
She looked past me to the bed, her eyes lighting up. “Oh, my goodness, you’re a reader. What are you reading?” Ridhi’s voice had changed completely. She pushed her way into the room and plucked my book off the bed.
“The Broken Crown?” She smiled—somewhat patronisingly, I thought—and sat on the edge of my bed. “Knights-Errant is such a classic series. Have you tried Brandon Osmond’s A Kingdom of Vipers and Valour, though? It’s so much fresher.”
Well, that was it. I had no idea what this woman wanted, but if it was an argument, she was going to get it.
“I prefer fantasy that doesn’t read like the author has already sold the TV rights to a streaming service,” I said.
“Please don’t misunderstand me, my lord. Knights-Errant is a foundational text—”
“Without D. R. R. Fanshaw, there is no Brandon Osmond.”
“I so agree.” No, she didn’t. She was backtracking. I know an Osmond apologist when I hear one.
Silence fell between us. Ridhi worried her lips with her teeth.
“I think we might have got off on the wrong foot, my lord. Can we start again?” She leant back onto the bed and kicked her legs playfully.
“I have just had a vision of the most incredible collaboration. My followers will go nuts for a fantasy-reading aristocrat with a chest like that.” She patted the bed.
“What would you say to you and I… going viral together?”
I reached out a hand. She smiled, batted her eyelashes, and grabbed it.
“Absolutely not,” I said, pulling her upright and shuffling her out the door.
“But… my lord! Please! I think there’s been a misunderstanding—”
“No misunderstanding,” I said, firmly. “You’re a member of the cast. I’m not allowed to talk to you. Please, go. And for the love of God, don’t tell anyone you’ve been here!”
Ridhi frowned.
“Nice to meet you,” I said, and gently closed the door.
A moment later came a muffled “Vipers and Valour has sold more than thirty million copies, you pretentious wanker!” I heard her stamping up the hall like a petulant child. Well, I wasn’t letting her have the last word.
“Knights-Errant has never been out of print, you philistine,” I shouted back, without opening the door.
“I have sixty thousand followers on Bookstagram!” Her voice was faint now, all the way down the corridor. “I know about books!”
I cracked open the door and shouted through the gap. “I did my dissertation on Knights-Errant!” I slammed the door. Then opened it again and shouted: “At Loughborough University!”
Well, I doubted Ridhi would be back. But what the hell had she been doing here in the first place?
I returned to my book and stack of biscuits, wondering whether she’d cost me ten big ones.
Twenty minutes later, there was another knock, and I presumed I was about to find out.
Too fed up to care, I opened the door still clad only in my boxers, ginger nut crumbs tumbling out of my belly button.
I was greeted by a blonde woman wearing not very much.
“Is you Lord Buckford?”
“Sadly,” I sighed.
She curtseyed.
“No, please don’t do that. You need to go—”
“You can call me Ellie.” She extended her hand, and on instinct I shook it, which she took as permission to slither past me into the room. “I’m a vegan chef. Maybe you seen my YouTube channel, Eat Like an Ellie Plant?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t.”
Ellie collapsed on my bed.
“We saw you riding your horse earlier. You looked right fit.”
“Ah.” I was beginning to see what was going on.
“You’re ever so good with animals. That’s a very sexy quality in a man.”
“Er, thank you. I believe Indira’s lined up a dozen men with a range of sexy qualities for you ladies to choose from.
She’s even dressed them all up like Colin Firth.
Or Matthew Macfadyen. Whichever you prefer.
You should probably be getting back to them, or you’ll get stuck with Mr Collins.
” I held the door open, gesturing the way out with my hand.
She didn’t budge. “Why chase them pretend lords when I’ve got the real deal right here?”
If she fancied long-term financial security, she might not be so keen. I shook my head.
“Well, I’m afraid I’m gay, so you’re out of luck.”
It was a spur-of-the-moment thing to say. An unexpected trump card.
Ellie smiled and slowly shook her head. “No, you ain’t.”
“Pardon?”
“We was talking about you, all us girls, and Kiki—she’s like a hotline to The Bulletin, don’t ever tell her nothing, babes, unless you want it in the papers the next day—Kiki said she remembered a headline about the Bisexual Baron Buckford.”
I swallowed. “Don’t believe everything you read in the papers.”
Ellie eyeballed me squarely and shook her head. She didn’t believe me. She pulled her dressing gown up, revealing a remarkable amount of thigh.
“Do you ever eat meat, my lord?”
Dear God, I nearly had a heart attack.
“I could never be with a meat eater, you see. It’s unjustifiable.”
I jumped on the proffered life raft. “Eat animals? I’m afraid I do. Completely ravenous for them. Got a deep freezer downstairs simply bursting with sausages. Saw a chap walking around with a very tasty-looking duck the other day too.”
Ellie turned up her nose, like she’d been crop dusted with the gamiest of meat farts. “You’re disgusting, mate.”
“Afraid so,” I said, pointing again to the door, urging her out.
She shook her head. “I’ve been thinking all afternoon about the incredible collaborations we could do. My audience would go mad for a vegan lord with a chest like that.”
“Sorry. Still, better for you to have found out now, before we both got too invested.”
“Hundred per cent.” Ellie stood, straightened her dressing gown, and stepped towards the door. I stuck my head into the hallway to check the coast was clear, then ushered her out.
“Lovely to have met you. Safe journey home. Please don’t tell anyone you’ve been here.”
I shut the door.
“I bet my cooking could change your mind,” Ellie said, somewhat belatedly.
“Sorry, can’t hear you over all these delicious sausages.”
Ten minutes later there was another tap at the folly door.
Were all the female cast members really going to give it a go?
If they had any idea what being Lady Buckford entailed—the abject poverty, the unsafe wiring, the unending requests to judge things at the village fair—they wouldn’t be quite so keen.
I ignored the knock. In The Broken Crown, Gawain was about to throw himself in front of the arrow headed directly for Prince Henry’s heart.
The knock came again.
“Go away!”
“Oh, sorry, mate.” It was a man’s voice. At least it wasn’t Indira. I opened the door, expecting to see one of the producers. A rugged, shirtless, tanned young fellow with a dirty blond buzz cut stood in the hall.
“No, I’m sorry,” I said. “I thought you were someone else. It’s been like Paddington Station around here tonight. How can I help you?”
The chap smiled, his hazel eyes twinkling with mischief. “I’m Tom.” He held out a hand. His grip was firm and rough, his eye contact unwavering. “Is the white stallion in the stables yours?” he asked, in a deep West Country accent.
I nodded. “Is something wrong? Are you the crew horse handler?”
Tom laughed. “Nothing like that. He’s fine. I’m part of the show. I’m a contestant.”
“I’m sorry, but you have to go.”
I tried to close the door, but Tom slipped a foot into the doorway.
“He’s a beautiful beast. Gorgeous temperament.
A few of those Cleveland Bay mares seem right taken with him.
” He stepped into the room, his chest almost brushing mine as he squeezed past me.
“But who can blame them?” he said, looking me up and down.
“I prefer a big white stallion myself, as it happens.”
Then he flopped down onto my bed.
Oh. Unbelievable! That wasn’t merely horsey small talk.
It was Trojan horsey small talk. First the women, now the men too.
Was this because I’d told Ellie I was gay?
Was I being tested? Were they all in on it?
Christ, how long before Indira found out?
How long before my cheque was whittled down to nothing?
“Lovely to chat,” I said. “I’m sorry you can’t stay.”
“What?”
I pretended to yawn. “It’s getting terribly late.”
“Oh.” Tom frowned but sprang up from the bed. “Of course.” He hadn’t expected that. With a face and body like his, I doubted he got turned down very often. Still, first time for everything.
“Yes, too bad,” I said.
Tom squeezed past me, his chest hair tickling my nipples, his eyes locked onto mine. “You must come down to Somerset sometime. I’ve got a Suffolk Punch at home.”
“Beautiful workhorses.”
“I’d love to take you up the field and show you how deep I can plough. I can go for hours.”
“Sounds exhausting.” My voice squeaked out of me like a teenage boy.
Tom’s eyes flicked down to my neck. His head tilted. He closed his eyes, leant towards my skin, and breathed in deeply. My nervous system was screaming like an air raid siren.
“You smell really good,” he said, opening his eyes.
“Thanks. It’s… ginger nuts.”
Tom frowned. I opened my mouth like I was at the dentist and huffed air onto his face so he could smell it.
“See? Ginger nuts.”
Tom blinked, shook his head, turned, and disappeared down the corridor.
Over the next two hours, there were three more knocks at the door.
All women. So if Tom was sent to test my claim to homosexuality, I’d failed.
I was getting increasingly frustrated. The best passages of my favourite book were being ruined by interruptions.
It was nearly eleven when there was another heavy, urgent thump at the door.
“Oh, sod off! Are you trying to bankrupt me?”
“It’s me, open up.”
“Petey Boy?”
I threw open the door.
“You and I need to talk,” he said, marching into the room.
“We absolutely do,” I agreed.