Page 29 of False God

“Polo match is starting soon,” Ellis tells me. “We’re headed over there, if you want to come?”

“Sure,” I reply.

I’ve never attended a polo match I wasn’t playing in before, but a change of scenery sounds nice.

“This is Bash Kensington,” Ellis says, nodding to the bloke beside him as we head toward the field.

Lili’s brother.

It’s disconcerting how I diminish the famously wealthy family down to their association with her. Asher Cotes—a potential investor—is her godfather. Oliver Kensington—CEO of the company I’m hoping to work with—is her uncle. And now, I’m searching for facial similarities in a stranger she’s related to.

“Charlie. Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, you too,” Bash responds. “Ellis talks about you a lot.”

A funny prickle appears in the back of my throat. I avoid looking at my cousin as I clear it. “How do you two know each other?”

“Golf mostly,” Bash answers. “Not my best game, but not much else to do around here.”

“Not your best game?” Ellis repeats. “You shot eighty-three the last time we played.”

Bash shrugs modestly. For all their privilege, the Kensingtons I’ve met seem surprisingly grounded.

We reach the edge of the polo field. Spectators and players are already gathering, several horses standing on the grass as riders make final adjustments to their tacks.

“This isn’t a professional match,” Bash tells me. “Just a meetup between members.”

“These games are more entertaining,” Ellis adds.

They continue toward the white tents set up on the sidelines. I step over the short picket fence surrounding the field and head toward the blond man Lili was talking to earlier.

“Handsome horse,” I say, stopping a few feet away.

Callahan Winston turns, an easy smile spreading across his face. “Thanks, man.”

I dislike him instantly, and it definitely has something to do with how I recognize his horse as the same gelding Lili was stroking last summer.

“How much would you want for him?”

There’s no way I’d ship a horse I don’t have time to ride back to Newcastle Hall, even if I still had frivolous spending money. But Callahan doesn’t know that, and I have some strange impulse to make certain he considers me as rich as everyone else here.

He shakes his head, still smiling. “Lexington isn’t for sale. Had this guy since college.” Callahan notches the girth, then lets the saddle flap fall with a smack of leather and grabs the reins. He sticks a palm out. “I’m Cal Winston.”

“Charles Marlborough.” I shake his hand more firmly than is really necessary.

Cal’s eyes widen, but I don’t think he’s reacting to my tight grip. Sure enough, “I was wondering, with the accent and all. You’re the duke everyone’s talking about.”

“I am.”

“Figured you’d be … older. No offense. Duke just sounds ancient to me.”

“We come in all ages,” I respond, not mentioning that I’m the youngest in centuries.

“How many dukes does England have?”

“Thirty-four,” I answer.

A horse with a mounted rider approaches. I squint upward, the sun’s glare making it impossible to distinguish any details.

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