Page 6 of False God

“Love you too. Drink a paloma for me.”

My smile turns into a full one before I hang up, staring out at the mowed expanse before me.

It’s so open. So empty, aside from the distant dots of a golfer or caddie.

Endless possibilities.

The sketch forms in my mind as I locate the perfect spot for a trio of fountains, surrounded by a maze of walkways. Trellises and a central path, lined with oak trees and lavender.

If that garden actually existed, I wouldn’t dread coming here so much. I’d add a couple of benches and visit just to listen to birds chirp and horses neigh. A little oasis, so different from the constant activity of the city. There’s nowhere you can go in Manhattan and hear silence.

I enjoy the quiet for a few more minutes, then turn and head back toward the tent.

2

Ellis 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 practicallyswoonedwhen 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 saidimportantpeople 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.

---