Page 1 of Love ad Lib
PROLOGUE
Lord Henry Arthur Fitzwilliam Foxbrooke, Viscount of Nobbury and heir to his father’s title and estate, stood in the entrance hall of his family home and seethed.
In front of him, a woman in a red latex crotchless catsuit squeaked across the tiled floor. A naked man crawled behind her, led by a dog leash attached to a studded collar. The man glanced at Henry and barked. The sound bounced off the panelled walls, colliding with peals of laughter and groans of lust that echoed from elsewhere in the house.
Henry ground his teeth. One of his father’s infamous soirées was in full swing.
Whether it floated your boat or sank your ship, as long as you were a consenting adult and left your pets at home, every sexual proclivity was catered for at Foxbrooke Manor. The parties had been running for decades ever since Henry’s father, Arthur, unexpectedly acceded to the title of Duke and turned the ancestral seat from a stuffy stately home in Somerset to a go-to destination for high-class hedonists and their hangers-on.
The affairs had started out small, but once word got out about the smorgasbord of sex and other stimulants on offer, they engorged. TheDaily Mailnewspaper was one of the most voracious critics, working itself up into a frothing frenzy of self-righteous indignation as it sought to lay the lassitude of youth, the decline of ‘British’ values, and the rise in house prices firmly at the door of Foxbrooke Manor.
The fact that the Duchess of Somerset, Henry’s mother, was a Black American model and movie star was unusual enough. However, a year after producing Henry and his twin sister, Estelle, Vivienne Camille Boucher-Foxbrooke began an affair with an Irish single mother from the village and introduced her to the Duke. Three months after that, Dervla O’Sullivan married the Duke and Duchess of Somerset in a pagan ceremony, and she and her infant son took the Foxbrooke name.
The three adults may have been happy in their unconventional relationship, however the mainstream media was not. TheDaily Mailspearheaded a letter-writing campaign to show the Foxbrooke family just what the Great British Public thought of them and their lifestyle.
Arthur, Vivienne and Dervla responded by creating a pyre and burning every piece of correspondence in the centre of Foxbrooke village on a Saturday afternoon, surrounded by their young children.
Life was never the same again.
‘Henry! My boy!’
Arthur George Edward Foxbrooke was descending the wide staircase, a champagne flute in one hand, a lit cigarette in a holder in the other. He was dressed only in a patterned gold silk dressing gown that stretched over his tummy, and a pair of old carpet slippers. His salt-and-pepper hair stuck up in all directions and his cheeks were flushed. If Holly Golightly, Henry VIII and Hugh Hefner had indulged in a three-way, the Duke of Foxbrooke would be their love child.
‘Perfect timing,’ his father said, drawing him in for a hug.
Henry stood stiffly, his overnight bag clutched to his side as the smell of patchouli punched him in the nose.
His father disengaged with a satisfied smile. ‘I’ve just finished servicing your mam.’
Henry repressed a shudder and brushed his jacket as if to remove the scent of his second mother, now clinging to him like an unwanted hug. ‘Dad—’
‘I wish your mom was here,’ his father continued, his brow furrowing. ‘The sooner that fashion shoot thingumajig is over, the sooner I’m back between her—’
‘Dad!’
His father blinked, as if woken from a dream.
‘Your message said there was an emergency,’ Henry snapped.
Arthur took a drag from his cigarette, ash dropping to the floor. The sight and smell made Henry’s skin itch. Sod staying the night. He wanted to get back to London on the next train and dump everything he was wearing at the dry cleaners.
‘Yes.’ Arthur fixed his pale blue eyes on his son’s brown ones. ‘You’rethe emergency.’
‘What?’
His father glugged a mouthful of champagne and unsuccessfully stifled a burp.
‘Dad?’
‘Come with me. I’ve got something for you.’ He turned on his heel and beckoned Henry to follow.
Henry’s heart sank. He should have cross-checked with Estelle or any of his other siblings if there wasactuallyan emergency before setting off. However, any conversation with his family always ended with them asking him the same question, to which he never provided the answer they were looking for. He figured it was better for everyone if he minimised contact rather than continue to disappoint them.
He focused on the slap of his father’s slippers as he strode through the Manor. His dad didn’t believe in throwing anything away that still functioned, so his slippers were dirty and threadbare. They’d been used as chew toys by the family dogs, had holes from his big toenails, were stained from cooking accidents, and were shiny inside from sebum.
Each Christmas, Henry bought him a new pair, and each year they were re-gifted to one of his brothers or given to the village charity shop. But Henry refused to give up. If he could convince his father to condemn his slippers to the interior of a biohazard bag, maybe there was hope that one day the rest of Arthur Foxbrooke could be moulded into some sense of normalcy.
His dad stopped at the entrance to the long gallery. The floor was a chequerboard of black and white tiles ground down by the passage of footsteps across time. The walls were panelled in dark wood, and suits of armour stood sentry by the many doors. Halfway down the space stood a couple wearing high-vis jackets and safety shoes. By their rigid posture, Henry guessed they were attending the party for work, not pleasure.
