Grand Prize Duke Read online

  “Well, I won’t keep you. Let me know if you need anything.”

  She slips me an extra packet of Stroop waffles that I don’t want and I nod at her, trying to keep the painful smile on my face as she backs away slowly to tend to the man at the front who has been frantically pressing his call button for at least a solid minute.

  I thought I could live with the ring. I should love it. Most women would faint if their fiancé slipped this bad boy on their finger. It’s the kind of thing you see walking down the red carpet on an A list actresses’ finger.

  But the more I wear it, the more I hate it. All it does it attract unnecessary attention that I don’t want. But it’s only temporary, I remind myself. I want desperately to take it off and stow it deep in my purse, but with my luck, it would just get lost, and then I’d be the one owing William at the end of this.

  This is what I’ve been waiting for, isn’t it? I’ve been looking for a purpose, a reason to get out of bed in the morning. I still don’t know what that reason is, but with 100 thousand dollars I can buy myself the time to figure it out. I’ll be able to try new things without fear of them failing and maybe even do some good in the world instead of just spinning my wheels dishing up cheeseburgers.

  I take a sip of my whiskey and let it run over my tongue, trying to savor the flavor. It’s shit and I’m glad I asked for the soda to cut it with. It does the trick for now. I was until very recently, nothing and nobody just like this drink. And soon I will be again.

  I can feel my hand shaking as I pour the soda into the glass and bring the drink quickly to my lips again. There’s everything to be nervous about, but I try to lie to my stupid brain and tell it to relax. It won’t work, of course, but at least I feel like I’m making an effort.

  Scarier than the flight and the speed at which this sleeping pill is working, is the growing tingle in the back of my head that whispers you’re going to fuck it up.

  Thankfully, the whiskey soon starts to do its work and I feel the smooth warmth starting at my belly and slipping over me like a warm blanket.

  It will all be fine when I get there. I will get a month of luxury living and enough money to start over and pay my rent for the next 10 years if it came to that.

  I was excited to score a window seat, but since we’re still on the ground, all I can see are two baggage handlers lazily loading bags onto the conveyer belt that’s dropping them into our plane. I stare out of it anyway, leaning back into the plush seat, with headphones in. I don’t have anything on the large screen in front of me, despite the hundreds of movie and TV show choices, but the headphones block a little bit of the chatter from the other passengers and give me an excuse not to engage with the stewardess again.

  I glance across the row of seats and see my own face jabbering away on the screen in front of a middle-aged woman in a Chanel suit just across the aisle from me. She pulls her sleeve over her hand to wipe away tears at the corners of her eyes and shakes her head, agreeing with something I can’t even remember saying now that was most probably a lie.

  I grab the baseball hat from my purse and quickly pull it back on my head, positioning the brim low over my face and will myself to disappear into the cushion of the seat.

  Chapter 2

  Ed

  I was always getting the shit jobs. I really must put my foot down with that stuck-up asshole and tell him I’m not a chauffeur. But the Duke was certainly not going to drive his posh ass all the way down to Heathrow to pick up anyone, even someone as important as his fiancée.

  I honestly don’t remember if he even knows how to drive seeing as he hasn’t had to use the skill since he was 18 and sneaking out second story windows. Even if he could still figure out how to shift without stalling the engine every other kilometer, I doubt he’d care enough to come and get her, despite his professions of love on TV.

  Sure, he puts on a good act, always has. He’s a stellar performer and could have done great things in the West End if fate hadn’t handed him a title. And the few clips I managed to find of the show online prove that he was just as smooth and fake as he’d always been. Apparently, it was convincing because he managed to get this poor girl to drop everything to come and marry a bloke like him.

  I’d almost feel sorry for the her if she weren’t a spoiled American brat. Imagine being so shallow that you wanted to marry a man just because he held a title. If she’s willing to give up her whole life just to come to England chasing some romantic royal nonsense fairytale, then they deserve each other. How can you agree to marry someone after knowing them for only a few months and spending no more than a handful of hours together?

  But it’s not any of my business what two posh idiots decide to do with their lives. I just have to get the girl safely from the airport back to the big house. Then she’s Billy’s problem and I can go back to my work keeping the estate up and running.

  The flight is running late, of course, and so I keep getting kicked out of the waiting line by over-zealous security guards and have to circle, circle, circle like some idiot until I decide to just bite the bullet and pay for the outrageous parking in the short term lot. I’ll just expense it to Billy, tell him it’s the price you pay for a trophy wife.

  He was so smug too when he came back, telling me he’d gotten the perfect gal to play princess in his castle. Supposedly she was gorgeous and… well, that was about all he had to say about her, but that was about what I expected. I never met a girlfriend of his that was lacking in the looks department, but they always left something to be desired when it came to brains and sense and really, anything that wasn’t looks.

  Except they usually also had money. Gobs of it and parents that were crossing their fingers that their years of hard work could buy their baby girl a title. But Billy never kept them long enough for that. He would wine and dine them, usually charming them enough to open up their pocketbooks to pay for said wining and dining, before tossing them aside for the newest hot young thing to catch his eye.

  He could afford to treat them if he chose to, but he was just as tight fisted as his father and maybe even more so. He had millions in the bank, hundreds of millions last time I checked, but he wouldn’t spend a dime if he could get someone else to foot the bill. And he was absolutely obsessed with getting more and more, to the point that I couldn’t stand to listen to the way he talked about his new business deals, talking about his partners and the company employees like they were pawns rather than people.

  But this girl is different. As far as I can tell she’s just some ordinary girl of no significance. She’s not from a good family or money. Billy has nothing to gain by marrying her. I expected the show to end with a proposal, that was part of the game, but I thought he’d find some reason to end things before actually marrying her. The PR optics worked for him even though I still thought it was a mistake. But a real wedding and a real marriage, what did he stand to gain? There has to be some angle that I’m just not seeing and the weight starting to grow in the pit of my stomach tells me it’s not one I’m going to like.

  I get the Aston Martin parked and fish the sign with her name on it out of the back seat. “Ivy Maxwell.” I tried to watch the show so I would at least be able to recognize her, but I had to shut it off after the first few minutes of mewling girls going on and on about how their dream was always to marry a prince. But they were mostly girl-next-door blonde types, so odds are that’s the girl I’m looking for.

  The whole thing was sick, turning love into a game show. Not that I have much room to judge. I’ve managed to drive away every woman that showed any interest in me. Celeste had managed the longest, even agreeing to marry me before finding herself a better prospect.

  I was never cruel to her that I knew. I just didn’t have enough for her, in money or in status and she found someone who did. I tried to be gracious, even after I found out that she found her better offer while still engaged to me. And I didn’t even rub it in her face when her new beau dropped her less than a month later. The only time I was anything less than a gentleman, was when she came back wanting to start over and I laughed in her face before slamming the door.

  The benefit to having an employer with deep pockets was that I could park less than a five-minute walk from the arrivals gate. And if he did put up a fuss, as he was bound to when he found out it was £100 per day, regardless of how long you stayed, I could just say it was a necessary expense for Ivy’s care and upkeep. I’m actually looking forward to seeing the look on his face when I turn in this expense report.

  I quickly check the arrivals board and see that her flight has finally arrived and find my way to the line of other people waiting on departing passengers behind the metal barriers. There are a few happy faces here, no doubt waiting on long overdue loved ones, but most have the same bored expression I’m sure is on my face. I shuffle in and take my place amongst the strange mix of Uber drivers in jeans and t-shirts and the smartly suited chauffeurs dressed to the nines for a job that pays a pittance.

  I had carefully chosen my outfit of ripped dungarees and a warm flannel for a day spent in the chilly Spring air taking out some dead hedges. The whole area needs to be covered in black plastic to keep any weeds at bay until I’m able to replant after the ground has fully thawed.

  But instead of being alone out there in the peace and quiet of the vast grounds of the estate, I was summoned like a man servant and ordered to take the best-looking car to get the Lord’s new bride from the airport.

  He did ask me to change into something more appropriate, but I wasn’t about to wear that monkey suit he was always trying to get me stuffed into. So, I just pretended not to hear him as I stormed out of the room and down to the garages.

  I didn’t have to say yes. It’s not like he could fire me. No one else knows th
e grounds as well as I do, and I can wrangle the ancient wiring and plumbing in that stately home better and faster than any tradesman from the local village. I know that whole place inside and out and back again. I have made myself invaluable over the years and if there is one thing Billy knows, it’s that he can’t do without me.

  But if I didn’t say yes, he would have sent someone else, maybe one of his drinking buddies with wandering hands. Even if she was a vapid piece of work, I’m still a gentleman. I’m not going to leave her to the mercy of those crass, reckless boys that Billy insists on keeping around. They were all fully grown men in their thirties now, some near enough to forty, but still insisted on partying like teens and bringing around girls that should be worrying about uni exams, not getting drunk with those fools.

  So, I had to go, to get her and bring her back to him unharmed, but that was it. After this, she isn’t my responsibility. There is no way I am about to become a lady maid to this girl. She is his responsibility and one of the few he isn’t going to be able to shirk onto me. If he is going to bring a girl halfway across the world to marry him when he so far hadn’t been able to commit to so much as a hairstyle for more than a few months, he is going to have to deal with the consequences.

  If I look out of place among the “professional” drivers, no one says anything. People usually don’t. I’m friendly enough and polite, but whether it’s the beard or the size, people generally avert their eyes when I come into a room. Men, women, it doesn’t matter. Although children usually just stare and ask how and why, and can they have a ride on my back like a pony? And when I’m in a good mood, I usually oblige.

  I don’t mean to look like this. To be fair, the beard is intentional. That part keeps people from confusing me for the Lord when they come looking for him at the estate. Also, it looks good on me, according to the only person who’s opinion matters: me.

  The muscle just comes with the kind of work I do. I don’t need a gym when I’ve got 45 acres, a stately home, and stables to keep up. Besides, you only get showy, obnoxious muscle from hours spent in the gym. I may not look like a Greek statue in a Speedo, but I’m solid and strong.

  I hold up the sign as a new crowd of people start to flood in from between the airline desks, clumsily dragging unwieldy bags and all looking like they’re about to pass out. After 12 hours on a flight, I’m sure I’d be looking like shit too.

  I scan the crowd for Billy’s usual type, all big blonde hair and short, tight skirts. I’m looking for someone over-the-top, who stands out like an expensive, gold-plated sore thumb.

  Then I see her in all her fur-coated glory, sauntering over on thin pencil legs that are strapped to the highest high heels I’ve ever seen. I almost can’t see her face under her gigantic black out sunglasses, and she carries only a small purse. With a flick of her hand she summons a gangly fool who’s pushing a cart filled to the brim with matching expensive luggage and almost tripping over his jaw which is halfway to the floor as he stares at her ass.

  She smiles at him with what I can only imagine is pity and runs a well-manicured hand across the side of his face, giving him just the faintest gasp of false hope that she might repay his meager assistance with something more than a tip.

  “I’m Ivy.”

  I almost jump when the short woman with a mess of wild red curls who has somehow gotten within inches of me without me noticing pipes up.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Uh, unless there’s some other Ivy Maxwell that’s flying into London today, then, yeah. That’s me.” She points to the sign and then puts her hands up and does a little wiggle to, I guess, prove she’s herself somehow. I spy that ridiculous ring glittering on her finger, threatening to blind the whole crowd behind me, and I know she’s not lying.

  “You’re just…” I take another glance at the blonde who’s walking off behind one of the suited fellows who is struggling to manage her overflowing luggage cart, before turning back to the cute girl-no, woman, standing in front of me. “You’re not what I was expecting.”

  Instantly her checks turn red and I know I’ve fucked up already. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause offense.” She is beautiful, not outrageously like the Duke’s previous girlfriends, but delicate and honest like the sun setting over a Cotswold hillside. And her eyes, like tumbled sea glass, that had only moments before been looking at me, are now focused on the tile floor.

  “Well, to be fair, I wasn’t expecting to be picked up by a chauffeur in overalls.” She says, pretending to be speaking under her breath, but clearly talking loud enough to be heard.

  I can’t help but bristle, “I’m not the chauffeur. I’m the man who does what needs doing. And the thing that needs doing right now is you.” Now it’s my turn go red, but she takes it in stride and laughs right in my face.

  “I was kind of hoping William would be meeting me here.” She rubs the back of her neck and gives me a pained half-smile.

  “Unfortunately, he’s tied up with other business at the moment, so he sent me.”

  Busy sleeping off the debauchery of last night, no doubt.

  She nods her head, but the bright smile that was on her face has faded and I can see the corners of her eyes have slipped. She’s better off getting used to disappointment early if she’s going to marry Billy. This wasn’t even that bad. If she can’t handle this, I give her a month, tops, before I’m dropping her off for her flight home.

  “Where’s your bags?”

  “It’s right here.” She motions to the large backpack swung over her shoulder.

  “You do know you’re moving here, right?” I say eyeing her suspiciously.

  “And I don’t have anything beyond what’s in here that I can’t live without.” Ivy shrugs her shoulders and I can see the fog lift just a little from her eyes.

  “Right.” I nod, reaching out a hand to take it from her. She hesitates for a moment but decides to hand it over and I sling it over my back and motion with my head for her to come with me.

  She falls in line behind me and trudges through the sliding doors and across the lanes of cars loading up passengers.

  I don’t know what Billy’s thinking. Seeing her in the flesh just further confirms that he must have ulterior motives. With a little cleaning up, she’ll make a picture perfect duchess, she’s a little too spunky and bold to be the meek and mild arm candy he wants in a wife. She’s not in any way, shape, or form his?

  She is 100% my type, unfortunately, and I’m even more motivated to get her home and far away from me now than I was before I met her.

  When we get to the car, she stops in her tracks, staring at the gleaming green exterior.

  “Is this your car?” She says, eyes wide, a half-smile on her lips.

  “No, it’s your future husband’s. Only the best for his bride.” I am trying to keep the traces of sarcasm out of my voice, but I don’t know how well it’s working.

  “I’m kind of afraid to touch it.”

  “It’s just a car. Even if you were to somehow smash it up with your bare hands, he has plenty of others. If it went missing tomorrow, he probably wouldn’t even notice. Just get in, we have a long ride ahead.” I drop her bag in the back seat and don’t wait for her to get in before jumping in myself. She slides in cautiously and gives me a look like she’s surprised the thing hasn’t blown up just from her sitting down in it.

  I start it up and try to focus on getting us out of Heathrow and not on the growing heat in my pants.

  Chapter 3

  Ivy

  Oh, no. I really hope this guy is more of the not seen, not heard type, because otherwise I am in trouble. The main tenant of William and I’s agreement is that the relationship must look real. But this guy – who’s name I just realized I didn’t even catch before getting in a car with him– is making my stomach flip in ways it hasn’t since I was a horned up 14-year-old with my first crush. I can’t be a convincing fiancée while I’m falling all over myself swooning at this guy.

  The attraction is purely physical, because his attitude leaves a bit to be desired. But I don’t know, maybe he’s having a bad day and driving into London is just the icing on his shit sandwich. If I thought driving in LA was bad, the too narrow streets and heavy duty shifting happening around the airport is making me terrified of ever trying to get my English license.