I bound up the wide staircase and along the landing into the drawing room. It’s empty except for the overstuffed sofas and elegant Queen Anne furniture that has been in the family for generations. The drawing room opens onto a conservatory that has a spectacular view of the Thames, Cadogan Pier, and Albert Bridge. There I find Caroline, nestled in an armchair, wrapped in a cashmere shawl, and staring out the windows. She clutches a small blue handkerchief.

“Hi,” I say as I stride in. Caroline turns a tearstained face toward me, her eyes red and puffy.

Shit.

“Where the fuck have you been?” she snaps.

“Caro,” I begin, ready to placate her.

“Don’t Caro me, you wanker,” she snarls as she stands up, fists clenched.

Shit. She is really angry.

“What have I done now?”

“You know what you’ve done. Why haven’t you answered my calls? It’s been two days!”

“I’ve had a lot to think about, and I’ve been busy.”

“You? Busy? Maxim, you wouldn’t know busy if you tripped and stuck your dick in it.”

I blanch and then laugh at the image.

Caroline relaxes a little. “Don’t make me laugh when I’m angry with you.” Her lips form a pout.

“You have a way with words.” I open my arms, and she walks into my embrace.

“Why didn’t you call?” she asks as she hugs me back, her anger dissipating.

“It’s a lot to take on board,” I whisper as I hold her. “I needed time to think.”

“Alone?”

I don’t answer. I don’t want to lie. Monday night I was with, um…Heather, and last night it was…What was her name? Dawn.

Caroline sniffs and steps out of my arms. “I thought as much. I know you too well, Maxim. What was she like?”

I shrug as an image of Heather’s lips around my cock comes to mind.

Caroline sighs. “You’re such a whore,” she says with her usual disdain.

How can I deny it?

Caroline of all people knows about my nocturnal pursuits. She has a collection of choice epithets to describe me and regularly berates me for my promiscuity.

Yet she still went to bed with me.

“You’re whoring your way through your grief while I had to endure dinner with Daddy and the Stepsow alone. It was awful,” she quips. “And last night I was lonely.”

“I’m sorry,” I answer, because I can’t think of what else to say.

“You saw the lawyers?” She changes the subject, giving me a direct look.

I nod, and I have to acknowledge that this is another reason I’ve been avoiding her.

“Oh, no,” she whimpers. “You look so grave. I’ve got nothing, have I?” Her eyes are wide with fear and grief.

I place my hands on her shoulders and break it to her gently. “Everything is in trust for me as heir.”

Caroline lets out a sob and covers her mouth as tears fill her eyes. “Damn him,” she whispers.

“Don’t worry, we’ll work something out,” I murmur, and hold her once more.

“I loved him,” she says, her voice small and quiet, like a child’s.

“I know. We both did.” Though I know she also loved Kit’s title and his wealth.

“You’re not going to evict me?”

I take the handkerchief from her hand and wipe each of her eyes. “No, of course not. You’re my brother’s widow and my best friend.”

“But that’s all?” She gives me a watery but bitter smile, and I kiss her forehead in lieu of answering her question.

“Your coffee, sir,” Blake says from the entrance to the conservatory.

Immediately I drop my arms and step away from Caroline. Blake enters, his face expressionless, and he’s holding a tray laden with cups, milk, a silver coffeepot, and my favorite biscuits—plain chocolate digestives.

“Thank you, Blake,” I respond, trying to ignore the slow flush I feel creeping up my neck.

Brazen this out.

Blake places the tray on the table beside the sofa. “Will that be all, sir?”

“For now, thank you.” My tone is sharper than I intended.

Blake exits the room, and Caroline pours the coffee. My shoulders slump with relief at Blake’s departure. And I hear my mother’s voice ringing in my head: Not in front of the staff.

I’m still holding Caroline’s damp handkerchief. I stare at it and frown, recalling a fragment from a dream I had last night—or was it this morning? A young woman, an angel? Possibly the Virgin Mary or a nun in blue standing in my bedroom doorway watching over me as I slept.

What the hell does that mean?

I’m not religious.

“What?” asks Caroline.

I shake my head. “Nothing,” I murmur, taking the cup of coffee she offers and giving her back her handkerchief.

“Well, I might be pregnant,” she says.

What? I blanch.

“Kit. Not you. You’re too bloody careful.”

Damn right. The ground seems to shift beneath my feet.

Kit’s heir!

Could this be any more complicated?

“Well, if you are, we’ll figure out what to do,” I reply, feeling at once a moment of relief that all this responsibility might pass to Kit’s child, but also a sudden and overwhelming sense of loss.

The earldom is mine. For now.

Shit. Could this be any more confusing?

Chapter Three

My phone buzzes as I’m in the back of a black cab on my way to the office. It’s Joe.

“Mate,” he says. “How’s it going?” He sounds somber, and I know he’s referring to my frame of mind since Kit’s death. I’ve not seen him since the funeral.

“I’m surviving.”

“Fancy a bout?”

“I’d love to. But I can’t. I have meetings all day.”

“Earl shit?”

I laugh. “Yes. Earl shit.”

“Maybe later in the week? My épée is getting rusty.”

“Yes. I’d like that. Or perhaps a drink.”

“Yeah, I’ll see if Tom’s around.”

“Cool. Thanks, Joe.”

“No worries, mate.”

I hang up. My mood morose. I miss being able to do what the fuck I like. If I wanted to fence in the middle of the day, I could. Joe is my sparring partner and one of my closest friends. Instead I have to go into the office and do some bloody work for a change.

Kit. I blame you.

* * *

The music is pounding at Loulou’s. The bass reverberates through my chest. I like it this way. The noise level cuts down on unnecessary conversation. I make my way through the crowd to the bar. I need a drink and a warm, willing body.

I have spent the last day and a half in tedious meetings with the two fund managers who oversee the considerable Trevethick investment portfolio and the charitable trust; the estate managers from Cornwall, Oxfordshire, and Northumberland; the managing agent who handles the London properties; and with the developer who’s remodeling the three mansion blocks in Mayfair. Oliver Macmillan, Kit’s chief operating officer and his right-hand man, has attended all of them with me. Oliver and Kit had been friends since Eton; they’d both gone to the London School of Economics, until Kit dropped out to fulfill his aristocratic duty following the death of our father.

Oliver is slight, with a shock of unruly blond hair and eyes of an indeterminate color that miss nothing. I have never warmed to him. He’s ruthless and ambitious, but he knows his way around a balance sheet and can deal with the numerous personnel who answer to the Earl of Trevethick.

I don’t know how Kit managed it all and held down a fund-manager job in the City. But he was a smart, slick bastard.

Funny, too.

I miss him.

I order a Grey Goose and tonic. Maybe he succeeded because Macmillan had his back, and I wonder if Oliver’s loyalty will extend to me or if he might take advantage of my na?veté while I try to come to terms with all my new responsibilities. I just don’t know. But the fact is, I don’t trust him, and I make a mental note to stay circumspect in my dealings with him.

The one bright spot in the last couple of days was a call from my agent telling me I have a job next week. I’d taken a great deal of pleasure in telling the old gorgon that for the foreseeable future I would no longer be available for modeling work.

Would I miss it?

I wasn’t sure. Modeling could be mind-numbingly boring, but after I was sent down from Oxford, the work had gotten me out of bed and given me an excuse to stay in shape. I also got to meet hot, skinny women.

I take a slug of my drink and scan the room. That’s what I want now: a hot, willing woman, skinny or otherwise.

It’s Let’s Fuck Thursday.

Her raucous laugh catches my attention, and our eyes meet. I see the appreciation and challenge in her gaze, and my cock stirs in anticipation. She has pretty hazel eyes, long brown glossy hair, and she’s drinking shots. What’s more, she looks sensational in the leather minidress and her thigh-high stiletto boots.

Yes. She’ll do.

* * *

It’s two in the morning when I let us both into my flat. I take Leticia’s coat, and she turns immediately and wraps her arms around my neck. “Let’s go to bed, Posh Boy,” she whispers, and kisses me. Hard. No preliminaries. Her coat is still in my hands, and I have to steady myself against the wall to stop us both from falling. Her attack takes me by surprise. Perhaps she’s more pissed than I thought. She tastes of lipstick and J?germeister—an intriguing combination. I thread my fingers through her hair and tug, freeing my mouth.

“All good things, sweetheart,” I chide against her lips. “Let me put your coat down.”

“Fuck my coat,” she says, and kisses me again. All tongue.

I’d rather fuck you.