The Actress and the Aristocrat by Katie Ashley
Chapter Three: Randall
Call me an elitist British arsehole, but I bloody well hate Americans. Yes, I’m well aware of what a bastard that makes me, but trust me, I have more than one good reason to loathe the Yanks across the pond. It had nothing to do with the beautiful yet impetuous American woman who just had the audacity to storm out of my office as if she owned the place. Not to mention her harsh tongue and artless behavior. Colonists. They truly had no sense of decorum.
I’m sure you’re wondering what could’ve possibly happened to incite such rage. Sadly, it wasn’t just one thing that started my deep-seated dislike. My first true arse-kicking came from one. It was not only my first semester at Eton College, but my first real taste at boarding school. Well, I suppose I really couldn’t call myself a boarder since my overprotective mum had our driver make the twenty-mile trek twice a day from London to pick me up. But I digress.
Martin Pauley had lived in Manhattan until his father had been transferred across the pond. Even though I had five inches and twenty pounds on him, he managed to beat the ever-loving shit out of me during class changes for reasons I’m still not sure of. Maybe it was because I knew more American history than he did and had verbally humiliated him in class. In the end, my ego was just as bruised and bloodied as my body.
But I’d never been someone to hold a grudge upon an entire nationality because of the errors of one, so I put my hatred behind me when I left Eton. So much so I’d become best friends with one, which once again led to an arse beating, but this time of the emotional kind.
Michael Simmons was nothing like my former nemesis. We drank bottles of Lagavulin Scotch while puffing Montecristo Cuban cigars. We shared a mutual love of horses, and we often cheered the ones he owned and raced on at the Cheltenham Trials and Royal Ascot. Michael got along with everyone, especially the ladies. After their first introductions, my wife, Lydia, became especially charmed with him. We became a foursome on weekends with whatever flavor of the month Michael was involved with. Somewhere along the way, his tastes became more centralized.
The sounds of sweat-slickened skin slapping together and throaty moans of pleasure echoed through my mind. Was one of the trainers having a midday tryst? Although I wasn’t a prude, I certainly wasn’t paying for them to fuck on my time. At the last stall on the right, I pulled open the door. Lydia was on all fours as Michael pounded into her from behind—
I slammed my eyelids shut and furiously shook my head. I didn’t know if there would ever be a day when I wasn’t tortured by that memory. Hearing your wife fucking someone else is monstrous. Actually, seeing it with you own eyes is a form of torturous agony I didn’t think I would ever recover from.
And now I was once again faced with a pain-in-the-arse American. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d even noticed a member of the opposite sex, least of all one who was so out of my usual realm. Of course, Ms. Monroe was the type of woman you couldn’t ignore, and if you dared to try, her sass would put you right in your place.
She had one hell of a mouth on her, and that was excluding her full, pouty lips. It was more about the acidic nature of her tongue. Her voice echoed in my mind. “How lucky I am then to be in the presence of someone so learned like you, the Earl of Whittingham.” Inelegant and cutting. From her current body language, I could tell she wanted nothing more than to be out of my presence.
The curtness of her goodbye, coupled with the slamming of my door, reiterated that fact.
Rob glanced from the door to me. “Must you always be such a prick?”
“I was merely stating facts.”
“You were being a prick.”
With a shrug, I replied, “That’s merely your opinion.”
Turning to Maude, Rob asked, “Wasn’t he being a prick?”
Fumbling with the planner on her lap, Maude replied, “Well, I wouldn’t exactly use that word, your lordship.”
Rob cocked his brows. “What word would you use?”
“Pretentious?” Maude suggested.
“See? She agrees.”
Maude shot me an apologetic look. “I know you have a lot on your mind lately, sir.”
“Oh no. Don’t let him off so easy.” Rob pointed a finger at me. “Just like Charlie said, you need to get the stick out of your arse.”
“What Ms. Monroe thinks is of little matter to me,” I grumbled as I made my way back around the massive 18th century desk. For reasons I couldn’t possibly explain, somehow it did matter. While Rob could call me a prick and Maude could somewhat agree, it didn’t bother me quite like it did with Ms. Monroe. Was it because she was an outsider? Or was it the fact she was a stranger who was judging me on a few moments of my acquaintance? Or was it because she possessed a remarkable pair of tits?
Bloody hell. Had I really just stooped so low as check out Ms. Monroe’s cleavage? I must truly be scraping the bottom of the barrel if I was sexualizing a woman who I couldn’t stand, and for the record couldn’t stand me.
With a grunt, Rob said, “If you keep treating hot, available women like you are, you’ll never get shagged again, and your dick’s going to shrivel up.”
Jerking her head up from her leather-bound planner, Maude sucked in a sharp, slightly horrified breath. As her lined face turned purple, I took pity on her by saying, “Thank you, Maude. You may go.”
“Yes, sir,” she murmured. An uncomfortable silence prevailed as Maude fumbled with her things before hustling out the door.
When we were alone, I narrowed my eyes at Rob. “Must you always be so crude?”
Rob rolled his eyes. “Please. I’m pretty sure ol’ Maude is gagging for a shag.”
Inwardly, I shuddered at the thought of my sixty-year-old personal secretary being horny. However, I didn’t give Rob that indication. “It’s extremely disrespectful to say things like that in front of her. She has been such an asset to both me and the estate.”
Rob’s agitated expression softened. “Fine. I’ll not only watch my mouth around her, but I’ll make sure to apologize in person.”
“Thank you,” I replied.
Within seconds Rob’s repentant look was replaced by a mischievous one. The one our mum dubbed his naughty look. “Now back to gagging for a shag.”
Grunting, I shot right back out of my chair. Ignoring Rob’s attentive stare, I stalked over to the liquor cabinet in the corner. After pouring a large glass of Lagavulin Scotch, I brought the amber liquid to my lips.
“Come on, Rand. It’s been a year.”
I threw back the whiskey in two long gulps. “I’m well aware of how long it’s been.” One year of an ache burning its way through my chest. One year of second-guessing every moment I spent with my ex-wife. One year of feeling like the biggest tosser known to the male species.
“One year of being the first divorced member of the Whittingham family with direct ties to the succession,” I mumbled aloud into my whiskey.
Rob groaned. “Would you get off your moral high horse? You’re not the first person in the family to get divorced.”
“Just the first one in our direct line,” I countered. I’d had plenty of uncles and aunts and cousins get divorced. But none of the first sons who inherited Sutherlin House ever had.
Until me.
I fucking hate Americans.
Rob interrupted my internal tirade. “Quit being a daft prick.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. Even cousin Charlie is divorced, and he’s inheriting the kingdom.”
Although I hated to admit it, Rob did have a point. While I might’ve felt like a social outcast, it wasn’t like most of the aristocracy wasn’t riddled with divorce. Tilting my head at him, I countered, “You know Mum hated when you called him that.”
Rob laughed. “Bollocks. I’ve heard her call him that on more than one occasion.”
The corners of my lips quirked at the thought of my mother calling His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, Charlie, rather than Charles. Of course, it had always been behind his back. Although my mother had come from an upper middle-class background, she always respected the code of the aristocracy, especially when it came to the Queen and her family.
“So, since this isn’t the sixteen hundreds when you can lose your title for remarrying, I think there’s no time like the present to get back in the game.”
Rob made it sound so easy. The truth was I wouldn’t even know how to begin dating again. As much as it pained me to admit, it had never been easy for me to meet women even before my marriage. From the time I was a teenager, I’d been turned off by girls who were only interested in dating me because I had a title and a large estate. That continued into my adulthood, which led to a somewhat small dating pool of my fellow upper-class women.
There was also the fact I wasn’t exactly what you’d call suave around the opposite sex. While Rob had been a natural with women since birth, I continuously found myself awkward and somewhat tongue-tied. What sounded perfectly charming in my mind always ended up coming out ridiculous. Then I would overcompensate for my mistake and come out sounding like a complete arse.
It was a vicious cycle. I wasn’t a prick. I just wasn’t a likeable flirt like my passionate brother.
And apparently, I could now throw in the fact I was emotionally damaged goods because my wife had believed I wasn’t a man to be faithful to in marriage. God, I had loved her. Everyone in my social circle knew this fact while anyone outside my realm would merely have to google my name to have the ugly and salacious history at their fingertips. I knew there wasn’t a specific playbook that told you how long something so gut-wrenching took to get over. Until I put my past behind me, I couldn’t possible step into my future.
Giving Rob a pointed look, I replied, “I’m just not ready.”
Rob shook his head. “It’s past time you were ready. Not just for your shriveling willy’s sake, but there’s also the fact that time is ticking on the season.”
At the mention of the season, I downed the rest of my Scotch in a fiery gulp. Glancing away from Rob, I couldn’t help hearing Lydia’s sing-song voice in my ear. “Darling, it’s not just the season—it’s the most wonderful time of the year.”
For someone as outgoing and society driven as Lydia, it was a memorable few months of endless parties and gatherings. She’d grown up with her entire summer revolving around the season the same as mine had. To an outsider, I’m sure the endless stream of charity balls and dinner parties coupled with the classical concerts might seem incredibly pretentious. We Brits were sticklers for tradition, so it made sense that four hundred years after its first beginnings, the aristocracy were still ruled by a rigid calendar from April to August.
My lack of response caused Rob to rise out of his chair. “Come on, Rand, don’t be daft. After everything that’s happened, you need someone on your arm.” Waggling his brows, he said, “A stacked blonde with a great rack and long legs. You know, some classic arm candy to drive home the point of what a sexy, eligible bachelor you are.”
I snorted at his summation. “When has sexy and me ever resided in the same sentence?”
A low growl came from Rob’s throat. “I’d like to fucking strangle Lydia for doing such a hatchet job on your self-esteem.” He came around the side of the desk and placed a hand on my shoulder. “You seriously need to get your head out of your arse and look in the mirror.”
“I do that every morning, thank you very much. Considering the rising counts of gray hairs and the oncoming crow’s feet, I would prefer to stay away as much as I can.”
“You’re thirty-five, not forty-five. I seriously doubt you’re getting those.”
“I am.”
“Fine. Then you can officially rock the Silver Fox status.”
“Lucky me,” I grumbled.
“My point is you’re a good-looking guy. Any woman with a pulse and who isn’t blind would get hot and bothered around you.” At my exasperated grunt, Rob chuckled. “Be glad I didn’t say any woman who had a pulse and wasn’t blind would get soaking wet at the sight of you.”
“How is it possible we share the same DNA?”
He chuckled. “Just luck, I suppose.”
Cocking my brows at him, I countered, “As for your crude analogy, it’s pretty obvious that my ex-wife shoots down your wet knickers argument.”
“Your bitch of an ex-wife didn’t have a heart, therefore, it’s a moot point.”
“I suppose I can’t argue with that.”
“Nope. I’m totally right.”
Thinking back to my earlier encounter with Ms. Monroe, I chuckled. “What’s funny?” Rob asked.
“I’m pretty sure Ms. Monroe left here with dry knickers.”
“Only because you had to act like a pretentious arsehole.” Jabbing his finger at me, he added, “If you’d merely turned on the charm I know is buried somewhere inside of you, I’m sure she would’ve been putty in your hands.”
“Once again, I’m going to have to disagree.”
Rob’s jovial expression turned unusually serious. “Believe me when I say, you have got to get back out there, and you need to do it as soon as possible.”
“Why the rush? Is there an expiration on my single status I wasn’t aware of?”
“No. You’re entitled to happiness, brother. Despite the self-doubt caused by the wicked witch, that’s not who you are. I wonder, how many years has it been since you were actually happy.”
As I processed Rob’s words, I eased back in my chair. Was he right? Were things between Lydia and me not as I perceived? Had I really been as happy as I thought I was? Maybe I had been desperately clinging to the idea of the two of us, rather than the reality. Even as I acknowledged that statement, it didn’t ease the pain reverberating through my chest. “Perhaps you could be right, but before you crow too loudly, I’ll give it some thought.”
“It’s not much, but I’ll take it. As long as you also consider finding a date for the season. Love match or not, spending time with a beautiful woman won’t be a hardship.”
I exhaled a defeated a breath. “Fine. I will.”
“Good. Your third leg will thank me.”
“Sod off.”
Rob chuckled as he turned toward the door. Arse.