Disciplining the Duke (Curvy for Keeps Book 8) Read online

  DISCIPLINING THE DUKE

  by

  ANNABELLE WINTERS

  1

  LONDON, ENGLAND

  XYLA

  “A Duke? Didn’t you say he’s American?”

  The bald, clean-shaven lawyer straightens his gray tie which was exceedingly straight to begin with. It makes a metal clicking noise that strikes me as odd. “Indeed he is rather American,” he says. “Very American. Too American. And that’s where you come in. You’ve worked with Americans before, haven’t you?”

  I nod and pull at the hem of my long black business skirt. My hair feels stiff with hairspray and my bra is much too tight. Why is my bra tight? It wasn’t tight a year ago when I bought it. I don’t wear bras around the house and I don’t wear hairspray anywhere. Clearly I haven’t left the house in a while. Clearly I’m nervous about this interview. Clearly I need this job.

  The lawyer glances at the leather-bound folder that’s got my qualifications neatly printed on thick white bond paper. It looks very proper. I’m very good at looking proper. I better be good at it: That’s what I sell for a living. British “properness” and everything that goes into it.

  “It says you’ve been a personal coach for over a decade,” he says. His bald head comes up. His gray eyes are expressionless. Upper lip stiff like a day-old cucumber sandwich. He doesn’t need coaching. “How old are you?”

  “Old enough to handle an American brat who needs to be readied for Royalty,” I say with a wry half-smile that I’ve practiced and taught. It goes well with British humor. And you can flash the smile when you take too big a bite from a cucumber sandwich and some green juice squirts onto your clean white blouse. That’s only happened to me thrice. (Thrice means three times.) I don’t wear white cotton to tea any more. Green lambswool hides cucumber-swill best, I find. “How old is the young Duke, anyway? Eight? Ten? And an orphan? No wonder he’s acting up. No matter. Three months in my program and he’ll be more royal than the Queen.”

  The lawyer frowns and raises a well-plucked left eyebrow. I shift my big bottom on the cool wood chair. “He doesn’t need to be more royal than the Queen, Ms. Xyla. Dorshire is a non-royal Dukeship. My clients just need him to not be so . . . American.” He blinks and I think he just glanced at my boobs. “Also, Mister Xavier is thirty-seven years old. He is indeed an orphan, but I wouldn’t feel too sorry for him until you meet the man. Have you really not heard of him? I assumed you’d be all over the Social Media celebrity nonsense. Anyway, when you do meet him, Ms. Xyla, it’s best if this arrangement is kept private. He’s to think you’re part of the dead Duke’s manor staff. Part of the whole . . . thing.”

  My eyebrows move up and stay up. Thirty-seven years old? And what’s with the fakery? I glance at my resume and wonder if he called my references. If he did, he’d know that I work with children and teens and the occasional animal when things get tight. I frown at the lawyer and take a closer look at his tie. It’s clip-on. Great. Just great. This has shadiness written all over it. Who are his clients? Why did they pick me? Yes, my rates are cheap compared to a coach who actually works with real royalty that need tutelage on the ways of High Society, but is that the only reason I’m sitting in a clip-on-tie lawyer’s offices?

  Maybe I’m the only option, I think when I glance at a cream-colored sheet of paper on the lawyer’s desk. It’s got a long list of names on it and most of them are crossed out. Maybe every reputable coach turned down the offer. Maybe I’m the bottom of the barrel, the last resort, the only one dumb enough (or desperate enough—London rent isn’t cheap, now that the Vikings aren’t invading us anymore . . .) to ignore the shadiness of what’s happening here.

  Still, royalty has always had its shadiness and secrets. Royalty is all about perception, what others see of you and say of you and think of you. And he’s right: Dorshire’s Dukeship is pretty close to the bottom of the royal barrel. No family connection to Buckingham Palace. The clients are probably distant relatives who aren’t in line for the Dukeship but still enjoy the connection and privilege. A privilege that they don’t want revoked by a badly behaving American.

  Still a bit shady, but really, what’s the worst that can happen, I think as the lawyer clears his throat and then launches into a sales pitch like he’s the one being interviewed. It only confirms my suspicions, but I’m savvy enough to know that if I start asking questions like the previous interviewees must have, my name could well be crossed out. Sure, if I really am the last option, I might try negotiating for more money. But you never know. Best I can see from here that list has a couple of names not crossed out. I’m in no financial position to look this gift horse in the mouth (even though it almost certainly has British teeth . . .). Besides, working with an honest-to-goodness Duke could open new doors for me if I pull it off.

  In fact, if I play this right, this American Duke could be a jewel in the crown of my career.

  A feather in my hat.

  A notch in my belt.

  2

  ONE WEEK LATER

  MAYFAIR HOTEL

  SOHO, LONDON

  XAVIER

  Another notch in my belt, I think as my hotel-room door closes and I’m alone with my hangover. I sigh and glance at my brown belt on the rough carpet. There was a time when I actually did make little notches in the leather with a switchblade. Went all the way around that old belt before I ran out of space. Then I lost count. Lost control.

  And finally lost myself.

  I groan and rub my temples and bury my scruffy face in the pillow. The smell of that nameless, faceless blonde woman from the hotel bar sickens me, but not as much as that previous thought does: That I’ve lost myself. For years I’ve felt it festering in my chest like a sickness, and I feel it stronger now. I feel it in my aching head. I feel it in my empty heart. I feel it in my hollowed-out soul.

  Or maybe it’s just the hangover.

  I lean off the side of the bed and retch. Nothing comes out. I’m dried out and hollow inside from years of drinking that’s now way past the point of fun. It stops being fun when you don’t remember what you did last night. Or who you did it with.

  There’s a knock on the door and I throw a pillow in its general direction. What’s with the housekeeping at these London hotels? Why don’t they pay attention to those fucking “Do Not Disturb” signs?

  “Unless that hotel-bar harlot flipped the sign on the way out,” I mutter, covering my ears and curling my long naked body into an overgrown fetus when the knock comes again. Three stern raps in quick succession and then one more with a flourish that makes me see red.

  “Go away!” I shout. “It’s seven in the fucking morning! Don’t you know I am your King? Off with their heads, Guards!”

  “It’s three in the afternoon, Mister Xavier,” comes a woman’s cheery British voice from beneath the doorframe and above the transom. There’s a pregnant pause and I feel her swallow. Then she laughs with such British politeness that I almost smile. “We follow Greenwich Mean Time here, Mister Xavier. We’re eight hours ahead of American Pacific Time.”

  Figured it out before I did, I think with grudging admiration. I glance at my wrist and frown when I don’t see my Rolex. I look over on the bedside table but there’s just a flute of flat Dom Perignon with a cherry-red lipstick stain on it. No fucking way. Blondie did not just steal my Rolex!

  Now I leap out of bed and race to the door, pulling it open and dashing out into the hallway. I frantically look left and right as my head pounds. It’s only when I feel the woman flinch and turn away from my nakedness that I realize I’m . . . well . . . naked.

  “Fuck, sorry,” I say, rubbing the back of my head and then scratching my beard. I glance down at my long cock and heavy balls. When I was younger I had a thing for getting naked when I was hammered. Didn’t give a damn who saw what and how often. We’re all animals, right? Born naked and all that. I glance towards the elevator lobby down the hall and frown. “You didn’t by any chance see a . . .” I start to say before realizing that the hotel-bar burglar is long gone by now. Thank God I didn’t actually fuck her. I didn’t, did I? I glance down at myself. My cock is dry and clean and my balls feel full and heavy. Whatever happened last night didn’t involve me blowing my load.

  “I didn’t see a thing,” says the woman. “Not a thing. Nothing at all. Absolutely nothing. Might as well be blind. That’s it! I’m blind. Didn’t see a thing because I can’t see a thing!”

  Now I turn to this British babbler and look her up and down. She’s got her eyes clamped shut so tight her face is scrunched up and puckered. She’s very pretty, despite her psycho-babble that’s almost cute. There’s also something else about her, I realize as my gaze travels down along her strong hourglass shape and stops at her wide hips. My cock moves as I stare at how her black slacks hug those hips. It takes about two seconds for me to harden when the thought of my face in that British muff floods my mind. I’ve never been big on eating pussy, but motherfucker I want to taste this Englishwoman’s very proper cunt right now. Slide my filthy tongue all the way up in there, swirl it around and show her what American-style freedom is all about. She’d come on my face while saying something like Egad or Milkthistle (I don’t fucking know . . .). Then I’d flip her over and plant my Star Spangled Flagpole right in her tight English bum.

  Now I’m grinning as my throbbing cock cures my hangover so well I feel kinda drunk right now. She’s red in the face a
nd her lips are moving. Hell, she’s really freaked out by my nakedness, isn’t she? I guess that’s reasonable. Am I that jaded and desensitized that I don’t consider public nakedness a problem?

  Nah, that’s not it, I think with a sigh as I turn and stroll back into my room. My pants are in a crumpled heap on the carpet. They feel light, and I groan when I see that my wallet’s missing too. I’m less pissed about the wallet than the watch, though. I never carry any cards in my wallet. No ID or anything like that. I keep my passport and credit cards in a secure pouch that stays in my carry-on bag. My wallet’s just for cash. I think I lost about nine hundred Pounds Sterling. That’s quite a score for that bar-room bandit. Hell, maybe she’ll retire from a life of sleaze. Though if she’s sleazy, what does it make me?

  It’s a struggle to shove my swollen cock into my lambswool trousers but I manage to do it without injury to man or beast. I don’t see my shirt anywhere, but I think that’s OK. I just saw Ms. Proper peek and now she’s got both eyes open.

  “Hi,” I say, reaching out my right hand and smiling broad. My teeth shine like diamonds and my breath is always fresh. Alcohol does keep you clean inside. “Who’re you?”

  “I sent you a message. I’m Xyla,” she says, glancing at my hand and then blinking and demurring. I frown and look down and then wince when I see the smudge of that woman’s lipstick circling my middle finger like a ring. So she sucked my finger last night? Man, these British chicks are weird.

  My hangover pinches behind the eyes and I rub my temples. “I get too many messages and so I don’t read any of them. Though your name sounds familiar. Xyla . . .” I say. “You’re the . . . what are you again?”

  “The Help,” she says cheerfully. “I’m the Chief of Staff at your Dorshire Manor.” She smiles and shrugs. “Also the only staff right now. It’s not a very big estate. And your late uncle—may Duke Edward rest in peace—didn’t see the need for most of the formalities.”

  “Clearly he saw the need for you,” I say with a raised eyebrow and a cocked head. I narrow my eyes at her as something occurs to me. “Though I coulda sworn my uncle the dead Duke was gayer than the Queen’s husband.” I wink and flash a grin and lean in close. “The Queen’s husband is gay, isn’t he?” I whisper.

  Xyla stares with the sort of horror that belongs on stage, and I realize she didn’t get that I was messing with her. Fuck me. “Oh, right,” I say with a sigh and a hand-swipe. “British humor is ironic. American sarcasm doesn’t work here.”

  She blinks and swallows and then shakes her head. “That wasn’t sarcasm. It was shock-humor. I don’t think that works anywhere.”

  She smiles and winks and I grin and snap my fingers and point. “Excellent sarcasm,” I acknowledge. “Now, is my carriage waiting downstairs? How many horses? I want ten horses. Maybe twelve.”

  “I hope you’re being sarcastic,” Xyla says. She eyes my bare chest disapprovingly and I put my hands on my hips and bite my lip. I’m not jacked like some meat-head with steroid-balls, but I’m lean and tight, with a well-defined six-pack and more real strength than most body-builders. “We’ll be taking the train to Dorshire. Now, can we put some clothes on, please?”

  “We?” I say with a chuckle as I try to push away an image of how big and red her nipples might be under all those layers of British propriety. “Oh, right. Now that I’m royalty, I get to use the royal we. Just like the Queen.”

  “You aren’t royal like the Queen is royal,” she says, following me into the room without being invited. Interesting. Maybe this woman isn’t as shy and reticent as she makes out to be. What else is she hiding from me? Last time I saw Uncle Ed was before my folks died eleven years ago, but I seem to remember him being a loner to the extreme. Dad told me that it was because of the don’t-ask, don’t-tell nonsense of British High Society back in the day. Apparently it wasn’t “proper” to be a gay Duke even though you gotta think that historically at least some of these men who dressed in furs and diamonds and pink stockings and white wigs marched to that other drumbeat.

  Whatever, I think as I flip open my suitcase. The whole Royalty thing is a fucking joke anyway. In America we fought a bloody-ass war for the right to not have a Royal Class. I can’t take this shit seriously.

  And if I have my way, nobody’s gonna take this shit seriously.

  Not when they see me defile the Dukeship with my American arrogance and Yankee sensibilities. I’m not here for the fucking pomp and splendor, I remind myself as I dig out my carefully curated attire and smile. I’m here to show the world that this shit is a joke, that Royalty belongs in the past along with all beliefs that make one class of people “better” than another.

  There’s a reason I spent years cultivating a Social Media presence that’s founded on bad behavior and shock-you tactics, I think as I unfurl the cape of fake fur and sling it onto my bare shoulders. Then I pull out the diamond-studded choker that’s so over-the-top I can barely keep a straight face with it on. I put it on and try to keep a straight face. Doesn’t work, and I’m grinning like a Chelsea cat when I see Xyla’s mouth hang open at my ensemble.

  “I’m ready,” I say firmly, sniffing my bare armpits and giving her a thumbs-up. I pull out my phone and click three quick selfies. I select the best one and shoot it out to all my Social Media channels. My phone starts to go nuts just as I turn off the notifications so it doesn’t ping, beep, and throb all the way to Dorshire. “To my castle!” I proclaim. “Yee-haw! Here we go, baby! Down with the British Empire! America in the fucking house!”

  3

  XYLA

  “You do know that the UK is a democracy, not an Empire,” I say as Xavier asks another mortified train-passenger how he feels about bending the knee to the British Crown like a pussy-whipped something-or-other. I smile apologetically as the last passenger in our section hastily gathers his brown coat and gray hat and exits at a stop that I suspect isn’t his.

  “Where’d everyone go?” Xavier says, slouching in the seat and raising his long legs that easily stretch across. He plants his feet on the seat-bench beside me. He’s wearing Harley-Davidson branded boots that are scuffed in a way that make me think he actually does ride a motorbike. Also, his feet are very large. Come to think of it, the glimpse I got back at the hotel seemed to back up what they say about the correlation between a man’s feet and his phallus.

  He looks at me and grins again. He grins a lot, but the smiles are oddly genuine. Delightfully genuine. Xavier might a thirty-seven year old man, but he acts like a child and seems to absolutely love it. It’s infectious, but I’m not going to be infected. I barely acted like a child when I was a child. Besides, I’m being paid very handsomely (surprisingly so, which makes me even more confused and suspicious about Clip-on Lawyer . . .) to rein in the Duke’s horses.

  Moments after taking the job and getting the skinny on the new Duke, I’d found Xavier’s Social Media channels and immediately understood why I’d been asked to pretend to be part of his dead uncle’s staff or estate or whatever. The man walked the talk—and both his walk and his talk were out there. Like way out there.

  “Listen, Xavier,” I say, pausing as two stiff-hatted train conductors stroll past us. They each raise at eyebrow at Xavier’s bare-chested, fake-fur wearing, diamond-choker sporting attire. Then they grunt and walk on like they’ve seen better. Or worse.

  “I’m a Duke, you know,” Xavier calls after them.

  One of them turns and grins. “And I’m the Queen’s bloomers,” he shoots back. The two conductors chuckle and pass through to the next car. Xavier twiddles his thumbs and sighs and shakes his head. “Royalty isn’t what it used to be,” he says.

  I smile. “Thank heavens for that,” I say without thinking.

  Xavier pulls his feet off the seat and leans forward. “Why do you say that?”

  I bite my lip and shrug. “I didn’t mean to. I mean, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  He rubs his beard and grunts. Slowly he leans back and raises his feet again, keeping his green eyes trained on my face like he’s watching for something. I blink and glance down at his boots.

  “You ride a motorcycle?” I say quickly.

  He glances at his boots and then back into my eyes. “Among other things.”