Saving Crofton Hall

The blond was tall, broad, and would look great against the expensive sheets of Ben’s hotel-room bed. Dylan—at least Ben thought the guy’s name was Dylan—was easy on the eye, but Ben wasn’t the kind of man to discriminate on appearance alone for what would be nothing more than one night of fun. Someone to scratch the itch he got every so often.

He fished in his wallet and pulled out a small plastic card. “This is my UK driving licence. And there’s me—Benjamin Redbourn—and my title.”

The blond took the card and peered at it. The lighting wasn’t great, and Ben was a little disappointed to see Probably Dylan moving his lips as he read, but as the message sank in, a wide smile replaced Probably Dylan’s confused frown. “Seriously? Do you own a castle?”

“Crofton Hall is a country house. Not a castle.”

Probably Dylan leant closer, his breath ghosting over Ben’s ear. “I’m sure you could explain the difference.”

“It’s all a matter of fortification,” said Ben, returning the lascivious grin and licking his lips. “But I’m sure you’d rather get out of here than talk about moats and defensive structures.”

“I’d love to see behind your defences.”

Ben did his best not to roll his eyes, and reminded himself that Probably Dylan didn’t need to have a startling intellect for the activities Ben had in mind. “Let’s stick to me showing you my hotel room.”

“Sweet. Where are you staying?”

“The Greenwich.”

Probably Dylan’s eyes lit up, and Ben could almost see the dollar signs. Ben took his hand and led him through the club and out into the New York night. He had never been averse to using his title and money to get what he wanted, which was why when he was in New York, he made sure he was on the guest list of the type of club where everyone had more money than sense and Ben could be sure he wasn’t picking up a gold digger. It didn’t always work, and there’d been more than one incident when someone had thought him husband material. He was still avoiding the Waldorf to be sure he didn’t run into a certain CEO’s daughter.

Once out on the street, Ben hailed a cab. He might have walked if he was on his own, his British sensibilities wanting to use the pavement whenever he could, but with a very eager Probably Dylan pressed against his back, the sooner they were heading away from the Meatpacking district and back at his hotel, the better.

The taxi driver growled loud enough for Ben to hear as Probably Dylan wormed his hand under Ben’s shirt and tried to kiss Ben’s neck.

Ben removed Probably Dylan’s hand. “Patience. We don’t want this good gentleman to ask us to leave his cab.”

Saturday night traffic was still busy, not rush hour by any means, but enough that they got caught at several traffic lights, and Ben had to reluctantly guard himself against Probably Dylan’s talented wandering hands. Ben willed the taxi driver to hurry up. When they drew up outside the Greenwich, he gave the driver a handsome tip and led Probably Dylan inside.

“I’ve a corner suite,” he explained as they took the elevator. “I’m only in New York for a couple of days, so it didn’t seem necessary to take the penthouse.”

Ben found himself pressed against the wall of the elevator.

“You have a bed?”

“Oh, yes. A big bed.”

“Then that’s what’s important.”

The elevator opened, and the pair of them hurried down the corridor, Ben fumbling with the door key as Probably Dylan urged him to get a move on. Once in the lobby of the suite, Ben captured Probably Dylan in a deep kiss, and it was eagerly returned.

Neither of them were interested in the boutique furnishing or the expensive décor. Ben steered Probably Dylan through the sitting area towards the bed, then pushed him backwards to land on the soft mattress.

Ben’s phone chirruped, and he took it out of his pocket and tapped the screen.

“Important?” asked Probably Dylan, sounding—justifiably—a little petulant.

“No, only Catlin.”

“Catlin? Wife? Girlfriend?”

“Good Lord, no. As much as I enjoyed the hours I’ve spent in the arms of beautiful women, I’ve always insisted they weren’t blood relatives.”

“Eh?”

“She’s my little sister.”

Probably Dylan grinned and began to peel open his shirt, one button at a time.

“Then if it’s not important, why don’t you come over here and show me what royals do for fun.”

Ben was about to explain the difference between being an earl—and therefore a member of the nobility—and actually being royalty, but if Probably Dylan liked the idea he was about to shag a royal, Ben thought better of ruining the fantasy. He scanned the text message.

Kitty Cat: Call me as soon as you can. Mummy’s acting odd.

Their mother was always acting oddly, and Ben was sure it would boil down to her gin and pear drop addiction. He shuddered at the thought of the horrible sweets his mother loved so much and threw the phone on the dresser. Probably Dylan’s appealing abs were a pleasant distraction from his sister’s message.

Ben stalked forwards, unbuttoning his shirt as he did so. “So, where were we?”

Ben threw back the duvet and bounced out of bed with the exuberance that always followed a night of excellent sex. Probably Dylan—he never did confirm the blond’s name—had left early, Ben mumbling a vague agreement about meeting up when he was next in town. He spotted an eleven-digit phone number scrawled on a sheet of hotel stationery, and without thinking twice, crumpled it into a ball and threw it into the bin. He wasn’t looking for anything more than one night. Not interested in anything long-term, or even a repeat session. His physical urges, the ones that reared their lusty heads every few months, were sated, and that was good enough for him.

After a shower that was supposed to mimic being caught in a rainforest downpour, Ben padded back into the bedroom and picked up his phone. Several pointless emails, Twitter follows, and Facebook notifications assaulted him, and he frowned when he saw two more texts from Catlin.

Kitty Cat: Are you back in England yet? Please call me, Benny!

Kitty Cat: Mummy keeps saying she has really done it this time. Benny, please call me!

Catlin was an utter drama queen. God only knew how Spenser, her rather nice-but-dim fiancé, put up with her.

He tapped out a text, hoping it would be enough to appease her.

Ben: Flying back today. Should be at the manor in time for supper. Mother is probably alluding to finishing the last of the vintage port. Doubt there’s anything to worry about.

Remembering his flight and the prospect of having to negotiate the battlefield that was JFK airport, Ben dressed, pulling on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt he’d acquired during Milan fashion week from a model he’d met at one of the after-show parties. Not caring about the creases he was putting to the Vivienne Westwood shirt and trousers he’d worn last night, he shoved everything into his leather holdall. He emptied the safe in the room, collecting his wallet, a handful of papers, and the jewellery he’d removed last night before venturing out into the New York nightlife. He slid a gold-and-ruby ring onto the little finger of his right hand—a ring every oldest male Redbourn had worn, going back to the 1st Earl, Anthony Redbourn. His watch, now firmly strapped in place, had once been both his father’s and his grandfather’s. If it could talk, that watch would no doubt corroborate the stories he’d been told about flapper girls in the Roaring Twenties, life with a member of the French Resistance in occupied France during World War II, and how it had been lost, then won back in a game of poker in a burlesque club in Paris in the Swinging Sixties.

Taking a few moments to artfully tousle his hair, Ben checked to see there were no stray greys mingled with the brown and that his eyes weren’t bloodshot, because red didn’t go with hazel. He picked up his bag and left. Another successful trip to New York was coming to an end. He checked out, and the concierge ordered him a cab.

An hour later, having cleared Fast Track security, he settled into a comfy chair with a Talisker whisky—no ice—in the First Class Lounge and waited for his flight back to Heathrow.