handsome and charming – when he wanted to be. He was engaged to be married to one of the most desirable women in the world, who also happened to be deeply kind and loyal, two qualities Henry himself had been known to lack. And then there was Hanborough, the icing on the already mouthwatering cake that was Henry Saxton Brae’s life.
Despite all his success, there was still a part of Henry that felt like the younger son. Growing up, he had always known it would be Seb who would inherit the family estate in its entirety; Seb who would one day become Lord Saxton Brae. Henry was fond of his elder brother. It was hard not to be. For all his outward pomposity, Sebastian didn’t have a mean bone in his body. But on some deep, subconscious level, it was important to Henry to own a house that was better than his brother’s, better than Hatchings. And not just a house. An estate. Something with land and a future, that could be left to future generations.
The problem was that this dream home had to be in the Swell Valley, the most beautiful part of England, in Henry’s opinion, and the part of the country where the Saxton Braes had lived for generations. That left precious few options, and although some were on a par with Hatchings, none really outshone it in terms of grandeur.
Hanborough Castle was easily the most impressive house in the county. Moated, and of Norman origin, with extensive medieval additions, it sat atop the South Downs at the end of a mile-long drive, with incredible views that stretched from the sea to the south right across the entire Swell Valley to the north. There were oak trees in Hanborough’s vast swathes of parkland that were believed to date back to the Conquest. Unfortunately, the entire estate had been gifted to the nation in 1920. As far as anybody knew, there was no mechanism for the house ever to return to private hands.
But Henry Saxton Brae rarely took ‘no’ for an answer. Somehow, nobody quite knew exactly how he did it, but apparently it involved an offshore trust and a large chunk of Gigtix’s shares as collateral, he had pulled strings with English Heritage and the relevant government department, and emerged as Hanborough’s new owner and saviour. Budget cuts had seen the property fall into serious disrepair over the last twenty years. Henry was one of the few individuals with both the money and the inclination to bring Hanborough back to life.
The rain had finally stopped and twilight was softly falling over the Sussex countryside as Hanborough shimmered into view.
God, it’s beautiful, Henry thought, gazing at the shadowy turrets, like something out of a fairy tale. Graydon James, the designer, was arriving next week to begin the restoration. The plan was that next summer, after a traditional church wedding at St Hilda’s, Henry and Eva would host a star-studded reception up at Hanborough, to officially launch the castle as a family home, and to begin their lives as man and wife.
It would be a new start for the estate, and for Henry.
He would be responsible. Faithful. Married.
The end of his bachelor days.
And only a year to go …
‘Forget it, Graydon. You don’t take me seriously!’
Graydon James lay back against a riot of purple and peach silk cushions on his vintage B&B Italia daybed and watched Guillermo, his latest toy boy, pack. If by ‘pack’ one meant strutting around Graydon’s apartment naked, pouting and tossing one’s long, blue-black, Indian Brave mane of hair with gloriously theatrical panache while occasionally throwing a T-shirt into a Louis Vuitton Weekender.
‘Don’t be a drama queen, William,’ Graydon drawled in his famously deep, gravelly, smoker’s voice. ‘You know I value your talent.’
‘Yeah, right,’ the young man grumbled. ‘All eight inches of it.’
‘Don’t sell yourself short.’ Graydon grinned. ‘Closer to ten, I’d say. When you make an effort.’
‘Piss off,’ the boy hissed.
He’s even more magnificent when he’s angry, Graydon thought. At sixty-five, Graydon James’s libido was not what it used to be, but his artist’s eye could still appreciate the male form, especially when presented in such an exquisitely chiselled package as Guillermo.
Graydon knew people mocked him for his young lovers. That they saw him as a sad old queen, desperately clinging to the vestiges of his own, long-lost youth. Those people could all go fuck themselves. Graydon knew the truth: he was a huge success; rich, famous, preposterously talented. The rules of the hoi polloi did not apply to him. If he wanted a twenty-year-old lover, he would buy himself one, just the same way he bought himself a slice of chocolate cake or a couture smoking jacket or anything else that brought him pleasure.
Graydon James lived for pleasure. Yet, at the same time, he enjoyed a challenge, romantically as much as professionally. It wasn’t Guillermo’s young, perfect body that made Graydon feel alive so much as moments like this one. The drama. The tension. The passion. Sex was all well and good, but nothing beat the addictive thrill of romance. Hope and despair. Agony and ecstasy.
Graydon patted the seat beside him. ‘What do you want, William? Exactly? Come and talk to me.’
‘It’s Guillermo,’ the boy smouldered. ‘And you know what I want.’
Graydon patted the seat again. Guillermo narrowed his eyes briefly, then trotted to his master’s side like a chastened puppy.
‘I want the London job. The castle.’
Graydon shook his head. ‘It’s impossible. Hanborough’s a huge project. You can’t possibly manage it alone.’
‘I wouldn’t be alone though, would I?’ Guillermo put a hand suggestively on the old man’s thigh. ‘You could come with me.’
‘Only part time.’ Graydon closed his eyes as the boy’s fingers crept higher. ‘I can’t leave New York for too long. Besides, I’d go mad. I loathe the countryside. You do realize Hanborough Castle isn’t actually in London? It’s in the middle of nowhere. You’d hate it.’
‘I want that job.’
Guillermo’s dark brown eyes locked with the great designer’s. A challenge. Graydon’s pupils dilated with desire.
‘I’m a good designer, Graydon.’ Guillermo coiled his fingers around the old man’s hardening cock and squeezed gently.
No, you’re not, thought Graydon. But it was hard to hold on to the thought as Guillermo’s fingers began to move and the waves of pleasure built.
Flora Fitzwilliam was a good designer, perhaps a great one. Flora was Graydon’s protégée, and he had already as good as promised the Hanborough job to her.
He’d first come across Flora’s work by chance when an important client, a minor member of the Rockefeller clan, had dragged him along to some ghastly charity event at the Rhode Island School of Design. Flora was one of the graduating class whose portfolios were being showcased. Graydon only had to see her fabric prints and a single chaise longue to realize he’d found a pearl among swine, a rare and precious diamond in the rough. The bold simplicity of Flora’s designs, her eye for light and her pure aesthetic, elegant and classic but with a wonderful youthful twist, reminded him of his own,
