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How would it even go? ‘Hi, my name is Eden Ennis. A DNA test says you are my uncle on my father’s side.

I’m not sure I want a relationship and don’t need to be part of a family, but I would like any information on my father.

Any idea about where he is and why he took off when my mum told him she was pregnant with me? Is he even alive?’

Eden sneezed and wiped her streaming nose, her heart hammering as she approached the impressive stable block.

She’d spent her life watching foster kids come and go, knowing that given the choice, her mum would choose them over her. The fear bubbled up at the thought of making a new, blood-related, connection. What if Troyden looked at her and saw nothing? What if she was just, once again, simply there?

What if her existence didn’t matter to him, just like she never mattered to her mother?

Her thoughts tumbled over each other, becoming bigger and bolder, veering off in another direction.

Another what-if slammed into her… What if, after meeting, he thought she wanted something from him?

She didn’t, but with her life crumbling how could she not look like an opportunist, showing up just when her world was about to detonate?

He’d look at her and see an outsider, might consider her an irritation or a problem to solve, a charity case.

But if he went to the opposite extreme and welcomed her into his world…

what if she started to believe she had a place in his life and then he eventually decided, like her mum, she wasn’t worth his time and effort, wasn’t worth keeping?

Would she simply pass through his life like sand through his open fingers?

The safe option would be to walk away and do nothing. She’d rocked one boat recently and was still wiping water out of her eyes. Maybe it was better to deal with that storm before sailing headfirst into another.

* * *

Leaving his teammates in the branded Castle Kings players’ tent during the break, Jed Harris grabbed a bottle of water and headed over to where Troyden lounged in a deckchair, thankfully alone.

He needed to head to the stables to check on his favourite pony– she’d favoured her left forelock earlier– but he could take a few minutes to talk to his stepdad first. Today was a demo match, held between two neighbouring clubs, as practice for the upcoming, maybe his last, season.

He rubbed the back of his neck, irritated. Thoughts about retiring from the game, maybe coaching or making furniture full-time kept ambushing him. He needed to think about the future at some point… Where was he going? What was his next goal? Where did he want to be in five years?

Adulting. Fucking bullshit.

But today the sun was shining, it was good to be back in the saddle playing polo without any pressure. Unlike the intense, professional matches, today he could miss a few chukkas, allowing a junior player to get some game experience.

He dropped into the empty chair and stretched out his long legs.

Chugging his water, he looked across the field to where he’d earlier spotted Troyden talking to a slim woman.

He’d first noticed her hair, and the way the sun bounced off it, turning it a stunning shade of rose gold.

She’d been dressed in a simple navy polka dot dress showing off long, shapely legs ending in trendy trainers.

From his saddle, he’d clocked her heart-shaped face, wide mouth, and thought he could see the freckles on her nose and cheeks. Maybe she was a natural redhead…

He loved redheads.

‘Who were you talking to earlier?’ he asked Troyden, keeping his question casual.

‘I talk to a lot of people, so you’re going to have to be more specific.’

‘Strawberry blonde, blue dress, no hat.’ Long neck, small waist and curvy hips. And, yeah, great boobs.

‘Didn’t catch her name. Polo newbie, didn’t know what was going on. Had to help her understand,’ Troyden laconically replied. ‘Pretty girl.’

Jed scanned the field, didn’t see her and silently cursed.

He was surprised by his keen disappointment and his level of interest. He didn’t normally react so strongly to women.

He was a veteran of the polo circuit and had been chased by 7-Ups– women who only dated players with a handicap of seven and up– on every continent and found most women unoriginal.

He was a jaded bastard with high standards and a low boredom threshold.

Still something about the strawberry blonde called to him… But she was gone, and he wouldn’t see her again. Pity.

Troyden adjusted the brim of his cap and folded his arms, sinking lower into the chair.

Jed knew Troyden would wait for him to raise the subject of the Duke’s death last night.

He’d been found by his wife in the kennels, sitting up against the wall, hand on his heart, a massive cigar between his fingers, and reputedly, a ‘ what the fuck ’ look on his face.

They said he’d suffered a massive heart attack, which was a surprise to Jed.

He hadn’t realised the Duke had a heart.

‘You heard, then?’ Jed asked, his eyes on his scuffed boots.

‘How do you feel about it?’

‘It couldn’t have happened to a nicer arsehole,’ he stated. He’d hated the Duke in life, and he wasn’t about to do a one-eighty and hypocritically change his views because he was dead.

‘It wasn’t like it was my father who died,’ he continued, answering Troyden’s earlier question. Though, technically, it was.

No, the man next to him was his father, not that waste of space dickhead who’d donated his sperm.

Troyden became a permanent part of his life after he married his mum– she was wife number three– and moved them into Elmsleigh.

He and his mum divorced twenty-five years ago when he was ten, but he and Troyden remained close.

When his mum died, Elmsleigh became his permanent home and Troyden his guardian.

Two more wives came and went before Jed’s eighteenth birthday, but all of Troyden’s stepchildren stuck close.

Within a few months of living at Elmsleigh, Jed realised Troyden, a man who had a rep for being a corporate bastard, was an absolute pushover, stunningly generous, and that it was stupidly easy to take advantage of him.

Troyden’s inability to say no to any of his ex-wives, girlfriends, stepchildren and friends, gave Jed a way to repay his stepfather for his generosity, and Jed made a point of never asking for anything from his super-wealthy stepfather.

And when he thought Troyden’s nearest and dearest were pushing the envelope of his generosity, he stepped in and shut them down.

Even as a kid, he was fiercely protective of the man who gave him a home.

Helped by Diana, Troyden’s no-nonsense housekeeper who took no shit, Jed’s protective streak had rubbed off on his stepsiblings, and they frequently banded together to protect the man who’d been, was, the father he didn’t have to be.

Jed’s bullshit radar remained finely tuned.

Talking of BS artists… ‘Where’s Sugar Baby?’ he asked.

‘I wish you and your siblings would learn her name,’ Troyden muttered.

They did know her name– this one was called Lana– but they liked giving their father shit about his terrible taste in women.

‘Bring home someone worthy of us learning her name and we will,’ Jed retorted.

Lana was the last in a long line of beautiful but vapid, money-hungry women who wanted to be the next Mrs Castle.

She wasn’t doing badly: in the six weeks since she’d arrived on Troyden’s radar she’d scored a trip to the South of France, a Birkin bag and a diamond tennis bracelet.

‘She went to lie down. She has a headache,’ Troyden explained, then archly continued, ‘I think she might be The One.’

Jed rolled his eyes. Troyden had said the same thing about at least three women in the past five years.

How the hell the man amassed a fortune in retail, dealing with the sharks and backstabbers of corporate UK and America, while being a sucker for anyone with big eyes and a great line of charming crap, God only knew.

And The One ? Such bullshit.

Jed didn’t believe in love, not much and not for him anyway. It always came, he believed, with an expiration date.

His mum’s words to him, shortly before marrying Troyden, still played in his head. Do not make him regret taking us in. If you want to stay, you have to prove your worth. And if he didn’t? That’s when, he was convinced, the people who said they loved him would walk away.

‘I asked how you were,’ Troyden reminded him, keeping his voice low.

Damn, back to the Duke, his least favourite subject. ‘I’m fine, I’m just pissed Junior gets to inherit,’ Jed replied.

Troyden frowned. ‘But you’ve never wanted to inherit Bythesea Hall or the Duke’s money. Or even be associated with him.’

Jed pushed his thumb and index finger into his eyes.

When it came to Lysander, the Duke of Bythesea (pronounced bithsee), or the Fucking Duke, his emotions always got twisted up.

The FD had an affair with his mother, his groom, when she was eighteen and he newly married.

As in, just-back-from-his-honeymoon married.

Around the same time his wife announced she was pregnant with the next generation of Bythesea arsehats, his bio-father made the first payment to ensure his mum’s silence about their affair and her pregnancy.

Every year, until the time Jed had turned eighteen, the Duke had paid a yearly stipend, first to his mum, then to Troyden, to keep their connection from being exposed.

Troyden handed his hush money to his money guy– his first stepson, Alistair– and thanks to Al’s nerdy love affair with numbers, Jed owned a ridiculously healthy portfolio of stocks, shares and crypto.

He’d also inherit a share of Troyden’s assets one day, which scared him a little.

What the fuck was he supposed to do with so much money?

He was just a part-time polo player, part-time furniture maker. Full-time grump.

He did his best to add value. He wasn’t just any polo player, he was the captain of his country’s team, and he made sure Troyden’s team were regulars on podiums all over the world.

He was the shield protecting Troyden from gold-diggers, con artists and anyone wanting to take advantage of his too-soft heart.

The rock for his stepsibs, the one they could always rely on.

There was no space for a woman, his plate was full, his capacity maxed out.

‘Jedson?’

He jerked and remembered Troyden’s question.

‘No, I don’t give a shit about the estate or the by-the-sea title, for fuck’s sake.

’ He saw Troyden narrow his eyes at his swearing and winced.

Troyden hated profanity– he called it unoriginal– but he was also pragmatic.

He knew there wasn’t much he could do to keep adult stepkids from occasionally swearing. Or, in Jed’s case, swearing often.

‘I object to Henry inheriting,’ Jed muttered, his skin feeling too tight for his body. ‘Because he’s the biggest knob I know.’

‘You’ve always hated him.’

He didn’t hate the Baby Duke because he was Lysander’s son and heir, when he, the Duke’s oldest son by a few months, wasn’t.

No, he hated Junior because he was acknowledged and accepted.

His birth had been celebrated, not reviled.

From the moment he arrived in the world, Henry had been encouraged to stand in the sunlight of his heritage, while Jed had been relegated to the darkest corner of the dungeon.

Interestingly and, frankly, conveniently, Henry hated him too. He didn’t know if Henry knew he was his half-brother– he doubted it– or if they had a personality clash, but his animosity ran as deep as Jed’s.

After a run-in as kids, one that involved knuckles and blood, they’d ended up at the same boys’ boarding school, in the same form.

Henry’d been loud-mouthed and obnoxious, and Jed, born with no fucks to give, routinely called him on his BS.

They both joined the school’s boxing team– a mutual excuse to beat the shit out of each other.

After a particularly nasty bout– an off-the-books, no rules, mock cage fight– he broke Junior’s nose and bruised his ribs.

Henry’s right hook to Jed’s temple gave him a minor concussion.

They’d both been immediately expelled– we don’t condone violence, no matter the circumstances!– but then the Duke and Troyden had hauled out their chequebooks, made massive donations to the school, and they were both reinstated.

Thankfully their paths hadn’t crossed much since they’d left school, with Henry going to uni and Jed straight into professional polo.

‘I believe life shouldn’t reward wankers.’

Troyden simply smiled and changed the subject. ‘I saw the table Sally posted to your website last night,’ he said, pride in his eyes. ‘Damn good job, son.’

Jed shrugged. The table, made from a piece of driftwood he’d found on an extremely southern New Zealand beach and had shipped home, was one of his favourite pieces.

The price tag Sally decided on made his eyes water.

But, as she told him, it was a J. Barkly piece– Barkly was a name he sucked from the air– and collectors were prepared to pay huge money for his furniture.

They were, he’d been informed, works of art.

He didn’t see it and it didn’t make any sense to him; he just found a piece of wood, saw a shape within it, and got to work with his power tools in the silence of his workshop.

‘Are you ever going to stop imitating Banksy and reveal to the world you are J. Barkly?’ Troyden demanded.

Troyden thought he should take the praise and the credit, but Jed didn’t give a shit about what other people thought.

He was just a guy who loved horses, played excellent polo and made furniture.

All he wanted to do was look after his family. Keep pushing back that expiry date.

The Duke’s death wouldn’t change a damn thing.

He’d make sure of it.