The Duchess Contest: A Jet City Billionaire Serial Romance

  The Duchess Contest

  A Jet City Billionaire Romance

  Gina Robinson

  Three Jays Press, LLC

  Contents

  Copyright

  GinaRobinson.com

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Also by Gina Robinson

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2016 by Gina Robinson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Gina Robinson

  http://www.ginarobinson.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Cover Design: Jeff Robinson

  The Duchess Contest/Gina Robinson. — 1st ed.

  GinaRobinson.com

  Visit ginarobinson.com to sign up for my VIP New Releases List. You’ll get exclusive access to new release notifications, series announcements, and more! Get the Gina Robinson Starter Library FREE for signing up!

  The Billionaire Duke Series

  Part 1—The Billionaire Duke

  Part 2—The Duchess Contest

  Part 3—The Temporary Duchess

  The Switched at Marriage Series

  Part 1—A Wedding to Remember

  Part 2—The Virgin Billionaire

  Part 3—To Have and To Hold

  Part 4—From This Day Forward

  Part 5—For Richer, For Richest

  Part 6—In Sickness and In Wealth

  Part 7—To Love and To Cherish

  The Billionaire’s Christmas Vows

  Gina Robinson’s Contemporary New Adult Romance Series

  The Rushed Series

  These standalone romances can be read in any order. But it’s more fun to read them all!

  Book 1—Rushed, Zach and Alexis’ story

  Book 2—Crushed, Dakota and Morgan’s story

  Book 3—Hushed, Seth and Maddie’s story

  The Reckless Series

  Ellie and Logan’s love story begins one hot August night. This series should be read in order.

  Book 1—Reckless Longing—FREE

  Book 2—Reckless Secrets

  Book 3—Reckless Together

  Chapter 1

  Seattle, Washington

  Riggins, reluctant Duke of Witham

  The media—American and British—was in a complete frenzy over my status as an American duke and running high with speculation. What had started as a small, inconsequential human-interest spark had grown into epic forest fire of headline-grabbing proportions. The stories fed on themselves and gobbled up the time and attention of social media and the entertainment shows the way flames consume oxygen. Every time I got online, another hashtag about me was trending.

  #DuchessSearch #AmericanOrBritish #LetMeBeTheOne

  #ShutUp #LeaveMeTheHellAlone

  The last two were mine. And existed only in my head. I wasn't dumb enough to post them. I didn't respond at all. My accounts were overwhelmed with friend requests. I ignored them and turned off all notifications.

  The British press had been working overtime while I slept, fitfully, after dropping Haley off after our ball for two, just me and her. My mind raced with thoughts of her. The scent of her perfume. The way she laughed. The sparkle in her two mismatched eyes. Whatever Milia had done to her, she'd done too damn well. Though, deep down, I had to admit, it wasn't all Milia's handiwork. Haley had a natural charm all her own that was hard to resist.

  But if I was throwing blame around, I had to take my share. It was my own fault for asking Milia to make Haley into duchess material. I should have known Milia would be unable to resist the temptation to make her into a femme fatale. Milia was vindictive that way. Determined to change the course of my life that she believed she'd altered. It was egotistical of her to hold that opinion. But neither of us were known for our humility. That had been part of our problem.

  She thought I needed love in my life. She was atoning for breaking my heart. She took too much credit for my single status. She didn't realize I'd chosen this life. It was what I wanted and suited me just fine. Shit. I needed my head about me, not the distraction of a love affair.

  Haley had done something no woman had done to me in years—intrigued me. Shown me a glimpse of something pure and genuine. Something I'd forgotten existed. Or maybe something I'd thought had died. Shown me what regular life was like. Despite all the hoopla surrounding us, when it was just her and me, I was a regular guy. She made me remember what it had been like when I'd been unknown Riggins, a broke college kid. Leading a regular life out of the spotlight. Back when I'd known that a woman was with me because she liked me. Not my money.

  Funny to think those thoughts about Haley being with me for me when Thorne had coerced Haley into dating me. But, hell, she wasn't with me for my money. Not in the usual way. Not using me. If anything, we were protecting each other. It had been a long time since I'd had a woman on my side. It felt too damn good.

  If I could have picked my ally, I would have chosen someone like Milia—strong, smart, savvy, competent beyond belief. However, Haley was refreshingly naïve. Soft. Sweet. Unjaded. Funny. Witty. Alluring. Genuine. Honest. There was something to be said for all that.

  I couldn't get her out of my head. Though I was damn well going to try. For now, we were allied by our common interest in surviving and foiling the Dead Duke's plans. But what did we really have in common?

  No. I was better off alone. I wasn't ready to give up my freedom. Or share my life and private time. Especially not if I was forced into it.

  On Sunday morning, after my date with Haley, I was in my home office early. Working with a cup of coffee at my side. Trying to find a way out of this marriage mess and defeat the wily Dead Duke. If I was going to outwit him, I had to think like him. Know your enemy.

  Because he was dead, I couldn't sit down with him face to face and feel him out. See how he thought. I was reduced to playing biographer and historian and researching everything I could about him online. Where there was precious little about such a long-lived duke.

  I hated to admit it to myself, but the best place to study him was Witham House, where I would have access to everything he'd left behind. Diaries. Personal papers. Personal effects. Paintings of our ancestors hanging on the walls. There had to be some clue to him and the way he thought there.

  I would have been on a plane for Heathrow in a second, if I didn't suspect I would be playing right into his hands. If I were the Dead Duke, I would try to lure me to the estate. Where he could play the game several ways. One, hope I would fall in love with the place and develop an attachment to it. Make it so pleasant and perfect I would never leave.

  Or, two, burden me with emergency after urgent matter, keeping me there indefinitely and diverting me from my real mission of trying to get out of marrying. Old-time heirs who didn't want to marry put it off as long as possible. And did crazy crap to try to get out of it. I was no different. Only this pressure
was something else.

  Or, three, the Dead Duke would use some legal matter to keep me in England.

  As tempting as it was to go to Witham House, I had my reservations. I had a gut feeling it wouldn't be good. I decided to stay put in Seattle for now and take care of business. Flash needed my attention. I damn well wasn't going to let this duke distraction take my eye off the ball and ruin Flash all by myself.

  At six thirty, my phone rang, jarring me out of the thoughts I'd been lost in. I got a desperate call from my personal assistant Jennifer.

  "Riggins! Thank God. How can you be so calm? My phone hasn't stopped ringing since five this morning. I would have turned it off and let those media dogs howl, but the speculation is getting ridiculous. If it keeps up, you're going to have to put our PR department on it to do damage control. And hire an answering service and talent agent."

  "Talent agent?" I took a sip of coffee and frowned.

  "Oh, yeah. A big-time one. I'm being bombarded with calls from journalists and from producers and their assistants begging me to set up interviews with you. Asking personal questions about you.

  "I swear every reality dating show producer on the planet—from both American and British versions—has been in touch with offers. Some have even proposed developing a new show just for you—The Bachelor Duke. A wonderful show about a duke, you, who must find a duchess and is offered at least twenty gorgeous, carefully screened candidates. Women who can offer great, entertaining television, as well as have the qualifications to be wonderful duchesses.

  "There will be the bitch, naturally. You won't choose her. And the long shot. The small-town girl from next door. You know, your basic Cinderella kind. In a mere twenty weeks, or less, of show time, you'll have a bride. The show will end with you proposing to one lucky lady. And in this case, she may be a real lady.

  "The producer even offered to make it a combined American/British version, evenly populated with duchess hopefuls from both countries. And lessons for the American girls on how a duchess should behave. With lessons for the British girls on American, specifically Seattle, culture and how to be the wife of an American billionaire. Sound good, Your Grace?" She sounded tired and harried, but her tone was light and teasing.

  "No," I said.

  "No?" Jennifer said. "That's it? No explanation? I could say it's beneath the dignity of a duke."

  "That's it. Just no. No show. No interviews."

  "All right. You're the boss, but this isn't going away."

  "Who the hell came up with these ideas?" I was getting suspicious. I wondered if something had leaked. "Why does everyone think I want to get married immediately?"

  Jennifer laughed again. "Have you been in isolation? Clearly you haven't seen the online news and blogs. They're claiming that they have exclusive information from a source, who spoke on condition of anonymity that, as the last living Feldhem, you're concerned about dying without an heir. So you're looking to marry and produce one as soon as possible."

  Jennifer laughed at that. Like it was absurd. "They're painting a fairytale, romantic view of your situation. Saying you're looking for your soulmate and will stop at nothing to find her."

  I rolled my eyes. "That's so much bullshit."

  "It's what they're claiming. Which brings me to my next point—the matchmakers and online dating services that have been offering their services. Several of the major online dating sites would love to offer you the job as their spokesman, complete with endorsement bonuses. Including complimentary matchmaking services."

  I cursed beneath my breath.

  Jennifer kept talking. "Several private, exclusive matchmakers have been in touch, too. They're more discreet. And they want to be paid for their services. But they will carefully screen candidates.

  "They guarantee their potential duchesses will all have the right pedigree, background checks that include their financial status and criminal record—no murderesses, I presume—and be screened for complete compatibility with you. Using their scientific methods for creating matches. Some of these services have impressive credentials."

  "I bet they do."

  "For an additional fee—I'm not kidding here—they will also screen them to be sure they're fertile and capable of producing the heir you so desire. And get them to sign a legal document giving you full custody of an heir in the case of divorce."

  "What?"

  "I know!" She sighed. "You can't make this stuff up."

  I looked out over Lake Washington and scowled. Thorne. He had to be behind this leak. Anonymous source. Right. This was his attempt to force my hand. Into marriage.

  "The answer is still no. I can find my own bride. Why would I need their help?"

  Jennifer laughed. "Got it."

  "What else are they saying? Anything?"

  "You have a British fan club now."

  "What?" Just what I needed. "Why the hell do I have a fan club?"

  Jennifer laughed. "You should really Google yourself once in a while. The British press is advocating for a British duchess. A group of women have gotten together and formed a fan club. It's really more of a group of duchess hopefuls. Their club goal is to find you a British duchess. They're chartering a plane over in the hopes of meeting you. They've been in contact, asking for a meeting with you."

  "No. Hell no."

  "You're becoming fond of that word, boss. Don't dismiss your fan club out of hand. The new president is fairly attractive."

  I sighed. "Keep this up and—"

  "I'll demand hazard pay. I can't leave my house. There's a horde of reporters out front and it's not even light out yet."

  "You should have mentioned that first. Call our security team and tell them to take care of it. Bill it to me—"

  A helicopter flew over the house, cutting off her response.

  "Sorry. Couldn't hear you," I said. As the helicopter circled back, I caught a silhouette of a guy with a camera in the passenger seat. Damn, a film crew.

  "Will do," she repeated. "Was that a helicopter I heard?"

  I sighed. "The media circus has reached me here at home." I shook my head. "I'm sorry about the inconvenience, Jennifer."

  "Don't apologize. It's adding a little excitement to my life. As long as it doesn't last forever, I'm good."

  The exact terms of the will, and whom I must marry, had evidently remained under wraps. Giving girls the world over false hope of winning my heart. Shit. A fan club? Things were worse than I thought.

  Any woman might win my heart. Good luck with that. But winning the role of my duchess fell to one particular set of DNA.

  After I hung up with Jennifer, I got online and read the latest buzz on me. I laughed at the unwitting British entertainment media advocating heavily for a British duchess. It was a travesty, an insult against the British citizenry, that the first eligible duke to come on the market in years was, for all intents and purposes, an American. The gossip magazines and entertainment shows were full of speculation.

  It was bad enough, after all, to have a duke with definite American heritage and leanings. I was an anomaly. A curiosity. A fantasy. And an eligible duke in a market sadly lacking in dukes with estates intact.

  If I'd been a character in one of my mom's old Regency romances, or Jane Austen's era, I would have been forced to attend balls at Almack's and faced the marriage mart as dozens of eligible girls were paraded before me. It appeared that times hadn't changed much in essentials. The marriage mart had moved online and become high tech.

  The helicopter departed, flying off toward the south and Renton Field. As the sun came up, a movement outside my window caught my attention.

  What the hell?

  A drone flew up to my window.

  I had had enough. I grabbed a remote control out of my desk drawer and called my self-defense drone. My enemy-drone-netting drone. A minute later, my drone successfully brought down the enemy drone. All that video game playing finally came in handy for something. I called security to come get the captured drone and aske
d them to put a special drone-detecting detail on. Any more drones invaded my personal airspace, my team was under orders to take them out. This was getting ridiculous.

  My phone buzzed again. Thorne calling. What did he want?

  I picked up. "If it isn't the emissary of Satan calling. Hello, Thorne."

  "Nice speaking to you, too, Your Grace."

  He was imperturbable.

  "To what do I owe the pleasure?" I leaned back in my chair and watched one of my security guys cart off the enemy drone. Which, in all likelihood, belonged to some overzealous member of the paparazzi.

  "You may have heard. A British woman has come forward claiming to be a descendant of the late duchess."

  "What?" My face lit up. I couldn't help it. If this news upset Thorne, it had to be good for me.

  "Yes, I apologize, Your Grace. Her name is Rosanagh Lily Browne. She goes by Rose. Lady Rose. Her father is the Earl of Colchester. Which makes the matter more delicate. I very much doubt she's discovered the full terms of the late duke's will—"

  "Don't look at me," I said. "I sure as hell wouldn't tell anyone."

  "I wasn't making any accusations, sir." Thorne rustled some papers on his end. "The news of an American woman inheriting a small token from the estate has been all over British media. Lady Rose claims she saw the news story on Miss Hamilton and couldn't believe her good fortune in finding another blood relation so soon. Previously, she didn't know any existed."

  "You missed a descendant?" I said, both amused and disturbed. Almost excited. Thorne and the Dead Duke were fallible. Which gave me hope that they'd tripped up on something essential. That I could still foil them.

  At the same time, this wasn't shaping up to be any better news for me. Except potentially I now had a whopping choice of two women to be my bride. Unless she was already married. Or not of childbearing age.

  "We were very thorough. We didn't miss anyone, I assure you." Thorne sounded indignant. "She's claiming she was given up for adoption at birth. But that she is a biological descendant of the late Helen Feldhem, Duchess of Witham.