This is my first submission here and would welcome all constructive feedback. Pls understand this is a work of fiction and hence I have taken some creative license in adapting places and things to suit the narrative. Any similarities with any person, place, event or thing are purely coincidental. Also pls be advised this is not a one-page jerkoff. The characters and the story in this series will be established first and all 'action' will be in line with the story All rights reserved
Chapter 1: Prelude
Andrew was OK.
Not too bright, but not too dim either.
Had enough confidence to hold his own among a group of English Gentry both, in the field of cricket as well as in front of the bench.
He was a partner of the Law firm Pisckawny, Ruthers & Solloway (PRS for short) of which his Great-Great-Grandfather the Viscount of Geornabry, the Hon. George Rowlinson Ruthers was a founding member.
He had a Bentley which he drove too fast, a library full of books which he was slow to read, and a sufficiently practiced backhand which made him a decent tennis partner. (or so I have been told)
Now at the veritable age of fifty-six, this thrice-widowed bachelor with a sufficient bank balance along with wise investments made by his predecessors needed a suitable lady to spend these riches for him.
So forestalling all other also eligible and still young and good-looking divorcees and widows of good breeding and social position, my oft-divorced mother, who at forty-six still managed to turn heads with her silicone mammaries and sculpted bottoms(surgically enhanced), managed to corral him into submission, while suitably and soothingly instructing him in the worldly and carnal advantages of bestowing a ring on her finger, which he proceeded to do so with alacrity.
In my mother's defence, we were among the premier stock of the English nobility, with recorded provenance from the Battle of Hastings.
Our family did live in a castle. While the original west wall of this tenement had belonged to a castle way back in the Hundred Years War, the rest of it was just a two-storied 'mausoleum of the living dead' of indeterminate age (as my mom called it) having multiple rooms and servant lodgings.
This engagement had happened four months ago, and I was yet to get formally introduced to Andrew and the products of his loins. So, it was decided that on my birthday we would have a very small and tight-knit gathering where the families of both sides could meet and greet.
In this rush to set the context, guess I have forgotten to introduce myself.
I am Dr. Meeghan Taylor Rockwell (yes that double e is in my birth records), thirty years old, and currently in my CMT Training at the University Hospital and attached to the Neurology department. Standing five feet eleven inches without my heels, I have hazel eyes, a toned physique, and flaxen blond hair (which to date I have refused to pollute with hair colour) up to my mid shoulders which I style in waves when I need to be in society but otherwise tied in a simple ponytail when I am at work. I am told I get all that from my dad, who was an Italian prince or something (Mom has kept no photos and doesn't talk about him at all). The Taylor Rockwell name is that of my grandfather. My mother never married my biological father and hence there was no way I was inheriting his name.
I have three other half-sisters, all of whom are younger than me, who are products of the multiple marriages of my mother. My mother showed Jewish-pawn broker-like acumen (pls don't flag this as racist, as I couldn't find any other suitable example) in extracting the maximum alimony and assets from each of her divorces but seemed remarkably hesitant in taking any responsibility for her daughters from these marriages.
All her daughters except me stay with their respective fathers. Why my mother kept me with her and didn't jettison me to her Italian prince, I have never found out. Guess it was either repentance or revenge on that prince, maybe both.
Chapter 2: My birthday
Le Festin Français was incongruently named as it served English food and continental dishes with gusto.
The smoked duck and artichoke had been demolished by the gang and now they had descended with gusto on the pork belly and scallop. Some of the more adventurous younger ones had already progressed to the lemon meringue.
I had refrained from eating anything but had already downed 2 glasses of champagne.
Seated in a large private dining room of the above-named Michelin restaurant, I surveyed the assembled raucous and motley crew.
On my left side sat
Tabby and Libby; the twins from mom's first marriage; both twenty-six and as usual provocatively dressed to a fault. Ludicrous matching spotted prints with open shoulders made them look more Neanderthal than human.
Next sat Sam, who at twenty-three was the youngest of mom's daughters (I always forget who her father was) and was dressed as the exact opposite.
She had on a long tweed skirt reaching almost to her ankles and a coarse white full-length blouse. The only thing missing was a large dangling cross and a nun's habit and she could be just about ready to take confession (she wasn't catholic, but you get the drift)
The opposite party was even worse.
There were eleven children of Andrew, two girls and the rest boys, all whose names I immediately forgot. The eldest of them was thirty-three and the youngest fourteen, which proclaimed Andrew's potency in no uncertain terms. One was a lawyer like his dad, two of them were architects; the girls were both into interior design; another two were into some sort of business together while the rest I just couldn't be bothered with.
Andrew was rather a thickset man with hanging jowls and a walking stick. Guess he was going for the Churchill look.
None of his kids looked anything like Andrew and the eldest of them had already started to lose his hair.
Also typically like the entitled pricks of the English nobility, all the boys had loud braying voices loosened now by alcohol while the girls were a nose-uppity bunch with simpering and nasal laughter which grated on my nerves.
I had somehow survived thirty minutes of the cake cutting, the braying laughter accompanying the Happy birthday song, the giving of the gifts (None of which were to my liking) and now my cheeks were starting to hurt with the forced smile that I had been holding onto all this while. I was looking for a decent way to extricate myself from this crow's cacophony when I received a call for a Code Red emergency from the Hospital
Never in my life had I so welcomed an emergency call-up and having excused myself to Mother and the assembled gang I almost ran out of the building. Mom had arranged this madhouse meeting, and she would pay for it, damn her.
Taking a deep breath outside, I mulled over the fact that never had I accepted how sweet and inviting this pungent, almost sizzling hot summer evening London air laden with fine soot and vehicle smoke could be.
Having previously correctly estimated that I would be thoroughly buggered by the meet-the-family event and would need strong reinforcements at my local, I hadn't brought my car.
I was just about to hail a cab when my phone rang, and I saw that it was Mom.
Knowing well that prolonging the inevitable would only bring more acrimony, I set my face to bitch mode and took the call.
"Don't bother with a cab" Mom's voice immediately came on and I could detect a suppressed smile.
"Your chauffeur is waiting in Charles St. I saved the best for the last. Remember to thank me later"
And she hung up.
To say that I was flabbergasted would be an understatement.
The fact that she had prepared a chauffeur and car in advance for me demonstrated pre-mediation, that she knew I would need to get away early. Now that I thought of it, why did I get a call from a human voice and not a robotic announcement for the Code Red?
With my apprehension at a peak, I proceeded towards Charles St. which was just around the corner.
Lost in my thoughts, I wasn't looking where I was headed.
Mom's best for the last tended to occupy the whole spectrum, right from utterly disappointing to the extremely outrageous.
As I was turning right past the stone gargoyle standing as a mythic guard for the building housing some foreign bank, I bumped into Adonis.
Yes, Adonis.
This was exactly the way I had pictured the Greek God.
Strong jawline, prominent cheekbones and a sharp Roman nose. Deep-set eyes and protruding brows. Flaxen curly hair (was it my exact shade?) contrasted remarkably with his piercing blue eyes.
He was tall. About six and a half feet
And his lips. God! His lips.
Full, soft, slightly plump, with a defined Cupid's bow, with slightly upturned corners. At this close distance, I could make out they were smooth and well-nourished.
Infinitely sensual and insanely kissable.
As if his lips were transplanted from Jude Law and planted on him.
