Most dukes settle for Earl Grey and crumpets.
Playboy parties are more my cup of tea.
Now, I've got 30 days to marry or lose my billion-pound inheritance.
Isabella is my saving grace, but we hated each other as teens.
The eyes, the body, the confidence.
Between arguing and fu@king, we must somehow pretend to be married.
Wanting her as more than a "fake" fiancé was never an option.
Needing her wasn't part of the plan.
But when opposing forces come between us, neither God, queen, nor country will stop me from having her.