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. Quite the goddess she’s become since high school.
Between arguing and fucking, we must somehow pretend to be married.
Wanting her to be 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.