Prologue: Part Two

Ethan wanted to cry.

All right, not "cry" precisely, but maybe do a bit of wallowing . . . mope about in self pity . . . perhaps even shake his fists in the air and scream, "Why me?"

Or strangle his mother. He hadn't decided yet.

"This," said Steve Taylor, director of the show, as their car pulled up along the drive, "will bee your house."

"Hmm," Ethan murmured uncommittedly - though he had all ready committed, life, body, and soul. "A house."

Steve waved his hands, making Ethan very uncomfortable. It took a lot out of him to resist reaching out and grabbing the wheel. "Oh, I'm sure it's nothing like that fancy ducal estate you have, but we'll make do."

As far as Ethan knew, Steve had never seen one of his estates, ducal or otherwise. He slid the director a wondering sidelong glance.

"I googled it," Steve explained. "Had to know everything about you, didn't I? Make sure our future duchess will live in comfort. I feel sorta responsible for her, you know?"

Ethan didn't really care. Instead, he was trying to remember if he had turned the stove off. Damn. Why could he never remember that?

"So here we are," Steve Taylor said, jerking the car into park. He waved at the mammoth white building in front of them. "Pretty little thing, ain't she? Bought her from some old recluse's daughter, who didn't want it anyway. Said she lost herself walking to the dining room every morning."

"Excuse me, I have to make a phone call," Ethan said politely, ducking out of the car and dialing his next-door-neighbor of his London flat. "Hello, Johnney. Yes, I'm sorry for calling so early. Yes, it was badly done of me. Yes, I know I can't get away with waking people up at eleven o'clock in the morning just because I'm a peer of the realm. I think I left my stove on - yes, again. Could you - thanks. Thanks, Johnney. You're a good man. No, I won't give you a million dollars. All right. Yes. Bye."

Steve, who had been listening unabashedly, shook his head. "Good to know that even though you're a duke, you leave your stove on. Bet it keeps your head from swelling, eh?"

Ethan, who hadn't known his head was in danger of swelling, sighed.

"So, let me give you the grand tour," Steve said, heading towards the house. "Ms. Ursala P. Nelson and Mr. Wayne Bentson, the producers, will be meeting us for lunch. A real treat, really. All right," he said, rubbing his hands together. "Let's get started."

Ethan longingly thought of his bed, and then tried to concentrate as he trailed Steve up the steps.

It was an impressive house, actually. Two stories, with three sections - the main building and the two wings at the side. Columns lined the front of the house, bordering full-length windows with elegant arched tops. Shallow steps led up the house, with conical bushes and low hedges decorating it. In the large lawn in front of the mansion, there was a flat, simple fountain. In the center of its pool was an elevated statue of a cupid, and around it was a circular green hedge. Around that was a cobbled walk, and around that pink and white flowers. And while Ethan had not seen it yet, he knew that the back of the house had a large lawn, dotted with statues, which ended when the cliffs began. A narrow, winding path led to the bottom of those cliffs, where a private beach awaited.

Not, Ethan thought cynically, that anything was truly private here.

"Here is where the eliminations will take place," Steve said as they entered the house. The room was typical of that in any other TV show - an elegant grand staircase that led down to a large room, decorated in white. He noticed a discreet door at one side and imagined the eliminated girls sadly walking through it.

"How exactly will these - eliminations - work?" Ethan asked.

"Well, first show you toss out five. Next, there's some group dates, and you chuck five more. So that's ten . . . then there's six girls left, then four, then it's one by one after that. Oh, right, I need two of your friends to be on the show."

"My friends," Ethan repeated blankly.

"You do have some, right?" Steve said, then gave a rather horsy laugh. "Your mom said you were usually too buried in a book to notice anything, but I'm sure there's someone who'll do. Because we want them on the show, and a couple others, and they'll all have to sign these release forms, see."

"I . . . see," Ethan said, swallowing. Dear God, he thought, in a panicky way as he followed Steve further in to the house, what have I gotten myself into?

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

"Your grace," said one of the fawning producers, as they sat down for lunch, "You have no idea how happy we are to meet you."

Ethan took one look at the woman and decided she was the sort who read far too many romance books and already had a preconceived idea on what a duke ought to be like.

The man, on the other hand, just looked bored, like he was taking time out of his precious day to be here and everyone else ought to know that. Neither of them was as impressive as they likely thought themselves, but they didn't seem to be bad sorts, either. Just . . . neutral.

That was all right with Ethan. He was very good at being neutral.

"It is my pleasure," Ethan said, shaking both of their hands and sitting down at the glossy table with Steve. The four of them regarded each other silently, before Mr. Bentson cleared his throat and pulled out a packet.

"We're aware you all ready have all the information about the show, but we thought you'd appreciate a more precise outline of your day-to-day activities."

"Thank you," Ethan said, taking the packet. He doubted it was anything but information this time, for all the legalities had been signed away in the packet his mother had pushed in front of him. He was even getting paid for this. Paid. He was a duke. Not a romantic, impoverished duke, but a quite comfortable, well off one. He didn't need money.

And what, he wondered, chewing at his bottom lip, was he going to say to all his colleagues? Who was going to take him seriously after this, be it in the House of Lords or in the scholarly community - perhaps especially the latter? They'd assume he was some sort of fame hunter, with a childish hang up on attention.

Maybe he could explain he was doing it to keep the library.

Damn the thing to hell, anyways. Why couldn't he have spent more time in it earlier, and found out the key? Or made Mum promise - in writing, for that was the only thing she could be held to - that she wouldn't give it away. Then again, that thought had never crossed his mind.

He wondered who would have gotten it. The National Museum would gobble up sections, he was sure, but there were also private collectors. Other scholars. Somehow that made it worse, not better. Maybe it was ungentlemanly of him, but he didn't want anyone else finding that key. That pesky collector, Collins, who was always going about trying to get documents and artifacts to display in his home, though he barely appreciated them. That American Blaise fellow, who had been sending badgering letters for weeks wanting access to the library. Amanda Jones, the prim historian who believed anyone with a title was just playing around and had no interest in lost civilizations.

Parker could have gained it. Oh, god. His fists clenched just thinking of that smarmy, dandified, pretentious fool getting his hands on the library. Parker would love that. He was just as intent as Ethan on breaking through into the history of the Atlantis-like culture. Only Parker didn't just want knowledge for knowledge's sake, he wanted it to rub in the rest of the communities faces. Especially Ethan's.

Professional jealously was so painful it hurt. And if Parker had the library, if Parker found the key - one could be sure he'd make a Pulitzer Prize out of it.

Ha, Ethan thought grimly. No chance of that happening. He'd saved it, with this television show.

Which, coincidentally, he was supposed to be concentrating on right now.

"So," he said into a lull in the others' conversation, helping himself to a little more salad and wishing there was something a little more unhealthy, "What exactly happens now?" He knew it was all in the packet, but he'd rather a person, not a piece of paper, explained how his life was to proceed.

"You'll be meeting them here," Mr. Bentson said with a business like air. "We're flying them over on Sunday, and then they're brought over here the next day. You'll make an appearance - there's a speech inside there for you to read, which Steve will go over with you, about who you are. Tori and Harry, the hosts - you'll meet them tomorrow - will show the contestants their rooms. Then there's a ball."

A ball?

If Ethan had been the type to interrupt, he would have done so now. As it was, he looked at the man in shock. A ball? Ethan did not do balls.

"The ball will be here - there's an elaborate ballroom, you saw it on your tour, yes? You'll dance with them all individually; take one or two out onto the terrace. At the end, you'll all go back to the staircase room and you'll give fifteen of the girls tiaras."

Ms. Nelson rolled her eyes. "It is rather . . . tacky, but understandably so, I would hope. These girls are hoping to become a duchess, so this touch of royalty should do them wonders."

"And, just to be certain - I'll be in the west wing and they'll be in the east wing?"

"Yes," Mr. Benton said. "And at some point, there will probably be girls climbing in through your window."

"Or showing up in your bed," Steve said, looking pleased with the idea.

And this was the kind of thing that got prime time on the telly.

"We'll be discussing the episodes with you each week," Ms. Nelson said, "As some of them will depend on which girls are remaining."

"And - I do get to pick them myself?" Ethan asked, a little hesitantly. What he had read had blurred over this, and he was a little concerned. Because the end result of this was marriage.

He paused in horror. He was going to marry one of these girls. Marry. Holy - holy - he didn't think there was anything holy enough to express his astonishment.

"Oh, mostly," Ms. Nelson said blithely. "Occasionally we'll ask that you keep a particular girl on, but that's only in the first few rounds. After all," she said, echoing his own thoughts, "this is the girl you're going to marry. We certainly don't want to pick her for you."

And that was that.

Steve walked him out afterwards, blabbing unconcernedly about the girls and the shows. "I pity you," he said at one point, making a face, "for all that gentleman crap you're going to have to do. Like the dancing. God, you're feet are going to hurt at the end of the night. But at least you'll be getting action."

"I will?" said Ethan faintly.

"Yeah, dancing, kissing," Steve said, picking some of the dirt form underneath his nails. "You'll have to kiss the girls a lot. Make out. Should be fun. They're hot chicks."

"All of them?" Ethan asked in horror.

"Yeah, it's practically a requirement. We live in a shallow society. But whatever."

"No, I mean, I have to kiss all of them?"

Ethan was not adverse to kissing. Not in the least. But - well - he wasn't very outgoing. He wasn't sure he could casually make out with one girl, and then two hours later do it again with someone else. And how was he supposed to focus on finding the single girl he wanted to marry if he was kissing all of them?

"Yeah, of course.

"So," he said nervously, "When do the girls get here?"

"Next week. Monday. But I'll see you tomorrow, and we'll settle all the last bits. Don't worry about it," Steve said with a genuine grin, not caring (or knowing) that there was something large and green stuck in his teeth. "I know this isn't what you're used to, but think of it as a vacation from real life. It isn't real, when you think of it." His smile broadened. "It's reality TV."

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Monday came too fast.

Ethan spent Saturday out with two of his friends from school who decided to drink themselves in a stupor on Ethan's behalf. Ethan was only able to down two beers before freezing up and realizing that if he had anymore he'd become down right morose. He wasn't a happy drunk, which explained why he rarely let that happen. On the few occasions it had, he'd usually ended up singing sad songs from rooftops.

Occasionally half naked.

Wincing, Ethan shook his head. He'd stayed over at Paul's place, too exhausted to make it back to his flat. Now he had to, to put his things in order, and then he had to get over to the studio. Within, oh, two hours. Great. Really great.

He informed a partially asleep, hung over Paul that he was leaving, and had a finger shook in his face accompanied by the intellectual fact that, "Marriage is bad," and that he should "Just say no." Que, who had also crashed at Paul's, told Ethan that it would do him a world of good to get laid.

Ethan pretended not to hear him.

The problem was, he had decided as he drove over to the studio, his hands a little too tight on the wheel, that girls unnerved him. Especially fast girls. And the other ones, the quiet ones, who smiled at him in the library and shyly caught his gaze - they were running the minute he said he was a duke.

Not because they didn't believe him. Oh, no. Because they didn't want to be around someone who had to be so . . . public.

Damn, he hated being public.

He remember one time when he was nineteen years old and Paul, by far the most outgoing of the trio, had hosted a bachelor-like party - "like" as no one was getting married. And the press had gotten a picture of a girl in a French maid outfit licking his chest - and there went Anna.

He'd really liked Anna, too. But though she had lasted past the, "and hey, I'm a duke," stage, the chest-licking had been too much for her.

He bet no one else had pictures like that published in newspapers.

In fact, when he really thought about it, he probably shouldn't have been a duke at all. Dukes expected to be either young and rakish or old and bookish, and the young and bookish types just didn't work as well.

Then again, the old and rakish were probably worse.

Sunday saw him over at the studio, being primped for the show.

Primped!

And Ethan Dane was not a primper.

When he told Que and Paul his sad tragic tale over drinks, they had been unsympathetic.

"Dude," Paul said, unknowingly echoing Steve Taylor, "You are so lucky. Every single one of them is going to be trying to climb into your bed."

"Yes," Ethan said patiently, "But they'll do that because I'm a duke. Not because they like me."

"Your point?" Paul asked, swigging back some beer. "I see no conflict."

"Ethan," Que explained, "Has moral dilemmas that prevent him from endless sex. You, my friend, simply have an id."

Que was an interesting fellow. Though he appeared to be human, Ethan had often thought that he was probably cat in disguise. And not a mouser either, but one of those slinking, sly cats, who moves about with it's tail lifted high and expects it's every whim to be catered to as everyone near by coaxes it for attention. Paul, if he was an animal - which he was - he would be a big, bouncing dog, possibly a Saint Bernard, except without the saving lives part. Instead there would be more slobber.

"Ethan. Stop thinking. Drink more beer," Paul demanded. "Thinking is overrated."

"Depends," Que said with a shrug. "What are you thinking about?"

"Well," Ethan said, cursed with a fatally honest nature, "I'm trying to decide what kind of animal I am, after figuring the two of you out."

Paul, who always had an answer for everything, said, "A rabbit."

Ethan blinked. "I don't know that I want to be a rabbit," he protested.

"Yeah, and you didn't want to be on a reality show either, and look where that got you."

"I think," Que said, with a slightly (and only slightly) more thought out answer, "that you are a hamster."

"I like being a rabbit better," Ethan said, a little sullenly.

"It's because you aren't dangerous as all," Paul said. "More cuddly. And everyone wants to pet you."

"Even you?" Que asked with raised brows?"

In response, Paul reached out and petted Ethan's silky black hair. "Mrrow," he said.

Paul often reverted to animal noises when he was in his cups. Que and Ethan had decided in was probably a reflection of his baser nature.

In any case, the conversation disintegrated even more from there. Looking back on it, Ethan concluded that there had not been another moment of sane conversation.

Before going to the studio on Sunday, he had stopped by another friend's. Elenor was the kind of person he became friends with now; intelligent, clever, and slightly introverted. Paul and Que were the type he was unlikely to approach if he met them now. But he'd know them since he was seven, and so that changed everything. Yet they were very different from Elenor.

He had met Elenor at a conference on ancient Greece. She was quiet, and calm, and exactly the type of woman he might have loved - only she was married, and happily so, and his infatuation had eventually faded away, leaving a strong friendship in it's place. The kind of friendship that allowed him to show up at her door and launch into a long tirade about the evils of mothers.

Maybe not the best idea, as Elenor was six months pregnant, but she listened to him anyway. "Don't worry so hard," she said, sipping her tea. "What happens will happen."

"But I have to marry one of them!"

"Yes," she said dryly, "That is the point of the show."

"And my mother."

Her mouth curved. "Yes. And your mother."

He let his head drop back and rest on the couch. Staring up at the perfectly off-white ceiling, he mused, "Maybe I could just adopt an heir."

"Don't be ridiculous," he heard her say. "An 'heir'? When you have children, it should be because you want them and will love them, not because you want a successor to your name."

"I don't. Mum does." He picked up his head in time to watch her shake her's.

"Your mother has you under her thumb. You shouldn't let her rule you like this."

He agreed, and so said nothing. But to stand up to the formidable woman, he would have had to let go of his library.

"But what is done is done," she said, brushing a strand of blond hair from her face. "You may as well make the best of it. And it is high time you marry, Ethan."

Why was it anyone bit by the marriage bug instantly wanted to see everyone else infected?

Or maybe it was just women.

"Maybe," she continued, "You'll like the girls. The studio must have had thousands of applicants, and I'm sure they picked the twenty most interesting and kind."

"You obviously haven't been watching enough reality shows," Ethan said with a sad grin, and downed his self-pity with tea.

He arrived at the studio precisely on time. The director was standing outside the building and smoking a cigarette when Ethan climbed from his car, and he grinned widely.

"You ready for this?"

Ethan murmured something that sounded like, "but of course," and meant, "Oh, god, no."

"Good," Steve said, dropping his cigarette on the ground. "Come on inside." He entered the building, leaving the door open for Ethan to follow.

Ethan peered to both sides, and then snatched up the cigarette and brought it over to an ashtray. Rubbing his head tiredly, and dreading the coming weeks, he walked inside, letting the door click shut with a dreadful finality.

Or it would have, if he read symbolism into clicking doors. As it was, he just slumped his shoulders and let his life give over to his mother's design.

Punishment for putting her in labor for fourteen hours, he supposed: she thought she was allowed to run his life.

And Ethan wasn't doing much to disabuse her of the notion.

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One day later, Ethan stood at the top of the grand stairway and tried not to hyperventilate.

All right, that was wrong on two counts. It was not exactly a grand stairway, like the one in the ballroom, and he was behind the doors at the top of the stairway, so he couldn't even see it. And he wasn't trying not to hyperventilate - he was succeeding. Deep breath in, hold, deep breath out.

Why had he agreed to this? He hated meeting people. If blind dates were graded, he had failed every one he had been forced to attend. As for him asking girls on dates - he could count the number on one hand. And as he had reminded his mother, he had had to know the girl inside and out, have been friends with her for ages, before he could work up the courage to do so. And now he had to make small talk with twenty girls.

He was doomed.

And his hands were sweaty. He hated having sweaty palms.

"Are you ready?" Jodi Dagmar, one of the co-hosts, asked him. She was a smart looking woman, about forty years old, and had he met her on the street he never would have expected her to work for a reality television program.

Of course, he thought wryly, had he met her on the street he wouldn't actually have spoken to her.

The second co-host, Myles Ferran, had already gone out to meet the girls. Jodi was due out there, too, but seemed to have taken to Ethan like one takes to a lost, scraggly, puppy, and wanted to make sure he was all right before sending him out to make his place in the wolf pack.

"I'm fine," he responded, his throat dry. "You should go. They'll be here any moment."

She frowned, then reached out and patted his hair into place. "Don't worry," she said in a soothing voice. "Everyone will love you."

Ethan wasn't sure he liked being treated like a lost puppy. Then again, it was better than being a hamster.

Why couldn't he be a panther or a cheetah, or something mesmerizing?

Jodi took her leave, and Ethan with left alone with one of the techies, who was murmuring on his headset. When he cued Ethan to enter, he gave him a commiserating smile, and then two "maids" pulled the doors open, on the heels of Myles' announcement, "Here he is - Ethan Dane, duke of Westland."

Every line of Ethan's prepared speech flew from his mind as he stepped forward and faced twenty young, beautiful girls, who were dressed in designer dresses and had hair done so professionally he was cowed.

Just - just pretend it's Parliament, he thought, trying not to freeze. Pretend you're just giving a speech on one of the new laws. Nothing hard. Nothing hard at all.

I am such a liar, he thought, and walked down the stairway.

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A/N: I apologize that the girls have not yet been introduced, but I felt I needed Ethan to have a bit more background before throwing him to the wolves. Next time the girls will definitely be the focus. I'll try not to leave you in suspense too long.

Oh, and three of the girls are Asian and one is Middle-Eastern, for those who asked.

And thank you for pointing out the incorrect names. That would be because, um . . . They're all based off people I know. What fun! To those people - if I massacre 'your' character, don't be offended, because it's not you. So don't get too attached to the girl.

Ciao!