Harlequin Romance April 2015 Box Set (19 page)

‘From the estate farm,’ he said as he heated the oil. ‘I’m pretty much self-sufficient, well, thanks to the tenant farmers I am.’

Neither of them mentioned the elephant in the room but the word was reverberating round and round her head.
Marriage.

Was this what it would be like? Cosy evenings in the kitchen? Rocking in a chair by
the fire while Seb cooked. Maybe she should take up knitting.

‘Did you mean what you said earlier, in the library? That marriage is a business?’

He didn’t turn round but she saw his shoulders set rigid, the careless grace gone as he continued to sauté the vegetables.

‘Absolutely. It’s the only way it works.’

‘Why?’

Seb stopped stirring and shot her a quick glance.

‘What do you mean?’

Daisy was leaning back in the chair, her eyes half closed. His eyes flickered over her. The bright waistcoat, the hat and the lipstick were at odd with her pallor; she was pale, paler than he would have expected even at the end of a long, cold winter and the shadows under her eyes were a deep blue-grey. She looked exhausted. A primal protectiveness as unexpected as it was
fierce rose up in him, almost overwhelming in its intensity. It wasn’t what he wanted, the path he had chosen, but this was his responsibility; she was his responsibility.

She probably deserved better, deserved more than he could offer. But this was all he had.

‘Why do you think that?’

Seb took a moment before answering, quickly plating up the steaks and tipping the sautéed vegetables
into a dish and putting it onto the table. He added a loaf of bread and a pat of butter and grabbed two steak knives and forks.

‘Come and sit at the table,’ he said. ‘We can talk afterwards.’

It was like being on a first date. Worse, a blind date. A blind date where you suddenly lost all sense of speech, thought and taste. Was this his future? Sitting at a table with this woman, struggling
for things to say?

‘My grandparents ate every meal in the dining hall, even when it was just the two of them,’ he said after a long, excruciating pause. ‘Grandfather at the head of the table, grandmother at the foot. Even with the leaves taken out the table seats thirty.’

She put down her fork and stared at him. ‘Could they hear each other?’

‘They both had penetrating voices, although
I don’t know if they were natural or whether they developed them after fifty years of yelling at each other across fifteen foot of polished mahogany.’ He half smiled, remembering their stubborn determination to keep to the ritual formality of their youth as the world changed around them.

‘And what about your parents? Did they dispense with the rules and eat in here or did they like the distance?’

‘Ah, my parents. It appears my parents spent most of their lives living wildly beyond their means. If I can’t find a way to make Hawksley pay for itself within the next five years...’ His voice trailed off. He couldn’t articulate his worst fears: that he would be the Beresford who lost Hawksley Castle.

‘Hence the handyman gig?’

‘Hence the handyman gig. And the leave of absence from
the university and hiring the hall out for weddings. It’s a drop in the ocean but it’s a start.’

‘You need my sisters. Rose is in New York but she’s a PR whizz and Violet is the most managing person I have ever met. I bet they could come up with a plan to save Hawksley.’

He needed more than a plan. He needed a miracle. ‘My grandparents followed the rules all their lives. They looked
after the estate, the people who lived on it. Lived up to their responsibilities. My parents were the opposite. They didn’t spend much time here. Unless they were throwing a party. They preferred London, or the Caribbean. Hawksley was a giant piggy bank, not a responsibility.’

Her eyes softened. ‘What happened?’

‘You must have read about them?’ He pushed his half-empty plate away, suddenly
sickened. ‘If your parents are famous for their rock-solid marriage, mine were famous for their wildness— drugs, affairs, exotic holidays. They were always on the front pages. They divorced twice, remarried twice, each time in some ridiculous extravagant way. The first time they made me a pageboy. The second time I refused to attend.’ He took a swig of water, his mouth dry.

It was awful,
the resentment mixed with grief. When would it stop being so corrosive?

‘Yes, now I remember. I’m so sorry. It was a plane crash, wasn’t it?’

‘They had been told it wasn’t safe but the rules didn’t apply to them. Or so they thought.’

Daisy pushed her seat back and stood up, collecting up the plates and waving away his offer of help. ‘No, you cooked, I’ll clear.’

He sat for
a moment and watched as she competently piled the dishes and saucepans up by the side of the sink, rinsing the plates. He had to make it clear to her, make sure she knew exactly what he was offering. ‘Marriage is a business.’

Daisy carried on rinsing, running hot water into the old ceramic sink. ‘Once, perhaps...’

‘I have to marry, have children, there are no other direct heirs and there’s
a danger the title will go extinct if I don’t. But I don’t want...’ He squeezed his eyes shut for a brief moment, willing his pulse to stay calm. ‘I won’t have all the emotional craziness that comes with romantic expectations.’

She put the dishcloth down and turned, leaning against the sink as she regarded him. ‘Seb, your parents, they weren’t normal, you do know that? That level of drama
isn’t usual.’

He laughed. ‘They were extreme, sure. But abnormal? They just didn’t hide it the way the rest of the world does. I look at my friends, their parents. Sure, it’s all hearts and flowers and nicknames at the beginning but I’ve lost count of how many relationships, how many marriages turn into resentment and betrayal and anger. No, maybe my ancestors knew what they were doing with
a businesslike arrangement—compatibility, rules, peace.’

‘My parents love each other even more than they did when they got married.’ A wistful smile curved Daisy’s lips. ‘Sometimes it’s like it’s just the two of them even when we’re all there. They just look at each other and you can tell that at that moment it’s like there’s no one else in the room.’

‘And how do you feel at those moments?’

Her eyelashes fluttered down. ‘It can be a little lonely but...’

Exactly! Strengthened by her concession he carried on, his voice as persuasive as he could manage. ‘Look, Daisy. There’s no point me promising you romance because I don’t believe in it. I can promise you respect, hopefully affection. I can promise that if we do this, become parents together, then I will love the baby and
do my utmost to be the best parent I can.’

‘I hope you will. But we don’t need to be married to co-parent.’

‘No,’ he conceded.

‘I’ve worked really hard to be my own person, build up my own business.’ The blue eyes hardened. ‘I don’t depend on anyone.’

‘But it’s not just going to be you any more, is it?’

‘I’ll cope, I’ll make sure I do. And not wanting to marry you doesn’t
mean that I don’t want you in the baby’s life. I’m here, aren’t I?’

Seb sat back, a little nonplussed. His title and the castle had always meant he had enjoyed interest from a certain type of woman—and with his academic qualifications and the bestselling history books he was becomingly increasingly well known for appealed to a different type. To be honest he hadn’t expected he’d have to convince
anyone to marry him—he had, admittedly a little arrogantly, just expected that he would make his choice and that would be it.

Apparently Daisy hadn’t got that memo.

Not that there was a reason for her to; she hadn’t been raised to run a home like Hawksley, nor was she an academic type looking to become a college power couple.

‘If you won’t marry me then the baby will be illegitimate—I
know.’ He raised his hand as she opened her mouth to interrupt. ‘I know that doesn’t mean anything any more. But for me that’s serious. I need an heir—and if the baby isn’t legitimate it doesn’t inherit. How will he or she feel, Daisy, if I marry someone else and they see a younger sibling inherit?’

Her face whitened. ‘You’d do that?’

‘If I had a younger brother then, no. But I’m the
last of my family. I don’t have any choice.’

‘What if I can’t do it?’ Daisy was twisting her hands together. ‘What if it’s not enough for me?’ She turned and picked the dishcloth back up. Her back was a little hunched, as if she were trying to keep her emotions in.

‘It’s a lot to give up, Seb. I always wanted what my parents have, to meet someone who completes me, who I complete.’ She
huffed out a short laugh. ‘I know it’s sentimental but when you grow up seeing that...’

‘Just give it a go.’ Seb was surprised by how much he wanted, needed her to say yes—and not just because of the child she carried, not just because she could solve the whole heir issue and provide the stability he needed to turn the castle’s fortunes around.

But they were the important reasons and
Seb ruthlessly pushed aside the memory of that night, the urge to reach out and touch her, to run a finger along those long, bare legs. ‘If it doesn’t work out or if you’re unhappy I won’t stop you leaving.’

‘Divorce?’ Her voice caught on the word and her back seemed to shrink inwards.

‘Leave that.’ He stood up and took the dishcloth from her unresisting hand, tilting her chin until
she looked up at him, her eyes cloudy. ‘If you wanted then yes, an amicable, friendly divorce. I hope you’ll give it a real try though, promise me five years at least.’

That was a respectable amount of time; the family name had been dragged through the mud enough.

‘I don’t know.’ She stepped back, away from his touch, and he dropped his empty hand, the silk of her skin imprinted on his
fingertips. ‘Getting married with a get-out clause seems wrong.’

‘All marriages have a get-out clause. Look.’ Seb clenched his hands. He was losing her. In a way he was impressed; he thought the title and castle was inducement enough for most women.

It was time for the big guns.

‘This isn’t about us. It’s about our child. His future. We owe it to him to be responsible, to do the
right thing for him.’

‘Or her.’

‘Or her.’

Thoughts were whirling around in Daisy’s brain, a giant tangled skein of them. She was so tired, her limbs heavy, her shoulders slumping under the decision she was faced with.

But she was going to be a mother. What did she think that meant? All pushing swings and ice creams on the beach? She hadn’t thought beyond the birth, hadn’t got
round to figuring out childcare and working long days on sleepless nights. It would be good to have someone else involved. Not someone she was dependent on but someone who was as invested in the baby as she was.

And if he didn’t marry her he would marry elsewhere. That should make it easier to turn him down. But it showed how committed he was.

What would she tell people? That she’d messed
up again? She’d worked so hard to put her past behind her. The thought of confessing the truth to her family sent her stomach into complicated knots. How could she admit to her adoring parents and indulgent sisters that she was pregnant after a one-night stand—but don’t worry, she was getting married?

It wasn’t the whirlwind marriage part that would send her parents into a tailspin. After
all, they had known each other for less than forty-eight hours when they had walked into that Las Vegas chapel. It was the businesslike arrangement that they would disapprove of.

But maybe they didn’t have to know...

‘How would it work?’

He didn’t hesitate. ‘Family first, Hawksley second. Discretion always. I’m a private person, no magazines invited in to coo over our lovely home,
no scandalous headlines.’

That made sense. A welcome kind of sense. Publicity ran through her family’s veins; it would be nice to step away from that.

But her main question was still unvoiced, still unanswered. She steeled herself.

‘What about intimacy?’

Seb went perfectly still apart from one muscle, beating in his cheek, his eyes darkening. Daisy took another step back, reaching
for the chair as support as an answering beat pounded through her body.

‘Intimacy?’ His voice was low, as if the word was forced from him. ‘That’s up to you, Daisy. We worked—’ he paused ‘—well together. It would be nice to have a full marriage. But that’s up to you.’

Worked
well
?
Nice?
She had been thinking
spectacular
. Could she really do this? Marry someone who substituted rules for
love, discretion for affection and thought respect was the pinnacle of success?

But in the circumstances how could she not? It wasn’t as if she had an alternative plan.

Daisy swallowed, hard, a lump the size of a Kardashian engagement ring forming in her throat. This was so far from her dreams, her hopes.

‘I have a condition.’ Was that her voice? So confident?

Seb’s eyes snapped
onto hers with unblinking focus. ‘Name it.’

‘We don’t tell anyone why we’re marrying like this. If we do this then we pretend. We pretend that we are head over heels ridiculously besotted. If you can do that then yes. We have a deal.’

CHAPTER THREE

‘H
I
.
’

How did one greet one’s fiancé when one was a) pregnant, b) entering a marriage of convenience and c) pretending to be in love?

It should be a kiss on the cheek. Daisy greeted everyone with a kiss on the cheek, from her mother to her clients, but her stomach tumbled at the thought of pressing her lips to that stubbled cheek, inhaling the scent of leather
and outdoors and soap.

Instead she stood aside, holding the door half open, her knuckles white as she clung onto the door handle as if it anchored her to the safety of her old life. ‘Come in, I’m nearly ready.’

Seb stepped through and then stopped still, his eyes narrowing as he looked around slowly.

A converted loft, all exposed brickwork and steel girders, one wall dominated by
five floor-to-ceiling windows through which the midday sun came flooding in. A galley kitchen at one end, built-in shelves crammed with books, ornaments and knick-knacks running along the side wall and the rest of the ground-floor space bare except for an old blue velvet sofa, a small bistro table and chairs and the lamps she used to light her subjects. The bulk of her personal belongings were on
the overhanging mezzanine, which doubled as her bedroom and relaxing space.

Daisy adored her light-filled spacious studio and yet, compared to Seb’s home, steeped in history and stuffed with antiques, her flat felt sparse and achingly trendy.

‘Nice.’ Seb looked more at home than she had thought possible, maybe because he had ditched the fleece for a long-sleeved T-shirt in a soft grey
cotton and newer, cleaner jeans. Maybe because he stood there confidently, unashamedly examining the room, looking at each one of the photos hung on every available bit of wall space. He turned, slowly, taking in every detail with that cool assessing gaze. ‘Wedding photography must pay better than I realised.’

‘It’s not mine unfortunately. I rent it from a friend. An artist.’ Daisy gestured
over to the massive oil seascape dominating the far wall. ‘I used to share with four other students on the floor above and it got a little cramped—physically
and
mentally, all those artistic temperaments in one open-plan space! It was such a relief when John decided to move to Cornwall and asked if I was interested in renting the studio from him.’

‘Mates’ rates?’

‘Not quite.’ Daisy tried
to swallow back her defensiveness at the assumption. Her parents would have loved to set her up in style but she had been determined to go it alone, no matter how difficult it was to find a suitable yet affordable studio. John’s offer had been the perfect solution. ‘I do pay rent but John’s turned into a bit of a hermit so I also handle all the London side of his business for him. It works well
for us both.’

‘Handy. Are you leaving all that?’ He nodded towards the studio lights.

‘I’ll still use this as my workspace.’ Daisy might have agreed to move in with Seb straight away but she wasn’t ready to break her ties to her old life. Not yet, not until she knew how this new world would work out. ‘It’s only an hour’s drive. I’m all packed up. It’s over here.’

It wasn’t much,
less than her mother took for a weekend away. A case containing her favourite cameras and lenses. Her Mac. A couple of bags filled with clothes and cosmetics. If this worked out she could move the rest of her things later: the books, prints, artwork, favourite vases and bowls. Her hat collection. How they would look in the museum-like surroundings of Hawksley Castle she couldn’t begin to imagine.

Seb cast a glance at the small pile. ‘Are you sure this is all you want to take? I want you to feel at home. You can make any changes you want, redecorate, rearrange.’

‘Even the library?’

His mouth quirked. ‘As long as it stays warm.’

‘Of course.’ Daisy walked over to the hatstand at the foot of the mezzanine staircase and, after a moment’s hesitation, picked up a dark pink
cloche, accessorised with a diamanté brooch. It was one of her favourite hats, a car-boot-sale find. She settled it on top of her head and tugged it into place before turning to the mirror that hung behind it and coating her lips in a layer of her favourite red lipstick.

She was ready.

‘First stop the registry office.’ Seb had picked up both bags of clothes and Daisy swung her camera
bag over her shoulder before picking up her laptop bag, her chest tight with apprehension.

She swivelled and looked back at the empty space.
You’ll be back tomorrow
, she told herself, but stepping out of the front door still felt momentous, not just leaving her home but a huge step into the unknown.

Deep breath, don’t cry and lock the door.
Her stomach swooped as if it were dropping
sixty storeys at the speed of light but she fought it, managing to stop her hand from trembling as she double-locked the door.

Did Seb have similar doubts? If so he hid them well; he was the epitome of calm as they exited the building and walked to the car. He had brought one of the estate Land Rovers ready to transport her stuff; it might be parked with the other North London four-by-fours
but its mud-splattered bumpers and utilitarian inside proclaimed it country bumpkin. She doubted any of its gleaming, leather-interior neighbours ever saw anything but urban roads and motorways.

‘Once we have registered we have to wait sixteen days. At least we don’t have to worry about a venue. The Tudor hall is licensed and I don’t allow weekday weddings so we can get married—’ he pulled
out his phone ‘—two weeks on Friday. Do you want to invite anyone?’ He dropped his phone back into his pocket, opening the car door and hefting her bags into the boot.

Daisy was frozen, one arm protectively around her camera bag. How could he sound so matter-of-fact? They were talking about their wedding. About commitment and promises and joining together. Okay, they were practically strangers
but it should still mean something.

‘Can we make it three weeks? Just to make sure? Plus I want my parents and sisters there and I need to give Rose enough notice to get back from New York.’

‘You want your whole family to come?’ He held the door open for her, a faint look of surprise on his face.

Daisy put one foot on the step, hesitated and turned to face him. ‘You promised we
would at least pretend this was a real marriage. Of course my family needs to be there.’ This was non-negotiable.

‘Fine.’

Daisy’s mouth had been open, ready to argue her point and she was taken aback at his one-word agreement, almost disappointed by his acquiescence. He was so calm about everything. What was going on underneath the surface? Maybe she’d never find out. She stood for a
second, gaping, before closing her mouth with a snap and climbing into the passenger seat. Seb closed the door behind her and a moment later he swung himself into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

Daisy wound her window down a little then leant back against the headrest watching as Seb navigated the narrow streets, taking her further and further from her home.

Married in just
over three weeks. A whirlwind romance, that was what people would think; that was what she would tell them.

‘That was a deep sigh.’

‘Sorry, it’s just...’ She hesitated, pulling down the sun visor to check the angle of her hat, feeling oddly vulnerable at the thought of telling him something personal. ‘I always knew exactly how I wanted my wedding to be. I know it’s silly, that they were
just daydreams...’ With all the changes happening right now, mourning the loss of her ideal wedding seemed ridiculously self-indulgent.

‘Beach at sunset? Swanky hotel? Westminster Abbey and Prince Harry in a dress uniform?’

‘No, well, only sometimes.’ She stole a glance at him. His eyes were focused on the road ahead and somehow the lack of eye contact made it easier to admit just how
many plans she had made. She could picture it so clearly. ‘My parents live just down the lane from the village church. I always thought I’d get married there, walk to my wedding surrounded by my family and then afterwards walk back hand in hand with my new husband and have a garden party. Nothing too fancy, although Dad’s band would play, of course.’

‘Of course.’ But he was smiling.

Daisy bit her lip as the rest of her daydream slid through her mind like an internal movie. She would be in something lacy, straight, deceptively simple. The sun would shine casting a golden glow over the soft Cotswold stone. And she would be complete.

There had been a faint ache in her chest since the day before, a swelling as if her heart were bruised. As the familiar daydream slipped away
the ache intensified, her heart hammering. She was doing the right thing. Wasn’t she?

It’s not just about you any more
, she told herself as firmly as possible.

She just wished she had had a chance to talk her options over with someone else. But who?

Her sisters? They would immediately go into emergency-planning mode, try and take over, alternately scolding her and coddling her,
reducing her back to a tiresome little girl in the process.

Her parents? But no, she still had her pride if nothing else. Daisy swallowed hard, wincing at the painful lump in her throat. She had worked so hard to make up for the mistakes of her past, worked so hard to be independent from her family, to show them that she was as capable as they were. How could she tell them that she was pregnant
by a man she hardly knew?

Her parents would swing into damage-limitation mode. Want her to come back home, to buy her a house, to throw money at her as if that would make everything okay. And it would be so easy to let them.

Daisy sagged in her seat. She couldn’t tell them, she wouldn’t tell them, but all she wanted to hear was her dad’s comforting drawl and step into her mother’s embrace.
She didn’t allow herself that luxury very often.

‘Actually, can we go to the registrar’s tomorrow? I don’t feel comfortable registering until we have told my parents. Would you mind if we visit them first?’

Daisy waited, her hands slippery with tense anticipation. It had been so long since she had consulted with someone else or needed consensus on any action.

‘Of course.’ Seb took
his eyes from the road for one brief second, resting them appraisingly on her hands, twisting in her lap. ‘But if we’re going to tell your parents we’re engaged we should probably stop at a jeweller’s on the way. You need a ring.’

* * *

‘Daisy! Darling, what a lovely surprise.’

It was strange being face to face with someone as familiar, as famous as Sherry Huntingdon: model, muse
and sometime actress. Her tall willowy figure, as taut and slender at over fifty as it had been at twenty, the blonde hair sweeping down her back seemingly as natural as her daughter’s.

‘And who’s this?’ The famously sleepy blue eyes were turned onto Seb, an unexpectedly shrewdly appraising look in them. Maybe not that unexpected—you didn’t stay at the top of your profession for over thirty
years without brains as well as beauty.

‘Sebastian Beresford.’ He held his hand out and Daisy’s mother took it, slanting a look at him from under long black lashes.

‘What a treat.’ Her voice was low, almost a purr. ‘Daisy so seldom brings young men home. Come on in, the pair of you. Violet’s around somewhere and Rick’s in his studio—the Benefit Concert is creeping up on us again. Daisy,
darling, you will be here to take some photos, won’t you?’

‘Wouldn’t miss it.’ Daisy linked her arm through her mother’s as they walked along the meandering path that led from the driveway around the house. It was a beautiful ivy-covered house, large by any standards—unless one happened to live in a castle—dating back to William and Mary with two gracefully symmetrical wings flanking the
three-storey main building.

Unlike Hawksley it had been sympathetically updated and restored and, as they rounded the corner, Seb could see tennis courts in the distance and a cluster of stable buildings and other outbuildings all evidently restored and in use.

An unexpected stab of nostalgic pain hit him. Hawksley should have been as well cared for but his grandfather had taken a perverse
pride in the discomfort of the crumbling building—and as for Seb’s father... He pushed the thought away, fists clenched with the unwanted anger that still flooded through him whenever he thought about his father’s criminal negligence.

Sherry came to a stop as they reached a large paved terrace with steps leading upwards to the French doors at the back of the house. Comfortably padded wooden
furniture was arranged to take the best advantage of the gorgeous views. ‘I think it’s warm enough to sit outside.’ Sherry smiled at her daughter. ‘I’ll go get Rick. He’ll be so happy to see you, Daisy. He was saying the other day we see more of Rose and she lives in New York. You two make yourselves at home. Then we can have a drink. Daisy, darling, let Vi know you’re here, will you?’

‘I’ll
text her.’ Daisy perched on a bench as she pulled out her phone and, after a moment’s hesitation, Seb joined her. Of course they would sit together. In fact, they should be holding hands. He looked at her long, slender fingers flying over the phone’s surface and willed himself to casually reach over and slip his own fingers through hers.

Just one touch. And yet it felt more binding than the
ring he had bought her and the vows he was prepared to make.

‘That’s Dad’s studio.’ Daisy slipped the phone back into her dress pocket and pointed at the largest of the outbuildings. ‘The first thing he did was convert it into a soundproofed, state-of-the-art recording studio—we were never allowed in unsupervised but it didn’t stop us trying to make our own records. They weren’t very good.
None of us are particularly musical, much to Dad’s disgust. The room next to it is used as rehearsal space and we turned the orangery into a pool and gym, otherwise we pretty much left the house as it was. It hasn’t changed much since it was built.’

But it had. The paintwork was fresh, the soft furnishings and wallpaper new, the furniture chosen with care. New money in an old building. It
was what Hawksley needed, if only his great-great-grandfather had married an American heiress.