Harlequin Romance April 2015 Box Set (23 page)

‘Look, Seb,’ she said softly, and he did, trying to see what she saw as she zoomed in on the brightly patterned bunting that bedecked the inside of the tent as well as the glade.

‘These are the touches that make this wedding so special. Did you know that Ella and her friends made the bunting during her hen party? And look at these.’ The camera
moved to focus in on one of the paintings propped up on the small easels that were the centrepiece on each table. ‘Rufus painted these, a different tree for each table—oak, laurel, ash, apple, all native species. Aren’t they gorgeous?’

Studying one of the confident line drawings, Seb had to admit that they were. ‘He’s very talented.’

‘Even the wedding favours are home-made. Ella spent
her first day off work making the fudge, and her gran embroidered the bags. Look, they all have a name on. One for each guest.’

‘It must have taken months.’ Seb kept pace with her as she wandered.

‘It did. This wedding is a real labour of love. Even the venue belongs to one of their friends.’

The contrast with their impending nuptials couldn’t be starker.

But theirs wasn’t
a labour of love. It was a convenient compromise. Mutually beneficial. Maybe it was better to have the glitz and the glamour so lovingly lavished upon them by Sherry Huntingdon. Anything as heartfelt as this wedding, any one of the myriad tiny, loving, personal touches would be completely out of place at his wedding. Would be a lie.

* * *

‘Admit it, you had fun.’ Daisy threw herself
into her favourite rocking chair, grateful for the warmth and the cushion supporting her aching back. She crooned to Monty as he padded over to lay his head in her lap. He was already her most faithful friend much to Seb’s much-voiced disgust, possibly because she was not averse to sneaking him titbits from her plate.

‘I’m not sure fun is the right word.’ Seb filled the kettle and stifled
a yawn. ‘I always said your schedule was crazy but it’s more than that, it’s downright gruelling.’ But there was respect in his voice and it warmed her. She was well aware of his opinion about her job.

And he was right, it
was
gruelling, somehow even more so in a small intimate setting like today’s woodland scene. Gruelling and odd, being part of someone’s wedding, integral to it and yet
not connected. A stranger. As the afternoon faded to evening and the guests drank more, ate more, danced and the mood shifted into party atmosphere the gap between the help and the guests widened. There were times it was almost voyeuristic watching the interactions from the sidelines. It had been nice to have company today.

She really should get an assistant and not just because of her pregnancy.

‘I would normally be the first to suggest you rest but don’t you have a blog to write? If it’s not up before midnight the world shifts on its axis and Cupid dies?’ He held up a ginger teabag for her approval. Daisy considered it without enthusiasm before pulling a face and agreeing.

She shifted in the chair, pulling her feet under her, and began to pull at Monty’s long, soft ears. He
gave a small throaty groan and moved closer. ‘Did it in the car. It’s amazing, home before midnight and job done, for today at least.’

She looked over at her bag, the cameras loaded with images. ‘Tomorrow however is most definitely another day. I promised them thirty images before they go away on honeymoon. Still, I feel much better than I thought I would. I don’t suppose you would consider
a permanent career as bag carrier and chauffeur—and photo-booth operator?’ She smiled, a sly note creeping into her voice. ‘You were quite a hit. Some of the women went back to have their photo taken again and again.’

‘How do you know? I still can’t believe it took an hour and a half to take those woodland shots. I think you went for a nap somewhere leaving me to do all the work.’

‘Oh,
I was. Curled up in a pile of leaves like Hansel and Gretel while woodland birds sang me to sleep and squirrels brought me nuts. And I know because the sexy photographer was quite the topic of conversation—and I don’t think they meant me!’

‘Jealous?’

Daisy didn’t answer for a moment, focusing all her attention on Monty as she scratched behind his ears, the spaniel leaning against her
blissfully. ‘A little, actually.’ She still couldn’t look at him as she chose her next words carefully. ‘There was a little bit of me that wanted to tell them that you weren’t available, that you were mine.’ She looked up.

Seb froze, his eyes fixed on her.

The blood was pounding hard in her ears, like a river in full flood. What had she said that for? Not even married and already she
was pushing too hard, wanting too much. ‘Which is silly because you’re not,’ she back-pedalled, desperately wanting to make light of the words. ‘Maybe it’s pregnancy hormones not wanting my baby’s hunter gatherer to shack up in someone else’s cave.’ She made herself hold his gaze, made herself smile although it felt unnatural.

‘I have no intention of shacking up in anyone’s cave.’ She winced
at the horror in his voice and his face softened. ‘I promised you, Daisy, I promised you that if you married me I would be in this completely.’ He paused and she held her breath, waiting for the inevitable caveat. ‘As much as I can be.’ There it was. Known, expected. Yet it still hurt.

And she didn’t want to dwell on why. Maybe she was beginning to believe their fantasy a little too much,
fool that she was.

‘But there will be nobody else, you have no reason to worry on that score.’

‘Thank you.’ She exhaled, a low painful breath. ‘It’s just difficult, the difference between the public and the private. I know I asked you to pretend but I admit I didn’t realise it would be so hard.’

‘Why?’ He hadn’t moved.

‘Why what?’

‘Why are we pretending? Why don’t you
want to be honest?’

Her eyes flickered back to Monty and she focused on the fuzzy top of his head, drawing each ear lovingly through her hands, trying to think of a way to explain that wouldn’t make her sound too pathetic. ‘It’s a bit of a family joke, that I’m always falling in and out of love, that I’m a hopeless romantic. Even when I was a little girl I knew that I wanted to get married,
to have children. But I wanted more than just settling down. I wanted what Mum and Dad have.’

‘They’re one in a million, Daisy.’ Ouch, there it was. Pity.

‘Maybe, but I know it’s possible. It’s not that they wouldn’t understand us marrying for the baby, wouldn’t be supportive. But they’d know I was giving up on my dream. I don’t want to do that to them.’ She paused then looked straight
at him. ‘As well as to myself.

‘All my parents want is for me to be happy. They don’t ask for anything more than that. When I was photographed and expelled they were disappointed, of course they were, although they didn’t yell or punish me—but they weren’t surprised either. They knew I’d mess up, somehow. And now I’ve messed up again. I was so determined to do it right, to show them I could
cope on my own.’

‘I think you are being hard on yourself—and on them,’ he added unexpectedly. ‘They adore you. Do you know how lucky you are to have that? People who care about you? Who only want you to be happy?’

All Daisy could do was stare at him in shock. ‘I...’ she began but he cut her off.

‘I agree, lying to your family is wrong and I wish I had never agreed—but do you know
what I fear? That you’re right, that if you tell them the truth then they will stop you, they will show you that with a family like yours there is no way in hell you have to shackle yourself to me, that you and the baby will be fine, that you won’t need me.’

‘No, you’re the baby’s father and nothing will change that. Of course the baby will need you.’ There was so much she didn’t know, so
much that she feared—but of this she was convinced.

She could need him too. If she allowed herself. Today had been almost perfect: help, support, wordless communication. But she knew it was a one-off. She had to train herself to enjoy these days when they came—and to never expect them.

‘I hope so.’ His smile was crooked. ‘As for the rest, Daisy, you messed up at sixteen. Big deal. At
least you learned from it, got on with your life, made something of yourself. You’re not the only member of your family—or mine—to have dominated the headlines. Both your sisters spent their time on the front covers and they were older than you.’

‘I know.’ Could she admit it to him? The guilt she never allowed herself to articulate to anyone? Not even herself. ‘But Violet was set up. Horribly
and cruelly and callously set up and betrayed—and I don’t think it is a coincidence that it wasn’t long after everything that happened to me. I often wondered.’ She paused. ‘I think it was because of me. I had dropped out of the headlines so they went after my sister. And they destroyed her.’

‘It’s because of who your parents are, simple as that. You’re all wealthy and beautiful.’ A shiver
went through her at the desire in his eyes as he said the last word. ‘You’re connected. People love that stuff. That’s why we have to be careful, not a breath of scandal. Or they’ll never leave us alone.’

Daisy knew how deadly publicity could be, had experienced the painful sting firsthand, watched one sister flee the country and the other hide herself away. Had done her best to stay under
the parapet for the last eight years. But she didn’t have the visceral fear Seb had.

He was right, they couldn’t allow their child to grow up under the same cloud. Which meant she had to stick to their agreement. A civilised, businesslike, emotion-free marriage. She had to grow up.

‘What are you thinking, Daisy?’ His voice was low and the green eyes so dark they were almost black.

‘That you’re right. That I can do this.’

His mouth quirked into that devastating half smile and Daisy’s breath hitched. ‘Marriage is going to be a lot easier than I imagined if you’re going to keep on thinking I’m right.’

Her chin tilted. ‘This is a one-off, not carte blanche.’

His slow grin was a challenge. ‘Just how right am I?’

‘What do you mean?’ But she knew. She knew
by the way it was suddenly hard to get her breath. She knew by the way his voice had thickened. She knew by the way his eyes were fixed on hers. She knew by the heat swirling in her stomach, the anticipation fizzing along her skin.

She knew because they had been here before.

The memory of that night was impressed on each and every nerve ending and they heated up in anticipation, the
knowledge of every kiss, every touch imprinted there, wanting, needing a replay.

‘How in are you, Daisy?’ His meaning was unmistakeable.

The heat was swirling round her entire body, a haze of need making it hard to think. They were going to get married, were going to raise a child, make a life together. They had every right to take that final step. Every need.

So he didn’t love
her? That hadn’t mattered before, had it? A mutual attraction combined with champagne and the bittersweet comedown she always experienced after a wedding had been enough.

And it wasn’t as if she were foolish enough to go falling in love with someone after just one week, someone who made it very, very clear that love was always going to be a step too far.

He didn’t love her. But he wanted
her. The rigidity of his pose, his hands curled into loose fists, the intensity of his gaze told her that. Every instinct told her that.

And, oh, she wanted him. She had tried to fight it, hide it, but she did. The line of his jaw, the way he held his hands, the dark hair brushed carelessly back, the amused glint that lit up the green eyes and softened the austere features.

The way each
accidental touch burned through her, every look shot through to her core.

And, dear God, his mouth. Her eyes moved there and lingered. Well cut, firm, capable. She wanted to lick her way along the jaw, kiss the pulse in his neck and move up to nibble her way along his lips. She wanted to taste him. For him to taste her. To consume her.

The heat intensified, burning as her breasts ached
and the pull in her body made the distance, any distance unbearable.

There was nothing to stop her. They were going to be married. It was practically her right to touch him. To be touched.

It was definitely her right to kiss him.

And just because she had been fixated on romance in the past didn’t mean she had to be in the future. After all, look how quickly she tumbled out of love,
disillusioned and disappointed.

There was a lot to be said for a businesslike, respectful marriage. Especially marriage with benefits.

She swallowed, desperate for moisture.

‘Daisy?’ It was more of a command than a question and she was tired. Tired of fighting the attraction that burned between them, tired of being afraid to take it on.

She stood up, slowly, allowing her body
to stretch out, knowing how his eyes lingered on her legs, up her body, rested on her breasts sharply outlined by her stretch. She saw him swallow.

‘I’m going to bed,’ she said, turning towards the door. She paused, looked back. ‘Joining me?’

CHAPTER SEVEN

T
HE
CUP
TILTED
as Seb nudged Daisy’s door open and he hastily righted it before the lurid green mixture slopped onto the threadbare but valuable nineteenth-century runner. The tea was supposed to be completely natural but he’d never seen anything that resembled that particular green in nature.

He didn’t wait for an answer but opened the door. ‘Daisy? Tea.’

Luckily the nausea of last week had yet to grow into anything more debilitating but Daisy still found the first hour of the day difficult. A cup of something hot helped although replacing her beloved caffeine was still proving problematic. She was going to run out of new flavours of herbal tea to try soon.

‘I’m in the bath.’ A splashing sound proved her words.

‘I’ll just leave it
here.’ Seb tried to put the image of long, bubble-covered limbs and bare, wet torsos out of his mind as he placed the tea onto the small table by her window. He didn’t have time for distractions, especially naked ones.

He turned and took in the bedroom properly. He hadn’t set foot in here since Daisy had moved in two weeks ago. It had been the first suite tackled by her mother and, although
the nineteen-fifties chintz flowery wallpaper still covered the walls, the furniture was still the heavy, stately mahogany and the carpet as threadbare as the landing’s, the paintwork was fresh and white and the room smelled of a fresh mixture of beeswax, fresh air and Daisy’s own light floral scent.

It wasn’t just the aesthetic changes though. Daisy had somehow taken the room and made it
hers from the scarves draped over the bedposts to the hat stand, commandeered from the hallway and now filled with a growing selection of her collection. Every time she went back to her studio she brought a few more. There were times when Seb feared the entire castle would be overtaken by hats.

Pictures of her parents and sisters were on one bedside table, a tower of stacked-up paperbacks
on the second. A brief perusal showed an eclectic mix of nineteen-thirties detective novels, romances, two of last year’s Booker Prize shortlist and a popular history book on Prince Rupert by one of Seb’s colleagues and rivals.

Jealousy, as unwanted as it was sharp, shot through him. She did read history, just not his books it seemed.

‘Get over yourself, Beresford,’ he muttered, half
amused, half alarmed by the instant reaction. It was professional jealousy sure, but still unwarranted. Unwanted.

A brief peek into the dressing room showed a similar colonisation. The dressing table bestrewn with pots and tubes, photos of herself and her sisters and friends he had yet to meet tucked into the mirror. The study was a little more austere, her laptop set up at the desk, her
diary, open and filled with her scrawling handwriting, next to it.

Hawksley Castle had a new mistress.

Only the bed looked unrumpled. Daisy might bathe, dress and work in her rooms but she slept in his. Much as her nineteenth-century counterpart might have done she arrived in his bed cleansed, moisturised and already in the silky shorts and vest tops she liked to sleep in. Not a single
personal item had migrated through the connecting door.

A buzz in his pocket signalled a message or a voicemail. It was almost impossible to get a decent mobile signal this side of the castle. Seb quite liked not being wired in twenty-four hours a day.

He pulled his phone out and listened to the message, wincing as he did so.

‘Problems?’ Daisy appeared at the bathroom door clad
in nothing but a towel.

‘My agent.’ He stuffed the phone back into his pocket, glancing at Daisy as he did so.

He drew in a long, deep breath. It was impossible to ignore the twinge of desire evoked by her creamy shoulders, the outline of her body swathed in the long creamy towel.

The towels were another of Sherry’s luxurious little additions to the house. By the date of the wedding
Hawksley would resemble a five-star hotel more than a run-down if stately family home.

There were fresh flowers, renewed every other day, in all the repainted, cleaned bedrooms as well as in the bigger salons and hallways. Every bathroom, cloakroom and loo was ornamented with expensive soaps, hand creams and bath salts. In one way the luxurious touches hid the signs of elegant decay, but
Seb couldn’t help calculate how the price of the flowers alone could be better spent on plumbing, on the roof, on the myriad neglected maintenance jobs that multiplied daily.

No matter. Seb would give Sherry her head until the wedding but after that, no more. He wouldn’t accept a penny, not even from his bride-to-be’s indulgent and very wealthy parents. Hawksley was his inheritance, his responsibility,
his burden.

‘What did she want on a Saturday?’ Daisy sat herself at her dressing table and began to brush out her hair. Seb’s eyes followed the brush as it fought its way through the tangled locks leaving smooth tresses in its wake.

‘Just to finalise arrangements for this afternoon.’ And to try and start another conversation about a television deal. He would shut that down pretty fast
although the numbers must be good to make her this persistent.

‘This afternoon?’

‘I’m lecturing. Didn’t I mention it? Talking of which...’ He looked at his watch, blinking as he caught the time. ‘What are you still doing sat in a towel? Shouldn’t you be capturing a bride’s breakfast? Or is this one a late-rising bride?’

She shook her head, the newly brushed hair lifting with the
movement. ‘I have the whole weekend off. Sophie’s covering today’s wedding for me as a trial. They didn’t have the full engagement-shot package so I don’t have a personal relationship with them. It seemed like a good place for her to try and see how it works. I do have a few interviews tomorrow with possible assistants but today I am completely free.’ She pulled a face. ‘That can’t be right, can
it? Whatever will I do?’

Seb looked at her critically. She still looked drawn and tired. ‘You could do with a day off. Between wedding planning and work you never seem to stop.’

‘Says the man who put in sixteen hours on the estate yesterday and still wanted to do research when he came home.’

‘Technically I am on a research year, not an estate management year.’ The ever-present fear
crowded in. Could he do both? What if he had to give up his professorship? Swap academia for farming? He pushed it aside. That was a worry for another day.

‘Besides, I’m not turning greener than that drink of yours every morning and growing another human being. Why don’t you book yourself into a spa or have a day shopping?’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘Are those the only relaxing pursuits
you can think of? I can’t do most spa treatments and the last thing I want to do is shop, not after motherzilla of the bride’s efforts.’

Sherry had been keeping Daisy hard at it. Seb had barely seen her all week. She was either holed up in the Great Hall creating wedding favours, shopping for last-minute essential details or back in her studio, working.

Things would be much easier if
she had a studio here. Would she want that? Moving her hats across was one thing, moving her professional persona another. Seb adored his library but there were times when he missed his college rooms with an almost physical pain. The peace, the lack of responsibility beyond his work, his students,

‘My lecture’s in Oxford. I doubt that would be relaxing or interesting. But maybe you could
walk around some of the colleges, have lunch there.’ His eyes flickered over to the book by her bed. ‘Or you could come to the lecture.’

The blurring of professional and private had to happen at some point.

‘What’s the lecture on?’

‘The history of England as reflected in a house like Hawksley.’ His mouth twisted. ‘It’s the subject of my next book, luckily. It’s hard enough finding
time to work as it is, at least I’m on site. It’s a paid popular lecture so not too highbrow. You might enjoy it.’

He could have kicked himself as soon as he uttered the words. Her face was emotionless but her eyes clouded. ‘Not too highbrow? So even dullards like me have a chance of understanding it?’

‘Daisy, there’s nothing dull about you. Will you come? I’ll take you out for dinner
afterwards.’

There it was, more blurring. But he had promised respect and friendship. That was all this was.

‘Well, if there’s food.’ But her eyes were still clouded, her face gave nothing away. ‘What time do you want to leave? I’ll meet you downstairs.’

* * *

‘What an incredible place. I’ve never looked around the colleges before.’ Daisy focused the lens onto the green rectangle
of lawn, the golden columns framing it like a picture.

‘Maybe it’s because I knew I had no chance of actually coming here.’ She clicked and then again, capturing the sun slanting through the columns, lighting up the soft stone in an unearthly glow.

‘But you wouldn’t have wanted to come here. You went to one of the best art colleges in the country. I doubt that they would have even let
me through the door.’ Daisy bit back a giggle. She had seen Seb’s attempts to draw just once, when he was trying to show Sherry how the marquee connected to the hall. It was good to know there were some areas where she had him beat.

‘You could pretend you were creating some kind of post-modern deconstruction of the creative process.’ She followed the quadrangle round with her viewfinder.
‘This place is ridiculously photogenic. I bet it would make a superb backdrop for wedding photos.’

‘It’s always about weddings with you, isn’t it?’ Seb slid a curious glance her way and she tried to keep her face blank. His scrutiny unnerved her. He always made her feel so exposed, as if he could see beyond the lipstick and the hats, beyond the carefully chosen outfits. She hoped not. She
wasn’t entirely sure that there was any substance underneath her style.

‘It’s my job.’ She kept her voice light. ‘You must walk in here and see the history in each and every stone. It’s no different.’

He was still studying her intently and she tried not to squirm, swinging the camera around to focus on him. ‘Smile!’

But his expression didn’t change. It was as if he was trying to
see through her, into the heart of her. She took a photo, and then another, playing with the focus and the light.

‘Why photography? I would have thought you would have had enough of being on the other side of the lens?’

It was the million-dollar question. She lowered the camera and leant against one of the stone columns. Despite the sunlight dancing on it the stone was cold, the chill
travelling through her dress. ‘Truth is I didn’t mind the attention as a kid,’ she admitted, fiddling with her camera strap so she didn’t have to look up and see judgement or pity in his eyes. ‘We felt special. Mum and Dad were so adored, and there was no scandal, so all the publicity tended to be positive—glamorous red carpets at premieres or at-home photo shoots for charities. It wasn’t until
I was sixteen that I realised the press could bite as easily as it flattered.’

‘Lucky you.’ His voice was bleak. ‘I was five when I was first bitten.’

She stole a look at him but his gaze was fixed unseeingly elsewhere. Poor little boy, a pawn in his parents’ destructive lives. ‘It was such a shock when it happened, seeing myself on the front pages. I felt so exposed. I know it wasn’t
clever.’ She traced the brand name on her camera case, remembering, the need for freedom, the urge for excitement, the thrill of the illicit. ‘But most sixteen-year-olds play hooky just once, try and get a drink underage somehow just once. They just don’t do it under the public’s condemning gaze.’

One set of photos, one drunken night, one kiss—the kind of intense kiss that only a sixteen-year-old
falling in love could manage—and her reputation had been created, set in stone and destroyed.

‘You couldn’t have stuck to the local pub?’

He was so practical! She grinned, able to laugh at her youthful self now. ‘Looking back, that was the flaw in my plan. But honestly, we were so naive we couldn’t think where to go. The village landlord at home would have phoned Dad as soon as I stepped
up to the bar. The pubs nearest school seemed to have some kind of convent schoolgirl sensor. We all knew there was no point trying there. Tana and I decided the only way we could be truly anonymous was in the middle of the city. We were spectacularly wrong.’

‘Tana?’

‘My best friend from school. I was going out with her brother and she was going out with his best mate. Teenage hormones,
a bottle of vodka, an on-the-ball paparazzi and the rest is history. I don’t even like vodka.’

‘So as the camera flashes followed you down the street you thought, I know, I’d like to be on the other side?’

‘At least I’m in control when I’m the one taking the photos.’ The words hung in the air and she sucked in a breath. That hadn’t been what she had intended to say—no matter that it
was true.

She shifted her weight and carried on hurriedly. ‘After school kicked me out I had no qualifications so I went to the local college where, as long as I took English and maths, I could amuse myself. So I did. I took all the art and craft classes I could. But it was photography I loved the most. I stayed on to do the art foundation course and then applied to St Martin’s. When they
accepted me it felt as if I had found my place at last.’

That moment when she looked through the viewfinder and focused and the whole world fell away. The clarity when the perfect shot happened after hours of waiting. The happiness she evoked with her pictures, when she took a special moment and documented it for eternity.

A chill ran through her and it wasn’t just from the stone. She
felt exposed, as if she had allowed him to see, to hear parts of her even her family were locked out of. She pushed off the column, covering her discomfort with brisk movements. ‘What about you?’ She turned the tables on her interrogator. ‘When did you decide you wanted to stand in a lecture theatre and wear tweed?’

‘I only wear tweed on special occasions.’ That quirk of the mouth of his.
It shocked her every time how one small muscle movement could speed her heart up, cause her pulse to start pounding. ‘And my cap and gown, of course.’