Harlequin Romance April 2015 Box Set (27 page)

Okay, the hours were a
little
restrictive. ‘I hire out the Great Hall.’

‘Saturdays only. And you don’t allow anyone else onto the estate apart from the villagers and your tenants.’

His defensive hackles rose as she continued. It was as if she had looked into all his worries and was gradually exhuming
each one. ‘That’s how we’ve always done things.’ An inadequate response, he knew, but until he made some difficult decisions it was all he had.

‘I know.’ She looked as if she wanted to continue but instead closed her mouth with a snap, continuing to flick through the photos.

‘But?’ he prompted.

‘But things are different now. You need to start running the estate as a commercial enterprise,
not as a gentleman’s hobby.’

Ouch. ‘What do you think I’ve been doing these last few months?’ he demanded. ‘Research? I have barely touched my book. I’ve been doing my damnedest to try and get all the farming grants I can...’

‘That’s not going to be enough.’ She bit her lip and looked down at her screen, clearly thinking hard about something. ‘I didn’t want to show you this until I had
done more work on it. It’s not ready yet.’

‘Show me what?’ Wariness skittered down his spine.

She clicked on the screen and swivelled the laptop round so he could see the screen.

Seb had expected a photo. Instead a formatted slide complete with bullet points faced him. He raised an eyebrow. ‘PowerPoint?’

Daisy coloured. ‘I know it’s a little OTT but I couldn’t think how else
to order it.’

‘Go on, then. Amaze me.’ He knew he sounded dismissive but, honestly, what on earth could a wedding photographer who was expelled from school at sixteen contribute to the ongoing Hawksley struggle that he hadn’t considered? But, he conceded, if this was going to be her home he should at least listen to whatever crackpot ideas she had dreamed up.

She chewed on her lip for
a moment, looking at him doubtfully before taking a deep breath and pointing one slim finger at the screen.

‘Okay.’ She slid him a nervy glance. ‘I want you to have an open mind, okay?’

He nodded curtly even as he felt his barriers go up.

‘This is Chesterfield Manor. The house, grounds and estate are a similar size to Hawksley. Chesterfield Manor has been open to the public for
the last fifteen years. They specialise in outdoor trails and natural play.’ She sounded self-conscious, as if she were reading from a script.

‘An insurance nightmare.’

‘This one...’ The slide showed a magnificent Tudor house. ‘This is known for productions of plays, especially Shakespeare and they also do themed medieval banquets.’

‘In costume? Tell me you aren’t serious!’

Daisy didn’t reply, just carried on showing him slide after slide of stately homes spread throughout the UK ranging from a perfectly preserved Norman Castle to a nineteenth-century gothic folly, her manner relaxing as she settled into the presentation, pointing out all the various ways they attracted paying visitors.

Seb’s heart picked up speed as he looked at each slide, hammering so hard
it rivalled the tick of the old grandfather clock in the hallway.

Everything she was showing him he had considered. Every conclusion she had drawn he had already drawn—and rejected. Too risky, not in keeping. A betrayal of his grandfather’s already squandered legacy.

Risks and spending money without thought of the consequences had almost broken Hawksley once.

Allowing the cameras
into their home had just fuelled his parents’ narcissism, and greed.

He couldn’t go down that road. Didn’t she understand that?

He had thought she understood.

He had obviously been very wrong...

Seb took in a deep breath, stilling his escalating pulse, and sat back and folded his arms. ‘So people like stately homes.’

‘Hawksley has two things none of these have.’ She waited
expectantly.

He sighed. ‘Which are?’

‘Its utterly unique appearance—and you. An eminent historian in situ right here. Look, I’ve been talking to Paul...’

His eyes narrowed. ‘You have been busy.’

She lifted her chin. ‘The farms pay for themselves, the village pays for itself—but the castle is in deficit. You can apply for as many grants as you like but that’s not going to fix
the roof and certainly won’t replace the money your father squandered. The income from the trust used to pay for all the castle’s bills and living expenses for the earl and his family—right now you’d find it hard to replace the toaster.’

It was an exaggeration but his gut tightened at her words. Did she think he didn’t know this? Didn’t lie awake night after night thinking of every which
way he could solve it?

‘But, Seb, there are so many ways we could use the castle to generate the income it needs. Start using the keep, as well as the hall, for weddings and parties too—erect a wooden and canvas inner structure inside the walls just like they did at Bexley. Hold plays, open all week Easter to September and weekends out of season. Have a Christmas open house.’ She hesitated.
‘Allow tours of the main house.’

Seb’s chest tightened at the very thought of strangers wandering around his house. ‘No!’

She hurried on. ‘I don’t mean open access but “pay in advance and reserve your place” tours. Put in a farm shop and nature trails and play parks. We could convert some of the outbuildings into holiday cottages and bridal accommodation.’

‘With what?’

‘There’s
some capital left.’

He stared. ‘You want me to gamble what’s left, finish what my father started?’

‘Not gamble, invest.’

‘Meanwhile I’m what? A performing earl, the public face of Hawksley, like some medieval lord of the manor...’

‘You are the lord of the manor.’

‘It’s all about publicity with you, isn’t it? You say you don’t want it but you can’t see any way but the obvious—photos
and newspapers and the public.’

‘No.’ She was on her feet. ‘But with a place like Hawksley the right kind of publicity is a blessing.’

‘There is no such thing as the right publicity.’

She stared at him. ‘Come on, Seb, you know that’s not true. Look at your books!’

‘They’re work, this is my home.’ His voice was tight.

Daisy bit her lip, her eyes troubled. ‘You can’t see
past your fears. You are so determined to do things your way you won’t even consider any alternatives!’

His mouth curled in disgust. ‘Is this about those damned TV lectures?’

‘They would be a great start.’

Bitterness coated his mouth. ‘I thought you understood.’

‘I do. But you want me to marry you, to give you an heir. An heir to what? To worry? To debt? To fear? Or to a thriving
business and a home with history—and a roof that doesn’t leak?’

He pushed his chair back and stumbled to his feet. ‘Hawksley is mine, Daisy. Mine! I will sort this out and make it right.’

Her eyes were huge. ‘I don’t get any say?’

That wasn’t what he meant and she knew it. ‘Stop twisting my words and stop creating drama.’

But she wasn’t backing down. He didn’t know her eyes
could burn so brightly. ‘You can’t just shut me down, Seb, every time we have a difference of opinion. That’s not how life works, not how marriage works.’

‘I’m not shutting you down.’ He just didn’t want to argue. What was wrong with that?

‘You are! If we are going to do this then we have to be partners. I have to be able to contribute without you accusing me of picking fights. I have
to be involved in your decisions and your life.’

He couldn’t answer, didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t expected her to push him like this. He had underestimated her, that was clear. What had he expected? A compliant partner, someone to warm his bed and agree with him?

He could feel his heart speeding up, his palms slick with sweat. He had obviously overestimated himself just as much.
Pompous ass that he was.

‘That’s not what you want, is it?’ Her voice was just a whisper. ‘You’re happy for me to redecorate some rooms but you don’t want my input, not where it matters.’ Her voice broke. ‘You’re right, what does a romantically inclined girl with no qualifications know anyway?’

‘That’s not what I said.’

‘It’s what you think though.’

He couldn’t deny it.

The blue eyes were swimming. ‘I know I said I could do this, Seb, but I’m not sure I’m the kind of woman who can warm your bed and raise your children and not be needed in your life.’

She could read him like a book. He wanted to say that he did need her but the words wouldn’t come. ‘You promised to try.’

‘I have tried.’ Her cry sounded torn from the heart. Half of him wanted to step forward
and enfold her in his arms, promise her that it would be okay—the other half of him recoiled from the sheer emotion.

‘So what are you saying? The wedding is off?’

She swallowed. ‘I don’t know. I know how important getting married is for the baby’s sake but I have to think about me as well. I need some time, Seb. Some time on my own to figure things out. I’m sorry.’

And while he
was still searching for the right words, the right sentiments, a way to make her stay she slipped out of the room and he knew that he’d lost her.

And he had no idea how to find her again.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

S
HE
’
D
LEFT
HER
favourite camera at Hawksley. She’d also left her favourite laptop and half of her hats but right now it was her camera she needed.

If she wasn’t going to expose herself to her own merciless gaze then she needed to turn that gaze elsewhere. She needed to find a subject and lose herself in it.

Daisy stared mindlessly out of the windscreen.
She had other cameras at her studio but returning there, right now, felt like a retreat. Worse, it felt like an admission of failure.

But she had failed, hadn’t she?

She’d tried to change the rules.

They hadn’t even managed the shotgun marriage part before she had started interfering. Demanding responses, pushing him, putting together PowerPoint presentations. Daisy leaned forward
until her forehead knocked against the steering wheel.

She was a fool.

And yet...

Slowly Daisy straightened, her hands pressing tighter on the wheel. And yet she had felt more right than she had in a long, long time. As if she had finally burst out of her chrysalis.

She didn’t know if she could willingly shut herself back in. She’d enjoyed the research, enjoyed finding conclusions—she’d
even enjoyed figuring out PowerPoint in the end after she had emerged victorious after the first few scuffles. She’d never put together any kind of business plan before, never pushed herself.

Never allowed herself to broaden her horizons, to think she might be capable of achieving more. Hidden behind her camera just as Seb hid behind his qualifications.

She’d wanted to help him. Had
seen how much he was struggling, torn between his career and his home, the expectations of his past and the worries of the present.

But he didn’t want her help. Didn’t need her.

Without conscious thought, just following her instinct, Daisy began to drive, following the road signs on autopilot until she turned down the long lane that led to her childhood home. She pulled the small car
to a stop and turned off the engine, relief seeping through her bones. This was where she needed to be, right now.

It had been a long time since she had run home with her problems.

It was only a short walk along the lane and through the gates that led to the hall but with each step Daisy’s burden lightened, just a little. Maybe asking for help wasn’t a sign of weakness.

Maybe it
was maturity.

Huntingdon Hall glowed a soft gold in the late afternoon light. Daisy paused, taking in its graceful lines, the long rows of windows, the perfectly symmetrical wings, the well-maintained and prosperous air of the house. It wasn’t just smaller than Hawksley, newer than half of Hawksley—it was a family home. Loved, well cared for and welcoming.

But it wasn’t her home any
more, hadn’t been for a long time. She shut her eyes for a moment, visualising the way the sun lit up the Norman keep, the thousand-year-old tower reflected in the water. When had Hawksley begun to feel like
her
home?

The kitchen doors stood ajar and she ran up the steps, inhaling gratefully the familiar scent of fresh flowers, beeswax and the spicy vanilla scent her mother favoured. Inside
the kitchen was as immaculate as always, a huge open-plan cooking, eating and relaxing space, the back wall floor-to-ceiling glass doors bringing the outside inside no matter what the weather.

She’d walked away from all this comfort, luxury and love at eighteen so convinced she wouldn’t be able to find herself here, convinced she was the family joke, the family outcast. Tears burned the backs
of her eyes as she looked at the vast array of photographs hung on the walls; not her father’s record covers or her mother’s most famous shoots but the girls from bald, red-faced babies, through gap-toothed childhood to now. Interspersed and lovingly framed were some of Daisy’s own photos including her degree shoot prints.

What must it have cost them to let her go? To allow her the freedom
to make her own mistakes?

‘Hey, Daisy girl.’ Her father’s rich American drawl remained unchanged despite three decades living in the UK. ‘Is your mother with you?’ He looked round for his wife, hope and affection lighting up his face. What must it be like, Daisy wondered with a wistful envy, to love someone else so much that your first thought was always of them?

‘Nope, she’s still browbeating
the caterers and obsessing over hairstyles.’ She leant gratefully into her father’s skinny frame as he pulled her into a cuddle. How long was it since she had allowed herself to be held like this? For too long she had stopped after a peck and a squeeze of the shoulders. ‘Hi, Dad.’

‘It’s good to see you, Daisy girl.’ He pulled back to look her over, a frown furrowing the famously craggy face.
‘You look exhausted. Your mother working you too hard?’

‘I think you and Mum had the right idea running away.’ Daisy tried not to wriggle away from his scrutiny.

‘It saved a lot of bother,’ he agreed, but the keen eyes were full of concern. ‘Drink?’

‘Just water, please.’ She accepted the ice-cold glass gratefully, carrying it over to the comfortable cluster of sofas grouped around
the windows, sinking onto one with a sigh of relief.

She had begun to recreate this feeling in the kitchen at Hawksley, sanding back the old kitchen cupboards so that they could be repainted a soft grey and bringing in one of the better sofas from an unused salon to curl up on by the Aga. Slowly, step by step turning the few rooms she and Seb used into warm, comfortable places. Into a family
home.

‘I feel like I should be coming to you with words of advice and wisdom.’ Rick sat down on the sofa opposite, a bottle of beer in one hand. ‘After three daughters and three decades of marriage you’d think I’d know something. But all I know is don’t go to bed angry, wake up counting your blessings and always try and see the other person’s point of view. If you can manage that—’ he raised
his bottle to her ‘—then you should be okay.’

‘Funny.’ She smiled at him. ‘Mum said something very similar.’

Rick took a swig of his beer. ‘Well, your mother’s a wise woman.’

Daisy swung her legs up onto the sofa, reclining against the solid arm and letting the cushions enfold her. She half closed her eyes, allowing the sounds and smells of her childhood home to comfort her. After
a few moments Rick got up and she could hear him clattering about in the food preparation part of the kitchen. Her eyelids fluttered shut and she allowed herself to fall into a doze, feeling safe for the first time in a long while.

‘Here you go.’ She roused as a plate was set before her. ‘I know it’s fashionable for brides to waste away before their wedding but if you get any thinner, Daisy
girl, I’ll be having to hold you down as we walk down that aisle.’

‘My favourite.’ The all-too-ready tears pricked her eyelids as Daisy looked at the plate holding a grilled cheese and tomato sandwich and a bowl of tomato soup. Her childhood comfort food—not coincidentally also the limit of Rick Cross’s cooking skills. ‘Thanks, Dad.’

Her father didn’t say another word while she ate;
instead he picked up one of the seemingly endless supplies of guitars that lay in every room of the house and began to strum some chords. It had used to drive Daisy mad, his inability to stay quiet and still, but now she appreciated it for what it was. A safety blanket, just like her camera.

As always the slightly stodgy mix of white bread, melted cheese and sweet tomatoes slipped down easily
and a full stomach made her feel infinitely better. Rick continued to strum as Daisy carried her empty dishes to the sink, the chords turning into a well-known marching song.

Rick began to croon the lyrics in the throaty tones that had made him a star. He looked up at his daughter, a twinkle in his eyes. ‘Thought I might sing this instead of making a speech.’

She couldn’t do it, couldn’t
lie to him a single moment longer. So she would slip back into being the problem daughter, the mistake-making disaster zone. Maybe she deserved it.

She could take it. She had to take it.

She was tired of doing it all alone. Tired of shutting her family out. Tired of always being strong, of putting her need to be independent before her family.

Maybe
this
was what being a grown-up
meant. Not shutting yourself away but knowing when it was okay to accept help. When it was okay to lean on someone else. The day Seb had come to help her with the wedding had been one of the best days of her adult life. She’d come so close to relying on him.

Tension twisted her stomach as she fought to find the right words. But there were no right words. Just the facts.

Daisy turned,
looked him straight in the eyes and readied herself. ‘I’m pregnant. Dad, I’m pregnant and I don’t know what to do.’

Her father didn’t react straight away. His fingers fell off the guitar and he carefully put the instrument to one side, his face shuttered. Slowly he got to his feet, walking over to Daisy before pulling her in close, holding her as if he meant to never let her go.

The
skinny shoulders were stronger than they looked. Daisy allowed herself to lean against them, to let her father bear her weight and finally, finally stopped fighting the tears she had swallowed back for so long, shudders shaking her whole body as the sobs tore out of her.

‘It’s okay, Daisy girl,’ her father crooned, stroking her hair as if she were still his little girl. ‘It’s okay.’

But she couldn’t stop, not yet, even though the great gusty sobs had turned into hiccups and the tears had soaked her father’s shirt right through. The relief of finally not having to put on a brave face was too much and it was several minutes before her father could escort her back to the sofa, setting another glass of water and several tissues in front of her.

‘Hold on,’ he said. ‘If living
with a pack of women has taught me anything it’s that there’s a surefire remedy for this kind of situation.’ He walked, with the catlike grace that made him such a hypnotic stage performer, to the fridge and, opening the freezer door, extracted a pint of ice cream. ‘Here you go, Daisy girl,’ he said, setting it down in front of her and handing her a spoon. ‘Dig in.’

He didn’t say anything
for a while. Just sat there as Daisy scooped the creamy cold chocolatey goodness out of the carton, allowing it to melt on her tongue. She couldn’t manage more than a couple of mouthfuls, the gesture of far more comfort than the actual ice cream.

‘I take it this wasn’t planned?’ His voice was calm, completely non-judgemental.

Daisy shook her head. ‘No.’

‘How long have you known?’

She could feel the colour creeping over her cheeks, couldn’t meet her father’s eye. ‘A month. I told Seb three weeks ago.’

‘This is why you’re getting married?’

Daisy nodded. ‘It’s because of Hawksley, and the title. If the baby isn’t legitimate...’ Her voice trailed off.

‘Crazy Brits.’ Her dad sat back. ‘Do you love him, Daisy girl?’

Did she what? She liked him—sometimes.
Desired him for sure. The way his hair fell over his forehead, a little too long and messy for fashion. The clear green of his eyes, the way they darkened with emotion. The lean strength of him, unexpected in an academic. The way he listened to her, asked her questions, respected her, made her feel that maybe she had something to contribute—until today.

She understood him, knew why he strived
so hard to excel in everything he did, tried to keep himself aloof, the fear of being judged.

Her father’s gaze intensified. ‘It’s not that hard a question, Daisy girl. When you know, you know.’

‘Yes.’ The knowledge hit her hard, almost winding her. ‘Yes, I do. But he doesn’t love me and that’s why I don’t know if I can do it. I don’t know if I can marry him. If I can say those words
to someone who doesn’t want to hear them, for him to say them to me and not mean them.’ That was it, she realised with a sharp clarity. She had been prepared to lie to everyone but she couldn’t bear for him to lie to her. To make promises he didn’t mean.

‘Love means that much to you?’ Her father’s eyes were kind, knowing.

Daisy put her hand down to cradle her still-flat stomach. She
wanted the baby; she already loved it. Which love meant more? Pulled at her more? What was worse? Depriving her baby of its heritage or bringing it up in an unequal, unhappy household?

‘With your example before me? Of course it does. I want a husband who looks at me the way you look at Mum. That’s what I’ve always wanted. But it’s not just about me, not any more. Oh, Dad, what am I going
to do?’

Her father put an arm around her and she sank into his embrace wishing for one moment that she were a little girl again and that there was nothing her dad couldn’t fix. ‘That’s up to you, Daisy girl. Only you can decide. But we’re all here for you, whatever happens. Remember that, darling. I know how independent you are but we’re here. You’re not alone.’

* * *

Loneliness
had been such a constant friend for so many years he had barely noticed it leave.

Yet now it had returned it felt heavier than ever.

The primroses carpeted the woodland floor, their pale beauty a vivid reminder of the colour overtaking his home. Sherry liked a theme and had incorporated the yellow-and-white colour scheme into everything from the guest towels to the bunting already hung
in the marquee. It was like living in a giant egg.

Apart from the rooms Daisy had been working on. She had kept her mother out of those, keeping them private, personal.

Creating a family space.

His throat closed tight.
Their
family space.

Normally Seb loved this time of year, watching the world bud, shaking off the sleepy austerity of winter. It wasn’t as obvious in Oxford
as it was here at Hawksley where every day signalled something new.

Oxford. It had been his focus for so long, his sole goal. To excel in his field. He had almost made it.

But suddenly it didn’t seem that important, more like a remembered dream than a passion. His research? Yes. Digging into the past, feeling it come alive, transcribing it for a modern audience, that he missed. But college
politics, hungover undergraduates, teaching, tourist-filled streets, the buzz of the city?