Книга - Expecting the Earl’s Baby

Expecting the Earl's Baby
Jessica Gilmore


Claiming his heir!It was the most incredible night of her life, but Daisy Huntingdon-Cross never expected to see her Valentine’s fling again. Except six weeks later Daisy’s world has turned upside-down – she’s pregnant! She just needs to tell the father…Yet the man she knew as ‘Seb’ has a few revelations of his own. He’s Sebastian Beresford, Earl of Holgate – he doesn’t just work at Hawksley Castle where they met, he owns it! And with Daisy’s news, Seb’s determined to claim his heir…starting with a wedding!







SUMMER WEDDINGS (#ulink_289b2189-7567-5db2-8f4d-e2b484f4cb50)

A season of confetti and whirlwind romances!

You are cordially invited to attend the Huntingdon-Cross summer weddings.

Celebrate the shotgun marriage of Daisy Huntingdon-Cross and Sebastian Beresford

in

Expecting the Earl’s Baby by Jessica Gilmore Save the date: on sale April 2015

Raise a glass to Rose Huntingdon-Cross and Will Carter as they finally tie the knot

in

A Bride for the Runaway Groom by Scarlet Wilson Save the date: on sale May 2015

Join us in celebrating Violet Huntingdon-Cross and Tom Buckley’s star-studded wedding day

in

Falling for the Bridesmaid by Sophie Pembroke Save the date: on sale June 2015


Expecting the Earl’s Baby

Jessica Gilmore






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


An ex au-pair, bookseller, marketing manager and sea-front trader, JESSICA GILMORE now works for an environmental charity in York. Married with one daughter, one fluffy dog and two dog-loathing cats, she spends her time avoiding housework and can usually be found with her nose in a book. Jessica writes emotional romance with a hint of humour, a splash of sunshine and a great deal of delicious food—and equally delicious heroes.


For Carla

A book about sisters, for my sister

Love Jessica x


Contents

Cover (#u80147cd0-d815-51fe-b515-28d42b330763)

Summer Weddings (#ulink_00745514-04f9-5c76-8082-3dc12da6e158)

Title Page (#u18e3915c-193c-5f86-82c5-1d5743238d35)

About the Author (#u228056e3-a204-5b81-bf1f-7c5a97691dc6)

Dedication (#u7240dd8f-bd9e-5b22-beba-e54f38db52b4)

PROLOGUE (#u24d84a24-6275-552c-9b3c-5246385bc8fc)

CHAPTER ONE (#u5a7d6dc8-9721-5789-853c-cb7829117e8f)

CHAPTER TWO (#u62385cfe-1331-5826-a936-fad4863a8343)

CHAPTER THREE (#u62b8640b-4f56-50a1-aa1d-cc040f91726d)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


PROLOGUE (#ulink_6de2147e-e702-52dd-a1ba-049ddcb8c7b7)

‘OH, NO!’

Daisy Huntingdon-Cross skidded to a halt on the icy surface and regarded her car with dismay.

No, dismay was for a dropped coffee or spilling red wine on a white T-shirt. Her chest began to thump as panic escalated. This, Daisy thought as she stared at the wall of snow surrounding her suddenly flimsy-seeming tyres, this was a catastrophe.

The snow, which had fallen all afternoon and evening, might have made a picturesque background for the wedding photos she had spent the past twelve hours taking, but it had begun to drift—and right now it was packed in tightly around her tyres. Her lovely, bright, quirky little city car, perfect for zooming around London in, was, she was rapidly realising, horribly vulnerable in heavy snow and icy conditions.

Daisy carefully shifted her heavy bag to her other shoulder and looked around. It was the only car in the car park.

In fact, she was the only person in the car park. No, scratch that, she was possibly the only person in the whole castle. A shiver ran down her spine, not entirely as a result of the increasing cold and the snow seeping through her very inadequate brogues. Hawksley Castle was a wonderfully romantic venue in daylight and when it was lit up at night. But when you were standing underneath the parapets, the great tower a craggy, shadowy silhouette looming above you and the only light a tepid glow from the lamp at the edge of the car park it wasn’t so much romantic, more the setting for every horror film she had ever seen.

‘Just don’t go running into the woods.’ She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder. The whole situation was bad enough without introducing the supernatural into it.

Besides it was Valentine’s Day. Surely the only ghosts abroad today had to be those of lovers past?

Daisy shivered again as her feet made the painful transition from wet and cold to freezing. She stamped them with as much vigour as she could muster as she thought furiously.

Why had she stayed behind to photograph the departing guests, all happily packed into mini-buses at the castle gates and whisked off to the local village where hot toddies and roaring fires awaited them? She could have left three hours ago, after the first dance and long before the snow had changed from soft flakes to a whirling mass of icy white.

But, no, she always had to take it that step further, offer that bit more than her competitors—including the blog, complete with several photographs, that she’d promised would be ready to view by midnight.

Midnight wasn’t that far away...

‘Okay.’ Her voice sounded very small in the empty darkness but talking aloud gave her a sense of normality. ‘One, I can go into the village. It’s only a couple of miles.’ Surely the walking would warm up her feet? ‘Two, I can try and scoop the worst of the snow off...’ She cast a doubtful glance at the rest of the car park. The ever heavier snowfall had obliterated her footprints; it was like standing on a thick, very cold white carpet. An ankle-deep carpet. ‘Three...’ She was out of options. Walk or scoop, that was it.

‘Three—I get you some snow chains.’

Daisy didn’t quite manage to stifle a small screech as deep masculine tones broke in on her soliloquy. She turned, almost losing her footing in her haste, and skidded straight into a fleece-clad chest.

It was firm, warm, broad. Not a ghost. Probably not a werewolf. Or a vampire. Supernatural creatures didn’t wear fleece as far as she knew.

‘Where did you come from? You frightened the life out of me.’ Daisy stepped back, scowling at her would-be rescuer. At least she hoped he was a rescuer.

‘I was just locking up. I thought all the wedding guests were long gone.’ His gaze swept over her. ‘You’re hardly dressed for this weather.’

‘I was dressed for a wedding.’ She tugged the hem of her silk dress down. ‘I’m not a guest though, I’m the photographer.’

‘Right.’ His mouth quirked into a half smile. The gesture changed his rather severe face into something much warmer. Something much more attractive. He was tall—taller than Daisy who, at nearly six feet, was used to topping most men of her acquaintance—with scruffy dark hair falling over his face.

‘Photographer or guest you probably don’t want to be hanging around here all night so I’ll get some chains and we’ll try and get this tin can of yours on the road. You really should put on some winter tyres.’

‘It’s not a tin can and there’s very little call for winter tyres in London.’

‘You’re not in London,’ he pointed out silkily.

Daisy bit her lip. He had a point and she wasn’t really in any position to argue. ‘Thank you.’

‘No worries, wouldn’t want you to freeze to death on the premises. Think of the paperwork. Talking of which, you’re shivering. Come inside and warm up. I can lend you some socks and a coat. You can’t drive home like that.’

Daisy opened her mouth to refuse and then closed it again. He didn’t seem like an axe murderer and she was getting more and more chilled by the second. If it was a choice between freezing to death and taking her chances inside she was definitely veering towards the latter. Besides... ‘What time is it?’

‘About eleven, why?’

She’d never get home in time to post the blog. ‘I don’t suppose...’ She tried her most winning smile, her cheeks aching with the cold. ‘I don’t suppose I can borrow your Wi-Fi first? There’s something I really need to do.’

‘At this time of night?’

‘It’s part of my job. It won’t take long.’ Daisy gazed up at him hoping her eyes portrayed beseeching and hopeful with a hint of professionalism, not freezing cold and pathetic. Their eyes snagged and the breath hitched in her throat.

‘I suppose you can use it while you warm up.’ The smile was still playing around his mouth and Daisy’s blood began to heat at the expression in his eyes. If he turned it up a little more she wouldn’t need a jumper and socks, her own internal system would have defrosted her quite nicely.

He held out a hand. ‘Seb, I look after this place.’

Daisy took the outstretched hand, her heart skipping a beat as their fingers touched. ‘I’m Daisy. Nice to meet you, Seb.’

He didn’t answer, reaching out and taking her bag, shouldering it with ease as he turned and began to tread gracefully through the ever thickening snow.

‘“Mark my footsteps, my good page,”’ Daisy sang under her breath as she took advantage of the pressed-down snow and hopped from one imprint to the other. Tall, dark, handsome and coming to her rescue on Valentine’s Day? It was almost too good to be true.


CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_7fa1c893-882d-510c-afda-908f00464d2f)

Six weeks later...

DÉJÀ-VU RIPPLED DOWN Daisy’s spine as she rounded the path. It was all so familiar and yet so different.

The last time she had been at Hawksley the castle and grounds had been covered in snow, a fantasy winter wonderland straight out of a historical film. Today the courtyard lawn was the pale green of spring, crocuses and primroses peeking out at the unseasonably warm sun. The old Norman keep rose majestically on her left, the thick grey stone buttresses looking much as they must have looked nearly one thousand years ago, a stark contrast to ye olde charm of the three-storey Tudor home attached to it at right angles.

And straight ahead of her the Georgian house.

Daisy swallowed, every instinct screaming at her to turn and run. She could wait a few weeks, try again then. Maybe try a letter instead. After all, it was still such early days...

But no. She straightened her shoulders. That was the coward’s way out and she had been raised better than that. Confront your problems head-on, that was what her father always told her.

Besides, she really needed to talk to somebody. She didn’t want to face her family, not yet, and none of her friends would understand. He was the only person who this affected in the same way.

Or not. But she had to take the risk.

Decision made, smile plastered on and she was ready to go. If she could just find him that was...

The castle had a very closed-off air. The small ticket office was shut, a sign proclaiming that the grounds and keep wouldn’t be open until Whitsun. Daisy swivelled trying to find signs of life.

Nobody.

There was a small grey door set at the end of the Georgian wing, which she recognised from her earlier visit. It was as good a place to start as any.

Daisy walked over, taking her time and breathing in the fresh spring air, the warm sun on her back giving her courage as she pushed at the door.

‘Great.’ It was firmly locked and there was no bell, ‘You’d think they didn’t want visitors,’ she muttered. Well, want them or not she was here. Daisy knocked as hard as she could, her knuckles smarting at the impact, then stood back and waited, anticipation twisting her stomach.

The door swung open. Slowly. Daisy inhaled and held her breath. Would he remember her?

Would he believe her?

A figure appeared at the door. She exhaled, torn between disappointment and a secret shameful relief. Unless Seb had aged twenty-five years, lost six inches and changed gender this wasn’t him.

Daisy pushed her trilby hat further back and gave the stern-looking woman guarding the door marked ‘private’ an appealing smile. ‘Excuse me, can you tell me where I can find Seb?’

Her appeal was met with crossed arms and a gorgonish expression. ‘Seb?’ There was an incredulous tone to her voice.

The message was loud and clear; smiling wasn’t going to cut it. On the other hand she hadn’t been instantly turned to stone so it wasn’t a total loss.

‘Yes.’ Daisy bit her lip in a sudden panic. She had got his name right, hadn’t she? So much of that night was a blur...

‘The handyman,’ she added helpfully. That she remembered.

‘We have an estate maintenance crew.’ The gorgon sniffed. Actually sniffed. ‘But none of them are named Seb. Maybe you have the wrong place?’ She looked Daisy up and down in a manner that confirmed that, in her eyes, Daisy most definitely did have the wrong place.

Maybe it was the lipstick? Real Real Red wasn’t a shade everyone liked. It was so very red after all but it usually made Daisy feel ready for anything. Even today.

It was like being back at school under her headmistress’s disappointed eye. Daisy resisted the urge to tug her tailored shorts down to regulation knee length and to button up the vintage waistcoat she had thrown on over her white T-shirt.

She took a step back and straightened her shoulders, ready for war. She had replayed this morning over and over in her mind. At no point had she anticipated not actually seeing Seb. Or finding out he didn’t exist.

What if he was a ghost after all?

Surely not. Daisy wasn’t entirely certain what ectoplasm actually was but she was pretty sure it was cold and sticky. Ghosts weren’t made of warm, solid muscle.

No, no dwelling on the muscles. Or the warmth. She pushed the thought out of her mind as firmly as she could and adopted her best, haughty public schoolgirl voice. ‘This is Hawksley Castle, isn’t it?’

Of course it was. Nowhere else had the utterly unique blend of Norman keep, Tudor mansion and Georgian country home that ensured Hawksley remained top of the country’s best-loved stately homes list—according to Debutante magazine anyway.

But Daisy wasn’t interested in the historical significance of the perfectly preserved buildings. She simply wanted to gain access to the final third of the castle, the Georgian wing marked ‘private’.

‘Yes, this is Hawksley Castle and we are not open until Whitsun. So, I suggest, miss, that you return and purchase a ticket then.’

‘Look.’ Daisy was done with playing nice. ‘I’m not here to sightsee. I was here six weeks ago for the Porter-Halstead wedding and got snowed in. Seb helped me and I need to see him. To say thank you,’ she finished a little lamely but there was no way she was telling this woman her real motivation for visiting. She’d be turned to stone for sure.

The gorgon raised an eyebrow. ‘Six weeks later?’

‘I’m not here for a lesson in manners.’ Daisy regretted the snap the second it left her mouth. ‘I’ve been...busy. But better late than never. I thought he was the handyman. He certainly—’ seemed good with his hands flashed through her mind and she coloured ‘—seemed to know his way around.’ Oh, yes, that he did.

Nope. No better.

‘But he definitely works here. He has an office. Tall, dark hair?’ Melting dark green eyes, cheekbones she could have cut herself on and a firm mouth. A mouth he really knew how to use.

Daisy pulled her mind firmly back to the here and now. ‘He had a shovel and snow chains, that’s why I thought he was the handyman but maybe he’s the estate manager?’

Unless he had been a wedding guest putting on a very good act? Had she made a terrible mistake? No, he hadn’t been dressed like a wedding guest, had known his way around the confusing maze behind the baize door in the Georgian wing.

She was going to have to get tough. ‘Listen,’ she began then stopped as something wet and cold snuffled its way into her hand. Looking down, she saw a pair of mournful brown eyes gazing up at her. ‘Monty!’

Proof! Proof that she wasn’t going crazy and proof that Seb was here.

Crouching down to scratch behind the springer spaniel’s floppy brown ears, Daisy broke into a croon. ‘How are you, handsome boy? It’s lovely to see you again. Now if you could just persuade this lady here that I need to see your master that will be brilliant.’ She couldn’t help throwing a triumphant glance over at her adversary.

‘Monty! Here, boy! Monty! Here I say.’ Peremptory tones rang across the courtyard and Daisy’s heart began to speed up, blood rushing around her body in a giddying carousel. Slowly she got back up, leaving one hand on the spaniel’s head, more for strength and warmth, and half turned, a smile on her face.

‘Hi, Seb.’

* * *

It had been a long morning. It wasn’t that Seb wasn’t grateful for his expensive education, his academic credentials and his various doctorates but there were times when he wondered just what use being able to recite Latin verse and debate the use of cavalry at Thermopylae was.

Business studies, basic accountancy, and how to repair, heat and conserve an ancient money pit without whoring her out like a restoration actress would have been far more useful.

He needed a business plan. Dipping into what was left of the estate’s capital would only get him so far. Somehow the castle needed to pay for itself—and soon.

And now his dog was being disobedient, making eyes at a blonde woman improbably dressed in shorts and a trilby hat teamed with a garish waistcoat. Shorts. In March. On the other hand... Seb’s eyes raked the slender, long legs appreciably; his dog had good taste.

‘Monty! I said here. I am so sorry...’ His voice trailed off as the woman straightened and turned. Seb felt his breath whoosh out as he clocked the long blonde hair, blue eyes, tilted nose and a mouth that had haunted him for the last six weeks. ‘Daisy?’

‘Hello, Seb. You never call, you don’t write.’ An undercurrent of laughter lilted through her voice and he had to firm his mouth to stop a responsive smile creeping out. What on earth had brought the wedding photographer back to his door? For a few days afterwards he had wondered if she might get in touch. And what he would say if she did.

For six weeks afterwards he had considered getting in touch himself.

‘Neither did you.’

‘No.’ Her eyelashes fluttered down and she looked oddly vulnerable despite the ridiculous hat tilted at a rakish angle and the bright lipstick. ‘Seb, could we talk?’

She sounded serious and Seb tensed, his hands curling into apprehensive fists. ‘Of course, come on in.’ He gestured for her to precede him through the door. ‘Thanks, Mrs Suffolk, I’ll take it from here.’ He smiled at his most faithful volunteer and she moved aside with a sniff of clear disapproval.

‘I don’t think she likes me,’ Daisy whispered.

‘She doesn’t like anyone. Anyone under thirty and female anyway.’ He thought about the statement. ‘Actually anyone under thirty or any female.’

Seb led the way through the narrow hallway, Monty at his heels. The courtyard entrance led directly into what had once been the servants’ quarters, a warren of windy passageways, small rooms and back staircases designed to ensure the maids and footmen of long ago could go about their duties without intruding on the notice of the family they served.

Now it held the offices and workrooms necessary for running the vast estate. The few staff that lived in had cottages outside the castle walls and Seb slept alone in a castle that had once housed dozens.

It would make sense to convert a floor of unused bedrooms and offer overnight hospitality to those who booked the Tudor Hall for weddings rather than chucking them out into the nearby hotels and guest houses. But it wasn’t just the expense that put him off. It was one thing having tourists wandering around the majestic keep, one thing to rent out the spectacular if dusty, chilly and impractical hall. The Georgian wing was his home. Huge, ancient, filled with antiques, ghosts and dusty corners. Home.

And walking beside him was the last person to have stayed there with him.

‘Welcome back.’ Seb noted how, despite her general air of insouciance, she was twisting her hands together nervously. ‘Nice hat.’

‘Thanks.’ She lifted one hand and touched it self-consciously. ‘Every outfit needs a hat.’

‘I don’t recall you wearing one last time.’

‘I was dressed for work then.’

The words hung heavily in the air and Seb was instantly transported back. Back to the slide of a zip, the way her silky dress had slithered to the ground in one perfect movement.

Definitely no hat on that occasion, just glittering pins in her hair. It was a shame. He would have quite liked to have seen her wearing it when she had lain on his sofa, golden in the candlelight, eyes flushed from the champagne. Champagne and excitement. The hat and nothing else.

He inhaled, long and deep, trying to ignore the thrumming of his heart, the visceral desire the memory evoked.

Seb stopped and reconsidered his steps. The old estate office was an incongruous mix of antique desk, sofa and rug mixed with metal filing cabinets and shelves full of things no one wanted to throw away but didn’t know what else to do with.

Now, with Daisy’s reappearance, it was a room with ghosts of its own. Six-week-old ghosts with silken skin, low moans and soft, urgent cries. Taking her back there would be a mistake.

Instead he opened the discreet doors that led into the front of the house. ‘Let’s go to the library.’ It wasn’t cowardice that had made him reconsider. It was common sense. His mouth quirked at the corner. ‘As you can probably tell, the house hasn’t received the memo for the warmest spring in ten years and it takes several months for the chill to dissipate. The library is the warmest room in the whole place—probably because it’s completely non-modernised. The velvet drapes may be dusty and dark but they keep the cold out.’

Daisy adjusted her hat again, her hands still nervous. ‘Fine.’

He pushed the heavy wooden door open, standing aside to let her go in first. ‘So, this is quite a surprise.’

She flushed, the colour high on her cheekbones. ‘A nice one, I hope.’ But she didn’t meet his eye. He stilled, watching her. Something was going on, something way beyond a desire for his company.

Daisy walked into the oak-panelled room and stood, looking curiously about her. Seb leant against the door for a moment, seeing the room through her eyes; did she find it shabby? Intimidating? It was an odd mixture of both. The overflowing floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covered two of the walls; the dark oak panelling was hung with gloomy family portraits and hunting scenes. Even the fireplace was large enough to roast at least half an ox, the imposing grate flanked by a massive marble lintel. All that the library needed was an irascible old man to occupy one of the wing-back chairs and Little Lord Fauntleroy to come tripping in.

She wandered over to one of the shelves and pulled out a book, dust flying into the air. ‘Good to see the owner’s a keen reader.’

‘Most of the English books have been read. That’s the Latin section.’

She tilted her chin. ‘Latin or not, they still need dusting.’

‘I’ll get the footmen right on it. Sit down.’ He gestured to a chair. ‘Would you like a drink?’

‘Will a footman bring it?’

‘No.’ He allowed himself a smile. ‘There’s a kettle in that corner. It’s a long way from here to the kitchen.’

‘Practical. Tea, please. Do you have Earl Grey?’

‘Lemon or milk?’

Seating herself gingerly in one of the velvet chairs, the dusty book still in her hand, she raised an elegantly arched eyebrow. ‘Lemon? How civilised. Could I just have hot water and lemon, please?’

‘Of course.’

It only took a minute to make the drinks but the time out was needed. It was unsettling, having her here in his private space, the light floral scent of her, the long legs, the red, red lipstick drawing attention to her wide, full mouth. The problem with burying yourself with work twenty-four-seven, Seb reflected as he sliced the lemon, was that it left you ill prepared for any human interaction. Especially the feminine kind.

Which was rather the point.

‘A proper cup and saucer. You have been well brought up.’ She held up the delicately patterned porcelain as he handed it to her and examined it. ‘Wedgwood?’

‘Probably.’

Seb seated himself opposite, as if about to interview her, and sat back, doing his best to look as if he were at his ease, as if her unexpected reappearance hadn’t totally thrown him. ‘How’s peddling ridiculous dreams and overblown fantasies going?’

Daisy took a sip of her drink, wincing at the heat. ‘Business is good, thanks. Busy.’

‘I’m not surprised.’ He eyed her critically. ‘Engagement shoots, fifteen-hour days, blogs. When you work out your hourly rate you’re probably barely making minimum wage.’ Not that he was one to talk.

‘It’s expected.’ Her tone was defensive. ‘Anyone can get a mate to point a camera nowadays. Wedding photographers need to provide more, to look into the soul of the couple. To make sure there isn’t one second of their special day left undocumented.’

Seb shook his head. ‘Weddings! What happened to simple and heartfelt? Not that I’m complaining. We are already booked up for the next two years. It’s crazy. So much money on just one day.’

‘But it’s the happiest day of their lives.’

‘I sincerely hope not. It’s just the first day, not the marriage,’ he corrected her. ‘Romantic fantasies like that are the biggest disservice to marriage. People pour all their energy and money into just one day—they should be thinking about their lives together. Planning that.’

‘You make it sound so businesslike.’

‘It is businesslike,’ he corrected her. ‘Marriage is like anything else. It’s only successful if the participants share goals. Know exactly what they are signing up for. Mark my words, a couple who go into marriage with a small ceremony and a robust life plan will last a lot longer than fools who get into debt with one over-the-top day.’

‘No, you’re wrong.’ Daisy leant forward, her eyes lit up. ‘Two people finding each other, plighting their troth in front of all their friends and family, what could be more romantic than that?’ Her voice trailed off, the blue eyes wistful.

Seb tried not to let his mouth quirk into a smile but the temptation was too much. ‘Did you just say plight your troth? Is that what you write in your blogs?’

‘My couples say my blogs are one of the most romantic parts of their special day.’ Her colour was high. ‘That’s why I do the engagement shoots, to get to know each couple individually, know what makes them tick. And no.’ She glared at him. ‘Even with the extras I still make well over the minimum wage and no one ever complains. In fact, one couple have just asked me to come back to document their pregnancy and take the first photographs of their baby.’

‘Of course they did.’ He couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice. ‘The only thing guaranteed to waste more money than a wedding is a baby.’

Her already creamy skin paled, her lips nearly blue. ‘Then you probably don’t want to hear that you’re going to be a father. I’m pregnant, Seb. That’s what I came here to say.’

As soon as she blurted the words out she regretted it. It wasn’t how she’d planned to tell him; her carefully prepared lead up to the announcement abandoned in the heat of the moment. At least she had shaken him out of the cool complacency; Seb had shot upright, the green eyes hard, his mouth set firm.

‘Are you sure?’

Oh, yes. She was sure. Two tests a day for the past week sure. ‘I have a test in my bag, I can take it here and now if you like.’ It wasn’t the kind of thing she’d usually offer to an almost stranger but the whole situation was embarrassing enough, another step into mortification alley wouldn’t hurt.

‘No, that won’t be necessary.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘But we used... I mean, we were careful.’

It was almost funny—almost—that she and this man opposite could have spent a night being as intimate as two people could be. Had explored and tasted and touched. Had teased and caressed and been utterly uninhibited. And yet they didn’t know each other at all. He couldn’t even use the word ‘condomʼ in front of her.

‘We did.’ Daisy summoned up all her poise and looked at him as coolly and directly as she could manage, trying to breathe her panicked pulse into submission, to still the telltale tremor in her hands. ‘At least, we did the first and second time. I’m not sure we were thinking clearly after that.’

Not that they had been thinking clearly at all. Obviously. It was easy to blame the snowfall, the intimacy of being alone in the fairy-tale landscape, the champagne. That he had come to her rescue. But it still didn’t add up. It had been the most incredible, the most intense and the most out-of-character night of Daisy’s life.

A muscle was beating along the stubbled jawline; his eyes were still hard, unreadable. ‘How do you know it’s mine?’

She had been prepared for this question, it was totally reasonable for him to ask and yet a sharp stab of disappointment hit her. ‘It has to be yours.’ She lifted her chin and eyed him defiantly. ‘There is no one else, there hasn’t been, not for a long time. I usually only do long-term relationships and I split up from my last boyfriend nine months ago.’ She needed to make him understand. ‘That night, it wasn’t usual. It wasn’t how I normally behave.’

‘Right.’

‘You can check, have a test. Only not until after it’s born. It’s safer that way.’

His eyes locked onto hers. ‘You’re keeping it, then?’

Another reasonable question and yet one she hadn’t even thought to ask herself. ‘Yes. Look, Seb, you don’t have to decide anything right now. I’m not here for answers or with demands. I just thought you should know but...’

‘Hold on.’ He stood up with a lithe grace, hand held out to cut her off. ‘I need to think. Don’t go anywhere, can you promise me that? I won’t be long, I just, I just need some air. Come on, Monty.’

‘Wait!’ It was too late, he had whirled out of the door, the spaniel close to his heels. Daisy had half got up but sank back down into the deep-backed chair as the heavy oak door closed with a thud.

‘That went better than I expected,’ she murmured. She was still here and, okay, he hadn’t fallen to his knees and pledged to love the baby for ever but neither had she been turned out barefoot onto his doorstep.

And wasn’t his reaction more natural? Questioning disbelief? Maybe that should have been hers as well. Daisy slid her hand over her midriff, marvelling at the flat tautness, no visible clue that anything had changed. And yet she hadn’t been shocked or upset or considered for even a nanosecond that she wouldn’t have the baby.

Its conception might be an accident in most people’s eyes but not in Daisy’s. It was something else entirely. It was a miracle.

One hour later, more hot lemon and three pages of a beautiful old hardback edition of Pride and Prejudice read over and over again, Daisy admitted defeat. Wait, he had said. How long did he mean? She hadn’t promised him anyway; he had disappeared before she could form the words.

But she couldn’t leave without making sure he had a way of getting in touch. She hadn’t thought last time, hadn’t slipped her card into his hand or pocket with a smile and invitation. Had part of her hoped he would track her down anyway? Perform a modern-day quest in pursuit of her love. The hopeless romantic in her had. The hopeless romantic never learned.

But this wasn’t about challenges. It was more important than that. Rummaging in her bag, Daisy pulled out one of her business cards. Stylish, swirling script and a daisy motif proclaimed ‘Daisy Photos. Weddings, portraits and lifestyle.’ Her number, website and Twitter handle listed clearly below. She paused for a second and then laid the card on the tea tray with a hand that only trembled a little. It was up to him now.

She closed her eyes for a moment, allowing her shoulders to sag under the weight of her disappointment. She had been prepared for anger, denial. Naively, she had hoped he might be a little excited. She hadn’t expected him to just leave.

* * *

Her car was where she’d left it, parked at a slant just outside the imposing gates. If she had swallowed her pride and accepted the Range Rover her father had offered her then she wouldn’t have been snowed in all those weeks ago.

Daisy shook her head trying to dislodge unwanted tears prickling the backs of her eyes. It had all seemed so perfect, like a scene from one of her favourite romantic comedies. When it was clear that she was stuck, Seb had ransacked the leftovers from the wedding buffet, bringing her a picnic of canapés and champagne. And she had curled up on the shabby sofa in his office as they talked and drank, and somehow she had found herself confiding in him, trusting him. Kissing him.

She raised her hands to her lips, remembering how soft his kiss had been. At first anyway...

Right. Standing here reliving kisses wasn’t going to change anything. Daisy unlocked her car, and took one last long look at the old castle keep, the grim battlements softened by the amber spring sun.

‘Daisy!’

She paused for a moment and inhaled long and deep before swivelling round, trying to look as unconcerned as possible, and leaning back against her car.

Her heart began to thump. Loudly.

He wasn’t her type at all. Her type was clean-shaven, their eyes didn’t hold a sardonic gleam under quizzical eyebrows and look as if they were either laughing at you or criticising you. Her usual type didn’t wear their dark hair an inch too long and completely unstyled and walk around in old mud-splattered jeans, although she had to admit they were worn in all the right places.

And Daisy Huntingdon-Cross had never as much as had a coffee with a man in a logoed fleece. The black garment might bear the Hawksley Castle crest but it was still a fleece.

So why had her pulse sped up, heat pooling in the pit of her stomach? Daisy allowed the car to take more of her weight, grateful for its support.

‘Come back inside, we haven’t finished talking yet.’ It wasn’t a request.

The heat melted away, replaced by a growing indignation. Daisy straightened up, folding her arms. ‘We haven’t started talking. I gave you an hour.’

‘I know.’ She had been hoping for penitent but he was totally matter-of-fact. ‘I think better outside.’

‘And?’ Daisy wanted to grab the word back the second she uttered it. It sounded as if she had been on tenterhooks waiting for him to proclaim her fate. The kernel of truth in that thought made her squirm.

He ran a hand through his hair. The gesture was unexpectedly boyish and uncertain. ‘This would be easier if we just went back inside.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘You think better outside.’

He smiled at that, his whole expression lightening. It changed him completely, the eyes softer, the slightly harsh expression warmer.

‘Yes. But do you?’

‘Me?’

‘I have a proposition for you and you need to be thinking clearly. Are you?’

No. No, she wasn’t. Daisy wasn’t sure she’d had a clear thought since she had accepted that first glass of champagne, had hotly defended her livelihood as her rescuer had quizzed and teased her and had found herself laughing, absurdly delighted as the stern expression had melted into something altogether different.

But she wasn’t going to admit that. Not to him, barely to herself.

‘Completely clearly.’

He looked sceptical but nodded. ‘Then, Daisy, I think you should marry me.’


CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_df903a1d-cbd6-5d26-885d-f3565638a191)

SEB DIDN’T EXACTLY expect Daisy to throw herself at his feet in gratitude, not really. And it would have made him uncomfortable if she had. But he was expecting that she would be touched by his proposal. Grateful even.

The incredulous laugh that bubbled out of that rather enchanting mouth was, therefore, a bit of a shock. Almost a blow—not to his heart, obviously, but, he realised with a painful jolt of self-awareness, to his ego. ‘Are we in a regency novel? Seb, you haven’t besmirched my honour. There’s no need to do the honourable thing.’

The emphasis on the last phrase was scathing. And misplaced. There was every need. ‘So why did you come here? I thought you wanted my help. Or are you after money? Is that it?’

Maybe the whole situation was some kind of clever entrapment. His hands curled into fists and he inhaled, long and deep, trying not to let the burgeoning anger show on his face.

‘Of course not.’ Her indignation was convincing and the tightness in his chest eased a little. ‘I thought you should know first, that was all. I didn’t come here for money or marriage or anything.’

‘I see, you’re planning to do this alone. And you want me to what? Pop over on a Sunday and take the baby to the park? Sleepovers once a month?’ Seb could hear the scathing scorn punctuating each of his words and Daisy paled, taking a nervous step away, her hand fumbling for the car handle.

‘I haven’t really thought that far ahead.’

Seb took another deep breath, doing his best to sound reasonable as he grabbed the slight advantage. ‘You work what? Fifteen hours a day at weekends? Not just weekends. People get married every day of the week now. What are you going to do for childcare?’

‘I’ll work something out.’ The words were defiant but her eyes were troubled as she twisted her hand around the handle, her knuckles white with tension.

He put as much conviction into his voice as possible. ‘You don’t need to. Marry me.’

Her eyes were wide with confusion. ‘Why? Why on earth would you want to marry someone you barely know? Why would I agree to something so crazy?’

Seb gestured, a wide encompassing sweep of his arm taking in the lake, the woods and fields, the castle proudly overshadowing the landscape. ‘Because that baby is my heir.’

Daisy stared at him. ‘What?’

‘The baby is my heir,’ he repeated. ‘Our baby. To Hawksley.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. What has the castle got to do with the baby?’

‘Not just the castle, the estate, the title, everything.’

‘But—’ she shook her head stubbornly ‘—you’re the handyman, aren’t you? You had a shovel and a fleece and that office.’

‘The handyman?’ He could see her point. If only his colleagues could see him now, it was all a long way from his quiet office tucked away in a corner of an Oxford college. ‘In a way I guess I am—owner, handyman, manager, event-booker—running the estate is a hands-on job nowadays.’

‘So that makes you what? A knight?’

‘An earl. The Earl of Holgate.’

‘An earl?’ She laughed, slightly hysterically. ‘Is this some kind of joke? Is there a camera recording this?’ She twisted around, checking the fields behind them.

‘My parents died six months ago. I inherited the castle then.’ The castle and a huge amount of debt but there was no need to mention that right away. She was skittish enough as it was.

‘You’re being serious?’ He could see realisation dawning, the understanding in her widened eyes even as she stubbornly shook her head. ‘Titles don’t mean anything, not any more.’

‘They do to me, to the estate. Look, Daisy, you came here because you knew it was the right thing to do. Well, marrying me is the right thing to do. That baby could be the next Earl of Holgate. You want to deny him that right? Illegitimate children are barred from inheriting.’

‘The baby could be a girl.’ She wasn’t giving in easily.

‘It doesn’t matter, with the royal line of succession no longer male primogeniture there’s every chance the rest of the aristocracy will fall into line.’ He held his hand out, coaxing. ‘Daisy, come back inside, let’s talk about this sensibly.’

She didn’t answer for a long moment and he could sense her quivering, desperate need to run. He didn’t move, just waited, hand held out towards her until she took a deep breath and nodded. ‘I’ll come inside. To talk about the baby. But I am not marrying you. I don’t care whether you’re an earl or a handyman. I don’t know you.’

Seb took a deep breath, relief filling his lungs. All he needed was time. Time for her to hear him out, to give him a chance to convince her. ‘Come on, then.’

Daisy pushed off the car and turned. Seb couldn’t help taking a long appreciative look at her shapely rear as she bent slightly to relock the car. The tweed shorts fitted snugly, showing off her slender curves to perfection. He tore his eyes away, hurriedly focusing on the far hedge as she straightened and turned to join him, the blue eyes alight with curiosity.

‘An earl,’ she repeated. ‘No wonder the gorgon was so reluctant to let me in.’

‘Gorgon?’ But he knew who she meant and his mouth quirked as she stared at him meaningfully. ‘I don’t think she’s actually turned anyone to stone. Not yet. Mrs Suffolk’s family have worked here for generations. She’s a little protective.’

They reached the courtyard and Daisy started to make for the back door where Mrs Suffolk still stood guard, protecting the castle against day trippers and other invaders. Seb slipped a hand through Daisy’s arm, guiding her round the side of the house and onto the sweeping driveway with its vista down to the wooded valley below.

‘Front door and a fresh start,’ he said as they reached the first step. ‘Hello, I’m Sebastian Beresford, Earl of Holgate.’

‘Sebastian Beresford?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘I know that name. You’re not an earl, you’re that historian.’

‘I’m both. Even earls have careers nowadays.’ Although how he was going to continue his academic responsibilities with running Hawksley was a problem he had yet to solve.

He held out his hand. ‘Welcome to my home.’

Daisy stared at his hand for a moment before placing her cool hand in his. ‘Daisy Huntingdon-Cross, it’s a pleasure to meet you.’

Who? There it was, that faint elusive memory sharpened into focus. ‘Huntingdon-Cross? Rick Cross and Sherry Huntingdon’s daughter?’

No wonder she looked familiar! Rock royalty on their father’s side and pure county on their mother’s, the Huntingdon-Cross sisters were as renowned for their blonde, leggy beauty as they were infamous for their lifestyle. Each of them had been splashed across the tabloids at some point in their varied careers—and their parents were legends; rich, talented and famously in love.

Seb’s heart began to pound, painfully thumping against his chest, the breath knocked from his lungs in one blow. This was not the plan, the quiet, businesslike, private union he intended.

This was trouble.

If he married this girl then the tabloids would have a field day. A Beresford and a Huntingdon-Cross would be front-page fodder to rival anything his parents had managed to stir up in their wake. All the work he had done to remain out of the press would be undone faster than he could say, ‘I do.’

But if he didn’t marry her then he would be disinheriting the baby. He didn’t have any choice.

* * *

Seb froze as he took her hand, recognition dawning in his eyes.

‘Huntingdon-Cross,’ he repeated and Daisy dropped his hand, recoiling from the horror in his voice.

For a moment she contemplated pretending she wasn’t one of those Huntingdon-Crosses but a cousin, a far, far removed cousin. From the north. Of course, Seb didn’t have to know that she didn’t have any northern cousins.

But what was the point? He’d find out the truth soon enough and, besides, they might be wild and infuriating and infamous but they were hers. No matter how many titles or illustrious ancestors Seb had, he had no right to sneer at her family.

Daisy channelled her mother at her grandest, injecting as much froideur into her voice as she possibly could and tilting her chin haughtily. ‘Yes. I’m the youngest. I believe the tabloids call me the former wild child if that helps.’

At this the green eyes softened and the corner of his mouth tilted; heat pooled in her stomach as her blood rushed in response. It was most unfair, the almost smile made him more human. More handsome.

More desirable.

‘The one who got expelled from school?’

He had to bring that up. Daisy’s face heated, the embarrassed flush spreading from her cheeks to her neck. He was an Oxford professor, he’d probably never met anyone who had been expelled before, let alone someone with barely an academic qualification to her name. ‘I wasn’t expelled exactly, they just asked me to leave.’

‘Sounds like expulsion to me,’ he murmured.

‘It was ridiculously strict. It was almost impossible not to get expelled. Unless you were clever and studious like my sisters, that is.’ Okay, it was eight years ago and Daisy had spent every minute of those eight years trying to prove her teachers wrong but it still rankled. Still hurt.

‘The Mother Superior was always looking for a way to rid the school of the dullards like me. That way we didn’t bring the exam average down.’ She stared at him, daring him to react. He’d probably planned for the mother of his future children to have a batch of degrees to match his. His and her mortar boards.

‘They expelled you for not being academic?’

‘Well, not exactly. They expelled me for breaking bounds and going clubbing in London. But if I’d been predicted all As it would have been a slap on the wrist at the most. At least, probably,’ she added, conscious she wasn’t being entirely fair. ‘There were pictures on the front page of The Planet and I think some of the parents were a little concerned.’

‘A little?’ Damn, the mouth was even more tilted now, the gleam intensifying in his eyes.

‘I was sixteen. Most sixteen-year-old girls aren’t locked away in stupid convent schools not even allowed to look at boys or wear anything but a hideous uniform. It isn’t natural. But once front-page news, always front-page news. They hounded me for a bit until they realised how dull I really am. But I swear I could die at one hundred after a lifetime spent sewing smocks for orphaned lepers and my epitaph would read “Former wild child, Daisy, who was expelled from exclusive girls’ school...”’

‘Probably.’ His voice was bleak again, the gleam gone as if it had never been there. ‘Come on, let’s go in. It’s getting cold and one of us has unseasonably bare legs.’

Once the sun had started to set, the warmth quickly dissipated, the evening air tinted with a sharp breeze whipping around Daisy’s legs. She shivered, the chill running up her arms and down her spine not entirely down to the cold. If she walked back into the castle everything would change.

But everything was changing anyway. Would it be easier if she didn’t have to do this alone? It wasn’t the proposal or the marriage of her dreams but maybe it was time to grow up. To accept that fairy tales were for children and that princes came in all shapes and sizes—as did earls.

Not that Seb’s shape was an issue. She slid a glance over at him, allowing her eyes to run up his legs, the worn jeans clinging to his strong thighs and the slim hips, and up his torso, his lean muscled strength hidden by the shirt and fleece. But her body remembered the way he had picked her up without flinching, the play of his muscles under her hands.

No, his shape wasn’t an issue.

But she had worked so hard to be independent. Not traded on her parents’ names, not depended on their money. Would marrying for support, albeit emotional not financial, be any different from accepting it from her family?

At least she knew they loved her. A marriage without love wasn’t to be considered. Not for her. She needed to make that clear so that they could move on and decide what was best for the baby.

* * *

‘Where’s the cook? The faithful retainers? The maids’ bobbing curtsies?’ Daisy expected that they would return to the library but instead Seb had led her through the baize doors and back through the tangle of passages to the kitchen. She would need a ball of thread to find her way back.

The whole house was a restoration project waiting to happen and the kitchen no exception but Daisy quite liked the old wooden cabinets, the ancient Aga and Monty slumped in front of it with his tail beating a steady rhythm on the flagstone floor. It didn’t take much imagination to see the ghosts of small scullery maids, scuttling out into the adjoining utility room, an apple-cheeked cook rolling out pastry on the marbled worktops. Automatically she framed it, her mind selecting the right filter and the focal point of the shot.

Any of Daisy’s friends would strip out the cabinets, install islands and breakfast bars and folding doors opening out into the courtyard—undoubtedly creating something stunning. And yet the kitchen would lose its heart, its distinctive soul.

Seb gestured to a low chair by the Aga. ‘Do you want to sit there? It’s the warmest spot in the room. No, there’s no one else, just me. A cleaner comes in daily but I live alone.’ He had opened a door that led to a pantry bigger than Daisy’s entire kitchen. ‘Are you vegetarian?’

‘For a term in Year Eleven.’

‘Good. Anything you...erm...really want to eat?’ He sounded flustered and, as realisation dawned, her cheeks heated in tandem with his. It was going to be uncomfortable if neither of them could mention the pregnancy without embarrassment.

‘Oh! You mean cravings? No, at least, not yet. But if I get a need for beetroot and coal risotto I’ll make sure you’re the first to know.’

The green eyes flashed. ‘You do that.’

Daisy didn’t want to admit it, even to herself, but she was tired. It had been a long week, excitement mixing with shock, happiness with worry and sleep had been elusive. It was soothing leaning back in the chair, the warmth from the Aga penetrating her bones. Monty rested his head on her feet as she watched Seb expertly chopping onions and grilling steaks.

‘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 (#ulink_8edea43b-5c17-593d-bd8f-2a8a1d5a75d4)

‘HI.’

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.’





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