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.
