back, ready to resume filming.
‘I’d better get back home,’ she said, and touched Harry’s arm. ‘Will you come to Daddy’s garden party next Sunday? He’d love to see you; it’s been ages.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘He’s making strawberry scones especially for the occasion.’
Harry pretend-groaned. ‘Thanks for the warning. Your father’s scones are legendary here in South Devon.’
‘Yes, they are,’ Lizzy agreed, ‘and for all the wrong reasons. But I won’t tell him if you won’t.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘See you on Sunday, then? I’ll send an invitation so you don’t forget.’
‘Oh, I expect I’ll see you before that. I’ve asked Emma to the Longbourne regatta next Saturday.’
‘Oh? And did she say yes?’
‘She did. I may actually succeed in prying her away from your father for an entire day.’
Emma, the elder of Lizzy’s two sisters, managed the Bennet household and prepared most of the family’s meals.
Although Mr Bennet had no real need of a housekeeper, he had resigned himself to Emma’s superior will, hiding himself away at every opportunity in his study, and leaving his firstborn daughter to manage the day-to-day running of the household.
‘Good,’ Lizzy said. ‘Perhaps you’ll stay to dinner afterwards? And don’t worry,’ she hastened to add, ‘I’m cooking, not Daddy.’
‘In that case,’ Harry assured her with a grin, ‘I’ll be there.’
‘It’s like something out of a film,’ Holly James breathed as the hire car proceeded down a lengthy, tree-lined drive and emerged from the shade and into the sunshine.
Cleremont sprawled before them on a knoll overlooking gently rolling hills, lush now with early summer greenery. Holly lowered her window and thrust her head out to get a better look, breathing in the scent of roses and honeysuckle and listening to the sound of silence, and felt as if the heat and traffic of London they’d so recently left behind was nothing more than a bad memory.
Slightly below and to the left of the house she glimpsed a folly, and a lake with swans gliding serenely on the surface. Cleremont was enormous and had doubtless seen a thousand sunrises and as many sunsets; the late afternoon sun now warmed and softened the Jacobean façade.
‘It’s let out to film companies on a regular basis,’ Hugh Darcy remarked as he negotiated a rut in the drive. ‘My parents and brother live in a small section of the house during production. The rest is taken over by shouty directors and cables and lights, and actors with overinflated egos.’
‘Oh, you mean like Ciaran?’ she joked. Instantly she wished she hadn’t, when she saw his jaw tighten and his smile fade at the mention of the film star. Hugh’s was such a handsome, serious, noble face that she couldn’t bear him to mar it with a frown.
‘Yes, exactly.’ As the Mercedes drew closer to the house, he nodded in the direction of sound and equipment trucks parked on a gravelled side lot. ‘There’s a production on now. My mother abhors having them here. She throws a huge cocktail party the instant they leave and invites everyone in South Devon over to celebrate.’
‘And when the filming ends… what then? Do your family rattle around in this ginormous place by themselves?’ Holly asked as Hugh brought the car to a stop before a sweep of stone steps that led to the entrance.
‘No.’ He opened his door. ‘There’s an estate cottage adjoining the property, the dower house. They stay there.’
‘Dower house?’ Holly echoed, staring up at the enormous stone façade before her with a sinking sensation. What, exactly, she wondered, had she got herself into?
‘It’s where the lady of the house goes to live when her son – the heir – marries and brings his bride home to Cleremont. As I’ll do with you, eventually,’ he added, and leaned across the seat to kiss her.
Holly kissed him back and threaded her fingers into his thick, dark hair, then drew reluctantly away. ‘Do you mean to say that we’ll live here, you and I, after we’re married?’
‘Not straight away, no. We’ll live in London, I expect, until…’ He paused. ‘Until such time as my father passes on, at which point I inherit the title, and then this great pile of stone becomes my responsibility.’
She eyed him. ‘You don’t sound too happy about that.’
‘Of course it’s not something I like to dwell on, my father’s death,’ he said, ‘nor am I enamoured with the idea of taking on ownership of this place.’ He frowned. ‘Owning a house like Cleremont is a huge responsibility. It’s like having a relative with an outstretched hand and an unrelenting need for cash. You want to say “no, enough”, but you can’t. Duty compels you to find a way forward, to keep the roof repaired and the salaries paid and the gardens maintained, as well as keeping the money coming in to pay for it all.’
‘What about location fees?’ Holly asked. ‘For films.’
‘They don’t pay as much as you might think,’ he said as he got out of the car. ‘As the film companies like to point out, the publicity Cleremont receives in return is invaluable.’
‘Yes, I suppose people come here in droves after seeing Cleremont on the screen,’ she agreed as her gaze swept over the imposing Jacobean façade. ‘Where is the dower house, exactly?’
‘Behind those trees, over there.’ He waved an arm to the left. ‘Grandmother lived there until she died.’ He opened the boot and began unloading their luggage. ‘Now my family stay there, unless they’re entertaining guests or hosting a hunt, so they can live normally, without the worry of tour groups or film crews or journalists seeing the reality behind the “stately home” façade.’ His smile was wry.
‘How strange it all is,’ she mused. ‘When I first met you, working at my father’s department store, I thought you were the most pompous ass I’d ever met, and you thought I was a fashion-obsessed bird-brain. Now, here we are… about to get married. Isn’t life funny?’
Before he could reply, the front doors opened and a man and woman emerged. The first thing Holly noticed was their perfect posture.
The second thing she noticed was a young man, hands thrust in his jeans pockets, standing behind them. He had ginger hair and, unlike the others, a wide and welcoming smile on his face.
‘Hugh,’ the woman exclaimed, and drew her son forward. ‘I’m so glad you decided to come home.’
Her hair was cropped into a stylish mid-length bob, and was a rich, maple syrup colour, and Holly realised where the young man behind her had got his own more gingery shade. She wore a navy voile shirt tucked into a twill skirt, and low-heeled but fashionable shoes.
Hugh’s father – for Holly assumed the elegant, lanky gentleman with grey hair in khakis and a pale pink polo shirt was Lord Darcy – clapped his son on the shoulder. ‘Welcome home, Hugh,’ he said gruffly.
‘Thank
