to Harold.’
Harold was Will’s weasel of a cousin. Her mind raced. Will didn’t need the money—he was a squillionaire in his own right. He’d never shown the least interest in inheriting the estate, but... She lowered her cutlery. ‘What about Carol Ann?’
‘If Harold inherits there’ll be no place for Carol Ann at Ashbarrow Castle.’
But...that was Carol Ann’s home! Sophie might not know much about Will’s life beyond what Peter had told her, and the odd snippet Will occasionally let slip, but she knew he took his responsibility for Carol Ann seriously. She knew how much he loved her. And she knew Carol Ann’s entire sense of security was tied to Ashbarrow Castle. She knew because Will had tried moving her to London to live with him and it had been an absolute disaster. Carol Ann had grieved so hard for her home that she’d fallen ill.
Talk about being in a bind. ‘What are you going to do?’
He shook his head, remaining silent.
His earlier out-of-character snark made sudden sense. ‘Maybe he’s bluffing.’
‘Not this time.’
Her stomach clenched. Will’s parents’ marriage had been fraught, ugly...and in the end they’d destroyed each other. All in the glare of the public spotlight. She’d figured that was why he’d sworn never to marry. Ever. She’d never met anyone so against the institution. She rubbed a hand across her chest. No wonder he looked so haunted.
Keep things light, she counselled, because he looked ready to snap and she was one of the burdens weighing him down. She lifted a bite of food to her lips, chewed and swallowed. And then she sent him a grin that made him blink. ‘I’d marry you for a million pounds, Will.’
He stared at her for a long moment. ‘And what would you do with a million pounds?’
She could see in his eyes what he thought she’d do—fritter it away on clothes and parties. She gave up being polite and leaned her elbows on the table. ‘Create a new life for myself. A million pounds would let me turn everything around.’ It would pay for Carla’s treatment. It would let her get the stables up and running so that when Carla was better she’d have a job to come out to.
He leaned towards her, his eyes oddly intent. ‘Specifics, please.’
* * *
It was the first time in two years that Will had seen anything approaching Sophie’s old spark fire through her.
Every time he saw her she’d lost more weight, had grown paler, had become...less.
He’d taken one look at her today and had wanted to punch something.
But now...
She stared at him with those perfect blue eyes—the only part of her that hadn’t faded—and blinked. ‘Specifics?’
‘How would you specifically turn your life around with this hypothetical million pounds?’
Her chin wavered between jutting up and angling down. He found himself holding his breath. Would she explain what she meant...or would she wave it all away with a laugh and descend into inanity as usual?
Her chin remained firmly at a midpoint, and he didn’t know what that meant. Mind you, he’d never been brilliant at deciphering what went on in that puzzling head of hers. All he knew was that when Peter had died, he seemed to have taken a part of Sophie with him.
And it now seemed that she was incapable of reclaiming it. Or refused to reclaim it. He wasn’t sure which.
He knew only what he’d promised Peter—that he’d keep an eye on Sophie—but today he’d had to face the fact that his and Sophie’s lunch and coffee dates were doing her more harm than good.
A hand reached inside his chest and squeezed. He’d made her cry. Well done! He’d wanted to ease her pain, not add to it. But then, just for a moment, there’d been that spark. As if she’d had a vision of something better.
He wanted to see that spark again. He wanted to help her reclaim the part of herself she’d lost. He wanted to do it for Peter, because of the promise he’d made. But he wanted to do it for Sophie’s sake too.
She speared a bean on the end of her fork—delicately because, whatever else you wanted to say about Sophie, she had an innate grace—and ate it. She’d eaten at least half of her meal so far. That in itself was cause for celebration.
‘You really want to know?’
‘I really want to know.’ He knew he must be coming across as intense, but he couldn’t help it.
‘Well... The first thing I’d do is get out of the city.’
Why? Because of her father? ‘I thought you loved London.’
‘I do, but it’s not exactly been good for me, has it? For the last two years I’ve thrown myself into the party scene trying to forget. It hasn’t worked. All I’ve done is drunk too much champagne, had too many indiscreet photos snapped by the press and stumbled so late into my job so many times that they had no choice but to let me go.’
Until a month ago she’d worked at an art gallery in the West End.
Her fork made a circle in the air. ‘Of course, the upside is all of that has annoyed my father no end, so...’
She and Lord Collingford had always had a fraught relationship. It was worse now that Peter was no longer around to play peacemaker.
‘But it needs to stop.’ She stabbed another bean. ‘Enough is enough.’
Her self-awareness surprised him, though he wasn’t sure why. She’d never been stupid just...wilful.
‘Where would you go?’
‘Cornwall.’
His jaw dropped and for the briefest moment she grinned, as if delighted by his surprise. That spark definitely lurked in the backs of her eyes. What had brought it back?
‘My mother’s mother left me a bit of land that borders Bodmin Moor. It’s not much...but it has a run-down stables and I thought...’ She trailed off with a shrug.
He had to fight the urge to lean in towards her. ‘You’re riding again?’ It had been her enduring passion since he’d met her as a pudgy eleven-year-old.
‘I never stopped riding, Will.’
She hadn’t?
‘After Peter died I thought I should give it up. It felt wrong to still enjoy anything.’
He knew what she meant, but... ‘He wouldn’t have wanted you to.’
She stared down at her plate. Please don’t cry again.
A moment later she lifted her chin and sent him a game smile. ‘I haven’t been riding as much these past couple of years as I normally would. Riding and hangovers don’t mix.’
She
