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.
