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
