Rupert, I’ve missed you,’ his mum said with a smile. ‘Now,’ she added briskly as they opened their menus, ‘what shall we have for lunch?’
‘We’re losing money,’ Liam Locksley admitted, his expression glum as Joss Devlin led one of the Cotswold sheep into the shearing shed. ‘It costs more to shear the sheep than we make back in profit on the fleece.’
‘Well, if it’s profit you want,’ Joss said over the hum of the shearers, ‘breed for the meat, not the wool. Cotswold mutton’s the best – even those who don’t like lamb, love it.’
Julia Allchurch wrinkled her pretty nose. ‘And kill all those darling sheep to make roasts and lamb sausages?’ She looked at Liam in dismay. ‘You mustn’t.’
‘They’re sheep, Julia, not pets.’ Liam smiled at her indulgently. ‘You grew up in Warwickshire, just like Joss. You know not to get attached to the animals.’
‘I do,’ she sighed, ‘but I can’t help it. And we only have cattle. Cows are so much less adorable than sheep.’
As she wielded the clippers and sheared the ewe, seventeen-year-old Joss resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Why were boys always so taken in by the prim, ooh-don’t-hurt-the-cute-little-lambs type of girl? She’d never understood it.
Joss sighed. Although the Locksleys had taken her in after her mother died, and although she’d lived at Mansfield since she was six, Joss wasn’t one of them, and she never would be.
She glanced over at Liam as she finished and handed off the shorn sheep’s halter to her brother Rory.
Liam was completely smitten with Julia Allchurch. Too bad his mum was pushing him to marry that awful Bibi Matchington-Alcester. It was plain enough that Liam didn’t love her.
But Bibi was gorgeous, Joss had to admit, in that long-legged, posh-girl way of hers.
Of course – Joss looked down with misgivings at her overalls and moccasins – she wasn’t very appealing at the moment. Julia, on the other hand, was effortlessly perfect. Her hair was dark and glossy, her skin flawless and blooming with health—
Rory called out impatiently, ‘Are you planning on throwing me that fleece anytime today, Joss?’
‘Sorry.’ She tossed the newly shorn fleece over to Rory so he could skirt it, making sure the wool was free of brambles or any other imperfections before he rolled it up, and went to fetch the next sheep from the pen.
‘Who owns the red Maserati?’ Julia asked Liam later that morning. ‘I couldn’t help but notice it when I came over.’
‘It’s my brother’s.’ Liam offered nothing further.
‘Your brother’s?’ Julia echoed, surprised. ‘Do you mean to say Rupert’s come back to Mansfield Hall after eleven years?’
Liam didn’t answer, but a scowl descended on his face and he stalked out of the shed.
Julia, her own face set in determination, followed him and caught at his arm. ‘Liam – tell me what’s going on.’
‘There’s nothing to tell, Julia. He was gone; now he’s back. End of story.’ He made his way over to the low stone wall that ran the length of the drive and sat down.
She sat next to him. ‘But why did he decide to come back? He’s a rock star now, isn’t he? Has he made peace with your father? When can I meet him?’
‘Shit, Julia!’ Liam snapped. ‘You ask more questions than a bloody reporter! I don’t know why he came back. And no, he hasn’t made peace with dad – in fact, quite the opposite. Just because he’s Dominic Heath, he thinks he can swan in here and do what he likes.’
‘Well perhaps,’ Julia ventured, ‘he and your father will finally mend their fences.’
Liam snorted. ‘Don’t count on it. After all, why should he show up after all these years, offer a few words of apology, and be given Mansfield Hall, just because he’s the eldest?’
‘Well,’ Julia said reasonably, ‘as you said, he’s the eldest. He’s next in the line of succession, after all.’
‘But I’m the one who’s spent hours learning about sheep and pasture rotation, not to mention trying to find a way to make this place sustain itself,’ Liam snapped. ‘I’ve poured everything into Mansfield. And now Rupert’s come to take it all away, and he doesn’t even know – or care – about any of it.’
‘Poor Liam.’ Julia put her arms round him and held him close. ‘It really isn’t fair, is it?’
Liam revelled in the feel of Julia’s slender arms around him, and the scent of her hair against his face, and he scarcely dared to breathe. He loved Julia Allchurch, desperately and completely; but she was oblivious.
And unless he could figure a way out of it, he’d end up married to Bibi Matchington-Alcester, the Heiress from Hell, very soon.
‘No,’ he agreed after a moment, relishing Julia’s proximity. ‘It’s not fair at all.’
‘Your lunch, mesdames et monsieur.’
As the waiter set down their plates with a flourish, Lady Mary leaned forward. ‘Rupert, there’s something we need to discuss.’
He bit back a groan and grabbed his glass of Sancerre. After a long, fortifying sip, he said, ‘Are you sure it’s something we can talk about in front of Gemma?’
‘Natalie made a suggestion last night…a very good one, actually. The more thought I’ve given it, the more I think it’s a brilliant idea.’
Dominic popped a piece of roast beef in his mouth. ‘And what’s Nat’s brilliant idea? Do enlighten me.’
‘Don’t speak with your mouth open, Rupert,’ Lady Mary scolded him. ‘Manners still matter. Well, everything’s contingent on getting the proper licence from the council, of course, and persuading your father to agree to the idea—’
‘You can forget it, then,’ Dominic muttered.
‘–but once those requirements are met, Natalie would very much like to hold her wedding reception at Mansfield Hall.’
‘Wedding reception?’ Dominic all but choked on his beef and had to be slapped on the back, rather forcefully, by Gemma. ‘At Mansfield?’
Lady Mary nodded as she speared a piece of lobster. ‘Yes, she wants to marry Rhys Gordon, and Mansfield Hall is her venue of choice.’ She paused. ‘Well? What do you think, darling?’
‘What do I think? I think it’s a bloody mistake, that’s what I think!’ Dominic erupted. ‘If Nat wants to ruin her life by marrying that foul-mouthed twat, let her. But she’s bloody well not doing it at Mansfield bloody Hall!’
And with that, he thrust his chair violently back and stormed out of the dining room.
After
