by Bay, Louise
I felt a little smug that not only did I know Badsley House had been sold, but I’d also met the new owner. But I was a little surprised Freida knew as she was always the last to hear about village gossip.
I shrugged and poured myself a glass of orange juice from the fridge—I wasn’t about to confess that I’d met Logan Steele because then the tables would turn and I’d be the one who was questioned. No, I wanted to hear what people already knew about my handsome neighbor. Did he have a girlfriend? Was I blinded by mud or did everyone think he was as good-looking as I did? And I wanted to know why they thought he’d be flying a helicopter over the estate.
“Some city people bought it, apparently.”
“City people moved to the country?” I asked hopefully as I collapsed into one of the free kitchen chairs, watching the women of the Woolton W.I. and their makeshift assembly line of strawberry and rhubarb jam-making.
Mrs. Lonsdale snorted. “If you count being here on a Saturday and Sunday moving.”
My shoulders dropped and the excitement I’d felt on my walk home faded as quickly as birds chased away by the bark of a dog. So Logan Steele wasn’t really moving in at all. I knew he didn’t look like he was the country type. “Weekenders?” The last people I wanted in Badsley House were those who had more money than sense, took no part in village life and went back to their penthouses on Sunday evening. People like that sucked the life out of a village. Badsley House needed someone who was going to spend money in the shops, come to the village fête, and carry on the local traditions. Weekenders got upset by the smell of cow dung and thought owning a Barbour jacket and a Land Rover made them country people.
I knew Logan Steele had been too good to be true.
“He might be persuaded to stay for longer than the weekend if he has reason to. I’ve heard he’s handsome,” Freida said.
Whoever he was, someone needed to tell him he couldn’t fly over Woolton Hall.
“And single,” Freida offered, casting me a look.
“And in his early thirties,” Aurora said with a wink as she added an endless stream of sugar into one of the large saucepans.
“You knew about this and didn’t tell me?” I asked her. Aurora and I told each other everything.
“I just found out,” she replied.
“I heard that they’ve kept Mr. Fawsley on, so hopefully they’ll maintain the garden.” Freida knocked her wooden spoon on the side of the pan.
Despite being irritated that I didn’t have the scoop on Badsley House having been bought—by weekenders no less—I took some solace that Logan hadn’t fired the gardener. Mr. Fawsley’d devoted his life to the place. His daughter had been married in the grounds.
“It was such a shame that place had to be sold,” I sighed. Mrs. Brookely had died just a few months ago, and her family had been forced to sell the place in order to pay the inheritance tax. The place was beautiful. Smaller than Woolton Hall, obviously, but still substantial, with some surrounding woods that I loved riding through.
“But new life in a village can be a good thing. Especially for a young family,” Mrs. Lonsdale said.
“He’ll have to find a wife first,” Freida said.
So, he was single at least. But that didn’t help the fact that he wouldn’t be at the house full-time. And he was happy to disturb our peaceful existence with his helicopter.
“Okay, out with it,” Mrs. Lonsdale said before I had to. “How are you the source of all this information? I’m usually the one telling you everything.”
Freida shrugged, keeping her eyes fixed on the chopping board as she tried, unsuccessfully, to stop the corners of her mouth from twitching. “This knife is blunting,” she said.
“Freida,” I said, taking the knife from her and heading toward the sink to wash it. “Tell us your source.”
She let out an exasperated sigh and plonked down her rhubarb. “If you must know, my daughter’s best friend’s grandmother’s best friend’s grandson is the new owner.”
I frowned, trying to follow that tangled thread. “Who?” I mouthed at Aurora, but she just shook her head. I pulled out the knife sharpener from the second drawer down and set about my task.
“So, what do we know about him? What does he do for a living? New money, no doubt,” Mrs. Lonsdale said.
“He was profiled in The Times this week,” Freida said. “I might have a copy in my bag.” There was no might about it. She’d just been waiting for the right moment.
“He’s very good-looking.” Freida pulled out the paper and handed it to me, casting me a pointed look. There were disadvantages to having known these women my whole life—they all felt as if they had a stake in my love life. “Handsome. Charming. And very successful in business.”
I abandoned the knife sharpening and took a seat, unfolding the paper.
“Page eighteen,” Freida said.
I turned the pages and saw the sharp jaw and twinkling eyes of Logan Steele staring out at me. He had the kind of face that was difficult to turn away from. As I began to read, I glanced up at Freida. The article set out how Logan was the most successful of a number of corporate titans who, the journalist reported, made their money by destroying businesses. I’d expected it to be a super-flattering puff piece, but it was anything but. The article argued that Logan’s approach to business was stifling innovation, that he only cared about profit and that his methods would eventually lead to a shrinking economy if people followed his lead. “This says that he’s destroying British industry. Closing down businesses and putting people out of jobs,” I said. “It paints him as quite the villain.”
“Yes, yes, but you know what these papers are like. You can’t believe everything you read,” Freida said. “And he’s very good-looking in the photograph. And the article says how rich he is.”
Why did Freida think I could be interested in a man, even if he was wealthy and handsome, if his whole focus in business was destruction? A man’s values were more important to me than a pretty face.
“And I did hear that in person he’s incredibly charming.”
“Not that charming, if he’s flying so low that if I’d been outside my hair would be several centimeters shorter,” I replied, placing the paper on the side and picking up the knife again to sharpen it.
“You’ve got to get with the times,” Freida said. “This is how rich people travel these days.”
I winced at the sound of steel against steel. “My brother is both rich and occasionally lacking in charm, but he wouldn’t dare turn up to Woolton in a helicopter.”
I fixed Aurora with a glare that said that she’d be wearing the saucepan of rhubarb and sugar if she told the room that Ryder had once suggested he take a helicopter from the airfield to Woolton. Luckily for me, our grandfather had said no and Ryder hadn’t reopened the debate since my grandfather’s death. I might worship my brother and there was little he could do that would irritate me, but that was a line in the sand for me.
“Hopefully, the helicopter is an occasional thing,” Mrs. Lonsdale said. “It would be very disruptive if that’s how he travels regularly.”
“I hope he doesn’t turn out to be like the last people who bought a weekend place in Woolton.” I paused, not wanting to be drowned out by the collective groan that followed. “Exactly,” I said. “The Thompsons’ extension took three years of scaffolding, drilling, skips and builders swearing like sailors. For what? So they could turn around and sell the place at a profit.”
Alice Thompson had charmed us all at first. She’d joined the W.I. and explained how the extension to her newly acquired village cottage was needed to accommodate her growing family. Then as soon as her planning application had been granted, we’d been dropped like proverbial hot bricks and she’d headed back to her London home, leaving us to put up with building works, clogging up the high street and disturbing the neighbors for three long years. For the Thompsons, buying a property in Woolton had been a financial investment. For me, the investment in Woolton was all e
motional.
“Not everyone is going to be like the Thompsons,” Mrs. Lonsdale said, lugging over another huge pan and placing it onto the table.
“What about that couple who bought the old rectory for weekends? The Foleys,” I said. Surely they couldn’t have forgotten the police cars in the middle of the night and Mr. Foley being arrested for beating the crap out of his wife when he was drunk as a skunk?
“That was years ago,” Daphne said. “Not everyone who grew up somewhere other than Woolton is bad, Darcy. And you’ll have nothing left of that knife if you keep sharpening it.”
“I know, but that doesn’t mean we should trust them right away either.” For a few minutes, I’d been charmed by the new owner. Taken in by his handsome face and warm smile. And now I felt like an idiot.
“Do you suppose the new owner will allow us to see the garden?” Daphne asked. “That would be a good gauge of how well our handsome new neighbor will settle in.” Mrs. Brookely used to let any local in to visit. In fact, the rose garden that sat behind Woolton Hall beyond the croquet field had been planted after my grandmother had seen the rose garden at Badsley House. I hoped it would continue to provide inspiration to the village.
“Perhaps you could ask him when you visit, Darcy,” Freida said.
“Visit?” I asked, rinsing the knife under the hot water before drying and passing it back over.
“To welcome him to the village, of course. You could take some of this jam if you like,” Mrs. Lonsdale said.
After this morning’s debacle and embarrassment, and the article I just read, the last thing I wanted to do was turn up on Logan Steele’s doorstep. Apart from anything else, he might think that I was…interested in him. Romantically. He probably had every woman he met eating out of the palm of his hand. But not me. I’d been briefly taken in by him this morning, but I was over it. The article had ensured that. “There is no way I’d impose on him like that. And given he’s used to city life, I’m sure he’d find it quite odd.”
“It’s what your grandparents always did for any newcomers,” Mrs. Lonsdale said.
I sighed. She knew my weak spots. I loved to uphold the traditions and history of the village—keep the place as special as it always had been—and honor the memory of my grandparents. But there was no way I was turning up on Logan Steele’s doorstep with a pot of jam.
“It would be a perfect match, you know. A rich, handsome earl and a duke’s granddaughter,” Freida said, clearly having given up on not-so-subtle hints. “This house needs more life in it.”
“An earl?” Mrs. Lonsdale said. “It doesn’t mention it in the article.”
“No, he doesn’t use the title anymore, for some reason. But if you ask me it seems like fate, Darcy. An earl moves in next door to you—that can’t be coincidence,” Freida said.
“Titles don’t mean anything these days,” I said, ignoring the six pairs of eyes on me as I stood and tipped a large pan toward Freida’s board. She slid in the chopped rhubarb. “It’s the person not the position that’s important.” I carried the saucepan to the sink. “Can’t we talk about Aurora’s love life?” Every W.I. meeting I held at Woolton seemed to end in a discussion about my love life. Now that my ever-single brother had finally married, it seemed the grandfather clock in the hallway got louder with every passing day, chanting sin-gle, sin-gle, sin-gle.
“I’ve decided I need someone foreign. Greek maybe. Or American,” Aurora sighed.
“Since when?” I asked.
Like some Tennyson character, she stared wistfully into space, and I decided not to question her.
“That reminds me,” I said. “When Ryder, Scarlett and their little rascals come next month, we’re going to start planning the summer garden party. So, any ideas, let me know.”
“And you’ll go to Badsley this week?” Freida asked.
I sighed. “No, why would I?”
“We’ll leave you an extra pot of jam,” Mrs. Lonsdale said. “That will be a nice welcome. And you might take some roses—they’re looking beautiful, Darcy. You can tell him the story about how your grandmother planted them because of the roses at Badsley.”
These women didn’t know how to take no for an answer.
I’d sooner take a pitchfork than a selection of my grandmother’s roses. At least that way I could threaten to slice and dice the guy if he flew a helicopter over Woolton again. As much as I might have admired his outside earlier today, his ethics and attitude were much more important to me. I’d devoted my life to Woolton Hall and the traditions of our village, and I’d do whatever it took to ensure Badsley House’s new owner didn’t disrupt any of that.
Chapter Four
Logan
I’d finally done it. At last, my grandmother was back in the home she’d grown up in. The house that she’d given up for me. I was finally able to repay her sacrifice in a small way.
Holding a tray of tea, I opened the French doors with my elbow and stepped out onto the terrace. I’d spent the last few days working from home while we got settled in our new house, which meant afternoon tea on a Wednesday was part of my day when ordinarily the afternoon would pass in a blur of conference calls, meetings and briefings.
“There you are. I thought you’d got lost,” my grandmother said as I placed the tray down in front of her.
“I’m still finding my way around.” My grandmother may have grown up in a place like this, but I hadn’t. The two of us had lived in a two-bedroom terraced house when I was growing up. Technically, I might be a member of the British aristocracy, but I’d learned quickly that titles didn’t provide anything I needed growing up. And they absolutely were no guarantee of financial success—that was all down to hard work and focus.
I took a seat facing the neatly manicured gardens. The land immediately surrounding the house was divided into various sections—a walled area full of herbs and vegetables just outside the kitchen, one to the west that was nothing but roses, and three additional sections that—according to the gardener—were divided by color, although it was too early in the year to see. The terrace overlooked steps down to a pond and various raised flowerbeds. I could see why my grandmother had loved this place.
“It’s a huge house. I’d forgotten quite how big. You really didn’t need to do this,” she said, shaking her head. “You know I was perfectly happy at my little bungalow.”
“I wanted to do this.” More than wanted, I’d needed to do this.
My grandmother sighed and patted my hand. “It was never your mistake to fix.”
“This house was yours and was taken from you. I’m just giving it back—making things right for you in the way that you always made things right for me.” I placed the tea strainer over the rim of her porcelain cup and poured her a strong cup of oolong. “Anyway, you always told me that a man’s greatest strength was his ability to adapt—it will feel like home in no time.” I added a dash of milk to her cup but kept mine black.
“Yes, but I meant to hardship,” she replied.
She’d given up this place for me but never complained, never even mentioned it.
“It works both ways, Granny.” I’d vowed to ensure that one day she’d get back the gardens she used to describe in my bedtime stories as a child. It wasn’t until I was older, looking through an old family photo album, that I realized how much she’d missed them. Things had come full circle now. She was back in the place she’d called home for so many years. I’d expected a sense of victory, but it was more a calming realization of this was how things were meant to be.
She squeezed my hand. “It’s still a beautiful house and the gardens are no less spectacular all these years later.” She let me go and picked up her tea. “We’re lucky Mr. Fawsley agreed to stay on.” The previous owner’s gardener had been delighted when I’d asked him. He clearly enjoyed his work.
“Have you met any other neighbors?” I asked, thinking back to the mud-soaked girl I’d met on Sunday. She’d said she was local.
“No, but
it’s early days, and as you know, I can’t get out much.”
“I saw a farm shop at the far end of the village. I’ll take you down later in the week if you want.”
“That’s a nice idea, but you can’t spend all your time with me. I want you to make friends around here, you hear me?”
I chuckled. “Yes, Granny. In fact, I ran into a woman when I was out walking around the boundary on Sunday.”
“Was she a neighbor?”
“I think so. She seemed to know about the area.”
“Was she friendly?”
She hadn’t been unfriendly but she hadn’t been as pleased to see me as I might have expected. “I think she was a little distracted. Her horse bolted when I approached and she fell face first into the mud.”
“Oh dear. This is a very different life to the one you have in London. Are you sure you’re ready?”
My grandmother was right. I’d never had to hold a conversation with someone who was dripping in mud—apart from that one time in Vegas…That night had ended messily, but there hadn’t been much conversation involved. Darcy had the body for a little mud-wrestling, but I wasn’t sure she’d have the inclination. “I’ll still be in London most of the week. I think I can handle a little mud at the weekend.”
“Was she pretty?”
I paused, remembering her sodden hair and the way she’d refused my offer of my scarf to wipe the rivers of muddy water that ran down her face. “I guess.” There was no doubt Darcy was pretty—beautiful, even—with glossy brown hair that I’d spotted before she fell, deep brown and a great body. But she wasn’t my type. She was a lot shorter than the women I usually fucked. With a bloom to her cheeks and pale skin, she looked like the archetypal English rose. Her body, while phenomenal, wasn’t the usual gym-fit type I’d go for when looking for a girl for the night. She was softer, her arse a little bigger. And she seemed less into me than I was used to.
But there had been something about her that drew me in and had me wanting our conversation to continue. I wasn’t sure if it was the unfamiliarity of her, or something deeper that had me hoping I would see her again and have the chance to…I wasn’t sure what. Touch her? Talk to her some more? Watch as her warm smile took over her face and warmed everything in its orbit?
