by Liz Fielding
‘We have date number two before we can even think about that,’ he said, in an attempt at cool amusement, but there was no disguising the rasp of sexual desire in his voice. ‘When were you thinking?’
‘Tuesday or Wednesday?’
‘Tuesday,’ he said, without checking his calendar. Whatever was on it, he’d cancel. ‘We can take the dogs for that walk. And I want to talk to Marie and her vigneron if that can be arranged,’ he said, in an effort to restore the balance a little.
‘I’ll tell her.’
* * *
‘It has been a most interesting day, Marie. Thank you.’
‘I had no idea that you were so knowledgeable about viticulture, James.’
‘I’ve been reading a lot about wine making in the last couple of weeks. Tasting with my own sommelier and the man my brother has taken on for the family hotel. They were both impressed with the character of your wine.’
‘My husband hoped to achieve grand cru. He was close, but the first heart attack took the fire from his belly,’ she said. ‘But what is your new interest?’
‘English winemakers are producing sparkling wines that, these days, are winning world-class medals.’
‘You are considering planting a vineyard? In England?’ she asked. ‘It takes many years before you can harvest a vintage.’ She lifted her hands. ‘Don’t waste your precious time talking to an old woman. Chloe wants to show you her part of the château.’
‘Madame...?’
‘Go, foolish boy. It’s on the top floor. The third door on the left.’
He climbed the stairs, tapped on the door, opened it when Chloe called out for him to come in.
She was sitting at a little desk beneath the window, the dogs curled up at her feet. She had been working on her laptop and looked up as he entered.
‘Did you enjoy your time with the vigneron?’ she asked.
‘Yes. I learned a lot.’ He looked around the room, which had been prettily furnished. ‘This is rather lovely. And the mirror looks as if it’s been there for ever,’ he said as she got up and joined him.
‘And the little blue vase looks perfect next to it. I’d very much like to give you a thank-you kiss for that. Kisses are allowed on a second date, aren’t they?’
‘Chloe...’ He wanted to hold her, kiss her, but he shook his head. ‘I’m not sure I can handle this.’
‘No more dates?’ The little crack in her voice gave him hope.
‘Being apart. We’re not kids any more, and this isn’t a game. I wanted to build something solid, from the ground up. I love you. What we have is the reason I draw breath...’
‘James...’
‘I know. You don’t want London, or a tea room, or my life. But without you, all of that is meaningless.’
‘But it was your dream, James. I can’t take that from you.’
‘If it was still my dream,’ he said, ‘I’d be there now, but something has changed at L’Étranger. I thought at first it was because Freya is now in charge of the kitchen, but it wasn’t that. The only thing that has changed is me.’ He swallowed down the boulder that was building in his throat. ‘I have become the outsider in my own life.’
‘Sweetheart...’ She put her arms around him. ‘How can I help?’
He clung to her. ‘Just tell me what you want, Chloe, what you dream about when you’re awake and the moon is shining in your window, and if I have to rattle the stars to make it happen, I’ll give it to you.’
‘This is my dream, James. The weddings, the events. I can see such possibilities. Even vintage English tea parties...’
‘Don’t tease. Just tell me that there’s a place for me in that dream?’
She leaned back so that she could look at his face, look into his eyes. ‘You’re serious? You’d move to France?’
‘I’d move to the moon if you were there. But I have to admit that France is a lot more attractive.’
‘But what about your restaurant? Your book tour? Your television appearances? Your family? You can’t just walk away.’
‘I have already begun to. As executive chef at L’Étranger I remain the hand on the tiller, but Freya runs the restaurant. If she needs me, she can pick up the phone, or we can video call, and I can spend a day in London once or twice a month. It’s only a couple of hours on the train, and I’d always be home by nightfall.’
Her smile emboldened him.
‘There’s nothing I can do about the book tour. I signed a contract and it will be an intense couple of weeks when getting home might not be possible, but I’ll never go to sleep without calling you.’
‘And television?’
‘Sally suggested I might run some masterclasses here.’
‘And get a television company to film them?’
‘She suggested it would be better to set up our own company, hire in the talent and sell the programmes we make to the networks. Cookery, craft, wedding planning...?’
She clapped a hand over her mouth. ‘That is a genius idea! The possibilities are endless...’
She flung her arms around him and this time there was no holding back and her kiss had only one destination, but even as she was backing him towards the bed he broke away.
‘Wait. Love...’
‘Really? You’re going to insist on waiting for a third date?’
‘When we’ve talked to Marie, settled the deal, you can do whatever you want with me,’ he promised.
‘Oh,’ she said, then added an uncharacteristic expletive.
‘Oh?’ He didn’t like the sound of that ‘oh’ or what had followed. ‘Oh, what?’
‘You’re too late. Marie has already found a buyer.’
‘What?’ He pulled away, dragged a hand through his hair. ‘I’m so sorry. I’m such a fool. I’ve been playing at dating when I should have been—’
‘No!’ She put her arms around him. ‘The dating has been lovely. Very frustrating, but right. We’re different people from those desperate teenagers. We needed time...’
‘We’ll find somewhere else,’ he promised. ‘France is full of châteaux. When you fall in love with one, we’ll make it our own dream.’
‘No, James.’
‘No...’
‘This is awkward. I was going to wait until the third date to tell you that you were having breakfast in bed with the new chatelaine of Château St Fleury.’
It took him a moment.
‘You? You’ve bought it? How?’
‘The papers my father signed the day I met him were to release an inheritance from my great-grandmother. She died when I was seven and I didn’t know about the bequest until Georges did some searches and turned it up. It wasn’t a huge amount, but my father has been administering it and over nearly twenty years it had become quite substantial.’
‘So that first day, when I came to give you your hairpin, you already knew you were going to buy it?’
‘Are you annoyed with me for keeping it from you?’
He shook his head. ‘On the contrary, I think you’re the most amazing woman I’ve ever met. I just have one question.’
‘Yes?’ she asked.
‘Will you give me a job?’
‘How about I give you half the château?’
‘I’ve got a better idea. Sell me the vineyard.’
‘The vineyard?’
‘I told you I needed something new and planting a vineyard in Sussex was my fall-back plan. A project to bury myself in if you decided that you didn’t want me in your future.’
‘Doesn’t it take years to establish a vineyard?’
‘I’d have had years.’
‘And one day you would have been winning gold medals.’ She lifted her hands to cup his face. ‘I’m in need of a little cultivation myself, James Harrington. If I agree to sell you the vineyard,’ she said, ‘
can we forget the damn third date and go to bed?’
EPILOGUE
SEAN STOOD BENEATH a canopy of spring blossoms and waited for his bride.
He and Fiona had done all the legal bits in a simple register office ceremony back home in Edinburgh, but this was their big day. The celebration of their marriage, with the fabulous dress, the flowers, the special, forever vows made in the company of their family and friends.
The grass had been cut, huge pots were overflowing with plants in the bride’s chosen colour scheme.
Every pane of glass in the orangery had been polished. The tables were laid with white damask cloths, heavy silver, crystal glasses. The pastel napkins had been embroidered in the French style, with the name of each guest—a keepsake for them to take home.
The champagne was on ice, the château’s finest vintage wines at a cool room temperature, the wedding breakfast created by a famous chef and waiting to be served by the army of helpers from the village for whom the château provided a little extra income.
A harpist played and as Fiona, looking serene and lovely in a simple cream lace dress, was walked down the aisle between the chairs on the arm of her kilted father, a young French baritone began to sing Robert Burns’ ‘My Love Is Like a Red Red Rose...’
It was Chloe and James’s first wedding at the Château St Fleury, but Marie had remained on hand with advice, and the families were now close friends.
Chloe saw James take a breath as Fiona joined her new husband, remember to smile before addressing the gathering and then invite Sean to make his vows.
They were simple, heartfelt, and Chloe had to blink back a tear as she remembered the moment that she and James had sworn their own vows in the mairie.
He had encouraged her to reach out to her mother and invite her to the ceremony. He had been too young to understand about emotional coercion, the abusive mind control that Nick had exerted over his mother, and she was long beyond his help.
But he knew Chloe hoped that one day her own mother might break free and he wanted her to know that she had a refuge with them if she needed it.
Friends and family had gathered to witness their marriage. Marie and all her family. People who worked for James. Even his publisher had travelled from London. It was only after they had made their vows and had turned around to acknowledge the clapping that she had seen her mother standing at the back of the room. Older but still elegant and beautiful, and with tears pouring down her cheeks.
She would not stay for the party, but she had come. And she sent them postcards from wherever she was. And last week they had met in Paris.
Baby steps...
She smiled as James invited Sean to kiss his bride and then it was non-stop with lunch in the orangery, dancing on the terrace, children playing games organised by a professional nanny. Tea... And then there was a quiet moment while everyone drew breath before more guests arrived for the evening buffet.
The stars were blazing by the time they left their guests to enjoy the rest of the evening and take a quiet walk around the lake, Beau and Felix, for whom Paris was a move too far, snuffling in the long grass alongside them.
‘Your first wedding, James. How was it?’
‘Awesome. I’m so glad it was Fiona and Sean. Did we do well?’
‘It’s not too late for one or more of the guests to get falling-down drunk, or the bride and groom to have a hooley of a row, but all last-minute calamities were averted, the food was amazing and I think we can count that a success.’
‘So you’ll do it again?’ he asked.
‘In three weeks, if I’ve got the date right in the diary.’
‘We’re booked pretty solid through until the autumn. Is it too early to be thinking about something special for Christmas?’
‘James, about Christmas—’
‘I’ve been thinking about how we’re going to decorate the place. And I thought we might have a carol concert for the village, mulled wine, food...’
‘That’s great. All lovely...’
James stopped. ‘Sorry. You had something to say and I’m listening. Tell me what’s bothering you about Christmas.’
‘Not a thing, my love, but, before you get carried away on some wassail extravaganza involving paying guests, I think you should know that we’re going to be having company.’
‘Well, that’s okay. We’ve got plenty of room. Who have you invited?’ He paused. ‘Your mother?’
‘Not my mother. And you were the one who did the inviting.’ He looked so confused that she finally took pity on him, took his hand and placed it on her waist. ‘We’re going to have a Christmas baby, James.’
For a moment he just looked at her, too stunned to speak. Then the words began to tumble out. ‘Oh. Oh, good grief. That’s incredible...’ He put his arms around her and hugged her very gently, as if she were made of porcelain. ‘I don’t know what to say...’
‘I know, my love. I know,’ she said, putting her arms around his neck, her cheek against his so that their tears mingled and ran together. ‘I am so happy I could weep.’
‘That makes two of us.’ He pulled back to look up at her. ‘You’ve been holding that in all day?’
‘It was Fiona and Sean’s day, James. And I wanted us to have a little time to ourselves when I told you.’
‘Good call. I’d have been an emotional basket case if I’d known.’
Chloe lifted her head as she caught the strains of ‘Unchained Melody’ drifting over the lake.
‘I love this song. Will you dance with me, James?’
‘I’ll dance with both of you.’
He drew her close and, as she laid her head against his shoulder, he began to hum the tune so that it vibrated through her body to the tiny being that was just beginning his or her life.
* * *
Look out for the next story in the Christmas at the Harrington Park Hotel trilogy
Their Royal Baby Gift
by Kandy Shepherd
Coming soon!
If you enjoyed this story, check out these other great reads from Liz Fielding
Brooding Rebel to Baby Daddy
Crazy About Her Impossible Boss
A Week with the Best Man
All available now!
Keep reading for an excerpt from Scandal and the Runaway Bride by Donna Alward.
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Scandal and the Runaway Bride
by Donna Alward
CHAPTER ONE
Surrey, mid-July
WILLIAM PEMBERTON HELD the folded sheet of cream paper in his hand and clenched his jaw. Just beyond this room, in the Chatsworth estate chapel, his elder brother, Stephen Pemberton, the Earl of Chatsworth, was waiting for his bride. The guests had already filled the pews and the organist was playing quietly, though the wait had been so long now she was starting to repeat pieces. The bridesmaids were lined up at the entry doors, dresses and bouquets perfect, and William had been discreetly dispatched to find out what was keeping the bride.
What he’d discovered was no bride at all, and a note instead.
I’m sorry. Please forgive me.
William fought to contain the rage and contempt racing through his veins. His brother was a good man, and deserved better than this. Especially after his previous broken engagement—though the rest of the family wasn’t aware of the circumstances of Stephen’s breakup with Bridget. Only William, who’d found his brother soundly inebriated in the Chatsworth study one night last February, knew the truth. The whole sordid tale had come out over far too much gin.
And while William had thought that Stephen’s
marriage to Gabriella was also a mistake, this was too much. Who did Gabi Baresi think she was? There’d been ample time to change her mind. Instead she’d left it to the eleventh hour, when it was sure to humiliate Stephen—and his family—the most. Rage simmered in William’s veins. This wasn’t just going to hurt Stephen, it was going to be a PR nightmare for Aurora, Inc.
He let out a breath. Okay. His job right now was damage control. There would be no wedding today and he had to think fast to keep it from being an utter scandal, splashed all over the tabloids. The Pembertons and the company didn’t need that. Not now, so soon after William’s father’s death.
He folded the paper in little squares, tucked it into his pocket, and then set his shoulders, preparing for the horrible task ahead. His shoes clicked on the stone floor as he made his way through the back door to the chapel, where Stephen looked over at him with a questioning brow. William gave a jerk of his head and Stephen hurried to his side, still beaming his happy groom smile. That was, until they were behind a gigantic display of roses and lilies. William nearly choked on the overpowering scent.
“What is it?” Stephen asked. “You look like you’re ready to murder someone.”
“Not far off,” William whispered. “Listen, Gabi’s not coming. But I have a plan, so please don’t go off half-cocked until you hear me out.”
Stephen’s face paled and his lips thinned. “My God. What do you mean, she’s not coming?”
“She left a note, saying she’s sorry and to forgive her.”
“Let me see it.”
William had learned long ago to never disobey that tone in his brother’s voice. He took the note out of his pocket and unfolded it, careful to keep it out of sight of any guests. Not much worry, though. There were so many flower arrangements that the chapel had become a veritable bower of blooms. One only had to duck behind a single installment of blossoms and greenery to be completely concealed.
