The Earl's Snow-Kissed Proposal

by Nina Milne

  ‘How did you meet?’

  ‘At a mother and baby music class when Cathy and Martha were small. The rest of the group didn’t exactly approve of me—I was a seventeen-year-old with a toddler. But Steph looked out for me. Actually bothered to talk to me. If it hadn’t been for her I’d have cut and run. Anyway, Steph was a single mum too—she’d adopted Martha after her marriage broke down.’

  That was another reason why they had connected. Steph had shown Etta that adoption could be a good thing—her relationship with Martha was honest, open, and full of love.

  ‘She’s ten years older than me but we clicked, and Martha and Cathy bonded instantly, so our friendship took off from there.’

  ‘You’re lucky to have each other.’

  ‘I know. We are totally different, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Steph would love all this.’ Etta glanced round the room. ‘She’d agree with you that I should take complete advantage of you.’

  Oh, hell. Had she said that? The words took on a double meaning that she hadn’t planned, and now the words kept tumbling out.

  ‘I mean...I mean she thought I should take you up on the girlfriend idea and enjoy the publicity and the dinners and a romantic getaway. A fake romantic getaway obviously.’

  Stop the talk. Now.

  ‘I’ve told you it’s not too late to change your mind.’

  Lazy amusement touched his voice and she narrowed her eyes. No way would she let him think she regretted her decision.

  ‘The ball’s in your court,’ he continued.

  ‘That’s where it’s staying.’ Yet her tummy did a loop-the-loop at the depth of his voice, the way his dark eyes rested on her lips. ‘I was talking about Steph, and as I said she and I are chalk and cheese.’

  ‘So Steph would go for the shallow playboy type?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you won’t because...? Remind me again.’

  ‘Because there is more to attraction than the physical side of things.’

  Really? asked her sceptical hormones—after all, in the last few years there had been no ‘physical side’ at all. With anyone. Just a sad series of failed fizz-free dates that had culminated in nothing. And before that there had been a couple of tepid relationships that were best consigned to the ‘bedroom disaster’ category of her memory banks.

  ‘So you admit there is a physical attraction?’

  ‘I...’ Darn the man! ‘That is irrelevant.’

  ‘It seems pretty relevant to me.’

  ‘I said there has to be more than physical appeal.’

  ‘Sure—I agree. Conversation is useful too. You and I don’t seem to have any problem there.’

  ‘That is still not enough.’

  ‘It works for me. What’s wrong with a few days of fun, no strings attached?’

  ‘It’s just wrong.’

  The idea of letting go, revelling in sensation, was impossible to imagine.

  An echo of her mum came: ‘Never cross the line, Etta.’ Any line. Even the smallest of childhood fibs had been a heinous crime. Her first Valentine, when she’d been aged ten—an innocent offering—had drawn forth horror. Her parents had made her tear it up into little pieces and told her she must have behaved with ‘promiscuity’ to attract it. She’d had to look the word up in a dictionary, and even now the remembered burn of shame seared her soul. Even though she’d come to understand her parents’ actions—they had been on a constant lookout for her unknown genes to show themselves.

  ‘So you disapprove from a moral viewpoint? You shouldn’t.’ The amusement had vanished now and his voice was edged with cold. ‘I am still in touch with nearly all the women I’ve dated. They aren’t mindless bimbos. They are all passionate and fun-loving and we had good times—in bed and out. They did nothing wrong and neither did I.’

  ‘I understand that, and I don’t disapprove. It just doesn’t make sense to me. What’s the point of entering into a short-term relationship with no future?’

  ‘That’s like saying, “What’s the point of going to a party?” just because you know it will end.’

  ‘You can’t equate a party to a relationship.’

  ‘Why not?’ His mouth quirked up, and the teasing glint was back in his blue-grey eyes.

  ‘Because a party is a social gathering and a relationship is a...a connection between two people.’

  ‘Exactly—and those two people can define that connection in whatever way they want. They can make an agreement, an alliance, a pact to last a few days or a lifetime. You scratch my back, or whatever bit you choose, and I’ll scratch yours.’

  Her back positively tingled in response, and her tummy turned to hot, gooey mush at the thought. His smile expanded and a wave of relief washed over her at the arrival of the waiter with their entrées.

  As she thanked him, and inhaled the exquisite aromas that arose from her plate, she gathered her thoughts. She would not back down on this. Would not let the ledge of certainty she’d always camped out on crumble.

  ‘Nope. You’ve got it wrong. Relationships can’t be a pact because relationships involve emotions and you can’t control those or agree on them. Emotions don’t remain static. You may enter into the pact with the best intentions, but feelings could develop. How do you know you won’t fall in love with one of these short-term women or vice versa?’

  Ha. Etta forked up a mouthful of her starter and exhaled a small huff of pleasure. The seared venison had a smoky juniper taste, and the tang of elderberries and the crunch of walnuts in the salad made her savour each bite.

  Gabe took a sip of wine. ‘So you wouldn’t have a fling with me because you’re worried you’d fall in love with me or I’d fall in love with you?’

  ‘No! Because neither of those things would happen.’

  ‘Exactly. So what’s the problem?’

  Etta narrowed her eyes. ‘We are talking in general. I wouldn’t have a fling with you because you are not my type.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’d forgotten.’

  The drawl was underlain with a molten heat that warmed her skin.

  But she would not succumb to attraction or distraction. ‘You haven’t answered the question. How do you know one or the other of you won’t fall in love?’

  ‘The time frame, for one. I keep my flings short. And I’m very clear upfront about the terms of agreement. The only thing on offer is short-term fun—love is not on the table and neither is my title.’

  ‘So you aren’t planning on marriage?’

  That didn’t make sense. Surely the future Duke of Fairfax had to get married in order to ensure the continuity of the line.

  ‘Not with someone who isn’t within my social circle.’

  Outrage rendered her near speechless and she could only gawp at him as the waiter cleared their plates and served them their main course. ‘Excuse me? So you believe all these wonderful, liberated women of yours...are beneath you? That they aren’t worthy to be the Duchess of Fairfax?’

  An answering streak of anger flashed lightning-like in his stormcloud-grey eyes and Etta was aware of a strange exhilaration.

  ‘That is not what I said. You’re a historian. Haven’t farmers and shepherds always wanted to marry farmers’ daughters? Women who understand the truth of farming—the back-breaking labour, the weather, the hours, and the work. Or do they want to marry someone who thinks farming is all about sweet little lambs?’

  ‘So you’re saying us common people think being a duchess is all about wearing a tiara and going to balls, and a true aristocrat knows it’s more than that?’

  ‘Something like that. Marriage is an alliance, and I need to ally myself with a woman who will understand what Derwent Manor means to me—who won’t see the house as a money-eating pile better given over to a heritage trust. A woman who will enter into
a life dedicated to fundraising and ensuring Derwent Manor remains in the family.’

  His large hand reached for his wine glass and for a second his eyes dropped to the amber liquid. His lips set in a grim line, as if the idea filled him with bleak rather than happy thoughts.

  ‘And you think a “commoner” won’t be up to the job.’

  ‘Don’t twist my words. I just think it would be easier for someone used to it. And it will make everyone’s life easier if I marry someone who will get on with my parents. Someone who fits.’

  ‘So you’re marrying to please your parents?’ That seemed impossible to believe of a man of his strength.

  ‘No. But I can’t see the harm in marrying someone they approve of.’

  A funny little pang assaulted Etta—that ruled her right out, then.

  ‘It will lessen the chances of adverse publicity and make working together easier. I’m all for an easy life.’

  ‘What about love?’

  Gabe shook his head. ‘Love isn’t in the equation. It’s not a factor. It’s not on the table because I neither require love nor offer it. I believe my alliance is more likely to endure without it. Bottom line, love is not relevant.’

  She couldn’t help but wonder why he believed that. Of course he needed to marry—she understood that—but it all sounded so clinical. Presumably the Duke and Duchess had made an ‘alliance’, and expected their son and heir to do the same. Yet Gabriel wouldn’t bow to their wishes if he didn’t want to—ergo, he was more than happy to comply. And yet...

  ‘Is this what you want, though? A cold-blooded alliance? It seems a far cry from “having fun, enjoying yourself, no strings attached”. What about liking and physical attraction and warm, passionate women?’

  ‘Of course liking is important, and so is physical attraction. But long-term I need someone who shares my goals and understands that there is more to life than my “shallow playboy” existence. So I’ll be offering something different to my wife and expecting something different from what I get from my flings.’

  ‘But...’ It still seemed wrong.

  Leaning over, he topped up their wine glasses. ‘Enough of my attitude to love and marriage,’ he said. ‘What about yours?’

  Etta took a sip of the golden liquid with its overtones of elderflower and narrowed her eyes. Botheration! The last thing she wanted was to discuss her inadequacy, her missing gene, her inability to connect romantically. Yet she’d sat here and interrogated Gabe on his attitude to love without compunction. Fair was fair.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  GABE CRADLED HIS wine glass, watched the swirl of emotions crossing Etta’s face—the crease of her brow, the angle of her cheekbone, the quick gesture to tuck a tendril of chestnut hair behind her ear—and wondered how a business dinner had morphed into this. Perhaps he should shut this down now, but he didn’t want to—he welcomed the distraction from his own thoughts and the prospect of his marriage.

  It was a merger that would now have a key component missing. Children. His hopes and expectations had dissipated to dust, but marriage was still a necessity. The manor would need a duchess and if—no, when—he found another heir, that man’s wife would need a role model. Because Gabe had every intent of persuading this heir to take his duties and responsibilities seriously; he owed it to his name, to the estate, to find a way forward. But tonight he wanted to forget that.

  ‘When you’re ready.’

  Her shoulders lifted. ‘My attitude to love and marriage is easy enough to encapsulate. They aren’t for me.’

  ‘Why not?’ Surprise made him raise his eyebrows—somehow he’d expected someone as vital as Etta Mason to embrace love. Assumed her antipathy to a short-term fling sprang from a desire for a waltz over the happy-ever-after horizon.

  ‘I’m not made that way. I’m truly happier on my own. I’m in charge—I don’t have to ask anyone’s permission or compromise in any way at all. If I want to get home and change into my PJs, curl up on the sofa and watch a history film and eat cereal I can.’

  ‘So you’re choosing sugar-coated flakes over sex, love, and companionship?’

  ‘No! I’m choosing independence and being happy on my own over the pointless pursuit of romance.’

  ‘How can you know it’s pointless?’

  ‘Because I’ve tried. For a while I felt that I needed to find a man and marry him for Cathy’s sake, so she could have a dad. But then I realised that wouldn’t be fair to anyone. Most of all me. I prefer to be on my own. I’ve done just fine without a man in my life.’

  As if realising she might be protesting too much, she sat back and then picked up her knife and fork to pierce her last piece of fish.

  ‘Maybe you haven’t met the right man yet. Every man isn’t a Tommy.’

  ‘I know that. This is nothing to do with Tommy. I know most men are decent individuals. I liked a lot of my dates—I’m still friends with a couple of them and I happily danced at their weddings. But romance isn’t my thing and I’m OK with that. I like my independence.’

  ‘I get that, but...’ But he couldn’t help but wonder if, for Etta, independence equalled safety, and whether her willingness to give up on all aspects of a relationship was due to the damage Tommy had inflicted.

  ‘But what?’

  There was pride in her voice, as if she dared him to pity her.

  ‘I think it’s a waste. I think you’re missing out. You’ve decided against long and short-term relationships.’

  ‘I haven’t decided anything. It’s just how the custard cream has crumbled.’

  ‘Maybe because you’re dating the wrong type of guy?’

  ‘So let me guess... You think I should be dating a guy like you?’

  Gabe shrugged. ‘Why not? If romance isn’t for you maybe you should consider what someone like me can offer. Instead of dating the type of guys you think you should be with.’

  The words rang across the table and she flinched. ‘I do not want what you can offer. Anyway, what’s wrong with dating suitable guys? This coming from a man on the lookout for a “suitable” wife.’

  ‘That’s different. You’ve stopped looking—you’ve given up. I don’t want love, but I’m still up for sex and companionship.’

  ‘Well, I don’t need those either. From anyone.’ Reaching for her glass, she lifted it and took a gulp of wine, placed the crystal flute down and exhaled on a sigh. ‘This isn’t a topic I want to discuss.’ Her words dripped ice. ‘Perhaps we could make this business dinner a tad more businesslike.’

  Good job, Gabe. Slow hand-clap, please.

  Etta’s love life was zip to do with him—so why was he rocking the boat when he needed her on board. He cut a piece of tender fillet steak, alongside some of the buttery, floury potato terrine and balanced the forkful on the edge of his plate.

  ‘So let’s talk business.’

  * * *

  Business. Business, business, business. The byword, the watchword—the only word.

  It was a mantra Etta repeated to herself every waking second the following day, until they drew up outside the imposing exterior of Derwent Manor. Relief washed over her—now she could get to work, down to business, and forget the stupid conversation of the previous night.

  Mortification mixed with sheer horror—she’d pretty much admitted to a physical attraction, had laid out the sorry state of her love-life and witnessed his reaction: shock mixed with compassion. With a dose of psychoanalysis. If romance isn’t for you maybe you should consider what someone like me can offer. Instead of dating the type of guys you think you should be with.

  The words had stung then and the memory of them stung now. The smarting was worsened by a trickle of temptation to cross that line and succumb to their attraction. Become one of those liberated, passionate, and warm women he’d waxed so lyrical ab
out.

  Enough. Business. No more personal conversations or even thoughts. To be on the safe side she’d requested breakfast in her room and had feigned sleep for the entire journey to Derwent Manor.

  Now, as she faked a yawn, she gazed at the manor and nearly choked—of course she’d seen pictures, but nothing could have prepared her for the sheer grandeur of the Elizabethan-style building. The turreted, many-windowed stone building was immense, on a way more opulent scale than the word manor suggested.

  ‘It’s so big!’

  ‘There was a manor on this site as far back as the thirteenth century, but the building was pretty much scrapped and rebuilt in 1590. It took eight years and who knows how much money. Then in Victorian times it had another makeover—thanks to the Duke at the time cashing in on various industrial schemes. Nowadays we live in some of it, display other rooms to the public and desperately try to pay the maintenance. Kaitlin, Cora, and I used to picture the house actually eating money.’

  Etta tried to imagine the heating bills, the maintenance costs, and quite simply couldn’t. No wonder the Derwents had to dedicate their lives to raising money.

  ‘What do you want to do first?’ Gabe asked. ‘I could give you a tour, or...’

  Etta opened the car door. ‘Actually, I’d like to get started. So if you can show me to the records room that would be fantastic.’

  Ten minutes later Etta surveyed a room piled with dusty tomes. Shelves adorned the walls and humidifiers stood in two of the corners. An enormous ornate desk was tucked into another corner, stacked with piles of papers and old photo albums.

  ‘I think this is what is known as one damp mess,’ Gabe said.

  ‘To me it’s like a treasure trove, waiting to be opened. So if it’s OK with you I’ll get stuck in.’

  ‘Not until we discuss some security measures. By now Tommy will know you’re here. Press coverage wasn’t huge, but there was an online article saying that I’d hired you and a bit about the fair—he may well have read it.’