Seb’s eyes snapped onto hers with unblinking focus. ‘Name it.’
‘We don’t tell anyone why we’re marrying like this. If we do this then we pretend. We pretend that we are head over heels ridiculously besotted. If you can do that then yes. We have a deal.’
CHAPTER THREE
‘HI.’
How did one greet one’s fiancé when one was a) pregnant, b) entering a marriage of convenience and c) pretending to be in love?
It should be a kiss on the cheek. Daisy greeted everyone with a kiss on the cheek, from her mother to her clients, but her stomach tumbled at the thought of pressing her lips to that stubbled cheek, inhaling the scent of leather and outdoors and soap.
Instead she stood aside, holding the door half open, her knuckles white as she clung onto the door handle as if it anchored her to the safety of her old life. ‘Come in, I’m nearly ready.’
Seb stepped through and then stopped still, his eyes narrowing as he looked around slowly.
A converted loft, all exposed brickwork and steel girders, one wall dominated by five floor-to-ceiling windows through which the midday sun came flooding in. A galley kitchen at one end, built-in shelves crammed with books, ornaments and knick-knacks running along the side wall and the rest of the ground-floor space bare except for an old blue velvet sofa, a small bistro table and chairs and the lamps she used to light her subjects. The bulk of her personal belongings were on the overhanging mezzanine, which doubled as her bedroom and relaxing space.
Daisy adored her light-filled spacious studio and yet, compared to Seb’s home, steeped in history and stuffed with antiques, her flat felt sparse and achingly trendy.
‘Nice.’ Seb looked more at home than she had thought possible, maybe because he had ditched the fleece for a long-sleeved T-shirt in a soft grey cotton and newer, cleaner jeans. Maybe because he stood there confidently, unashamedly examining the room, looking at each one of the photos hung on every available bit of wall space. He turned, slowly, taking in every detail with that cool assessing gaze. ‘Wedding photography must pay better than I realised.’
‘It’s not mine unfortunately. I rent it from a friend. An artist.’ Daisy gestured over to the massive oil seascape dominating the far wall. ‘I used to share with four other students on the floor above and it got a little cramped—physically and mentally, all those artistic temperaments in one open-plan space! It was such a relief when John decided to move to Cornwall and asked if I was interested in renting the studio from him.’
‘Mates’ rates?’
‘Not quite.’ Daisy tried to swallow back her defensiveness at the assumption. Her parents would have loved to set her up in style but she had been determined to go it alone, no matter how difficult it was to find a suitable yet affordable studio. John’s offer had been the perfect solution. ‘I do pay rent but John’s turned into a bit of a hermit so I also handle all the London side of his business for him. It works well for us both.’
‘Handy. Are you leaving all that?’ He nodded towards the studio lights.
‘I’ll still use this as my workspace.’ Daisy might have agreed to move in with Seb straight away but she wasn’t ready to break her ties to her old life. Not yet, not until she knew how this new world would work out. ‘It’s only an hour’s drive. I’m all packed up. It’s over here.’
It wasn’t much, less than her mother took for a weekend away. A case containing her favourite cameras and lenses. Her Mac. A couple of bags filled with clothes and cosmetics. If this worked out she could move the rest of her things later: the books, prints, artwork, favourite vases and bowls. Her hat collection. How they would look in the museum-like surroundings of Hawksley Castle she couldn’t begin to imagine.
Seb cast a glance at the small pile. ‘Are you sure this is all you want to take? I want you to feel at home. You can make any changes you want, redecorate, rearrange.’
‘Even the library?’
His mouth quirked. ‘As long as it stays warm.’
‘Of course.’ Daisy walked over to the hatstand at the foot of the mezzanine staircase and, after a moment’s hesitation, picked up a dark pink cloche, accessorised with a diamanté brooch. It was one of her favourite hats, a car-boot-sale find. She settled it on top of her head and tugged it into place before turning to the mirror that hung behind it and coating her lips in a layer of her favourite red lipstick.
She was ready.
‘First stop the registry office.’ Seb had picked up both bags of clothes and Daisy swung her camera bag over her shoulder before picking up her laptop bag, her chest tight with apprehension.
She swivelled and looked back at the empty space. You’ll be back tomorrow, she told herself, but stepping out of the front door still felt momentous, not just leaving her home but a huge step into the unknown.
Deep breath, don’t cry and lock the door. Her stomach swooped as if it were dropping sixty storeys at the speed of light but she fought it, managing to stop her hand from trembling as she double-locked the door.
Did Seb have similar doubts? If so he hid them well; he was the epitome of calm as they exited the building and walked to the car. He had brought one of the estate Land Rovers ready to transport her stuff; it might be parked with the other North London four-by-fours but its mud-splattered bumpers and utilitarian inside proclaimed it country bumpkin. She doubted any of its gleaming, leather-interior neighbours ever saw anything but urban roads and motorways.
‘Once we have registered we have to wait sixteen days. At least we don’t have to worry about a venue. The Tudor hall is licensed and I don’t allow weekday weddings so we can get married—’ he pulled out his phone ‘—two weeks on Friday. Do you want to invite anyone?’ He dropped his phone back into his pocket, opening the car door and hefting her bags into the boot.
Daisy was frozen, one arm protectively around her camera bag. How could he sound so matter-of-fact? They were talking about their wedding. About commitment and promises and joining together. Okay, they were practically strangers but it should still mean something.
‘Can we make it three weeks? Just to make sure? Plus I want my parents and sisters there and I need to give Rose enough notice to get back from New York.’
‘You want your whole family to come?’ He held the door open for her, a faint look of surprise on his face.
Daisy put one foot on the step, hesitated and turned to face him. ‘You promised we would at least pretend this was a real marriage. Of course my family needs to be there.’ This was non-negotiable.
‘Fine.’
Daisy’s mouth had been open, ready to argue her point and she was taken aback at his one-word agreement, almost disappointed by his acquiescence. He was so calm about everything. What was going on underneath the surface? Maybe she’d never find out. She stood for a second, gaping, before closing her mouth with a snap and climbing into the passenger seat. Seb closed the door behind her and a moment later he swung himself into the driver’s seat and started the engine.
Daisy wound her window down a little then leant back against the headrest watching as Seb navigated the narrow streets, taking her further and further from her home.
Married in just over three weeks. A whirlwind romance, that was what people would think; that was what she would tell them.
‘That was a deep sigh.’
‘Sorry, it’s just...’ She hesitated, pulling down the sun visor to check the angle of her hat, feeling oddly vulnerable at the thought of telling him something personal. ‘I always knew exactly how I wanted my wedding to be. I know it’s silly, that they were just daydreams...’ With all the changes happening right now, mourning the loss of her ideal wedding seemed ridiculously self-indulgent.
‘Beach at sunset? Swanky hotel? Westminster Abbey and Prince Harry in a dress uniform?’
‘No, well, only sometimes.’ She stole a glance at him. His ey
es were focused on the road ahead and somehow the lack of eye contact made it easier to admit just how many plans she had made. She could picture it so clearly. ‘My parents live just down the lane from the village church. I always thought I’d get married there, walk to my wedding surrounded by my family and then afterwards walk back hand in hand with my new husband and have a garden party. Nothing too fancy, although Dad’s band would play, of course.’
‘Of course.’ But he was smiling.
Daisy bit her lip as the rest of her daydream slid through her mind like an internal movie. She would be in something lacy, straight, deceptively simple. The sun would shine casting a golden glow over the soft Cotswold stone. And she would be complete.
There had been a faint ache in her chest since the day before, a swelling as if her heart were bruised. As the familiar daydream slipped away the ache intensified, her heart hammering. She was doing the right thing. Wasn’t she?
It’s not just about you any more, she told herself as firmly as possible.
She just wished she had had a chance to talk her options over with someone else. But who?
Her sisters? They would immediately go into emergency-planning mode, try and take over, alternately scolding her and coddling her, reducing her back to a tiresome little girl in the process.
Her parents? But no, she still had her pride if nothing else. Daisy swallowed hard, wincing at the painful lump in her throat. She had worked so hard to make up for the mistakes of her past, worked so hard to be independent from her family, to show them that she was as capable as they were. How could she tell them that she was pregnant by a man she hardly knew?
Her parents would swing into damage-limitation mode. Want her to come back home, to buy her a house, to throw money at her as if that would make everything okay. And it would be so easy to let them.
Daisy sagged in her seat. She couldn’t tell them, she wouldn’t tell them, but all she wanted to hear was her dad’s comforting drawl and step into her mother’s embrace. She didn’t allow herself that luxury very often.
‘Actually, can we go to the registrar’s tomorrow? I don’t feel comfortable registering until we have told my parents. Would you mind if we visit them first?’
Daisy waited, her hands slippery with tense anticipation. It had been so long since she had consulted with someone else or needed consensus on any action.
‘Of course.’ Seb took his eyes from the road for one brief second, resting them appraisingly on her hands, twisting in her lap. ‘But if we’re going to tell your parents we’re engaged we should probably stop at a jeweller’s on the way. You need a ring.’
* * *
‘Daisy! Darling, what a lovely surprise.’
It was strange being face to face with someone as familiar, as famous as Sherry Huntingdon: model, muse and sometime actress. Her tall willowy figure, as taut and slender at over fifty as it had been at twenty, the blonde hair sweeping down her back seemingly as natural as her daughter’s.
‘And who’s this?’ The famously sleepy blue eyes were turned onto Seb, an unexpectedly shrewdly appraising look in them. Maybe not that unexpected—you didn’t stay at the top of your profession for over thirty years without brains as well as beauty.
‘Sebastian Beresford.’ He held his hand out and Daisy’s mother took it, slanting a look at him from under long black lashes.
‘What a treat.’ Her voice was low, almost a purr. ‘Daisy so seldom brings young men home. Come on in, the pair of you. Violet’s around somewhere and Rick’s in his studio—the Benefit Concert is creeping up on us again. Daisy, darling, you will be here to take some photos, won’t you?’
‘Wouldn’t miss it.’ Daisy linked her arm through her mother’s as they walked along the meandering path that led from the driveway around the house. It was a beautiful ivy-covered house, large by any standards—unless one happened to live in a castle—dating back to William and Mary with two gracefully symmetrical wings flanking the three-storey main building.
Unlike Hawksley it had been sympathetically updated and restored and, as they rounded the corner, Seb could see tennis courts in the distance and a cluster of stable buildings and other outbuildings all evidently restored and in use.
An unexpected stab of nostalgic pain hit him. Hawksley should have been as well cared for but his grandfather had taken a perverse pride in the discomfort of the crumbling building—and as for Seb’s father... He pushed the thought away, fists clenched with the unwanted anger that still flooded through him whenever he thought about his father’s criminal negligence.
Sherry came to a stop as they reached a large paved terrace with steps leading upwards to the French doors at the back of the house. Comfortably padded wooden furniture was arranged to take the best advantage of the gorgeous views. ‘I think it’s warm enough to sit outside.’ Sherry smiled at her daughter. ‘I’ll go get Rick. He’ll be so happy to see you, Daisy. He was saying the other day we see more of Rose and she lives in New York. You two make yourselves at home. Then we can have a drink. Daisy, darling, let Vi know you’re here, will you?’
‘I’ll text her.’ Daisy perched on a bench as she pulled out her phone and, after a moment’s hesitation, Seb joined her. Of course they would sit together. In fact, they should be holding hands. He looked at her long, slender fingers flying over the phone’s surface and willed himself to casually reach over and slip his own fingers through hers.
Just one touch. And yet it felt more binding than the ring he had bought her and the vows he was prepared to make.
‘That’s Dad’s studio.’ Daisy slipped the phone back into her dress pocket and pointed at the largest of the outbuildings. ‘The first thing he did was convert it into a soundproofed, state-of-the-art recording studio—we were never allowed in unsupervised but it didn’t stop us trying to make our own records. They weren’t very good. None of us are particularly musical, much to Dad’s disgust. The room next to it is used as rehearsal space and we turned the orangery into a pool and gym, otherwise we pretty much left the house as it was. It hasn’t changed much since it was built.’
But it had. The paintwork was fresh, the soft furnishings and wallpaper new, the furniture chosen with care. New money in an old building. It was what Hawksley needed, if only his great-great-grandfather had married an American heiress.
‘Have you lived here long?’
‘Mum grew up here, her uncle is a baronet and somewhere along the family tree we descend from William Fourth, although not through the legitimate line. So, you see—’ Daisy threw him a provocative smile ‘—you’re not marrying beneath you.’
‘I didn’t think I was.’ Seb knew very well that his blood was as red as anyone else’s. It wasn’t Daisy’s ancestry that worried him, it was her upbringing. If she had been brought up in a place as lavishly luxurious as Huntingdon Hall how would she cope with the draughty inconveniences of his grand and ancient home?
‘Daisy? You are alive. Rose was trying to persuade me to break into your apartment and recover your dead body. A whole week with no word from you?’
‘Vi!’ Daisy jumped to her feet, sprinting up the stone steps and flinging her arms around the speaker. ‘What do you mean? I texted you both! Every day.’
‘Texts, anyone can send a text that says I’m fine, talk soon. But—’ she eyed Seb coolly over Daisy’s shoulder ‘—I can see you’ve been busy.’
Seb stood and held out his hand. ‘You must be Violet.’ A meaningful glare from Daisy reminded him of his role. ‘Daisy has told me so much about you.’ He walked forward and slipped an arm around Daisy, ignoring the electricity that snaked up his arm from the exact spot where his fingers curled around her slender waist. Daisy started, just a little, at his touch before inhaling and leaning into him, her body pliant, moulding into his side as if she belonged there.
‘Really? She hasn’t mentioned you at all.’ Vio
let took his outstretched hand in her cool grasp for a moment. ‘She usually tells me everything.’ Her eyes were narrowed as she assessed him. It was more than a little disconcerting to be so comprehensively overlooked even by such very blue eyes.
The family resemblance was striking. Violet was a little taller, a little curvier than her younger sister and her heart-shaped face gave nothing away, unlike Daisy’s all too telling features, but she had the Huntingdon colouring, the high cheekbones and the same mane of golden hair.
That was as far as the resemblance went; Daisy was wearing a monochrome print dress, the bodice tight fitting and the skirt flaring out to just above her knees, a dark pink short cardigan slung over her shoulders and the carefully positioned hat finishing off the outfit with a quirky flourish. Violet, by contrast, was sensibly clad in jeans and a white shirt, her hair held back from her face by a large slide, her make-up understated and demure.
‘Not everything.’ Daisy flushed. ‘I am twenty-four, you know. I do have some secrets.’
‘Daisy-Waisy, you never managed to keep a secret in your whole life.’ Violet grinned at her sister with obvious affection. Her eyes cooled as she returned to assessing Seb. ‘And what is it that you do?’
For one, almost irresistible moment Seb had the urge to emulate his grandfather, draw himself up to his full six feet one, look down at Violet and drawl, ‘Do? My good woman, I don’t do. I am. Earl of Holgate to be precise,’ just to shake her cool complacency. He didn’t need Daisy’s warning pinch to resist. ‘I manage a large estate. That’s where we met. Daisy was working there.’
‘He came to my rescue.’ The face upturned to his was so glowing Seb nearly forgot they were acting. ‘I was snowed in and he rescued me. It was super romantic, Vi.’
‘Words no father wants to hear.’ Seb started at the deep American drawl and hurriedly turned.
‘Dad.’ Daisy tugged Seb down the steps, almost running. She slipped out of Seb’s grasp and threw her arms around the slight man on the terrace.
Harlequin Romance April 2015 Box Set Page 23
