‘I’m in the bath.’ A splashing sound proved her words.
‘I’ll just leave it here.’ Seb tried to put the image of long, bubble-covered limbs and bare, wet torsos out of his mind as he placed the tea onto the small table by her window. He didn’t have time for distractions, especially naked ones.
He turned and took in the bedroom properly. He hadn’t set foot in here since Daisy had moved in two weeks ago. It had been the first suite tackled by her mother and, although the nineteen-fifties chintz flowery wallpaper still covered the walls, the furniture was still the heavy, stately mahogany and the carpet as threadbare as the landing’s, the paintwork was fresh and white and the room smelled of a fresh mixture of beeswax, fresh air and Daisy’s own light floral scent.
It wasn’t just the aesthetic changes though. Daisy had somehow taken the room and made it hers from the scarves draped over the bedposts to the hat stand, commandeered from the hallway and now filled with a growing selection of her collection. Every time she went back to her studio she brought a few more. There were times when Seb feared the entire castle would be overtaken by hats.
Pictures of her parents and sisters were on one bedside table, a tower of stacked-up paperbacks on the second. A brief perusal showed an eclectic mix of nineteen-thirties detective novels, romances, two of last year’s Booker Prize shortlist and a popular history book on Prince Rupert by one of Seb’s colleagues and rivals.
Jealousy, as unwanted as it was sharp, shot through him. She did read history, just not his books it seemed.
‘Get over yourself, Beresford,’ he muttered, half amused, half alarmed by the instant reaction. It was professional jealousy sure, but still unwarranted. Unwanted.
A brief peek into the dressing room showed a similar colonisation. The dressing table bestrewn with pots and tubes, photos of herself and her sisters and friends he had yet to meet tucked into the mirror. The study was a little more austere, her laptop set up at the desk, her diary, open and filled with her scrawling handwriting, next to it.
Hawksley Castle had a new mistress.
Only the bed looked unrumpled. Daisy might bathe, dress and work in her rooms but she slept in his. Much as her nineteenth-century counterpart might have done she arrived in his bed cleansed, moisturised and already in the silky shorts and vest tops she liked to sleep in. Not a single personal item had migrated through the connecting door.
A buzz in his pocket signalled a message or a voicemail. It was almost impossible to get a decent mobile signal this side of the castle. Seb quite liked not being wired in twenty-four hours a day.
He pulled his phone out and listened to the message, wincing as he did so.
‘Problems?’ Daisy appeared at the bathroom door clad in nothing but a towel.
‘My agent.’ He stuffed the phone back into his pocket, glancing at Daisy as he did so.
He drew in a long, deep breath. It was impossible to ignore the twinge of desire evoked by her creamy shoulders, the outline of her body swathed in the long creamy towel.
The towels were another of Sherry’s luxurious little additions to the house. By the date of the wedding Hawksley would resemble a five-star hotel more than a run-down if stately family home.
There were fresh flowers, renewed every other day, in all the repainted, cleaned bedrooms as well as in the bigger salons and hallways. Every bathroom, cloakroom and loo was ornamented with expensive soaps, hand creams and bath salts. In one way the luxurious touches hid the signs of elegant decay, but Seb couldn’t help calculate how the price of the flowers alone could be better spent on plumbing, on the roof, on the myriad neglected maintenance jobs that multiplied daily.
No matter. Seb would give Sherry her head until the wedding but after that, no more. He wouldn’t accept a penny, not even from his bride-to-be’s indulgent and very wealthy parents. Hawksley was his inheritance, his responsibility, his burden.
‘What did she want on a Saturday?’ Daisy sat herself at her dressing table and began to brush out her hair. Seb’s eyes followed the brush as it fought its way through the tangled locks leaving smooth tresses in its wake.
‘Just to finalise arrangements for this afternoon.’ And to try and start another conversation about a television deal. He would shut that down pretty fast although the numbers must be good to make her this persistent.
‘This afternoon?’
‘I’m lecturing. Didn’t I mention it? Talking of which...’ He looked at his watch, blinking as he caught the time. ‘What are you still doing sat in a towel? Shouldn’t you be capturing a bride’s breakfast? Or is this one a late-rising bride?’
She shook her head, the newly brushed hair lifting with the movement. ‘I have the whole weekend off. Sophie’s covering today’s wedding for me as a trial. They didn’t have the full engagement-shot package so I don’t have a personal relationship with them. It seemed like a good place for her to try and see how it works. I do have a few interviews tomorrow with possible assistants but today I am completely free.’ She pulled a face. ‘That can’t be right, can it? Whatever will I do?’
Seb looked at her critically. She still looked drawn and tired. ‘You could do with a day off. Between wedding planning and work you never seem to stop.’
‘Says the man who put in sixteen hours on the estate yesterday and still wanted to do research when he came home.’
‘Technically I am on a research year, not an estate management year.’ The ever-present fear crowded in. Could he do both? What if he had to give up his professorship? Swap academia for farming? He pushed it aside. That was a worry for another day.
‘Besides, I’m not turning greener than that drink of yours every morning and growing another human being. Why don’t you book yourself into a spa or have a day shopping?’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘Are those the only relaxing pursuits you can think of? I can’t do most spa treatments and the last thing I want to do is shop, not after motherzilla of the bride’s efforts.’
Sherry had been keeping Daisy hard at it. Seb had barely seen her all week. She was either holed up in the Great Hall creating wedding favours, shopping for last-minute essential details or back in her studio, working.
Things would be much easier if she had a studio here. Would she want that? Moving her hats across was one thing, moving her professional persona another. Seb adored his library but there were times when he missed his college rooms with an almost physical pain. The peace, the lack of responsibility beyond his work, his students,
‘My lecture’s in Oxford. I doubt that would be relaxing or interesting. But maybe you could walk around some of the colleges, have lunch there.’ His eyes flickered over to the book by her bed. ‘Or you could come to the lecture.’
The blurring of professional and private had to happen at some point.
‘What’s the lecture on?’
‘The history of England as reflected in a house like Hawksley.’ His mouth twisted. ‘It’s the subject of my next book, luckily. It’s hard enough finding time to work as it is, at least I’m on site. It’s a paid popular lecture so not too highbrow. You might enjoy it.’
He could have kicked himself as soon as he uttered the words. Her face was emotionless but her eyes clouded. ‘Not too highbrow? So even dullards like me have a chance of understanding it?’
‘Daisy, there’s nothing dull about you. Will you come? I’ll take you out for dinner afterwards.’
There it was, more blurring. But he had promised respect and friendship. That was all this was.
‘Well, if there’s food.’ But her eyes were still clouded, her face gave nothing away. ‘What time do you want to leave? I’ll meet you downstairs.’
* * *
‘What an incredible place. I’ve never looked around the colleges before.’ Daisy focused the lens onto the green rectangle of lawn, the golden columns framing i
t like a picture.
‘Maybe it’s because I knew I had no chance of actually coming here.’ She clicked and then again, capturing the sun slanting through the columns, lighting up the soft stone in an unearthly glow.
‘But you wouldn’t have wanted to come here. You went to one of the best art colleges in the country. I doubt that they would have even let me through the door.’ Daisy bit back a giggle. She had seen Seb’s attempts to draw just once, when he was trying to show Sherry how the marquee connected to the hall. It was good to know there were some areas where she had him beat.
‘You could pretend you were creating some kind of post-modern deconstruction of the creative process.’ She followed the quadrangle round with her viewfinder. ‘This place is ridiculously photogenic. I bet it would make a superb backdrop for wedding photos.’
‘It’s always about weddings with you, isn’t it?’ Seb slid a curious glance her way and she tried to keep her face blank. His scrutiny unnerved her. He always made her feel so exposed, as if he could see beyond the lipstick and the hats, beyond the carefully chosen outfits. She hoped not. She wasn’t entirely sure that there was any substance underneath her style.
‘It’s my job.’ She kept her voice light. ‘You must walk in here and see the history in each and every stone. It’s no different.’
He was still studying her intently and she tried not to squirm, swinging the camera around to focus on him. ‘Smile!’
But his expression didn’t change. It was as if he was trying to see through her, into the heart of her. She took a photo, and then another, playing with the focus and the light.
‘Why photography? I would have thought you would have had enough of being on the other side of the lens?’
It was the million-dollar question. She lowered the camera and leant against one of the stone columns. Despite the sunlight dancing on it the stone was cold, the chill travelling through her dress. ‘Truth is I didn’t mind the attention as a kid,’ she admitted, fiddling with her camera strap so she didn’t have to look up and see judgement or pity in his eyes. ‘We felt special. Mum and Dad were so adored, and there was no scandal, so all the publicity tended to be positive—glamorous red carpets at premieres or at-home photo shoots for charities. It wasn’t until I was sixteen that I realised the press could bite as easily as it flattered.’
‘Lucky you.’ His voice was bleak. ‘I was five when I was first bitten.’
She stole a look at him but his gaze was fixed unseeingly elsewhere. Poor little boy, a pawn in his parents’ destructive lives. ‘It was such a shock when it happened, seeing myself on the front pages. I felt so exposed. I know it wasn’t clever.’ She traced the brand name on her camera case, remembering, the need for freedom, the urge for excitement, the thrill of the illicit. ‘But most sixteen-year-olds play hooky just once, try and get a drink underage somehow just once. They just don’t do it under the public’s condemning gaze.’
One set of photos, one drunken night, one kiss—the kind of intense kiss that only a sixteen-year-old falling in love could manage—and her reputation had been created, set in stone and destroyed.
‘You couldn’t have stuck to the local pub?’
He was so practical! She grinned, able to laugh at her youthful self now. ‘Looking back, that was the flaw in my plan. But honestly, we were so naive we couldn’t think where to go. The village landlord at home would have phoned Dad as soon as I stepped up to the bar. The pubs nearest school seemed to have some kind of convent schoolgirl sensor. We all knew there was no point trying there. Tana and I decided the only way we could be truly anonymous was in the middle of the city. We were spectacularly wrong.’
‘Tana?’
‘My best friend from school. I was going out with her brother and she was going out with his best mate. Teenage hormones, a bottle of vodka, an on-the-ball paparazzi and the rest is history. I don’t even like vodka.’
‘So as the camera flashes followed you down the street you thought, I know, I’d like to be on the other side?’
‘At least I’m in control when I’m the one taking the photos.’ The words hung in the air and she sucked in a breath. That hadn’t been what she had intended to say—no matter that it was true.
She shifted her weight and carried on hurriedly. ‘After school kicked me out I had no qualifications so I went to the local college where, as long as I took English and maths, I could amuse myself. So I did. I took all the art and craft classes I could. But it was photography I loved the most. I stayed on to do the art foundation course and then applied to St Martin’s. When they accepted me it felt as if I had found my place at last.’
That moment when she looked through the viewfinder and focused and the whole world fell away. The clarity when the perfect shot happened after hours of waiting. The happiness she evoked with her pictures, when she took a special moment and documented it for eternity.
A chill ran through her and it wasn’t just from the stone. She felt exposed, as if she had allowed him to see, to hear parts of her even her family were locked out of. She pushed off the column, covering her discomfort with brisk movements. ‘What about you?’ She turned the tables on her interrogator. ‘When did you decide you wanted to stand in a lecture theatre and wear tweed?’
‘I only wear tweed on special occasions.’ That quirk of the mouth of his. It shocked her every time how one small muscle movement could speed her heart up, cause her pulse to start pounding. ‘And my cap and gown, of course.’
‘Of course.’ Daisy tried not to dwell on the disparity in their education. Sure she had a degree, a degree she had worked very hard for, was very proud of. But it was in photography. Her academic qualifications were a little more lacking. She barely had any GCSEs although she had managed to scrape a pass in maths, something a little more respectable in English.
The man next to her had MAs and PhDs and honorary degrees. He had written books that both sold well and were acclaimed for their scholarship. He had students hanging on his every word, colleagues who respected him.
Daisy? She took photos. How could they ever be equal? How could she attend professional events at his side? Make conversation with academics? She would be an embarrassment.
‘I don’t think anyone grows up wanting to be a lecturer. I thought we already established that I wanted to be an outlaw when I was a child, preferably a highwayman.’
‘Of course.’ She kicked herself mentally at the repetition. Say something intelligent, at least something different.
‘But growing up somewhere like Hawksley, surrounded by history with literally every step, it was hard not to be enthused. I wanted to take those stories I heard growing up and make them resonate for other people the way they resonated with me. That’s what inspires me. The story behind every stone, every picture, every artefact. My period is late medieval. That’s where my research lies and what I teach but my books are far more wide ranging.’
‘Like the one about Charles II’s illegitimate children?’ She had actually read his book a couple of years ago on Rose’s recommendation. In fact, she’d also read his book on Richard III and his exposé of the myths surrounding Anne Boleyn, the book that had catapulted him into the bestseller lists. But she couldn’t think how to tell him without exposing herself. What if he asked for her opinion and her answers exposed just how ignorant she really was?
Or what if he didn’t think her capable of forming any opinion at all...?
‘Exactly! Those children are actually utterly pivotal to our history. We all know about Henry VIII’s desperate search for an heir and how that impacted on the country but Charles’ story is much less well known beyond the plague and the fire and Nell Gwyn.’ He was pacing now, lit up with enthusiasm. Several tourists stopped to watch, their faces captivated as they listened to him speak.
Daisy snapped him again. Gone was the slightly severe Seb, the stressed, tired S
eb. This was a man in total control, a man utterly at home with himself.
‘He actually fathered at least seventeen illegitimate children but not one single legitimate child. If he had the whole course of British History might have changed, no Hanoverians, no William of Orange. And of course the influence and wealth still wielded by the descendants of many of those children still permeate British society to this day.’
‘Says the earl.’
It was a full-on smile this time, and her stomach tumbled. How had she forgotten the dimple at the corner of his mouth? ‘I am fully aware of the irony.’
‘Is it personal, your interest? Any chance your own line is descended through the compliant countess?’
‘Officially, no. Unofficially, well, there is some familial dispute as to whether we can trace our descendants back to the Norman invasion or whether we are Stuarts. Obviously I always thought the latter, far more of an exciting story for an impressionable boy, the long-lost heir to the throne.
He began walking along the quad and she followed him, brain whirling. ‘A potential Stuart! You could be DNA tested? Although that might throw up some odd results. I wonder how many blue-blooded households actually trace their heritage back to a red-blooded stable boy?’
The glimmer in his eye matched hers. ‘Now that would make an interesting piece of research. Not sure I’d get many willing participants though. Maybe the book after this, if I ever get this one finished.’
A book about Hawksley. Such a vivid setting. ‘It would make a great TV show.’
‘What? Live DNA testing of all the hereditary peers? You have an evil streak.’
‘No.’ She paused as he turned into a small passageway and began to climb a narrow winding staircase. Daisy looked about her in fascination, at the lead-paned windows and the heavy wooden doors leading off at each landing.
They reached the third landing and he stopped at a door, pulling a key out of his pocket. The discreet sign simply said Beresford. This was his world, even more foreign to her than a castle and a grand estate. Academia, ancient traditions, learning and study and words.
Harlequin Romance April 2015 Box Set Page 29
