Harlequin Romance April 2015 Box Set

by Michelle Douglas, Jessica Gilmore, Jennifer Faye

  Daisy’s breath hitched as he gestured for her to precede him into the room, a rectangular space with huge windows, every available piece of wall space taken up with bookshelves. A comfy and well-loved-looking leather chesterfield sofa was pulled up opposite the hearth and a dining table and six chairs occupied the centre of the room. His surprisingly tidy desk looked out over the quad.

  She felt inadequate just standing in here. Out of place. Numb, she tried to grasp for something to say, something other than: ‘Have you read all those books?’ Or ‘Doesn’t your desk look tidy?’

  She returned gratefully to their interrupted conversation. ‘I was talking about Hawksley, of course. It’s the answer to all your problems. Just think of the visitor numbers, although you’d have to rethink the ridiculous weekends only between Whitsun and August Bank Holiday opening times.’

  ‘What’s the answer?’ His face had shuttered as if he knew what she was going to say and was already barricading himself off from it.

  ‘Your book about Hawksley, how you can see England’s history in it.’

  He walked over to his desk and picked up the pile of letters and small parcels and began leafing through. ‘The book I haven’t actually written yet.’ His tone was dismissive but she rushed on regardless.

  ‘You should do it as a TV series. You would be an amazing presenter. Why aren’t you? You’re clever, photogenic, interesting. I’m amazed they haven’t snapped you up.’

  ‘Good God, Daisy.’ There was no mistaking the look in his eyes now. Disgust, horror, revulsion. ‘Despite everything you’ve been through that’s your solution...’ He paused and then resumed, his voice cutting. ‘I suppose once a celebrity offspring, always a celebrity offspring. You don’t think they’ve offered? That I haven’t had a chance to sign myself and my life over? Do you know what it would mean, if I went on TV?’

  She shook her head, too hurt by his response to speak.

  ‘I’d be open game. For every paparazzi or blogger or tabloid journalist. They could rake over my life with absolute impunity—and now your life too! Why would I want that? Why would you want that?’

  Daisy could feel tears battling to escape and blinked them back. No emotion, that was the deal. And that included hurt. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how much his contempt stung. But nor would she let him dismiss her. ‘You need to make Hawksley pay and you said yourself land subsidies and a wedding every weekend won’t do it. Besides, you write books—popular history books, not dull academic tomes. You don’t mind the publicity for those.’

  He paused and ran his hands through his hair. ‘That’s different.’

  ‘Why?’

  The question hung there.

  She pressed on. ‘Your books win prizes, have posters advertising them in bookshops, I’ve even seen adverts on bus shelters and billboards! You read in public, sign in public, give public lectures. How is that different from a TV series?’

  At first she had sounded diffident, unsure of her argument but as she spoke Seb could hear the conviction in her voice. And he had to admit she was making sense. Unwelcome sense but still.

  He fixed his eyes on her face, trying to read her. Every day he found out more about her; every day she surprised him. He had thought she was utterly transparent; sweet, a little flaky maybe, desirable sure but not a challenge. But there were hidden depths to Daisy Huntingdon-Cross. Depths he was only just beginning to discover.

  ‘My books are educational.’ He cringed inwardly at the pompous words.

  She wasn’t giving in. ‘So is television, done right. More so, you would reach a far bigger audience, teach far more people, inspire more people. I’m not suggesting you pimp yourself on social media—though some historians do and they do it brilliantly. I’m not suggesting reality TV or magazine photoshoots. I’m talking about you, doing what you do anyway.’

  Reach more people. Wasn’t that his goal? He sighed. ‘I didn’t plan this.’ Seb put down the pile of still-unopened post and wandered over to the window, staring out. ‘I didn’t think I’d write anything but articles for obscure journals and the kind of books only my peers would read. That’s how I started. That’s how academic reputations are made.’

  ‘So what changed?’

  ‘I got offered a book deal. It was luck really, an ex-student of mine went into publishing and the editor she was working for wanted a new popular history series. Stacey thought of me and set up a meeting.’

  ‘She wouldn’t have thought of you if you hadn’t been an inspiring teacher. Not so much luck, more serendipity.’ Daisy walked across the room and stood next to him. Without conscious intention he put his hand out and took hers, drawing her in close. Her hand was warm and yielding.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘It’s just a suggestion, Seb. I know how you feel about courting publicity, I really do. But Dad always says that if you keep your head down and your life clean they’ll lose interest. And he’s right—just look at my parents. They were wild in their youth, real headline creators just like yours were. The difference is they settled down. They don’t sleep around or take drugs or act like divas. They work hard and live quietly—in a crazy, luxurious bubble admittedly! But that’s what we’ve agreed, isn’t it? Quiet, discreet lives. If we live like that then there really is nothing to fear.’

  Seb inhaled slowly, taking in her calm, reasonable words. Slowly he moved behind her, slipping an arm around her waist to rest on her still-flat stomach. ‘They came after you though.’ His voice was hoarse.

  ‘We’ll just teach the baby not to go out and get drunk in the middle of London when he or she is sixteen. And if it gets my beauty and your brains we should be okay as far as schooling goes.’

  ‘The other way round works just as well. Stop putting yourself down, Daisy. Academic qualifications are meaningless. I think you might be one of the smartest people I know.’

  Her hand came down to cover his, a slight tremor in the fingers grasping his. ‘That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.’

  ‘I mean it.’ The air around them had thickened, the usual smells he associated with his office, paper, leather and old stone, replaced by her light floral scent: sweet with richer undertones just like its wearer. Desire flooded him and he moved his other hand to her waist, caressing the subtle curve as he followed the line down to her hip.

  Seb had no idea how this marriage was going to work in many ways but this he had no qualms about. They had been brought together by attraction and so far it continued to burn hot and deep. He leant forward, inhaling her as he ran a tongue over her soft earlobe, biting down gently as she moaned.

  The hand covering his tightened and he could feel her breathing speed up. Reluctantly he left her hip, bringing his hand up to push the heavy fall of hair away from her neck so the creamy nape was exposed. She trembled as he moved in close to press a light kiss on her neck, then another, working his way around to the slim shoulder as his hand slid round to her ribs, splaying out until he felt the full underside of her breast underneath his thumb.

  Her breaths were coming quicker as she leant against him, arching into his touch, into his kiss, holding on as she turned round to find his mouth with hers. Warm, inviting, intoxicating. ‘Are we allowed to do this here?’ she murmured against his mouth as he found the zip at the back of her dress and eased it down the line of her back. Her own hands were tugging at his shirt, moving up his back in a teasing, light caress.

  ‘No one will come in,’ he promised, slipping the dress from her shoulders, holding in a groan as one hand continued to tease his back, the other sliding round to his chest. ‘We have over an hour before the lecture. Of course, I had promised you lunch...’

  ‘Lunch is overrated.’ She pressed a kiss to his throat, her tongue darting out to mark the most sensitive spot as her fingers worked on his shirt buttons.

  ‘
In that case, my lady—’ he held onto her as she undid the final button, pushing his shirt off him with a triumphant smile ‘—desk, sofa or table?’

  Daisy looked up at him, her eyes luminous with desire. ‘Over an hour? Let’s try for all three.’

  Seb swung her warm, pliant body up. ‘I was hoping you’d say that. Let’s start over here. I think I need to do some very intensive research...’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘YOU WOULDN’T THINK you were publicity-shy, looking at those. My mother would kill to have that kind of exposure—and she doesn’t get in front of a camera for less than twenty thousand a day.’

  There were five large posters arrayed along the front of the lecture hall, each featuring the same black and white headshot of Seb. Daisy came to a halt and studied them, her head tilted critically. ‘Not bad. Did they ask you to convey serious academic with a hint of smoking hot?’

  ‘That was exactly the brief. Why, do you think I look like a serious academic?’

  ‘I think you look smoking hot and—’ she eyed the gaggle of giggling girls posing for selfies alongside the furthest poster ‘—so do they.’

  Seb glanced towards the group and quickly turned away so his back was towards them. ‘Just because they are a little dressed up doesn’t mean they’re not interested in the subject matter. They could be going out afterwards.’

  ‘Sure they could.’ Daisy patted his arm. ‘And when I went to the very dull lectures on Greek vase painting it was because I thought knowing about classical figures on urns would be very helpful to my future career and not because I had a serious crush on the lecturer.’

  She sighed. ‘Six weeks of just sitting and staring into those dark brown eyes and visualising our future children. Time very well spent. Of course he was happily married and never even looked twice at me.’

  ‘This is Oxford, Daisy. People come here to learn.’

  There was a reproving tone in his voice that hit her harder than she liked, a reminder that this was his world, not hers. ‘I didn’t say I didn’t learn anything. You want to know anything about classical art, I’m your girl.’

  ‘Seb!’ Daisy breathed a sigh of relief as a smartly dressed woman came out of the stage door and headed straight for them, breaking up the suddenly fraught conversation. The woman greeted Seb with a kiss on both cheeks. ‘I’ve been looking for you. You’re late. How are you?’

  Seb returned the embrace then put an arm around Daisy, propelling her forward. ‘This is my fiancée, Daisy Huntingdon-Cross. I assume you’ve got the wedding invite? Daisy, this is Clarissa Winteringham, my agent.’

  ‘So this is your mystery fiancée?’ Daisy was aware that she was being well and truly sized up by a pair of shrewd brown eyes. ‘Invite received and accepted with thanks. It’s nice to meet you, Daisy.’

  ‘Likewise.’ Daisy held out her hand and it was folded into a tight grip, the other woman still looking at her intently.

  ‘And what do you do, Daisy?’

  Most people would probably have started with congratulations. Daisy smiled tightly. ‘I’m a photographer.’

  ‘Have you ever thought of writing a book?’ The grip was still tight on her hand as Daisy shook her head. ‘A photographer who gets propelled into the limelight as a model? Could work well for a young adult audience?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Daisy managed to retrieve her hand. ‘Thank you though.’

  ‘I’m sure we could find someone else to write it. You would just need to collaborate on plot and lend your name to it. With your parents I’m sure I could get you a good deal.’

  Of course Clarissa knew exactly who Daisy was, she wouldn’t be much of an agent if she didn’t, but it still felt uncomfortable, being so quickly and brutally summed up for her commercial value. ‘Seb’s the writer in the family and I don’t think books about models are really his thing.’

  ‘Shame, cheekbones like yours are wasted behind a camera. We could have done a nice tie-in, maybe a reality TV show. Get in touch if you change your mind. Now, Seb, they’re waiting for you inside. Have you changed your mind about the BBC offer? You really should call me back when I leave messages.’

  So she hadn’t been the first person to mention TV? Seb didn’t react with the same vehemence he’d shown Daisy earlier when she had made a similar suggestion, just shook his head, smiling, as Clarissa bore him off leaving Daisy to trail behind.

  The lecture hall was crammed to capacity, an incongruous mixture of eager-looking students, serious intellectual types and several more groups of girls waving cameras and copies of Seb’s latest books; pop culture meeting academia.

  Daisy managed to find a seat at the end of a row next to an elderly man who commented loudly to his companion throughout the lecture but, despite the disruptions, the odd camera flashes and the over-enthusiastic laughter from Seb’s youthful admirers every time he made any kind of joke, Daisy found that she enjoyed the lecture. Seb’s enthusiasm for his subject and engaging manner were infectious.

  It was funny how the sometimes diffident man, the private man, came alive in front of an audience, how he held them in the palm of his hand as he took them on a dizzying thousand-year tour of English history using his own family home as a guide. The hour-long talk was over far too quickly.

  ‘He knows his stuff.’ The old man turned to Daisy as the hall began to empty. Daisy had been planning to go straight to Seb, but he was surrounded immediately by a congratulatory crowd, including the girls she had seen earlier, all pressing in close, books in hand waiting to be signed.

  Seb didn’t look as if he minded at all. Hated publicity indeed!

  ‘Yes, he was fascinating, wasn’t he?’ She’d seen her father perform in front of thousands, seen her mother’s face blown up on a giant billboard but had never felt so full of awe. ‘He’s a great speaker.’

  ‘Interesting theory as well. Do you subscribe to his school of thought on ornamental moats?’

  Did she what? About what?

  ‘I...’

  ‘Of course the traditional Marxist interpretation would agree with him, but I wonder if that’s too simplistic.’

  ‘Yes, a little.’ Daisy’s hands were damp; she could feel her hair stick to the back of her neck with fear. Please don’t ask me to do anything but agree with you, she prayed silently.

  ‘Nevertheless he’s a clever man, Beresford. I wonder what he’ll do after this sabbatical.’

  ‘Do? Isn’t he planning to return here?’ Seb hadn’t discussed his future plans with her at all; he was far too focused on the castle.

  ‘He says so but I think Harvard might snap him up. It would be a shame to lose him but these young academics can be so impatient, always moving on.’

  Daisy sat immobile as the elderly man moved past her, her brain whirling with his words. Harvard? Okay, they hadn’t discussed much in terms of the future, but surely if Seb was considering moving overseas he’d have mentioned it? She got to her feet, dimly aware that the large hall was emptying rapidly and that Seb was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘There you are, Daisy.’ Clarissa glided towards her accompanied by a tall man in his late fifties. ‘This is Giles Buchanan, Seb’s publisher. Giles, Daisy is Seb’s mysterious fiancée. She’s a photographer.’

  ‘Creative type, eh? Landscapes or fashion?’

  Daisy blinked. ‘Er...neither, I photograph weddings.’

  ‘Weddings?’ Obviously not the kind of job he expected from Seb’s fiancée judging by the look of surprise on his face. Daisy filled in the blanks: too commercial, not intellectual enough.

  She’d wanted a chance to look inside Seb’s world but now she was here she felt like Alice: too big or too small but either way not right. She stepped out onto the stairs. ‘Excuse me, I need some air.’

  How on earth was she going to fit in? Say the right thing
s, do the right things, be the right kind of wife? She’d thought being a countess was crazy enough—being the wife of an academic looked like being infinitely worse.

  Right now it didn’t feel as if there was any chance at all. The gap between them was too wide and she had no idea if she even wanted to bridge it—let alone work out how to do it.

  * * *

  ‘Table decorations, seating plans, favours, flowers, outfits. We’ve done it all, Vi. There can’t be anything left to plan.’ Daisy tucked the phone between her ear and her chin as she continued to browse on her laptop. The wedding was feeling less and less real as it got nearer. It was one day, that was all.

  And it felt increasingly irrelevant. The real issue was how the marriage was going to work, not whether Great-aunt Beryl was speaking to Great-uncle Stanley or what to feed the vegetarians during the hog roast.

  Seb was right. The marriage was the thing. Not that she was going to tell him that, of course.

  Less than a week to go. This was it. Was she prepared to spend the foreseeable part of her future with a man who was still in so many ways a complete stranger?

  It wasn’t that the nights weren’t wonderful. Incredible actually. But was sex enough to base a marriage on?

  But it wasn’t just sex, was it? There was the baby too. The sex was a bonus and she needed to remember that. Stop being greedy, stop wanting more.

  Seb definitely found her desirable. Had promised to respect her. That was a hell of a lot more than many women had at the start of their marriages. So she wasn’t sure where she fitted in his professional life or at Hawksley? They didn’t have to live in each other’s pockets after all.

  She was completely and utterly lucky—and that was before you factored in the fact she would be living in a castle and, improbable as it seemed, would be a countess. She just had to start feeling it and stop clinging onto the shattered remnants of her romantic dreams. Start carving out a place for herself at Hawksley, turn it into a home. Into her home.