by Kate Hardy
Will an unexpected legacy...
...lead to wedding bells?
Widowed architect Hugo Grey is stunned. His late great-aunt has bequeathed her house to Alice Walters—a complete stranger!—with the stipulation that Alice must recruit Hugo’s services to help convert the house into a butterfly center. Clearly his great-aunt knew something he doesn’t, because he and Alice clash over everything, which makes his attraction to the captivatingly feisty and beguiling butterfly expert even harder to ignore...
Hugo did as she suggested, and Alice watched his expression as one of the butterflies, its wings a bright iridescent blue, flapped lazily over to them, then landed on his arm.
His eyes were full of wonder; all the cynicism had gone from his face. At that moment, it felt as if he lit up the whole butterfly house for her. It was the sweetest, sweetest feeling. As if they were sharing something special. Something private. Their own little world.
“You can breathe, you know,” she said softly. “You won’t hurt it.”
“That’s just...” He shook his head, clearly lost for words.
She couldn’t resist standing on tiptoe and brushing her mouth against his.
He froze for a moment, and then, as the morpho flew away again, he wrapped his arms around her waist, returning the kiss. She slid her arms around his shoulders, drawing him closer. And then he really kissed her. All around them, butterflies flapped their iridescent wings, and she closed her eyes, letting all her senses focus on the feel of Hugo’s mouth against hers.
Dear Reader,
I’m thrilled that this is my ninetieth book for Harlequin!
I wanted to do something a little different and play with one of the tropes I remember reading avidly when I was in my teens: the will with a Very Big Condition. Hugo and Alice are perfect for each other, but both refuse to date. Rosemary uses her will to get them together. And, although they loathe each other on first sight, they discover that they are perfect to help the other move on from the past.
With Alice being a butterfly specialist and Hugo being an architect, I thoroughly enjoyed researching for this book—visiting gorgeous glass domes (especially the Reichstag in Berlin), butterfly houses (London, with my best friend) and sites of special scientific interest (I took my husband to the hill fort where Hugo and Alice see the blue butterflies, and the look of wonder on his face when he realized I hadn’t been teasing...that was definitely a romantic moment!).
I hope you enjoy their journey.
With love,
Kate Hardy
A Will, a Wish, a Wedding
Kate Hardy
Kate Hardy has been a bookworm since she was a toddler. When she isn’t writing, Kate enjoys reading, theater, live music, ballet and the gym. She lives with her husband, student children and their spaniel in Norwich, England. You can contact her via her website: katehardy.com.
Books by Kate Hardy
Harlequin Romance
A Crown by Christmas
Soldier Prince’s Secret Baby Gift
Summer at Villa Rosa
The Runaway Bride and the Billionaire
Christmas Bride for the Boss
Reunited at the Altar
A Diamond in the Snow
Finding Mr. Right in Florence
One Night to Remember
Harlequin Medical Romance
Changing Shifts
Fling with Her Hot-Shot Consultant
A Nurse and a Pup to Heal Him
Mistletoe Proposal on the Children’s Ward
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.
To Gerard, Chris and Chloe, who’ve supported me all the way through ninety books, with all my love.
Praise for Kate Hardy
“Ms. Hardy has written a very sweet novel about forgiveness and breaking the molds we place ourselves in... A good heartstring novel that will have you embracing happiness in your heart.”
—Harlequin Junkie on Christmas Bride for the Boss
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Epilogue
Excerpt from Dream Vacation, Surprise Baby by Ally Blake
CHAPTER ONE
YOU DON’T BELONG HERE, oik, a posh voice sneered in Alice’s head.
Barney and his cronies would’ve laughed themselves sick if they could’ve seen her standing at the foot of a set of white marble steps. What business did the girl from the council estate have here, in the poshest bit of Chelsea?
She lifted her chin to tell the voice she wasn’t listening. Ten years ago, she’d been so naive that she hadn’t realised that Barney—the most gorgeous man at the Oxford college where they were both studying—was only dating her for a bet. She’d found out the truth at the college ball where she’d thought he was going to propose, while he’d been planning to collect his winnings after proving he’d turned the oik into a posh girl. He hadn’t loved her for herself or even wanted her; instead, it had been a warped kind of Eliza Doolittle thing. He and his friends had been laughing at her all along, and she’d been so hurt and ashamed.
Now Dr Alice Walters was a respected lepidopterist. She was comfortable with who she was professionally and was happy to give keynote speeches at high-powered conferences; but socially she always had to silence the voice in her head telling her that she wasn’t good enough—especially if her surroundings were posh.
Why had Rosemary Grey’s solicitor asked to see her? Maybe Rosemary had left some specimens to the university. Or maybe this was about the project they’d worked on together: editing the journals and writing the biography of the butterfly collector Viola Ferrers, Rosemary’s great-grandmother. Alice had visited her elderly friend in hospital several times after her stroke and, although Rosemary’s sentences had been jumbled, her anxiety had been clear. Alice had promised Rosemary that she’d see the project through. Hopefully, whoever had inherited the journals would give her access to them, but she needed to be in full professional mode in case there were any doubts. Now really wasn’t the time for imposter syndrome to resurface and point out that she looked a bit awkward in the business suit and heels she hardly ever wore, there was a bit of hair she hadn’t straightened properly, and her make-up wasn’t sophisticated enough.
The one thing Barney’s callousness had taught her all those years ago was that image mattered—even though she thought people should judge her by what was in her head and her heart, not by what she looked like. For now she’d go with the superficial and let them judge the butterfly by its chrysalis.
‘This is for you and Viola, Rosemary,’ Alice said softly. She walked up the steps to the intimidatingly wide front door with its highly polished brass fittings and pushed it open.
‘May I help you?’ the receptionist asked.
Alice gave her a very professional smile. ‘Thank you. I’m Dr Alice Walters. I have an appointment with Mr Hemingford at two-thirty.’
The receptionist checked the screen and nodded. ‘I’ll let him know you’re here, Dr Walters. The waiting area’s just through there. Can I offer you a cup of coffee while you’re waiting?’
Alice would have loved some coffee, but she didn’t want to risk spilling it all over her suit—and right now she was feeling nervous enough to be clumsy. ‘Thank you for the offer, but I’m fine,’ she said
politely, and headed for the waiting area.
There were a couple of others sitting there: a middle-aged woman who kept glancing at her watch and frowning, as if her appointment was running a bit late, and a man with floppy dark hair and the most amazing cobalt-blue eyes who was staring out of the window, looking completely lost.
For one crazy moment, she thought about going over to him and asking if he was all right. She knew from working with her students that if someone was having a rough day, human contact and a bit of kindness could make all the difference.
But the man was a stranger, this was a solicitor’s office, and whatever was wrong was none of her business. Besides, she needed to make sure she was prepared for anything, given the infuriating vagueness of the solicitor’s letter. So she sat down in a quiet corner, took her phone from her bag, and re-read the notes she’d made about the butterfly project.
* * *
Hugo Grey still couldn’t quite believe that his eccentric great-aunt was dead. He’d thought that Rosemary would live for ever. She’d been the only one of his family he could bear to be around when his life had imploded nearly three years ago. Unlike just about everyone else in his life, she hadn’t insisted over and over that he shouldn’t blame himself for Emma’s death, or tried to make him talk about his feelings; she’d simply asked him to come and help her with an errand that almost always didn’t materialise, made him endless cups of tea and given him space to breathe. And there, in that little corner of Notting Hill, he’d started to heal and learn to face the world again.
He’d spent the first three months of this year in Scotland, so he hadn’t been able to visit Rosemary as much as he would’ve liked, but he’d still called her twice a week and organised a cleaner and a weekly grocery delivery for her. Once he was back in London, he’d popped in on Monday and Thursday evenings, and she’d been fine—until the stroke. He’d visited her in hospital every other day, but it had been clear she wouldn’t recover.
And now he was to be her executor.
Just as he’d been for Emma. Hugo knew exactly how to register a death, organise a funeral, plan a wake, write a good eulogy and execute a will, because he’d already done it all for his wife.
He clenched his fists. He’d let Emma down—attending an architectural conference thousands of miles away in America instead of being at her side when she’d had that fatal asthma attack. If he’d been home, in London, he could’ve got medical help to her in time to save her. He couldn’t change the past, but he could learn from it; he wasn’t going to let his great-aunt down. She’d trusted him to be her executor, so he’d do it—and he’d do it properly.
He glanced round the waiting room. There were two others sitting on the leather chairs: a middle-aged woman who was clearly impatient at being kept waiting, and a woman of around his own age who looked terrifyingly polished.
It was nearly half-past two. Thankfully Philip Hemingford was usually punctual. Hugo could hand over the death certificate, and then start working through whatever Rosemary wanted him to do. He knew from the copy of the will she’d given him that she’d left nearly everything to his father and there were some smaller bequests; he’d make sure everything was carried out properly, because he’d loved his eccentric great-aunt dearly.
A door opened and Hugo’s family solicitor appeared. ‘Mr Grey, Dr Walters?’
Dr Walters?
Hugo had been pretty sure this appointment was for him alone; he was representing his father, who wasn’t well. Who on earth was Dr Walters?
The terrifyingly polished woman stood up, surprising him. She didn’t look like the sort of person who’d pop in to see Rosemary for a cup of tea and a chat. Hugo knew all Rosemary’s neighbours, and his great-aunt hadn’t mentioned anyone moving into the street recently. This didn’t feel quite right.
‘Please, have a seat,’ Philip Hemingford said, gesturing to the two chairs in front of his desk as he closed the door behind them. ‘Now, can I assume you already know each other?’
‘No,’ Hugo said. And she looked as mystified as he felt.
‘Then I’ll introduce you. Dr Walters, this is Hugo Grey, Rosemary’s great-nephew. Mr Grey, this is Alice Walters, Rosemary’s business associate.’
Since when had his great-aunt had business arrangements? As far as Hugo knew, she’d been living on the income from family investments, most of which ended with her death. ‘What business associate?’
The solicitor neatly sidestepped the question by saying, ‘My condolences on your loss. Now, Mr Grey—before we begin, we need to follow procedure. I believe you have Miss Grey’s death certificate?’
‘Yes.’ Hugo handed over the brown manila envelope.
‘Thank you.’ The solicitor extracted the document and read through it swiftly. Clearly satisfied that all was in order, he said, ‘We’re here today to read the last will and testament of Miss Rosemary Grey.’
Hugo didn’t understand why this woman was here. Her name wasn’t on the list of people who’d been left bequests. Hugo had assumed that today’s appointment was mainly to start the ball rolling with his duties as Rosemary’s executor, so he could sort out the funeral.
Philip Hemingford handed them both a document. ‘I witnessed the will myself, three months ago,’ he said.
The will Hugo knew about dated from five years ago, when his great-aunt had first asked him to be her executor. Why had she changed it—and why hadn’t she told anyone in the family?
‘Dr Walters, Miss Grey has left you the house.’
What? Rosemary had left her house to a stranger?
Wondering if he’d misheard, Hugo scanned the document in front of him.
It was clearly printed.
Last will and testament...
...of sound mind...
To Dr Alice Walters, I leave my house...
A house in Notting Hill was worth quite a lot of money, even if it needed work—work that Hugo had tried to persuade his great-aunt to have done so that she’d keep safe and warm, but she’d always brushed his concerns aside. And Hugo had a really nasty feeling about this. He’d been here before, with something valuable belonging to his aunt and a stranger persuading her to hand it over.
‘Just to clarify, Mr Hemingford,’ Hugo said, giving Alice a steely look. ‘My great-aunt left her house to someone that nobody else in my family has ever heard of before, and she changed her will three months ago?’
At least the woman had the grace to blush. As well she should, because he’d just stated the facts and they all very clearly added up to the conclusion that this woman had taken advantage of Rosemary’s kindness. It wasn’t the first time someone had taken advantage of his great-aunt. The last time had been Chantelle, the potter who’d befriended Rosemary and told her all kinds of sob stories. Rosemary had given Chantelle her William Moorcroft tea service; Chantelle had sold it to a dealer for a very large sum of money and—worse, in Hugo’s eyes—stopped visiting Rosemary. Hugo had quietly bought the tea service back with his own money, returned it to his aunt, and kept a closer eye on people who visited his aunt since then.
Except for the mysterious Dr Walters, who’d slid very quietly under his radar.
Unless... Was this the woman his aunt had mentioned visiting, the one she’d said she wanted him to meet? Hugo, fearing this was yet another attempt by his family to get him to move on after Emma’s death, had made excuses not to meet the woman. Fortunately this friend had never been available on Mondays or Thursdays, when Hugo visited, so he hadn’t had to deal with the awkwardness of explaining to his aunt that he really didn’t want to meet any ‘suitable’ young women.
Now, he wished he hadn’t been so selfish. He should’ve been polite and met her. He should’ve thought about his aunt and her vulnerability instead of being wrapped up in his own grief and his determination not to get involved with anyone again.
‘Miss Grey changed her wil
l three months ago,’ the solicitor confirmed, ‘and she was of sound mind when she made her will.’
You could still be inveigled into doing something when you were of sound mind, Hugo thought. And Rosemary liked to make people happy. What kind of sob story had this woman spun to make his great-aunt give her the house?
‘There are conditions to the bequest,’ the solicitor continued. ‘Dr Walters, you must undertake to finish the butterfly project, turn the house into an education centre—of which she would like you to assume the position of director, should you choose—and re-wild the garden.’
The garden re-wilding, Hugo could understand, because he knew how important his great-aunt’s garden had been to her. And maybe the education centre; he’d always thought that Rosemary would’ve made a brilliant teacher. But, if Rosemary had left the house to his father, as her previous will had instructed, surely she knew that her family would’ve made absolutely sure her wishes were carried out? Why had his great-aunt left everything to a stranger instead? And he didn’t understand the first condition. ‘What project?’
‘I’m editing the journals and co-writing the biography of Viola Ferrers,’ Dr Walters said.
It was the first time he’d heard her speak. Her voice was quiet, and there was a bit of an accent that he couldn’t quite place, except it was definitely Northern; and there was a lot of a challenge in her grey eyes.
Did she really think he didn’t know who Viola Ferrers was?
‘My great-great-great-grandmother,’ he said crisply.
Her eyes widened, so he knew the barb had gone home. This was his family and his heritage. What right did this stranger have to muscle in on it?
‘Miss Grey also specified that a butterfly house should be built,’ the solicitor continued.
Rosemary had talked about that, three years ago; but Hugo had assumed that it was her way of distracting him, giving him something to think about other than the gaping hole Emma’s death had left in his life. They’d never taken it further than an idea and a sketch or two.
