by Penny Jordan
Lovers Touch
Penny Jordan
www.millsandboon.co.uk
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
‘IS THAT the bride? Where on earth did she get that dress?’ Grania demanded disparagingly. ‘Honestly, Nell, if Gramps had known what you were going to do with this place when he left it to you, he’d have had forty fits. It’s so …’ she wrinkled her small nose ‘so …’
‘Enterprising?’ Nell suggested drily.
They were in the book-room. And the bride whose pretty white dress her stepsister had so disparaged was making her way on the arm of her groom beneath an archway of roses into the marquee that Nell and her small staff had spent the whole of the previous day putting up and organising.
‘Enterprising or not, I still say Gramps wouldn’t have approved. And you know it.’
That was the trouble. Nell did. Her grandfather had been one of the old school: a stiff, military gentleman, fiercely proud of the tradition of his family and its service to its country. Fiercely loyal to everything he believed in, and that included an old-fashioned and outdated belief that he owed a responsibility, not just to his immediate family, but also to the small village that nestled less than a mile away from Easterhay’s front gates.
The village had been there long before the first Hugo de Tressail had built his home there, but it had been under his auspices that the shabby collection of untidy dwellings had been superseded by his manorial hall, and the Norman church with its square tower that overlooked the gentle roll of the Cheshire plain.
In the small church itself, a tomb marked the burial place of that first de Tressail, his stone effigy lying at rest on top of it in the classic medieval pose. Alongside him lay his wife, a small dog curled at her feet.
She had been a Saxon Thane’s daughter, well born but poor, and it was supposed to be from her that every now and then throughout the generations a de Tressail woman would inherit her wheat-blonde Saxon hair.
Nell had it herself, a straight waterfall of pale straw which she privately thought colourless. She would much rather have had her stepsister’s more vivid colouring, with its inheritance of Latin ancestry.
‘I wish I’d known you’d got one of these dos on this weekend,’ Grania continued disagreeably. ‘I’d never have bothered coming down.’
‘Then why did you?’ Nell asked her calmly.
At first sight many people dismissed her as timid and withdrawn, but Nell had her own quiet strengths, her own firmly held beliefs and, so some people considered, more than a touch of her grandfather’s notorious stubbornness.
‘I need an advance on my allowance,’ Grania told her curtly. She saw Nell’s face and said sharply, ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t look so po-faced. Joss won’t mind …’
‘Maybe not, but I don’t like you taking money from him,’ Nell told her stiffly.
‘Why ever not? He is our trustee and it is our money, although I’ll never understand why Gramps insisted on leaving everything tied up so stupidly. An allowance until I marry … then a small lump sum. I’d rather have the whole lot now, and I’ve a good mind to tell Joss as much.’
‘No, don’t do that.’
Nell spoke more sharply then she had intended. Outside, the last few remaining guests had gone into the marquee. She had been rather surprised at the success of her small venture into commercialism, although as yet it was true that she had not made much of a profit, barely enough to pay the wages of the staff, in fact; but it was a start. A first small step on the road to independence …
She and Grania were so different, and not just in looks. Grania had the fiery temperament of her Italian parents, Nell’s stepmother and her first husband, and she also had her careless, insouciant attitude towards money.
Her success as a model should have made it possible for her to earn more than enough to live on, and not need the small allowance Nell’s grandfather had organised for her, but Grania had never seemed to realise exactly what their financial situation was. For all her sophistication—and she was sophisticated, far more so than Nell herself, who was three years her senior—she had appeared to have no idea that the allowance she spoke of so glibly came not from their grandfather’s estate, but from Joss Wycliffe’s own pocket.
But, most shamingly of all, Nell knew that if she were to tell Grania the truth, she would not feel in the least mortified but would probably make some mocking quip about Joss being able to afford to pay her ten times as much as he did … which of course was true.
There had been a time, some months before her grandfather’s death, when Nell had wondered if Joss’s constant visits to Easterhay were perhaps because he hoped to make Grania his wife. It had seemed the only explanation for the unlikely relationship which had sprung up between her grandfather and the man who had no compunction at all about saying that he had clawed his way up virtually from the gutter to achieve the multi-millionaire status he now had.
He had moved into the area three years ago, buying a house on the opposite side of the village. Nell had heard the gossip about him before he moved in, but had scarcely expected that her grandfather would make a close friend of him, not for any snobbish reasons, but simply because her grandfather was a very reserved man, with few friends and the kind of sharp tongue that made people view him askance.
And if it hadn’t been for that fateful fall, she doubted if Gramps would even have met Joss.
Despite his age, and the handicap of a severe wound incurred during the action that had earned his KBE, her grandfather had always insisted on walking the five-mile perimeter of the parkland every morning after breakfast. The morning he first met Joss, just after the younger man had moved into the village, it had been frosty, and despite Nell’s protests Sir Hugo had insisted on going out, taking with him the German pointer that was his favourite companion. He had been seventy-eight then, crusty and irascible; and Nell had loved him desperately. He was virtually the only family she had.
There was Grania, of course, but she and her stepsister had never been close. Grania had been with her mother and Nell’s father at the time of the horrific road accident in Italy which had robbed Lucia de Tressail of her life, and reduced Nell’s father to a speechless, bedridden form who never regained consciousness. He had survived his father by a matter of days, never knowing that he had inherited the earldom, and died before Nell had taken in the shock of her grandfather’s death. Grania had rung from Italy to break the news, saying, ‘It’s quite convenient in a way. That hospital must have been dreadfully expensive, and it wasn’t as though poor Daddy knew anyone, was it?’
Grania had been taken in by the Italian relatives her mother and Nell’s father were on their way to visit. Nell had not accompanied them on that trip, primarily because someone had to remain at home with her grandfather. Naturally, when the news came through of her stepmother’s death and the full extent of her father’s injuries, it had been to her grandfather and Easterhay that she had turned.
Easterhay had been her home for as long as she could remember. Her father, an army man like his father and grandfather before him, had brought her there when she was little more than a few weeks old, leaving her in the care of his father and unmarried aunt.
His wife, Nell’s mother, had died at Nell’s birth and she had grown up here at Easterhay, unknowing of how out of date her grandfather’s mode of life was, because she had never experienced any
thing else.
She had been five when her father had remarried, but because of his overseas postings Nell had been eight years old before she had ever been able to spend anything more than a brief holiday with her father and new stepmother.
Lucia had tried to be kind to her; she was naturally warm-hearted, Nell recognised; but she, a child reared by a crusty retired general and his maiden sister, had shrunk from Lucia’s attempts to embrace and mother her, both literally and metaphorically. A shy, withdrawn child, she had grown up into an equally withdrawn adult, quite happily giving up her job in London to come home and nurse her grandfather when her aunt died, and Gramps announced that she would have to return home to take up her aunt’s duties.
She had been just twenty then, and that had been over four years ago. Four years during which she had been forced to mature abruptly, once she realised how precariously balanced her grandfather’s finances were.
The care of his son had eaten into his last small reserves of cash, and now with Gramps himself dead and the ominous threat of double death-duties hanging over Easterhay, Nell had no idea how on earth she was going to keep her promise to her grandfather.
Deathbed promises were like something from Dickens, she told herself as she watched her efficient staff close the entrance to the marquee. In a few mintues she would have to go down and preside over the buffet. No matter how much Grania might choose to deride today’s bride, her parents had still paid and paid well for their daughter to have her wedding reception here in Easterhay’s beautiful parkland, and the pride Nell had inherited from her grandfather, the sense of duty which living with him had instilled in her, would not allow her to do less than her very best for anyone.
‘Promise me you will keep Easterhay,’ Gramps had demanded almost with his last breath, and she, tears in her eyes and clogging her throat, had agreed.
But she still had no idea how that promise was going to be kept.
Oh, she was doing what she could … These weddings brought in a small income, kept the staff busy and paid, and also allowed her to give much needed weekend work to some of the youngsters from the village.
There was also her plan to take in weekend guests, but first some of the bedrooms needed to be renovated. She could hardly expect people to pay to use the one cold and very draughty bathroom installed on both of the two bedroom floors. Deftly she added up her small profit, wondering if she could manage to get three more bathrooms installed by Christmas. She had the workforce to do it … Gramps had insisted on keeping on a large staff even though there was little enough for them to do, other than to try to continually repair the fabric of the house as best they could.
Peter Jansen, the estate carpenter, had made the tables for inside the marquee. Harry White, the gardener, had supplied the flowers and helped her make the decorative arrangements. Mrs Booth, the cook/housekeeper, had organised the food, all of them only too glad to be doing something to lift a little of the burden from Nell’s shoulders.
Once, they and their children would have found well-paid work in Manchester or Liverpool, but those days were gone. Work wasn’t easy to come by anywhere now, and scarcely a week went by without Nell being asked if it was possible for her to find a job for ‘our Jane’ or ‘our Robert’ …
It was true that the staff lived relatively cheaply and well in the row of cottages owned by the estate, but the cottages were in need of repair, and Nell had no idea how on earth she was going to manage to finance her wages bill once it was winter.
It had occurred to her that she could always hire out the ballroom for private dances, but how many times? This was a very quiet part of Cheshire not favoured by the wealthy, and there was very little demand for such affairs, especially with Chester and the very prestigious Grosvenor Hotel so close.
Weddings were different, and there could be no better setting for a summer wedding than the parkland of Easterhay, with the house itself as a backdrop, sunlight reflecting on the ancient leaded windows set into their stone mullions.
It had been a Jacobean de Tressail who had added the impressive frontage and extra wings to the original house. One wing connected to the stable block, the other via a covered walkway to the orangery, now sadly denuded of its glass and in a state of disrepair.
‘I must go out and check on how thing are going …’
‘Do they pay extra for having the “Lady of the Manor” serve them?’ Grania asked her with a sneer. ‘They should do.’
Nell lost her temper with her. She had been under a constant strain since her grandfather’s death, and although she sympathised with her stepsister, she couldn’t stop herself from saying tartly, ‘You shouldn’t sneer at them, Grania, since it’s people like the Dobsons who have the commodity you seem to covet. They’re extremely wealthy.’
Compunction swamped her when she saw the way that Grania’s eyes filled with tears.
‘There’s no need for you to be so horrid to me, Nell,’ she complained tearfully. ‘It’s not my fault that I hate being poor. Mama always said that …’
She broke off and bit her lip, and Nell guessed that she had been about to say that her mother had always told her that the de Tressail family was a wealthy one.
Sighing faintly, Nell dragged her attention away from the wedding and turned to her stepsister.
‘Gramps always liked to pretend that there was more money then there was. His pride wouldn’t allow him to admit how bad things were. And then, when Dad died … the death-duties …’ She saw Grania’s mutinous face and reflected that, in her way, her stepsister was as stubborn as her grandfather.
‘You must have noticed just from the house how bad things are, Grania,’ she counselled gently.
‘I thought it was just Gramps being mean. You know how he was … if things are that bad why on earth don’t you sell this place? It would fetch a fortune. It’s not fair!’ she burst out passionately. ‘Why should Gramps have left it all to you? It should have been split between us …’
Nell stared at her, her heart sinking. She knew these temperamental moods of Grania’s of old, and winced mentally at the thought of the fiery outburst to come. Why was it that her stepsister always made her feel like such a pale shadow, a mere reflection when contrasted with her own glowing, brilliant colour?
Her stepsister had so many advantages … She was young, beautiful, intelligent … She had an excellent career, every advantage, and yet still she resented Nell. And why? Because she had inherited Easterhay.
Nell bit down on her bottom lip, gnawing at it, worrying at it as she tried to find words tactful enough to explain the reasoning behind their grandfather’s decision.
Grania and Gramps had never got on. Gramps had never really approved of his son’s second marriage, and he had been even less pleased when he’d learned that his second wife already had a child from a previous marriage. Where was the grandson who would inherit the title? Where was the next Sir Hugo? he had demanded when the new bride announced that she didn’t want any more children. That had shocked him, Nell knew, and he had never really forgiven Lucia for not providing an heir for Easterhay.
In her grandfather’s eyes, Nell knew, Grania was not a de Tressail, and that was one of the reasons he had left Easterhay itself solely to Nell.
Now that title would go to Nell’s son … always supposing she had one. Always supposing she met a man willing to marry her and shoulder with her the problems of her inheritance.
At heart, she knew that Grania had a valid argument. The property should be sold either as a home to someone rich enough to afford it, or perhaps even to a developer. But Nell knew she would rather have torn out her own heart than agree to such a course of action. Perhaps after all there was more of her grandfather in her than she knew. Or perhaps it was simply conditioning … simply the fact that she had been brought up to put Easterhay and all that it stood for before herself and her own needs and desires.
Whatever the case, she knew that her grandfather had left her Easterhay because he saw her as
its custodian, that to him she was little more than a trustee holding the house and its lands for the future. But could she hold it?
She had no idea … but she meant to try.
Trying was one thing, succeeding was another. Her initial approaches to the National Trust on the advice of her solicitor had proved fruitless. If Nell only knew of the houses they were offered, but had to turn down; houses of far more national importance than Easterhay.
The trouble was that Easterhay was too large to be run as home without wealth to support it, and yet too small to be developed in the way that some of the more well known National Trust houses had been.
And so it was down to her to find a means of keeping the estate going, to use what skills she had to bring an income into the bank account, with perilously little in it, to cover the looming death-duties.
She was doing what she could. These weddings that paid so well but demanded so much …
Perhaps next year they might even invest in buying their own marquee—that would save money in the long run, and …
As always when money worried at her mind, she became totally engrossed in the problems of maintaining the house, and it took Grania’s sharp voice to bring her out of her mental financial juggling.
‘Well, if you won’t be reasonable, I’m sure that Joss will … He is here, isn’t he?’
‘If by here you mean in the village, then yes, I believe he is at home at the moment,’ Nell acknowledged stiffly.
Grania laughed, her angry mood lightening as she teased, ‘Poor Nell, you’ve never liked him, have you? Far too much the rough diamond for you, I suppose. I must say, though, that he does have a rather exciting aura of sexuality about him. I wonder what he’s like in bed.’
‘Grania!’ Nell protested, her face suddenly hot. It was true that she had always felt uncomfortable in Joss’s presence, but not because she didn’t like him—far from it!
‘Poor Nell,’ Grania pouted. ‘Honestly, you’re like something out of Pride and Prejudice. Sex does exist, you know. And so does sex appeal, and believe me, Joss has it by the bucketful. All that and money too …’ She closed her eyes. ‘Mmm …’ She opened them again and looked at her stepsister, saying tauntingly, ‘You haven’t the foggiest idea what I’m talking about, have you? You wouldn’t recognise sex appeal if it … Honestly, you’re archaic. I suppose you don’t even approve of me going to see Joss. You probably even think I should wait for him to get in touch with me. Poor Nell—you’ve no idea what you’re missing.’
