by Liz Fielding
‘Is it any of your business?’ he asked, reclaiming a little of the distance he’d briefly surrendered. ‘Since it’s all mine?’
It was in the nature of a challenge but she didn’t rise to it. She’d ceased to think of any of this as hers a long time ago. ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. Then, after a moment, ‘None at all.’
‘You don’t mean that,’ he said, regarding her through narrowed eyes. ‘You want something. The bear? Your grandmother’s clothes for the costume museum?’
Was he really capable of tempting her simply for his amusement? Or was his conscience beginning to prick him? There really was no need for him to feel bad about becoming the unwitting owner of the junk her family had stuffed up here.
‘Actually, I’d quite like some of them for myself, but that’s just self-indulgence,’ she assured him.
Some things were lost for ever and you just had to accept it. Live with it.
‘Why don’t you just leave it all up here?’ she suggested.
He shook his head. ‘I need the room. Come on, you might as well tell me.’
She looked at him. He seemed serious enough and nothing ventured, nothing gained-she might as well ask for something that could be auctioned off to help the women her mother had cared so much about.
‘Nothing for me. Truly. But if you’re feeling generous, and since you thought it was all going to be rubbish anyway, maybe you’d consider giving a few things to help raise money for the Pink Ribbon Club?’
Tom McFarlane didn’t know what he’d expected. But, surrounded by family treasures that she’d lost, given the opportunity to reclaim some precious memory, it had never occurred to him that she’d ask for something to give away.
‘The charity your mother founded? What does it do, actually?’
‘It supports women with cancer. And their families. When my mother was going through her treatment, she realised just how fortunate she was.’
‘Private treatment? No waiting?’
‘Cancer is like war, Tom. There are officers and there are men, but the bullets don’t distinguish between them.’
‘I’m sorry. That was a cheap shot.’
‘Yes, actually, it was.’ Then she lifted her shoulders in a barely-there shrug. ‘But you’re right. She had her chemo in a private room. Had the very best medical attention, every chance to recover. The thing was, Tom, she didn’t take it for granted. She knew how lucky she was, which is why she took so much pleasure in being able to give something back.’
‘But she still died.’
Pam had attempted to fill him in on some of the background while he’d had breakfast. He’d shut it out, concentrating on what had been happening with various projects he’d left in her more than capable hands when he’d taken to the hills, not on Sylvie Smith’s family. But he had picked up the fact that Lady Annika Duchamp Smith was dead.
‘Not from cancer. She was driving to London to talk to the bank in an attempt to sort out the mess.’ Her gesture took in the attic, but that wasn’t the mess she was referring to. ‘The weather was bad, she was upset. I should have been with her instead of behaving like a bratty teenager.’
He saw her throat move as she swallowed and it was all he could do to stop himself from reaching out to her, but this time in a gesture of comfort.
Before he could make a total fool of himself-she’d finally got the Earl to provide her with every possible comfort-she gathered herself and said, ‘Look, don’t worry about it. You’ve loaned us the house. That’s more than generous.’ She didn’t wait for an answer, but said, ‘I have to go.’
‘Or course. I mustn’t delay you.’
With a wedding to plan and a baby on the way, she had more than enough to keep her occupied.
It wasn’t a problem. He’d get someone from one of the auction houses to come and sort through the trunks. Put aside anything of value.
She paused in the doorway, looked back. ‘If you like, I’ll give you a hand later. If you’re planning on staying?’
Was there just a hint of hope in her voice? A fervent wish that he’d make himself scarce and leave her to have the free run of the house, to be cosseted by the old family retainers for a few days so that she could pretend that nothing had changed?
Or was she expecting company?
‘I’m staying,’ he assured her, crushing it. Then regretted the thought.
Despite their similar backgrounds, she was nothing like Candy, who, it had to be admitted, was shallower than an August puddle.
No doubt she just wanted to forget, wipe from her memory, the moment when she’d clung, whimpering and pleading, to him. And who could blame her for that? Why on earth would she want to remember?
‘Maybe, if you have some time to spare later, you could give me some clues as to what I might find,’ he suggested.
‘Well, there’s nothing on television,’ she said, ‘so you’ve got yourself a date.’ Then, almost as an afterthought, ‘But do bring a brighter light bulb so that we can at least see what we’re doing.’
She had that natural authority that would have had the serfs leaping to her bidding, he thought. Perfect lady of the manor material. And a smile that would have made them happy to leap.
If he wasn’t careful, he’d find himself leaping right along with them.
‘I’ll ask Mr Kennedy to replace it,’ he replied.
Just to make the point, in case she was in danger of forgetting, that this was his house and if anyone was going to issue orders in it it would be him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
S YLVIE watched with a certain amount of detachment as Geena and her staff went into raptures over her great-grandmother’s wedding dress.
‘This is so beautiful, Sylvie!’ Geena said, examining the lace. The workmanship. ‘French couturier?’
‘Undoubtedly,’ she said. ‘Great-grandma Clementine started out as she meant to go on. But it’s a dress for a very young bride. She was barely nineteen when she married my great-grandfather.’
She managed a shrug, as if such a thing was unbelievable.
‘I agree. I’ve designed something much more sophisticated for you. Flowing, loose, since it’s a style that suits you so well. No veil, though. I thought a loose-fitting jacket with wide sleeves, turned-back cuffs.’
She proffered her sketches.
Sylvie swallowed. ‘It’s absolutely gorgeous, Geena. Perfect. What’s that in my hair?’
‘A small tiara. Nothing over the top,’ she added with a grin. ‘Since you seem hooked on elegant restraint.’
‘I don’t know about restraint,’ Sylvie said with a wry smile. ‘There are the purple shoes.’ She gave a little shrug. ‘I forgot I was wearing them so I had to buy them.’
‘If you believe that, my darling, who am I to contradict you? I’ll put in an order for the purple waistcoat then, shall I?’
‘Will anything I say stop you?’
‘I don’t know, give it a try.’
She shook her head.
‘Okay, you can leave the tiara to me, if you like. The woman who makes them for me is showing at the Fayre. Can we add a touch of green to the violet? You’re not superstitious?’
‘No.’ She’d done everything by the book the first time and it had still all fallen apart. And this time it was make-believe, so it really didn’t matter. ‘I’ll send you over a colour sample-’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll pick it up when I come over with my final drawings and material swatches for the appliqué first thing in the morning. Be ready to make a decision.’
‘I’ve got the message, but now I really have to love you and leave you because I have an appointment with the caterer, the florist and the confectioner.’
Followed by an evening cosseted with the devil himself, sorting through the discarded ephemera of generations of the Duchamp family.
Not the brightest of decisions, considering the effect he had upon her. She couldn’t think what had made her volunteer. Or maybe she could, which was truly dumb, eve
n though he hadn’t carried through with this morning’s opportunistic pass. Despite the fact that she hadn’t done a single thing to discourage him.
Somehow they’d managed to move on without sinking into terminal embarrassment, although only she knew how hard it had been to keep it light, make a joke of it.
Only she knew how torn she was between relief and regret that he’d taken a step back, rescuing her from her runaway hormones.
She might have spent the last six months yearning for the phone to ring, for him to make a move, to suggest they continue where they’d left off, but the truth was that some affairs were doomed from the start. And that was all it would ever have been for him-a tit-for-tat affair to throw oil on the fire of gossip and give him back his pride.
A lesser man would have gone for it without a second thought. Used it to bolster his shattered self-esteem. Used her to strike back.
That he hadn’t seemed to prove that Tom McFarlane was made of finer stuff. He didn’t need to hurt someone else to make himself feel good. Not even her, even though he couldn’t have made it plainer that he despised everything that made her who she was. A reaction which only increased her curiosity about the forces that had shaped his character.
She frowned as she wondered about his lack of family memories.
His meteoric rise from teenage entrepreneur to billionaire was the stuff of legend, but where had that teenager risen from? If he had no family, it would go a long way to explaining his inability to confront emotional issues. His coldness in the face of Candy’s desertion. His inability to connect physical love with anything deeper.
Maybe.
But it would have to keep, she told herself with a sigh as she pulled into the caterer’s premises, trying to raise her enthusiasm for the latest twist on poached salmon-never a favourite.
‘Something smells good,’ Sylvie said as she tossed a folder containing menus, photographs of flowers and every style of cake imaginable on to the kitchen table and crossing to the stove where Tom, unbelievably, was beating potato into submission. ‘Mrs Kennedy’s spiced beef casserole?’
‘It’s beef and it’s a casserole, beyond that I’m not prepared to hazard a guess,’ Tom said. ‘I’m only responsible for the vegetables.’
He offered her the pan and Sylvie dipped a finger in the potatoes, licked it and groaned with pleasure. ‘Butter, garlic. Real food.’
‘There’s plenty for two,’ he said, apparently amused at her pleasure.
‘Are you sure? I’d better warn you that I’m starving.’
‘A first. A woman with an appetite,’ he said, his smile fading as quickly as it had come. ‘But then you’re eating for two.’
‘Oh, I’ve never been a fan of lettuce,’ she said, too hungry to worry about his sudden loss of interest, instead reaching up to the warming rack above the stove for a couple of plates. ‘Where’s Mrs Kennedy?’ she asked. ‘Why isn’t she mashing your spuds?’
‘She’s putting her feet up after being run ragged by the hordes of exhibitors and construction people tramping through the house all day, wanting tea, scones and sandwiches. You are aware that they’re eating us out of house and home?’
Us?
Just a figure of speech, no doubt, but it sent a thrill of pleasure rippling through her tired limbs.
‘Send the bill to Celebrity; this is their party,’ she replied and, since emotion was off his radar, doing her best to keep the smile down and the tone chirpy.
‘They’re picking up the tab for everything?’ he asked, glancing at her.
‘Peanuts for them. You missed out, Tom. If you’d let them cover your wedding they’d have been stuck with the bill.’
‘And filled their pages with the story when Candy made her break. No, thanks. It was enough of a circus already.’
Sylvie grinned. ‘You got off lightly, Tom. Last month I organised a wedding where the bride arrived on an elephant-’
‘Stop! Stop right there.’
‘And you escaped the butterflies…’
‘Give me a break,’ he said, but he was grinning too.
‘Okay. But only because you’re being so protective of Mrs Kennedy. Although I bet she had a whale of time with an endless stream of people to fuss over for a change.’
‘A stream of people taking advantage.’
‘Rubbish. She didn’t have to make scones. She didn’t have to offer them anything. The workmen almost certainly brought flasks and packed lunches with them.’
Tom’s only response was a noise that sounded like something a disgruntled bulldog might have made as he spooned some of the rich casserole on to a plate.
‘I understood the Fayre was your party,’ he said. ‘Pink ribbons and all.’
‘Okay,’ she said, opening a drawer and finding knives and forks for both of them, before pulling out a chair and making herself comfortable at the kitchen table. ‘Why don’t you send the bill to me and I’ll send it on to Celebrity?’ Then, ‘And I promise that I won’t make you go through it item by item.’
‘No?’ he said as he put his own plate on the table, holding her attention while he fetched two glasses and a bottle of red wine that was already open. Then, as he looked up and caught her gaze, ‘Maybe I’ll insist.’
And Sylvie blushed. What an idiot! Anyone would think she was angling for a repeat performance…
Maybe she was.
‘But tomorrow they’re on their own,’ he continued as he pulled out a chair and sat down opposite her.
She cleared her throat. ‘Right.’ Then, ‘Will you tell Mrs Kennedy that you’re going to spoil her fun? Or would you like me to do that?’
He shook his head, trying not to smile. ‘Just tell her not to overdo it. Meantime,’ he said, ‘I don’t expect her to wait on me.’
‘Perish the thought,’ she agreed as he filled both glasses without bothering to ask her whether she wanted wine or not and he looked up, apparently catching the ironic tone.
‘What?’
She shrugged. ‘Well, I may be wrong,’ she said, getting up and fetching a bottle of water from the fridge and another glass, ‘but I suspect she’s disappointed not to have had the chance to lay out everything in the dining room to show the new “master” what she can do.’ Then, as he scowled, presumably at falling into her trap, ‘And maybe just a little anxious about their future too. They have a pension-that was ring-fenced-but their cottage has been their home for thirty years.’
‘I don’t suppose anyone was worrying about that when the bailiffs were in.’
‘You suppose wrong. My mother was deeply concerned. As far as she was concerned, they had tenure for life and it was one of the things she hoped to straighten out.’ She dismissed that. It was past. ‘I’m not trying to get at you, Tom. I’m just telling you how it is.’
For a moment he just stared at her, then he nodded. ‘I’ll give it some thought.’
‘Thank you.’ Then, ‘Where’s Pam tonight? Isn’t she hungry?’
‘She’s taken the opportunity, with my presence, to go back to London for a couple of days to catch up.’ He raised an ironic glass in her direction. ‘It’s just you, me and the ghosts.’
Okay, maybe she’d asked for that with her ‘master’ crack. He couldn’t have made it clearer that he despised the landed gentry and everything they stood for.
Would no doubt enjoy turning this venerable old manor house into a conference centre, the stables into accommodation for bright young executives. Take pleasure in the thought of them being moulded into team leaders as they played paintball war games in the ancient woodland.
And why not?
It was a new era, meritocracy ruled and she should be using this opportunity to demonstrate her own company’s experience in the field of conference coordination.
She’d relish the chance to expand her business in that direction.
Whatever Josie thought, she had, like Tom, had enough of weddings to last her a lifetime. And she was losing her taste for celebrity parties too. Ma
ybe it was impending motherhood but she wanted to do something a little more grown-up and meaningful with the rest of her life than think of new ways to spend other people’s money. When this week was over she was going to talk to Josie about a partnership, gift her the ‘fun’ side of the business so that she could concentrate on more serious stuff.
She didn’t think that Tom McFarlane would be that impressed if she used the opportunity to pitch for his business, however, so she poured herself a glass of water and, matching his gesture, touched it to his.
‘To the ghosts,’ she said, ‘although I have to warn you that they’re all family. Protective of their own.’ She swallowed a mouthful of water, put down her glass, then picked up a fork and speared a small piece of tender beef. ‘I’ll sleep soundly enough tonight,’ she lied. How likely was that with him just yards away? ‘You, on the other hand, are going to be tearing the place apart and I doubt they’ll take kindly to that.’
‘Then I’m glad you’re here. If they come calling, I’ll seek refuge with you.’
She choked as she swallowed the beef. Then, unable to help herself, laughed. ‘Why on earth would I protect you?’
‘Because this is all your fault.’ He gestured around the kitchen with his fork. ‘If you’d kept your staff under better control, Candy would have had her country estate and Longbourne Court would have been safe for another fifty years.’
She stared at him, shocked out of her teasing. Her appetite suddenly non-existent. ‘You bought this for Candy?’
He didn’t answer her question, but just said, ‘Do you think she would have thought twice about running off with Quentin if she’d known?’
Sylvie lifted her shoulders and said, ‘It was always Candy’s declared ambition to marry a millionaire, Tom, and she came close more than once, as I’m sure you know.’
He shrugged. ‘She could scarcely deny that there hadn’t been a certain amount of history,’ he admitted. ‘Her romances were always given the full Celebrity treatment.’
‘As were her break-ups. She had a habit of doing something outrageous, wrecking her chances.’
