Dominic swore. The runaway heiress had run again.
* * *
‘I’m not staying,’ Faith said, the moment her mother opened the door. Time was, there’d have been the butler to do that, but after Jenkins died when Faith was seven, there’d never been the money to hire another one.
Her mother raised her eyebrows at her, gestured inside with her glass and said, ‘Then I assume you want money. There isn’t any, you know.’
‘Trust me,’ Faith said, lugging her suitcase over the threshold, ‘I know.’
Her father, at least, seemed pleased to see her.
‘We missed you around here, you know,’ he said, kissing her cheek and taking her arm as if she’d been away on holiday, not missing for three years. ‘Nobody to laugh at my jokes!’
‘I can’t imagine that’s true.’ There had always been someone to laugh at the right time, to sparkle and smile when he wanted it. Lord Fowlmere had never needed his daughter—or even his wife—for that.
He laughed. ‘Dahlia! Fix this girl a cocktail. She’s probably been travelling for days to return to the bosom of her family.’
In fact, Faith had caught the first train north from King’s Cross, studiously avoiding all the papers at the station and refusing to log into the train Wi-Fi. Instead, she’d slept all the way, then walked the three miles from the nearest station and arrived at Fowlmere late morning. Also known as cocktail hour to her mother and father.
While her mother fixed her drink, Faith took herself and her suitcase back up to her old room.
Now she was back, it almost felt as if she’d never left, except for the aching loss in her middle where thoughts of Dominic used to reside. If she thought about him, about the disappointment on his face or the feel of his body against hers, she’d cry. And if she started, she might not stop. So, no crying.
But, seriously, why was it she cared so much about his disappointment? She’d let down every single member of her family, scandalised the society in which they lived...why would she care about disappointing one man who she’d known for less than a week? Especially one who’d wanted her to stay put and stay quiet while he managed her life.
The answer whispered around her mind, but Faith refused to acknowledge it. That way lay madness, and probably a lot more cocktails than was advisable.
She managed to avoid most of her parents’ questions by hiding in her room until dinner, ostensibly napping. Her father blamed jet lag and let her be, which was a blessing. But Faith knew she’d never sleep until she faced things head-on. So she pulled out her tablet, took a deep breath and checked out the damage.
The blogs and the websites had the news first, as always. The photo of her and Dominic in the lobby of the Greyfriars, looking as if they’d just rolled out of bed, was plastered everywhere. Faith scrolled past, wishing that every glimpse of the picture didn’t make her remember exactly what they had been doing just before it was taken. How his body had felt pressed against hers. How perfect everything had been, for one fleeting moment.
The text below tended to be scant. Nobody knew anything except that she had been seen in London with Lord Dominic Beresford. Which was, she supposed, all there really was to know—especially if Dominic’s PR team had got to work. There was speculation about where she’d been, and whether she was still holed up at the Greyfriars, but that was it for new news.
So, of course, they rehashed the old news instead. Faith buried the tablet under a pile of blankets on the trunk at the end of the bed when she reached that part.
Dinner with her parents was a stilted affair. Dad would try to make jokes, telling anecdotes that grew more obscure and confused with every glass of wine, but neither her mum nor Faith laughed. When he pulled out the whisky after dinner, Faith thought of Dominic and declined.
‘I need an early night,’ she said.
Her mother frowned. ‘You slept all afternoon.’
‘Jet lag, Dahlia,’ Dad said, and Faith didn’t disagree.
She wandered through the halls of the manor towards the main staircase, her gaze alighting on the holes in the carpet, the empty spaces on the shelves where expensive trinkets once sat. In some ways, it was hard not to compare Fowlmere with Beresford Hall. In others...there just was no comparison.
Fowlmere was decaying, ruined. Over. Just like her relationship with Dominic.
Tucked up in her childhood bed, the old feelings of isolation and hopelessness pressed in on her, but she willed them away. She’d escaped from this place once. She’d do it again. This was merely a temporary stop, until everything blew over and she was employable again. That was all.
She would never have to be that Lady Faith again. The girl with no place in the world, whose very home was falling apart around her, whose parents couldn’t see past their own problems to see her misery. She was an adult now, and she got to choose her own life.
And nobody in their right mind would choose this.
The next morning, Faith pulled her tablet out from its cocoon and braved the news sites again. Nothing much new, except a note that Dominic had checked out of the Greyfriars, but with no sign of her. There was a new photo, showing Dominic stalking out of the hotel, dark eyes hard, ignoring every single reporter and photographer waiting for him. Something pulled at Faith’s insides at the sight of him.
How he must hate her right now.
She shook her head. She had more practical matters to worry about. The news would have made it from the Internet to the papers this morning, which meant that her father would read it. And if the world knew she was no longer at the Greyfriars, the paparazzi would be coming here next. She needed to warn her parents, see if they were willing to stick with a ‘no comment’ rule until the reporters got bored. After all, none of them were very likely to want to sit in a field outside a crumbling mansion for more than a day or two, even if it meant getting a photo of the Runaway Heiress.
But before she got further than pulling on her dressing gown against the pervasive chill of Fowlmere Manor there was a sharp rap on the door and a mug of tea poked into the room, followed by her father.
‘Am I allowed in?’
‘Of course.’ Faith took the drink and sipped. Milk and two sugars. She hadn’t taken sugar for years.
Entering, he moved to the bed and sat, bouncing a little on the mattress. ‘I haven’t been in here for a while,’ he admitted. ‘Your mother, she’d come and sit in here whenever she missed you, but I found it easier just to stay away. Much like yourself.’
Faith blinked. ‘She missed me?’
‘Oh, very much. We both did. Not just for the laughing at jokes thing.’ He gave her his trademark lopsided smile. ‘And then when I saw that business in the papers this morning...I understood. No jet lag then, I suppose?’ A blush heated Faith’s cheeks. ‘Shame you couldn’t bring Lord Beresford with you, really. I wouldn’t mind picking his brain on a few subjects.’
‘It’s not...we’re not...’ Faith swallowed. ‘It wasn’t how I imagine they made it look. Not really. And anyway, it didn’t end well.’
‘But it is ended?’ her father asked. ‘That’s a pity. He’s done incredibly well, really, given what he started with.’
Faith rather thought that Dominic had done incredibly well for anyone, but that wasn’t her main concern. She could see her father calculating what he could do with access to a fortune like the Beresfords’. How there might be the chance of a little loan, something between friends. She’d seen it before. But not again.
‘No. It’s definitely over,’ she said.
‘Ah, well.’ He shifted on the bed, kicking up his feet. ‘Your mother tells me you’re not planning on staying.’
‘That’s right.’ Faith sat down on the dressing table stool and took a sip of her too sweet tea. ‘I’ve just finished a job down in London. I should be able to pick up another one fair
ly quickly.’ As long as they didn’t want references from Dominic. Or Marco... ‘Once I’m sorted, I’ll move out again. But I might be able to send some money home, to help out.’ It would just go onto the gin budget, she knew, but at least she might feel a little less guilty.
‘What sort of a job?’ her father asked, curiosity in his gaze. When she gave him a look, he threw up his hands to protest his innocence. ‘It’s not like we have any idea what you’ve been doing for the last few years. Or even where you’ve been, except for the news that you apparently somehow fell in with Beresford.’
Guilt pinged at her middle again. Okay, so they’d been lousy parents for the most part, and it hadn’t really occurred to her that they might be worried about her whereabouts, but she could have at least dropped them a postcard, or something.
Except they’d have dragged her back. Although, right now, she wasn’t sure if that might not have been a good thing. She’d never have met Dominic. Never ended up in this hideous mess.
But she could never really wish not to have met Dominic.
‘I’ve been working as a tour guide,’ she said, reaching for her mug again. ‘In London, and in Italy.’
‘A tour guide?’ Her father looked fascinated. The idea of work had always been interesting to him. Just a shame he’d never had the desire to actually do any himself. ‘Showing people around things?’
‘And organising their hotels, their travel, looking after their needs, their trips and so forth. Yes.’
‘Sounds like being a servant,’ her father said, and laughed. ‘Did you have to wear a uniform?’
Faith nodded. Who was he to suggest that her job was below her station? At least she was doing more than sitting around drinking in a decaying relic of an earlier era. ‘I did. And actually it was fun. I liked it, and I’m good at it. So I’ll find another job doing the same sort of thing, uniform and all if required, and send some money home for the drinks cabinet. Okay?’
‘Whatever makes you happy, buttercup,’ he said, instantly making her feel bad for acting so defensive. It really was just like old times. ‘Only I was just thinking that it might be you don’t have to go all that far to find that new job of yours.’
Faith felt her parental sixth sense tingle. This wasn’t going to be good. ‘I was thinking London...close enough to visit, right?’ Not that she intended to. But if she could borrow the car to get to the station, she could commute from Fowlmere until she had enough cash to find a place of her own.
Her father shook his head. ‘I’ve got a better idea. You want to be a tour guide? You can do that right here. At Fowlmere!’
Faith thought of the entrance hall, with its dingy lighting and faded and fraying curtains in the windows. So different to the bright open halls and lovingly restored features at Beresford Hall. ‘Dad, I really don’t think anyone is going to want to tour Fowlmere at the moment.’ The whole house was in the same state. Who paid money to see mould and decay?
‘Not yet, maybe, but I’ve got a plan.’ He tapped the side of his nose.
Faith bit her lip to hold in a sigh. Just what she needed. Another one of Dad’s plans.
‘Perhaps, in the meantime, it might be better if I—’
‘You want to go to London; I understand that.’ Dad waved a hand around. ‘That’s fine. I need you in London. You can come to my meetings with me.’
‘Meetings?’ Dad’s meetings only usually took place in the pub, with men who knew exactly which horse was going to come in, really this time, honest.
He nodded. ‘I’ve met with a young guy who is helping me save this place—for a cut, of course. Still, it might fill the old coffers again.’
Because that was what it was all about for her dad, wasn’t it? Living the life he truly believed he was entitled to, even if they couldn’t afford it. ‘What does he intend to do?’ she asked, as neutrally as she could manage.
‘Do this place up. Use the land for corporate activities, events, the whole deal. Like Beresford did down at his place. I’ll introduce you tomorrow; he can tell you all about it.’
The image of Beresford Hall, all clean and crisp facilities, clashed horribly with Fowlmere in Faith’s memory. ‘I think it might take a bit more work than you’re anticipating, Dad. I’ve been to Beresford Hall. It’s pretty spectacular.’
Her father smiled a beatific smile. ‘That’s why it’s so wonderful that you’re home to help me. Serendipity, don’t you think?’
Fate was playing with her, just like it had at that airport bar in Rome. Her father looked so excited, so full of self-belief. But all Faith could feel was her escape routes closing in on her with every word.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THREE WEEKS LATER and still the world didn’t seem ready to let him forget about Faith and move on.
The first week had been the worst. Once the picture of Dominic and Faith looking dishevelled together at the Greyfriars hit the Internet it was in every single paper by the evening editions. And then came worse—the photographer who’d caught them leaving the theatre hand in hand. Footage of Westminster Bridge that evening where someone’s camera phone just happened to catch them embracing in the back of a photo. An anonymous source—Dominic suspected Jerry—who detailed how long Faith had worked for him and claimed ‘they always seemed like they had some big secret. Like they were laughing at us behind our backs.’
There were more stories after that. Someone—presumably a friend Faith had spoken to when setting up the events that week—told the story of Faith talking her way into the job over drinks at the airport. It read as far more sordid than Dominic remembered the reality being, and even Sylvia had called him up and squealed at him, demanding to know if that was really what had happened.
And then Faith’s apparently numerous ex-boyfriends had started getting in on the act, and Dominic had stopped reading the stories.
But he couldn’t avoid the headlines. Ridiculous puns and alliterations that no one showed any sign of getting bored with. ‘Runaway Heiress, Runaway Bride?’ was the latest one. Dominic hadn’t quite managed to restrain himself from reading the entire speculative article that followed that one, suggesting that Faith had left him just after he’d proposed marriage.
The worst of it was, with every article he learned something new about Faith—although he’d probably never know for sure what was truth and what was pure fabrication.
He’d learned about her family, finally making sense of the bits and pieces she’d told him. No wonder she’d hated being at Beresford Hall. By all accounts, her father had spent his way through the Fowlmere fortune in record time. He must have been a constant reminder of what she’d lost.
He’d followed the story of her misspent youth, too. The media had happily mined the photo archive with every article, although Dominic had barely recognised his Faith in the scantily clad, drunken society girl falling out of nightclubs and being caught on camera with the hot young celebs of the day.
His Faith. That was one thing she’d never been, not really.
In fact, if the papers had it right, if she was anyone’s Faith it was Jared Hawkes’s, the married rock star with a notorious drug problem who had, apparently, left his wife and kids for Faith, before she skipped the country.
She looked more like he remembered her in the photos of her leaving the hotel with Hawkes, which somehow made things worse.
He’d tried to keep his head down and focus on work, wait for it all to blow over like Matthew the PR guy advised. But even if Sylvia was reporting record numbers of visitors to Beresford Hall, the Americans had returned home leaving the contracts unsigned, after many awkward conversations and superior looks from Jerry. So now he was waiting. Waiting to see if his professional life could move past this scandal. Waiting to see when the next comparison piece between his mother and Faith would appear in the papers. Waiting, against reason, for Faith to sudd
enly appear in his life again, the way she had the first time.
Because, the truth was, London wasn’t the same without Faith. She’d already been gone longer than she’d been with him, but in three weeks that feeling of something being missing hadn’t faded. In the office, he missed her snarky emails pinging through every so often. In his apartment, he missed the idea of her sprawled across his sofa, tablet on her lap, sipping whisky. And in the city...well, that was the worst.
It seemed that everywhere he went there were reminders of her. A poster for a show she’d wanted to see. A view of Tower Bridge and the memory of the dress she’d worn to dinner that night. A tiny backstreet Italian restaurant that was never Lola’s, but often looked close. A pelican staring balefully at him in St James’s Park.
He seemed to be, inexplicably, spending a lot of time walking through St James’s Park these days. He couldn’t even remember how he used to get from one place to another, before Faith introduced him to the pelicans.
The most embarrassing part was that he kept thinking he saw her. All across London, any time he spotted a woman in a red cardigan, or wild dark hair, his brain screamed ‘Faith!’ Several times, he’d found himself halfway to accosting a curvy stranger before he realised that, even if it was her, she’d betrayed him, she’d run away from him, and they were done.
He had a list of things he wanted to say to her, though. A mental list he added to each night when he couldn’t sleep, remembering the feel of her body against his, under his.
It started with the obvious. Why couldn’t you just do as I asked you for once? If she’d just stayed, he could have fixed things. She knew that, surely? How desperate must she have been to get away from him that she ran anyway?
Just one night. That had been the agreement. Which led to the second item on his list. Why didn’t you want to stay?
Except that sounded too desperate, as if there were a hole in his life waiting for her to fill it, even after all that she’d done, so he always mentally scratched that one off again.
Heiress on the Run (Harlequin Romance) Page 12
