by Liz Fielding
‘Your nobility does you credit, Fellowes, but don’t be a chump,’ Harry said. ‘You can be godfather to our first child.’
Julian looked from Harry to Faith and back again. ‘You mean— Oh, good grief—’ Relief swept across his face. ‘You were making your own sacrifice to keep your promise to me?’
‘Two chumps,’ Harry agreed.
Julian leaned forward and kissed Faith’s cheek before taking her hand and placing it in Harry’s. ‘I promise you I’m not normally so slow. My only excuse is that my heart was still thousands of miles away in the ice. Be happy both of you.’
‘Well, Harry March,’ Aunt Janet scolded, wheeling her chair to the chancel steps. ‘You cut that a bit fine. That bump on your head has slowed you down.’
‘It’s not that easy getting hold of someone in the Antarctic.’
‘Humph.’ She spun her wheelchair around. ‘Well, I don’t know what you’re all sitting there for,’ she informed the stunned congregation. ‘The show’s over for today. But since it’s a pity to waste good food I suggest we get on with the party.’ She looked up at Julian. ‘Are you coming young man?’
‘Well, actually, if you’ll all excuse me.’ He glanced at his watch, then turned to Faith’s father. ‘There’s a flight— If I could use the vicarage telephone?’
‘Help yourself,’ he invited, bemusedly.
‘What about you two?’ Janet demanded.
‘I think we’ll give this one a miss, Janet,’ Harry said. ‘It’ll give everyone a chance to talk about us and we’ve more important things to do.’
‘Like what?’ Faith demanded.
‘We’ve a wedding to arrange and this time I’ll do the organising.’
‘A wedding? You must be joking. I’m never going through anything like this again,’ she declared, pulling off the tiny pearl tiara and handing it to a delighted Alice.
‘Third time lucky,’ Janet Bridges called back as her brother wheeled her away down the aisle. ‘And once word of this gets around they’ll be auctioning off their invitations on Ebay.’
‘Not in this lifetime,’ Faith called after her.
‘Sorry, my love, but you don’t have a choice,’ Harry said. ‘You promised Alice she could be your flower girl.’ He touched her lips with the tip of his finger. ‘And a promise is a promise so, unless you’ve got someone else lined up, Faith Bridges, you’re going to have to marry me before she grows out of her dress.’
‘Is that your idea of a proposal?’
‘You know it is. And if you think I’m getting down on one knee you can think again.’
‘Poor old crock,’ she teased, leaning into the curve of his arm. ‘How did you guess, Harry? About Julian?’
‘His eyes were somewhere else. On a distant horizon. Mine used to be there. I know how it feels.’
‘But not now?’
‘I promise you, Faith, that for the rest of my life my horizon will only ever be you.’ He kissed her temple and she lifted her face to his, almost drowning in the intensity of love blazing from his eyes. Then he led her down the aisle and out into the sunshine.
Parked on a skew at the lych-gate, door still flung open where Harry had made his dash to the church, was a low, red sports car with a soft black hood. The same car that last week she’d cried a bucket over selling to a middle-aged gentleman with a military moustache who told her he collected classic sports cars.
‘That’s my Spyder! You bought it?’
‘Call it an early wedding present,’ he said, ‘but there’s a traffic warden heading this way so I think we’d better make a move.’ He tucked her into the passenger seat, folding her little train about her feet, pausing only to place a lingering kiss on her upturned lips. ‘I was right about that dress. You can get another just like it for our wedding but not the green sash.’
‘You said green was unlucky.’
‘I was wrong about that,’ he said, ‘but I prefer you in red. No rush. Any time within the next few weeks.’
‘Weeks!’
‘According to Elizabeth, Alice is having a growth spurt. And she’s impatient for some cousins.’
‘I didn’t say yes,’ she reminded him, then as he accelerated away to the motorway and the vicarage disappeared from view she had more urgent concerns. ‘Where are we going, Harry? I haven’t any clothes with me.’
‘Don’t worry about it, my darling.’ He turned to her and his face creased in a heart stopping smile. ‘Where we’re going, you won’t need any.’
Faith opened her mouth to object but then closed it again. Irresistible her aunt had said. And who was arguing?
Praise for Liz Fielding
“effortlessly engaging” … Julie Cohen
“Witty, heart-warming and totally spellbinding…” Tempted By Trouble - Cataromance.com
“…a beautifully written story full of emotion, with characters I will remember long after finishing it.” Mistletoe and the Lost Stiletto – Mad About Romance
“Fielding’s deft handling is a triumph. The characters are fabulous, the relationship between them complex and nuanced…and keep a tissue handy at the end!”
SOS: Convenient Husband Required – Romantic Times
About the author
Best selling author, Liz Fielding has more than 15 million books in print and has been nominated seven times for the Romance Writers’ of America RITA® award, winning twice with The Best Man & the Bridesmaid and The Marriage Miracle. She has also been nominated five times for the UK’s Romantic Novelists’ Association “Romance Prize”, winning with A Family of His Own and has been given a Lifetime Achievement Award for her work by Romantic Times BOOKclub magazine.
To keep up to date with Liz’s books, follow her on Twitter @lizfielding, on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/lizfieldingauthor or sign up for her newsletter at https://groups.yahoo.com/neo/groups/lizfielding/info
A Taster …
Here’s a taster of her most recent Harlequin release, For His Eyes Only…
‘WHAT’S got Miles’ knickers in twist?’ Natasha Gordon poured herself half a cup of coffee. Her first appointment at been at eight and she’d been on the run ever since. She had to grab any opportunity to top up her caffeine level. ‘I was on my way to a viewing at the St John’s Wood flat when I got a message to drop everything and come straight back here.’
Janine, Morgan and Black’s receptionist and always the first with any rumour, lifted her slender, cashmere-clad shoulders in a don’t-ask-me shrug. ‘If that’s what he said, you’d better not keep him waiting,’ she said but, shrug notwithstanding, the ghost of an I-know-something-you-don’t smile tugged at lips on which the lipstick was always perfectly applied.
Tash abandoned the untouched coffee and headed for the stairs, taking them two at a time. Miles Morgan, senior partner of Morgan and Black, first port of call for the wealthy flooding into London from all corners of the world to snap up high end real estate, had been dropping heavy hints for weeks that the vacant “associate” position was hers.
Damn right. She’d worked her socks off for the last three years and had earned that position with hard work and long hours and Janine, who liked everyone to know how “in” she was with the boss, had casually let slip the news on Friday afternoon that he would be spending the weekend in the country with the semi-retired “Black” to discuss the future of the firm.
‘Down pulse, down,’ she muttered, pausing outside his office to scoop up a wayward handful of hair and anchor it in place with great-grandma’s silver clip.
She always started out the day looking like a career-woman on the up, but haring about London all morning had left her more than little dishevelled and things had begun to unravel. Her hair, her make-up, her shirt.
She tucked in her shirt and was checking the top button when the door opened.
‘Janine! Is she here yet?’ Miles shouted before he realised she was standing in front him. ‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘I had a viewing at the Chelsea
house first thing,’ she said, used to his short fuse. ‘They played it very close to their chests, but the wife’s eyes were lit up like Blackpool illuminations. I guarantee they’ll make an offer before the end of the day.’
The prospect of a high five figure commission would normally be enough to change his mood but he merely grunted and the sparkle of anticipation went flat. Whatever Janine had been smiling about, it wasn’t the prospect of the office party Miles would throw to celebrate the appointment of new associate.
‘It’s been non-stop since then,’ she added, and it wasn’t going to ease up this side of six. Is this urgent, Miles? I’m showing Glencora Jarrett the St John’s Wood apartment in half an hour and the traffic is solid.’
‘You can forget that. I’ve sent Toby.’
‘Toby?’ Her occasionally significant other was on an overseas rugby tour with his club. He’d told her he wasn’t due back until the end of the month. She shook her head. That wasn’t important but Lady Glen… ‘No, she specifically asked—’
‘For you. I know, but a viewing isn’t a social engagement,’ he cut in before she could remind him that Lady Glencora was desperately nervous and would not go into an unoccupied apartment with a male negotiator.
‘But—’
‘Forget her ladyship,’ he said, thrusting the latest edition of the Country Chronicle into her hands, cutting her off. ‘Take a look at this.’
The magazine was open at the full page advertisement for Hadley Chase, an historic country house that had just come on the market.
‘Oh, that came out really well…’ A low mist, caught by the rising sun had lent the house a golden, soft-focus enchantment that hid its many shortcomings. Well worth the effort of getting up at the crack of dawn and driving into the depths of Berkshire on the one day in the week that she could have had a lie in. ‘The phone will be ringing off the hook,’ she said, offering it back to him.
‘Read on,’ he said, not taking it.
‘I know what it says, Miles. I wrote it.’ The once grand house was suffering from age and neglect and she’d focussed on the beauty and convenience of the location to tempt potential buyers to come and take a look. ‘You approved it,’ she reminded him.
‘I didn’t approve this.’
She frowned. Irritable might be his default mode but even for Miles, this seemed excessive. Had some ghastly mistake slipped past them both? It happened, but this was an expensive full page colour ad, and she’d gone over the proof with a fine tooth comb. Confident that nothing could have gone wrong, she read out her carefully composed copy.
‘“A substantial seventeenth century manor house in a sought after location on the Berkshire Downs within easy reach of motorway links to London, the Midlands and the West. That’s the good news. The bad news...”’ She faltered. Bad news? What the…?
‘Don’t stop now.’
The words were spoken with a clear, crisp, don’t-argue-with-me certainty, but not by her boss and she spun around as the owner of the voice rose from the high-backed leather armchair set in front of Miles Morgan’s desk and turned to face her
Her first impression was of darkness. Dark hair, dark clothes, dark eyes in a mesmerising face that missed beauty by a hair’s breadth, although a smile might have done the business.
The second was of strength. There was no bulk, but his shoulders were wide beneath a crumpled linen jacket so old that the black had faded to grey, his abdomen slate-flat under a t-shirt that hung loosely over narrow hips.
His hand was resting on the back of the chair, long calloused fingers curled over the leather. They were the kind of fingers that she could imagine doing unspeakable things to her. Was imagining…
She looked up and met eyes that seemed to penetrate every crevice, every pore and a hot blush, beginning somewhere low in her belly spread like wildfire in every direction—
‘Natasha!’
Miles’ sharp interjection jolted her back to the page but it was a moment before she could catch her breath, gather her wits and focus on the words dancing in front of her.
“…the bad news is the wet rot, woodworm, crumbling plasterwork and leaking roof. The vendor would, no doubt, have preferred to demolish the house and redevelop the land, but it’s a Grade II listed building in the heart of the Green Belt so he’s stuffed. There is a fine oak Tudor staircase but bearing in mind the earlier reference to wet rot and woodworm, an early viewing is advised if you want to see the upper floors.”
Her heart still pounding with the shock of a sexual attraction so powerful that she was trembling, she had to read it twice before it sank in. And when they did her pulse was still in a sorry state.
‘I don’t understand,’ she said then, realising how feeble that sounded, ‘How did this happen?’
‘How indeed?’
Her question had been directed at Miles, but the response came from Mr Tall, Dark and Deadly. Who was he?
‘Hadley,’ he said, apparently reading her mind. Or maybe she’d asked the question out loud. She needed to get a grip. She needed an ice bath…
She cleared her throat. ‘Hadley?’ His name still emerged as if spoken by a surprised frog, but that wasn’t simply because all her blood had apparently drained from her brain to the more excitable parts of her anatomy. The house was unoccupied and the sale was being handled by the estate’s executors and since no one had mentioned a real life, flesh and blood Hadley, she’d assumed the line had run dry.
‘Darius Hadley,’ he elaborated, clearly picking up on her doubt.
In her career she’d worked with everyone from young first time buyers scraping together a deposit, to billionaires investing in London apartments and town houses costing millions. She knew that appearances could be deceptive but Darius Hadley did not have the look of a man whose family had been living in the Chase since the seventeenth century, when a grateful Charles II had given the estate to one James Hadley, a rich merchant who’d funded him in exile.
With the glint of a single gold earring amongst the mass of black curls tumbling over his collar, the crumpled linen jacket faded from black to grey, jeans worn threadbare at the knees, he looked more like a gypsy, or a pirate. Perhaps that’s where the Hadley fortune had come from — plundering the Spanish Main with the likes of Drake. Or, with the legacy now in hands of a man bearing the name of a Persian king, it was possible that his ancestors had chosen to travel east overland, to trade in silk and spices.
This man certainly had the arrogance to go with his name but, unlike his forebears, it seemed that he had no interest in settling down to live the life of a country gentleman. Not that she blamed him for that.
Hadley Chase, with roses growing over its timbered Tudor heart, might look romantic in the misty haze of an early summer sunrise, but it was going to take a lot of time and a very deep purse to bring it up to modern expectations in plumbing, heating and weatherproofing. There was nothing romantic about nineteen-fifties plumbing and, from the neglected state of both house and grounds, it was evident that the fortune needed to maintain it was long gone.
On the bright side, even in these cash-strapped days, there were any number of sheikhs, pop stars and Russian oligarchs looking for the privacy of a country estate no more than a helicopter hop from the centre of London and she was looking forward to adding the Chase to her portfolio of sales in the very near future. She had big plans for the commission.
Miles cleared his throat and she belatedly stuck out her hand.
‘Natasha Gordon. How d’you do, Mr Hadley?’
‘I’ve been stuffed, mounted and hung out to dry,’ he replied. ‘How do you think I feel?’ he replied, ignoring her hand.
‘Angry.’ He had every right to be angry. Hell, she was furious with whoever had meddled with her carefully worded description and they would feel the wrath of her tongue when she found out who it was, but that would have to wait. Right now she had to get a grip of her hormones, be totally professional and reassure him that this wasn’t the disaster it appear
ed. ‘I don’t know what happened here, Mr Hadley, but I promise you it’s just a minor setback.’
‘A minor setback?’ Glittering eyes — forget charcoal, they were jet — skewered her to the floor and Tash felt the heat rise up her neck and flood her cheeks. She was blushing. He’d made her blush with just a look. That was outrageous… ‘A minor setback?’ he repeated, with the very slightest emphasis on “minor”.
His self-control was impressive.
Okaaay… She unpeeled her tongue from the roof of her mouth, snatched in a little oxygen to get her brain started and said, ‘Serious purchasers understand that there will be problems with this type of property, Mr Hadley.’
‘They expect to be able to view the upper floors without endangering their lives,’ he pointed out. He hadn’t raised his voice, he didn’t have to. He’d made his point with a quiet, razor-edged precision that made Miles’ full blown irritation look like a toddler tantrum.
‘Natasha!’ Miles prompted, more sharply this time. ‘Have you got something to say to Mr Hadley?’
‘What?’ She dragged her gaze from the seductive curve of Darius Hadley’s lower lip and fixed it somewhere around his prominent Adam’s apple which only sent her mind off on another, even more disturbing direction involving extremities.
Do not look at his feet!
‘Oh, um, yes…’ She’d tried desperately to get her brain in gear, recall the notes she’d made, as she stared at scuffed work boots, jeans smeared with what looked like dry grey mud and clinging to powerful thighs. He’d obviously dropped whatever he was doing and come straight to the office when he’d seen the ad. Did he work on a building site? ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘there’s more than one set of stairs so it isn’t a problem.’
‘And that’s your professional opinion?’
‘Not that I recall there being anything wrong with the main staircase that a thorough seeing to with a vacuum cleaner wouldn’t fix,’ she added, hurriedly when Miles sounded as if he might be choking. Come on, Tash… This is what you do. ‘I did advise the solicitor handling the sale that they should get in a cleaning contractor to give the place a good bottoming.’