A sudden, rather awful thought struck her. She swallowed as they pushed out of the car. ‘Seb?’
‘Mmm?’
‘Your parents don’t still live here, do they?’
He physically recoiled from her. ‘No!’
‘Sorry.’ She tried to swallow her wince. ‘The house is so big I thought that maybe they lived in one wing and you lived in another and never the twain shall meet.’
He shook his head, those shadows alive and dangerous. ‘No. This all belongs to me now.’
She didn’t ask him how. It was none of her business. But he really needed to start making some happy memories here to shake away those ghosts from his past.
‘Hector and Marjorie live in Monte Carlo.’
‘Good.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Good?’
She lifted the baby carrier out. ‘It means I won’t have to run into them, which therefore means I won’t have to give them a piece of my mind.’
He laughed. It wasn’t a deep belly laugh, more a quiet chuckle, but Liv counted it as a win.
Twelve wide stone steps led up to a grand portico. A portly middle-aged woman dressed in black stood waiting with an ominously straight back at the double-door entrance.
‘Brownie!’
‘Master Sebastian.’
Seb’s grin of greeting, and the other woman’s smile, the way they embraced, dispelled Liv’s trepidation.
‘Brownie, I’d like you to meet my office manager-cum-nanny, Eliza Gilmour.’ He turned towards Liv and his lips twitched. ‘Also known as Mary Poppins.’
Oh, those lips could do seriously dangerous things to a woman’s blood pressure.
Brownie pressed her lips together in evident disapproval, though her eyes seemed to smile in spite of her. ‘I’m Mrs Brown.’
Liv found herself smiling too. She gestured to the baby. ‘And this is Jemima, who is currently blissfully asleep.’
Brownie glanced at the baby and then at Seb with a question in her eyes.
Seb shrugged and glanced back at Liv. ‘Brownie—Mrs Brown—has been the housekeeper here at Tyrell Hall for as long as I can remember. She made sure I was fed and clothed, and let me know when I stepped out of line.’
She saw it all in an instant. Mrs Brown had been Seb’s surrogate family. She’d done what she could to prevent a small boy from feeling too lonely in this enormous house. She’d been someone the younger Seb could turn to for comfort and a measure of security.
‘I’m really pleased to meet you, Mrs Brown.’
Liv meant every word and the sharp look the housekeeper sent her told Liv she knew it too. She didn’t know if that was a good thing or not. But one thing was clear—if she didn’t stop revealing her personal feelings so unreservedly, she’d be making things a lot harder for Liz when she returned.
‘Excuse me, Ms Gilmour, but I’ve never been one for taking nonsense. Master Sebastian, will you kindly tell me what you’re doing with a baby?’
‘It’s a long story...and we’re weary travellers in much need of sustenance.’
She chuckled. ‘Come on in with you both. George!’
A man appeared and he and Seb shook hands, big smiles lighting their faces.
‘Tush, enough of that! George, bring in the bags and garage the car.’ As George left, she turned back to them. ‘If you’d like to rest yourselves in the green sitting room, I’ll—’
‘Not a chance, Brownie. We’re coming into the kitchen with you.’
Liv followed Seb and Mrs Brown out towards the back of the house and learned that George was Mrs Brown’s husband—and, yes, his lumbago was doing just fine thank you very much, especially now he’d started seeing a new man in the village for some fancy kind of newfangled massage therapy—and that, between the two of them, they kept the place running.
Liv stopped dead when they came to the doorway of the kitchen. Something inside her chest expanded. The room was generously proportioned with an old-fashioned cast-iron cooker set into one wall alongside a more up-to-date oven. The stone-flagged floors might’ve been cold if not for a large blue and white rug that looked completely at home beneath an enormous wooden table, which had pride of place in the centre of the room.
She started when she realised the conversation had stopped and both her employer and the housekeeper were staring at her.
‘Is everything all right, Ms Gilmour?’
‘Everything is perfect.’ She stepped into the room and gestured around. ‘I think I’ve just fallen in love.’
‘Aye.’ Mrs Brown’s eyes lit with warmth. ‘It’s the nicest kitchen I’ve ever worked in.’
‘It the only kitchen you’ve ever worked in,’ was Seb’s wry reply.
It was nice seeing him in these surroundings, seeing him so at home with himself and the people here. Everyone deserved a place where they could feel at home.
She set the baby down, recalling the shadows in his eyes when they’d first arrived. At least they hadn’t reappeared here in the kitchen. She glanced around again and it occurred to her that this might be the only room in the entire house where he did feel so unabashedly at home.
The thought burned through her, making her hands clench. She flexed her fingers. He worked from here, which meant he had to have an office somewhere near by. He’d have made that his own too. There had to be at least two rooms in this sprawling mansion he felt at home in, right?
Mrs Brown planted two steaming mugs on the table along with a plate of still-warm date scones. She pointed at Seb, and then the coffee and scones, and then a chair. ‘Now you can start filling me in on this long story of yours.’
With a twist of his lips, Seb motioned Liv to a chair before taking the one next to her. She drank coffee and ate a scone as he told the housekeeper all about the events of the past few days.
‘Well, now, this is a pickle and there’s no denying it.’
‘Any thoughts?’
Seb reached for a scone, his hands steady, but Liv sensed the tension in him.
Mrs Brown shook her head, glancing at him and then at the still sleeping Jemima. ‘I can’t abide gossip or telling tales outside of school.’
‘Oh, but this isn’t like that!’ Liv couldn’t hold the words back. ‘This is... I mean, there’s some poor girl out there who—’
Jemima wriggled, gave a loud yawn and then her eyes popped open. A smile wreathed her face when she saw Liv.
Liv’s heart expanded to the size of a beach ball. ‘Hello, lovely, snuggly-wuggly Jemima. Come and meet Mrs Brown...and Mr Brown,’ she added when George came through the back door.
Under the influence of the baby, Mrs Brown’s show of stiffness melted. ‘Oh, look at you, you wee poppet.’
She was rewarded with a big smile and much waving of arms.
Liv slid a glance at Seb, to find him staring at the baby. His face had softened, making him look younger and less buttoned-up. Her insides turned to mush. She swallowed and glanced back at Mrs Brown, who was playing peekaboo with a delighted Jemima. ‘Mrs Brown, would you mind holding Jemima for me while I warm up a bottle? She’s due for a feed soon.’
She watched the other woman wrestle with duty and desire—in other words, what she saw as her duty, which was to heat the bottle herself, and her desire, which was to hold Jemima. Liv held her breath.
Holding the baby won out.
Liv heated the bottle.
Seb filled George in on the tale of Jemima.
When Liv returned to the table, Mrs Brown motioned her back to her chair. ‘You finish your coffee, lass. I can feed the little one.’
Liv watched and waited. She helped herself to another scone. Eventually Mrs Brown lifted her head to meet Seb’s gaze. ‘Over the years two women that I know about have come here to the house claiming that Lord Tyrell fathered their children.’
Seb sti
ffened. ‘Do you remember their names?’
The older woman sighed. ‘I have them written down. It might take me some time to search them out. I should have them for you in the morning.’
‘Thank you, Brownie.’
‘You have to understand that those accounts could be false, so don’t go getting your hopes up. They were never taken any further. You don’t need me telling you the sort of tricks a certain kind of woman can play when she has a mind to.’
A look passed between Seb and his housekeeper that made Liv’s heart thump. She guessed it had something to do with that unhealthy relationship he’d mentioned.
She recalled the stone-cold angles of his face when he’d spoken of it and had to repress a shudder. He’d warned her off—it’d been under the guise of sharing a confidence, but she had every intention of heeding that warning. There was no way she was falling for someone so...frozen, someone who’d simply replace her when she flounced off in a huff. She didn’t know how men could be so cold-blooded when it came to sex, but it appeared they were. One day she’d fall in love again with a nice man. Sebastian Tyrell wasn’t that man.
And yet the shadows in his eyes continued to plague her. She shook her head. She should be concentrating all her efforts on Jemima. Not Seb. Seb could look after himself.
‘We need to find her mother.’ All eyes turned to her. ‘It’s the only decent thing to do.’
‘Aye.’ Mrs Brown nodded. ‘Unfortunately, Ms Gilmour, not all mothers are created equal.’
Was she talking about Seb’s mother? Liv swallowed, not daring to look at him—even as the memory of haunted eyes taunted her. ‘I know, but...’ She tilted her chin. ‘I’m going to keep an open mind about Jemima’s mother until we know the facts.’
‘Aye.’
She couldn’t stand it any longer. She turned to Seb. ‘Are you OK?’
His head went back and his nostrils flared. ‘Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?’
Oh, Seb. ‘Because you just found out that you have two potential siblings.’
‘Half-siblings,’ he corrected.
Did he really think that made any difference?
She turned back to Mrs Brown absurdly close to tears. She needed to keep busy and she suspected Seb did too. ‘We were wondering if there might be old letters, diaries...photo albums that we could scour for possible clues. I know it’s a long shot,’ she added when Mrs Brown opened her mouth, ‘but we need to start somewhere.’
Mrs Brown glanced at Seb, and Liv had a feeling she’d come to the same conclusion—give Seb an occupation. She handed Jemima back to Liv. ‘If you’d like to follow me...’
They walked through an array of rooms—rooms that probably had names like the Morning Room, the Green Sitting Room, and the Breakfast Room—and up the sweeping grand staircase into a room that led directly off the landing. It was large and preposterously ornate, and she had to bite back a gasp of awe. Its perfect dimensions, high ceilings and the row of tall windows marching down the length of the room and reflecting the view outside made her ache to set up with paints and easel. The furniture, though...ugh! She managed not to scowl at it—just. They were all delicate pieces of white and gold nonsense that looked as if they’d break upon contact. There was only one substantial piece of furniture in the room, and that was a leather armchair that sat by the fireplace. Seb’s chair, she’d bet.
Mrs Brown went to a long cabinet and pulled forth a wooden box, several folders and four large photo albums. She set them on one of the larger tables. Liv held her breath, but the table bore their weight without crumpling. ‘That’s probably as good a place to start as any,’ the housekeeper said before bustling over to start a fire.
It wasn’t really cold enough to warrant a fire, but Liv, for one, welcomed its cheer.
She set Jemima’s carrier down on an oriental rug—Jemima was busy munching on a teething ring—and seized the box to shove it into Seb’s hands. ‘Why don’t you start with that?’
She didn’t want to read personal letters addressed to his family. She collected up the photo albums, glanced around, and then sat cross-legged on the floor beside Jemima.
Seb halted half in his chair. ‘You don’t have to sit on the floor.’
‘I like the floor.’ She pointed at the furniture. ‘Besides, none of that looks like it’s actually made for sitting in. And I don’t want to break it.’
He followed the direction of her hand and his nose wrinkled. ‘It won’t break, but, I agree, it looks far from comfortable.’
It was his house...his furniture. If he didn’t like it, why didn’t he change it?
He stood. ‘You can have my chair.’
‘No, no, I’m fine on the floor, I promise. I like it. I can stretch out as I like. Besides, the rug is thick and soft. It’s all good.’
He stared at her for a long moment. She resisted the impulse to check her face. ‘What?’
‘You like to...stretch out?’
Oops. ‘I don’t stretch out in the office, if that’s what you’re worried about. When I’m at the office I’m all buttoned-up and professional with not a hair out of place.’ She stuck out her chin and tried not to glare at him. ‘But, as you’ve no doubt noticed, we’re not currently in the office.’
‘No.’ He subsided back into his chair.
She seized the top album and opened it, effectively bringing their conversation to an end. She didn’t want him looking out for her comfort, she didn’t want him looking at her, and she didn’t want to keep remembering the shadows in his eyes!
She worked her way through the first album. She frowned. Her heart started to thump. She worked her way through the second, the third...and finally the fourth. She closed it with a snap and her hands clenched up so tight her arms started to shake.
‘Eliza?’
She leapt up and raced over to one of the windows, dragging big breaths into her lungs. Those albums!
‘What’s wrong?’ He raced across to her. ‘What have you found?’
She swung around and the concern on his face pierced her to her marrow. She pointed a shaking finger at the offending albums. ‘Where are you?’
Her own family’s albums were so different. So different!
He blinked. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Where are you in those photographs?’ It was all she could do not to stamp her feet. ‘There are pictures of parties and holidays and concerts and yachts and all sorts of amazing things, but you’re not in a single one of them!’ Because he hadn’t been there. Because his own parents had excluded him.
He stilled and then pressed the fingers of one hand to his forehead and rubbed, as if trying to shift a headache. The anger that had whirled through her like a dervish settled into a low burn in her belly. She had to fight the desire to fling her arms about him and hold him tight, to tell him he’d deserved more—so much more.
‘There are official photos of my birth, christening...things like that.’
‘They’re not the pictures I’m interested in.’
He nodded and met her gaze. ‘My parents didn’t want children.’
That was evident! ‘Then why...?’
‘It was the one dutiful thing they did do—produce an heir to carry on the family name.’
‘Oh, well, let’s just pin a medal on them, shall we?’
Her throat thickened. Funny, wasn’t it? Here he was, so responsible and conscientious...and yet, producing an heir was the one duty he wasn’t interested in fulfilling. She swallowed, hating the reasons that must’ve led him to that decision. ‘So they had you and...what, just abandoned you?’ They’d abandoned him as effectively as poor Jemima had been abandoned.
His lips twisted and he shook his head. ‘Abandoned me to an army of household staff and a life of privilege. It’s not exactly a hard-luck story.’ He sent her a small smile. ‘And despite everything, I am r
ather glad to be alive.’
Was he? Then why wasn’t he living life...more?
She shook that thought off. How could his parents have done it? How could they have treated him so...? A hundred words rallied for selection, but one stood out above the others: coldly. How could they have had so little regard for his feelings? What dreadful people they must be.
He’d deserved so much more than what they’d given him. She wished there were some way it could all be made up to him, but she knew there wasn’t. And that seemed like such a tragedy.
* * *
Sebastian wasn’t quite sure what to make of the expression in her eyes. ‘Don’t take it so much to heart, Eliza. I don’t.’ Not any more.
‘I’m sorry.’ She shook herself and gave a funny little hiccup. ‘You deserve so much better than that.’
‘Hey...’ He bent down until he was on eye level with her. ‘Are you crying?’ She averted her gaze, but he swept a thumb gently beneath one of her eyes and it came away wet. ‘Hey, don’t cry. It’s OK.’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘It really isn’t.’
That was when he finally interpreted the expression in her eyes—heartbreak. Heartbreak for him! A lump lodged in his throat. He gathered her in and held her close until her head rested against his shoulder and the scent of gardenias and jam rose up all around him. Her free arm slid about his waist and she hugged him back.
Holding her like this felt right in a way that nothing else ever had. He dropped his cheek to her hair and just breathed her in. He wasn’t sure for how long they stood like that...or how long they’d have continued—he’d have been content to stay there the rest of the afternoon—but Jemima gave a loud squawk, demanding attention, and, reluctantly, at least on his part, they eased away.
‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured, moving across to pick up the baby and cuddle her.
‘No need to apologise.’ She’d cried for him? He couldn’t quite believe it. It touched him deep in some centre he’d never known he had. It made his heart beat more firmly. It sent the blood rushing through his veins with renewed vigour. And it made his skin hyper-sensitive.
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