She knew he was working on something but was refusing to say what until he had it all worked out. She’d spotted him a time or two in the distance, but always in a different part of the grounds so she’d been unable to pinpoint what had captured his imagination. Never one to enjoy being left in the dark, Iggy had begun plotting to steal his ever-present notebook away.
Just thinking about it sent her eyes straying across the room to where Will was currently curled in the corner of one of the big Chesterfield sofas, pencil flying as he sketched away at something. Why wouldn’t he talk to her about it, already? It didn’t make sense to her for him to invest so much time in a plan she-or the others-might not approve of. Iggy gave herself a mental pinch at that thought. She couldn’t let her impatience cloud her judgement, especially where Will was concerned. This tendency to overreact to him was beyond disconcerting when she’d always prided herself on her self-control.
The family had taken to postponing tea and coffee straight after dinner, opting instead to gather or scatter after the meal as desired before meeting up around nine-thirty to round off the day together. Some evenings saw everyone migrating straight to the family room. Tonight, everyone else had something to do, and Iggy had expected to have the place to herself. When she’d walked in to find Will already ensconced on one of the sofas, she’d had little option other than to take up position on the one opposite and try to focus on the handful of quotations in front of her.
Who’d known the sound of a pencil could be so loud? Every time she tried to concentrate on her own work, that scrit-scrit-scrit of graphite on paper hypnotised her until the figures on the quotes swam before her eyes and all she could think about was finding out what Will was working on. What if she hated it? Or worse, what if she loved it and everyone else in the family hated it?
It had been her idea to get Will involved with the restorations, but what if his ideas were a step too far? Tristan might be on board with a modern installation, but Arthur could be a bit of a stick in the mud when it came to these things. She couldn’t blame him. Being the Baronet wasn’t just a title, it was a legacy of mistakes and triumphs, and she knew he desperately wanted to end up on the right side of the ledger when his current decisions were looked back upon by future generations. He’d been brilliant so far in giving her and Tristan free rein to do what they thought would help set right the family fortunes, but if she made a decision which fundamentally altered the landscape, it would be judged against Arthur’s name, not hers, because he had the title thanks to his correct combination of chromosomes.
Mrs W entered the family room at that moment, her arms laden with an enormous tea tray. Grateful for the distraction, Iggy was ready to jump up to assist, but a quelling look from their housekeeper kept her glued to the butter-soft leather of the sofa. She watched as Mrs W set down the tray and laid out the tea things just to her liking. A quick circuit of the room followed-a twitch to one of the long velvet curtains, here, the plumping of a squashed cushion there-before she judged the room worthy of her standards with a nod. ‘Is there anything else you need before I turn in?’
Iggy shook her head, returning the other woman’s warm smile. ‘No, that’s perfect, thank you. One of us will clear the tray away when we’re finished.’ She held out a hand to their housekeeper, urging her to come closer. ‘Will you be seeing Betsy?’ The housekeeper and the cook often shared a pot of tea in Mrs W’s parlour before bed.
‘Yes. She’s got me hooked on a new boxset, so we’re about to start the next episode. Did you need me to pass something on to her?’
‘Can you just let her know the hedge contractors are starting tomorrow. I’m sure they’ll have their own provisions, but if she could fix a flask or two after she’s finished with breakfast, I’ll drop in and pick them up.’
‘Of course, dear. It’s going to be a hot one according to the forecast, so we’ll get one of the cold boxes made up with some soft drinks as well.’ She gave Iggy a mock-stern look. ‘Don’t let me catch you outside without a hat, either.’
During one particularly scorching summer in 2003, Iggy had spent too long playing outside and ended up with horrible sunburn. ‘Come on, Mrs W, I haven’t had sunburn since I was ten years old! I peeled for weeks and learnt my lesson.’
‘And, I still remember the look on your poor father’s face when he carried you in from the garden.’
Iggy frowned. ‘I don’t remember that.’ All she remembered was the terrible itch in her skin and the relentless teasing from her brothers as her arms, shoulders and most of her face had flaked and peeled leaving her skin patchy as a piebald pony.
Mrs W placed a hand on the top of Iggy’s hair, smoothing it down in a gesture that had always made Iggy feel safe, warm and loved. She’d been feeling out of sorts ever since she and Will had discovered that heartbreaking little memorial in the secret garden. How her many-times great-grandparents must’ve loved those poor babies, even without getting the chance to do much more than hold them for a few moments.
It was the kind of love her own mother was apparently incapable of. With Mrs W’s touch grounding her, Iggy felt the sadness easing away. A mother’s touch could come in many forms-and from many different hands.
‘You had the worst case of sunstroke I’ve ever seen.’ Mrs W continued the rhythmic movement over Iggy’s hair. Each stroke carried the echo of so many such comforting moments with it. ‘Luckily, we got your temperature down, but you were quite poorly for a few hours. Gave us all a dreadful fright.’ The gentle hand shifted from her hair to her cheek, tilting Iggy’s head until she met the housekeeper’s warm gaze. ‘So, you’ll have to forgive me if I sometimes make a fuss.’
Leaning her cheek into the touch, Iggy counted her blessings. She hadn’t had one mother, she’d had four. The one who’d birthed her, and three others in Morgana, Mrs W, and Betsy. Between the three of them they’d kissed every scraped knee, soothed away every nightmare and given her a proper sense of herself as an individual as well as helping her to recognise the unique gift being one of three with Arthur and Tristan truly was. Helena might have carried her, but the other three had shaped her into the woman she was today. Trying not to choke on the thick emotion gathering in her chest, Iggy captured Mrs W’s hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it. ‘You can always make a fuss. Always.’
The look they shared was threatening to get a little teary. Mrs W drew in a deep breath. ‘Darling girl, I must get back to Betsy or she’ll have started without me. We’ll sort out plenty of drinks and snacks for tomorrow.’ She glanced over her shoulder to where Will was still scribbling away in his notebook. ‘And you make sure you’ve got a hat tomorrow as well, young man.’
Will’s eyes flicked from the page to the pair of them in a way that told Iggy he’d been aware of the conversation but had been trying to give them privacy. His grey eyes sparkled from beneath his thick, dark brows, a dimple Iggy had never noticed before creasing his unscarred cheek. God, that smile did something to her insides. Made her think things she had no business thinking. If he looked at her like that, Iggy feared she might dissolve on the spot. Thankfully, he was directing all that charm elsewhere. Raising two fingers to his brow, Will gave a small salute. ‘Yes, Mrs W.’
The singsong note to his reply made the housekeeper laugh, though Iggy couldn’t help but notice a slight flush on the housekeeper’s cheek. It seemed no woman was immune to the power of Will Talbot’s smile. ‘Cheeky boy. Right, I shall wish you both a goodnight. Don’t stay up too late working.’
‘No, Mrs W,’ they chorused together, their eyes meeting in gleeful delight at the unexpected connection of their words and tones matching.
‘Terrible, the pair of you.’ Shaking her head, a broad smile fixed firmly in place, the housekeeper left the room.
The moment she left, a frisson of tension settled over the room, and Iggy felt the grin on her lips slipping as the warm humour in Will’s eyes shifted into something deeper. They’d sat together in this room on plenty of occasions over
the past few evenings, both with and without other people around, had sat side-by-side at breakfast only that morning, but she’d never felt truly alone with him until right then.
His gaze dipped from her eyes to her mouth, drawing Iggy’s attention to the fact she’d pulled her lower lip between her teeth. Horrified, she stopped at once. Iggy was not the kind of woman who nibbled her lip. That sort of thing was for women who had foolish thoughts on their minds; seductive thoughts; dangerous thoughts.
Needing to break the connection, she uncrossed her legs from where they’d been curled up beneath her. ‘Cup of tea? I’m having a cup of tea, I think, or maybe a hot chocolate.’ Knowing she was babbling, Iggy broke eye contact and made a beeline for the tea tray which Mrs W had thankfully placed on a table behind Will’s back negating the need to look at him again. ‘Although it’s perhaps a bit warm this evening for chocolate, that’s more for when I’m in the mood to curl up with something.’ Or someone.
No. No. She was not going to allow her thoughts to stray in that direction. With much clattering of spoons against china, she set out two cups on their saucers and flipped open the wooden box filled with a selection of different flavoured teas. Her hand hovered over her usual Earl Grey before she hesitated. Perhaps she’d better stay off the caffeine. Something nice and relaxing. Something to calm the jittery feeling welling in her stomach. Settling for camomile, she tore open the envelope, almost ripping the top off the bag in the process. The fact she managed to get more hot water into the cup and not all over the tray was frankly something of a miracle the way her hand was suddenly shaking. She did not fancy Will. She. Did. Not.
The weight of his continued silence sat heavy at her back, and it took a breath of courage before Iggy managed to turn around. ‘Well, what are you having?’
He’d twisted on the sofa to face her, one tanned arm stretched along the back cushion. Dark hair sprinkled his forearm, serving a vivid reminder of the differences between them. His dark skin to her light, his short rough hair to her smooth, flowing curls, his hard plains to her softer curves and hollows. That pricking heat was still in his eyes, tempered now with a hint of wariness, as though he too was uncomfortable at the change in atmosphere between them.
Needing to look away-but not ready to acknowledge that need to either of them-she shifted her attention to the notebook balanced on the back of the sofa next to his hand. It was upside down, and she found herself tilting her head to one side for a better look at the shaded lines. When his thick arm shifted to block the view, irritation pricked her, bursting the bubble of tension which had been threatening to envelope them. She turned away, rattling the tea tray once more. ‘Well, do you want a drink or not?’
She hadn’t meant to sound so snippy, but honestly, the way he’d covered his notebook like a child in school worried someone was trying to copy his homework sent her annoyance with him through the roof. It wasn’t like she’d been snooping. Okay, yes, she might have glanced at his notes and sketches, but really, he was acting like he was guarding a national secret. Besides, it was his own fault for looking at her like that. If he’d just kept his eyes to himself, she wouldn’t have needed to seek distraction elsewhere.
‘I’ll have a decaf coffee, if there is some, please.’ The utter calmness in his tone only served to heighten awareness at her own foolish behaviour. She had to stop blowing hot and cold like this, before he read too much into it.
Forcing herself to move slowly, she fixed his coffee, adding a tiny splash of milk without having to ask. When had she started paying attention to the way he liked his coffee? How did she know that if she offered him the small plate of biscuits resting on the tray he’d choose the plain digestive over the sugary bourbon or the sweet custard cream? Not wanting to analyse it too deeply, she snatched the digestive from the plate and tucked it onto his saucer before turning back with his drink. ‘There you go.’
‘Thanks.’ He held her gaze for a long moment before drawing back the cup and saucer and gesturing with his free hand towards his notepad which was now resting face down on the seat next to him. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be precious, I just want to get it exactly right in my head before I show it to you.’
She shrugged, knowing the action was too exaggerated, that it negated her next words before they’d left her lips. ‘It’s fine, no big deal.’
‘Give me another twenty-four hours. I have a handful of final details to check and then I’ll be ready.’
‘Sure.’ Calm, steady, remember? ‘Sure,’ she repeated, this time with a proper smile. Wanting to get things back to normal between them, back to before this uncomfortable awareness of the sheer masculinity of him had settled over her, she turned the conversation to a safe topic. ‘The hedge contractor starts tomorrow.’
‘So I heard. Who did you go with in the end?’
‘Davis and Son.’ She’d whittled the choice down to a medium-sized company with several branches across the region, and a local father and son firm. Her head had said go with the larger firm until Davy and Simon Davis had arrived at the castle to carry out a visual survey of the works. The rep from the larger contractor had been polite and efficient, but he hadn’t gelled with her. Not in the same way Davy Davis had. From his firm but not too firm handshake as he’d climbed from his truck, to the way he’d not been afraid to stray from the original brief with suggestions of his own as they’d walked the length and breadth of the gardens, Iggy had been impressed with Davy from start to finish.
He’d understood the significance of the gardens, asked pertinent questions about the history of the castle and just given her the sense he would treat the plants with a sympathetic touch. If she’d been asked to put it into words, she would’ve struggled to articulate it beyond that he felt like a gardener to her. In the same way that Will did, underneath that veneer of brash confidence and the sprinkle of celebrity he brought with him.
When the quotation from Davis and Son had arrived with details of how the vast majority of the cut material they removed would be recycled and sold to a nursery as mulching bark with 40 per cent of the sale coming back to Iggy, she knew they were the right choice. Innovative, but conscientious.
Will nodded, and just like that she felt her temper spike once more. As the person paying the bills, she didn’t need his approval. Oblivious to her mood, he continued chatting. ‘Where are they starting?’
It was on the tip of her tongue to snap that it wasn’t any of his business, before she realised how utterly foolish she was being. Yes, there were times when Will rode a little roughshod over things, but this wasn’t one of them. She was the one who’d started this conversation with him, so of course he would ask her questions about it. Get a bloody grip, Iggy, drink your damn camomile and stop looking for offence where there’s no given.
Forcing herself to relax, Iggy propped her hip against the edge of the sofa. Sipping her tea, she conjured the list of jobs she’d agreed with the Davises in her mind. ‘We decided the maze is the first priority. I can’t even get in there at the moment to see what needs doing in the central courtyard, and if the central fountain needs repairing-which I’m assuming it does-then it makes sense to combine that with the other stonemason and plumbing jobs.’
‘Agreed. The pathways will probably need re-laying as well.’.
Her shoulders stiffened. ‘Yes, it’s on my groundworks pricing sheet already.’ Snippy, snippy, Iggy. Gulping another mouthful of her tea, she prayed for its calming properties to kick in sooner rather than later and ploughed on. ‘They’re going to concentrate on the box hedging after the maze so I can get the planting team in to fill the central beds, and then they’ll work on the larger bushes and hedges. Davy’s come up with a nice suggestion to shape that big avenue running from the path to the Lady’s garden. A bit of texture and shaping will make it more visually appealing.’
The door behind them burst open, making Iggy swivel towards it as a tumbling wave of fur, wagging tails and happy tongues flooded into the room. Quick as a flash,
Iggy dumped her teacup on the sideboard and ran to rescue her pile of paperwork from where she’d set it on the floor beside her seat. From the corner of her eye she spotted Will flipping closed his notebook moments before Murphy took a flying leap onto the sofa, turning in happy circles before the little Jack Russell curled up against his new best friend’s thigh.
On the heels of the dogs came Arthur and Lucie, eyes shining, mouths stretched wide in matching smiles of utter contentment. Her brother had his arm around his girlfriend’s waist, holding her against his hip as though worried she might slip away from him. The hand she had plastered on his chest, fingers spread over his heart said there was no chance she was going anywhere. It was her left hand, Iggy noticed, and something shiny and sparkly winked from a certain significant finger on that hand. Something shiny and sparkly that definitely hadn’t been there an hour previously when they’d been sitting around the dinner table.
Iggy glanced from the ring to Lucie’s ecstatic smile and back again. Feeling her lips stretching into a matching grin, Iggy raised her eyebrows. Lucie nodded in return, her smile turning impossibly brighter.
‘Oh, I thought everyone would be here by now.’ Arthur glanced around the room as though Tristan or Uncle Lancelot might pop up from behind one of the sofas.
‘Never mind the rest of them,’ Iggy crowed, hurrying over to throw her arms around the couple. ‘Congratulations! Oh my God, this is amazing news.’ Drawing back, she grinned up at her brother. ‘You finally did something right, then?’
‘You didn’t think I was going to let her go again, did you?’ Arthur’s arm closed even more firmly around Lucie’s waist.
The Bluebell Castle Collection Page 36