Page 11 of Expecting the Earl's Baby

The green eyes flashed. ‘You do that.’

Daisy didn’t want to admit it, even to herself, but she was tired. It had been a long week, excitement mixing with shock, happiness with worry and sleep had been elusive. It was soothing leaning back in the chair, the warmth from the Aga penetrating her bones. Monty rested his head on her feet as she watched Seb expertly chopping onions and grilling steaks.

‘From the estate farm,’ he said as he heated the oil. ‘I’m pretty much self-sufficient, well, thanks to the tenant farmers I am.’

Neither of them mentioned the elephant in the room but the word was reverberating round and round her head. Marriage.

Was this what it would be like? Cosy evenings in the kitchen? Rocking in a chair by the fire while Seb cooked. Maybe she should take up knitting.

‘Did you mean what you said earlier, in the library? That marriage is a business?’

He didn’t turn round but she saw his shoulders set rigid, the careless grace gone as he continued to sauté the vegetables.

‘Absolutely. It’s the only way it works.’

‘Why?’

Seb stopped stirring and shot her a quick glance.

‘What do you mean?’

Daisy was leaning back in the chair, her eyes half closed. His eyes flickered over her. The bright waistcoat, the hat and the lipstick were at odd with her pallor; she was pale, paler than he would have expected even at the end of a long, cold winter and the shadows under her eyes were a deep blue-grey. She looked exhausted. A primal protectiveness as unexpected as it was fierce rose up in him, almost overwhelming in its intensity. It wasn’t what he wanted, the path he had chosen, but this was his responsibility; she was his responsibility.

She probably deserved better, deserved more than he could offer. But this was all he had.

‘Why do you think that?’

Seb took a moment before answering, quickly plating up the steaks and tipping the sautéed vegetables into a dish and putting it onto the table. He added a loaf of bread and a pat of butter and grabbed two steak knives and forks.

‘Come and sit at the table,’ he said. ‘We can talk afterwards.’

It was like being on a first date. Worse, a blind date. A blind date where you suddenly lost all sense of speech, thought and taste. Was this his future? Sitting at a table with this woman, struggling for things to say?

‘My grandparents ate every meal in the dining hall, even when it was just the two of them,’ he said after a long, excruciating pause. ‘Grandfather at the head of the table, grandmother at the foot. Even with the leaves taken out the table seats thirty.’

She put down her fork and stared at him. ‘Could they hear each other?’

‘They both had penetrating voices, although I don’t know if they were natural or whether they developed them after fifty years of yelling at each other across fifteen foot of polished mahogany.’ He half smiled, remembering their stubborn determination to keep to the ritual formality of their youth as the world changed around them.

‘And what about your parents? Did they dispense with the rules and eat in here or did they like the distance?’

‘Ah, my parents. It appears my parents spent most of their lives living wildly beyond their means. If I can’t find a way to make Hawksley pay for itself within the next five years...’ His voice trailed off. He couldn’t articulate his worst fears: that he would be the Beresford who lost Hawksley Castle.

‘Hence the handyman gig?’

‘Hence the handyman gig. And the leave of absence from the university and hiring the hall out for weddings. It’s a drop in the ocean but it’s a start.’

‘You need my sisters. Rose is in New York but she’s a PR whizz and Violet is the most managing person I have ever met. I bet they could come up with a plan to save Hawksley.’

He needed more than a plan. He needed a miracle. ‘My grandparents followed the rules all their lives. They looked after the estate, the people who lived on it. Lived up to their responsibilities. My parents were the opposite. They didn’t spend much time here. Unless they were throwing a party. They preferred London, or the Caribbean. Hawksley was a giant piggy bank, not a responsibility.’

Her eyes softened. ‘What happened?’

‘You must have read about them?’ He pushed his half-empty plate away, suddenly sickened. ‘If your parents are famous for their rock-solid marriage, mine were famous for their wildness— drugs, affairs, exotic holidays. They were always on the front pages. They divorced twice, remarried twice, each time in some ridiculous extravagant way. The first time they made me a pageboy. The second time I refused to attend.’ He took a swig of water, his mouth dry.

---