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‘I’m in the bath.’ A splashing sound proved her words.
‘I’ll just leave it here.’ Seb tried to put the image of long, bubble-covered limbs and bare, wet torsos out of his mind as he placed the tea onto the small table by her window. He didn’t have time for distractions, especially naked ones.
He turned and took in the bedroom properly. He hadn’t set foot in here since Daisy had moved in two weeks ago. It had been the first suite tackled by her mother and, although the nineteen-fifties chintz flowery wallpaper still covered the walls, the furniture was still the heavy, stately mahogany and the carpet as threadbare as the landing’s, the paintwork was fresh and white and the room smelled of a fresh mixture of beeswax, fresh air and Daisy’s own light floral scent.
It wasn’t just the aesthetic changes though. Daisy had somehow taken the room and made it hers from the scarves draped over the bedposts to the hat stand, commandeered from the hallway and now filled with a growing selection of her collection. Every time she went back to her studio she brought a few more. There were times when Seb feared the entire castle would be overtaken by hats.
Pictures of her parents and sisters were on one bedside table, a tower of stacked-up paperbacks on the second. A brief perusal showed an eclectic mix of nineteen-thirties detective novels, romances, two of last year’s Booker Prize shortlist and a popular history book on Prince Rupert by one of Seb’s colleagues and rivals.
Jealousy, as unwanted as it was sharp, shot through him. She did read history, just not his books it seemed.
‘Get over yourself, Beresford,’ he muttered, half amused, half alarmed by the instant reaction. It was professional jealousy sure, but still unwarranted. Unwanted.
A brief peek into the dressing room showed a similar colonisation. The dressing table bestrewn with pots and tubes, photos of herself and her sisters and friends he had yet to meet tucked into the mirror. The study was a little more austere, her laptop set up at the desk, her diary, open and filled with her scrawling handwriting, next to it.
Hawksley Castle had a new mistress.
Only the bed looked unrumpled. Daisy might bathe, dress and work in her rooms but she slept in his. Much as her nineteenth-century counterpart might have done she arrived in his bed cleansed, moisturised and already in the silky shorts and vest tops she liked to sleep in. Not a single personal item had migrated through the connecting door.
A buzz in his pocket signalled a message or a voicemail. It was almost impossible to get a decent mobile signal this side of the castle. Seb quite liked not being wired in twenty-four hours a day.
He pulled his phone out and listened to the message, wincing as he did so.
‘Problems?’ Daisy appeared at the bathroom door clad in nothing but a towel.
‘My agent.’ He stuffed the phone back into his pocket, glancing at Daisy as he did so.
He drew in a long, deep breath. It was impossible to ignore the twinge of desire evoked by her creamy shoulders, the outline of her body swathed in the long creamy towel.
The towels were another of Sherry’s luxurious little additions to the house. By the date of the wedding Hawksley would resemble a five-star hotel more than a run-down if stately family home.
There were fresh flowers, renewed every other day, in all the repainted, cleaned bedrooms as well as in the bigger salons and hallways. Every bathroom, cloakroom and loo was ornamented with expensive soaps, hand creams and bath salts. In one way the luxurious touches hid the signs of elegant decay, but Seb couldn’t help calculate how the price of the flowers alone could be better spent on plumbing, on the roof, on the myriad neglected maintenance jobs that multiplied daily.
No matter. Seb would give Sherry her head until the wedding but after that, no more. He wouldn’t accept a penny, not even from his bride-to-be’s indulgent and very wealthy parents. Hawksley was his inheritance, his responsibility, his burden.
‘What did she want on a Saturday?’ Daisy sat herself at her dressing table and began to brush out her hair. Seb’s eyes followed the brush as it fought its way through the tangled locks leaving smooth tresses in its wake.
‘Just to finalise arrangements for this afternoon.’ And to try and start another conversation about a television deal. He would shut that down pretty fast although the numbers must be good to make her this persistent.
‘This afternoon?’
‘I’m lecturing. Didn’t I mention it? Talking of which...’ He looked at his watch, blinking as he caught the time. ‘What are you still doing sat in a towel? Shouldn’t you be capturing a bride’s breakfast? Or is this one a late-rising bride?’
She shook her head, the newly brushed hair lifting with the movement. ‘I have the whole weekend off. Sophie’s covering today’s wedding for me as a trial. They didn’t have the full engagement-shot package so I don’t have a personal relationship with them. It seemed like a good place for her to try and see how it works. I do have a few interviews tomorrow with possible assistants but today I am completely free.’ She pulled a face. ‘That can’t be right, can it? Whatever will I do?’
