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‘I don’t think so.’ Daisy managed to retrieve her hand. ‘Thank you though.’
‘I’m sure we could find someone else to write it. You would just need to collaborate on plot and lend your name to it. With your parents I’m sure I could get you a good deal.’
Of course Clarissa knew exactly who Daisy was, she wouldn’t be much of an agent if she didn’t, but it still felt uncomfortable, being so quickly and brutally summed up for her commercial value. ‘Seb’s the writer in the family and I don’t think books about models are really his thing.’
‘Shame, cheekbones like yours are wasted behind a camera. We could have done a nice tie-in, maybe a reality TV show. Get in touch if you change your mind. Now, Seb, they’re waiting for you inside. Have you changed your mind about the BBC offer? You really should call me back when I leave messages.’
So she hadn’t been the first person to mention TV? Seb didn’t react with the same vehemence he’d shown Daisy earlier when she had made a similar suggestion, just shook his head, smiling, as Clarissa bore him off leaving Daisy to trail behind.
The lecture hall was crammed to capacity, an incongruous mixture of eager-looking students, serious intellectual types and several more groups of girls waving cameras and copies of Seb’s latest books; pop culture meeting academia.
Daisy managed to find a seat at the end of a row next to an elderly man who commented loudly to his companion throughout the lecture but, despite the disruptions, the odd camera flashes and the over-enthusiastic laughter from Seb’s youthful admirers every time he made any kind of joke, Daisy found that she enjoyed the lecture. Seb’s enthusiasm for his subject and engaging manner were infectious.
It was funny how the sometimes diffident man, the private man, came alive in front of an audience, how he held them in the palm of his hand as he took them on a dizzying thousand-year tour of English history using his own family home as a guide. The hour-long talk was over far too quickly.
‘He knows his stuff.’ The old man turned to Daisy as the hall began to empty. Daisy had been planning to go straight to Seb, but he was surrounded immediately by a congratulatory crowd, including the girls she had seen earlier, all pressing in close, books in hand waiting to be signed.
Seb didn’t look as if he minded at all. Hated publicity indeed!
‘Yes, he was fascinating, wasn’t he?’ She’d seen her father perform in front of thousands, seen her mother’s face blown up on a giant billboard but had never felt so full of awe. ‘He’s a great speaker.’
‘Interesting theory as well. Do you subscribe to his school of thought on ornamental moats?’
Did she what? About what?
‘I...’
‘Of course the traditional Marxist interpretation would agree with him, but I wonder if that’s too simplistic.’
‘Yes, a little.’ Daisy’s hands were damp; she could feel her hair stick to the back of her neck with fear. Please don’t ask me to do anything but agree with you, she prayed silently.
‘Nevertheless he’s a clever man, Beresford. I wonder what he’ll do after this sabbatical.’
‘Do? Isn’t he planning to return here?’ Seb hadn’t discussed his future plans with her at all; he was far too focused on the castle.
‘He says so but I think Harvard might snap him up. It would be a shame to lose him but these young academics can be so impatient, always moving on.’
Daisy sat immobile as the elderly man moved past her, her brain whirling with his words. Harvard? Okay, they hadn’t discussed much in terms of the future, but surely if Seb was considering moving overseas he’d have mentioned it? She got to her feet, dimly aware that the large hall was emptying rapidly and that Seb was nowhere to be seen.
‘There you are, Daisy.’ Clarissa glided towards her accompanied by a tall man in his late fifties. ‘This is Giles Buchanan, Seb’s publisher. Giles, Daisy is Seb’s mysterious fiancée. She’s a photographer.’
‘Creative type, eh? Landscapes or fashion?’
Daisy blinked. ‘Er...neither, I photograph weddings.’
‘Weddings?’ Obviously not the kind of job he expected from Seb’s fiancée judging by the look of surprise on his face. Daisy filled in the blanks: too commercial, not intellectual enough.
She’d wanted a chance to look inside Seb’s world but now she was here she felt like Alice: too big or too small but either way not right. She stepped out onto the stairs. ‘Excuse me, I need some air.’
How on earth was she going to fit in? Say the right things, do the right things, be the right kind of wife? She’d thought being a countess was crazy enough—being the wife of an academic looked like being infinitely worse.
