Here comes…

Planning the most talked about wedding of the year is enough to make engineer Frith Taylor break out in a cold sweat. She’s used to construction sites, not wedding fairs! But estate manager George Challoner’s offer of help is one that’s too good to resist.

…the unsuspecting bride!

George may be the rebel of the prestigious Challoner family, but his insanely good looks are giving Frith wedding fever! Charm personified, he’s making her feel things she hasn’t dared feel before. Maybe her little sister’s wedding won’t be the only one Frith’s planning…?

HITCHED!

“I think we should get into character,” said George. “If we’re going to be really convincing when Saffron comes up next, we’d better rehearse.” He lifted a hand to smooth a stray hair away from my face, and my skin burned at his touch. “What do you think?”

My heart was thudding, my mouth so dry I could hardly speak, and I couldn’t have looked away from his eyes if I had tried, but I clung desperately to the shreds of the sensible Frith I knew I really was inside.

“I’m, er, not sure that’s really necessary, is it?” I managed somehow.

“I’ve got a very challenging role,” he pointed out. “I’m besotted with you, remember? I’m going to have to look as if I know what it’s like to slide my hand under your hair, like this,” he added, suiting the action to the words. His palm was warm and persuasive against the nape of my neck. “I should look as if I know what it’s like to nibble your earlobe and kiss my way down your throat.…”

His lips were warm, too, so warm, so sure. A great fluttery rush of heat engulfed me and I sucked in a trembling breath.

“I don’t know.…”

“As for you,” said George, cupping my cheek to hold my face still—not that I was capable of going anywhere. “It’s going to be even harder for you.”

“It is?”

“Talk about tough,” he said as he shook his head solemnly. “You’re going to have to look as if you’re used to me kissing you. I think you’ll need to practice that a lot.”

I was hazy with anticipation. “I suppose it might be an idea to practice a bit,” I heard myself say.

Hitched!

Jessica Hart

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT JESSICA HART

Jessica Hart was born in west Africa, and has suffered from itchy feet ever since, traveling and working around the world in a wide variety of interesting but very lowly jobs—all of which have provided inspiration on which to draw when it comes to the settings and plots of her stories. Now she lives a rather more settled existence in York, where she has been able to pursue her interest in history—although she still yearns sometimes for wider horizons.

If you’d like to know more about Jessica, visit her website, www.jessicahart.co.uk.

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Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

EXCERPT

ONE

I was having a good day until George Challoner turned up.

It had rained almost every day since I had arrived in Yorkshire, but that morning I woke to a bright, breezy day. By some miracle Audrey had started first time, and I hummed as I drove along the country lanes lined with jaunty daffodils to Whellerby Hall.

When I arrived at the site, Frank, the lugubrious foreman, had even smiled—a first. Well, his face relaxed slightly in response to my cheery greeting, but in my current mood I was prepared to count it a smile. Progress, anyway.

The ready-mixed concrete arrived bang on time. I stood and watched carefully as the men started pouring it into the reinforced steel raft for the foundations. They clearly knew what they were doing, and I had already checked the quality of the concrete. After a frenzied couple of weeks, I could tell Hugh that the project was back on schedule.

Phew.

Everything was going to plan. I had it all worked out.

1. Get site experience.

2. Get job overseas on major construction project.

3. Get promoted to senior engineer.

And because I was an expert planner, I had made sure all my goals were Specific, Measurable, Attainable, Realistic and Time-bound. I was aiming for promotion by the time I was thirty, an overseas job by the end of the year, and I was already getting site experience with the new conference and visitor centre on the Whellerby Hall estate.

True, things had got off to a shaky start. Endless rain, unreliable suppliers and a construction team made up of dour Yorkshiremen who had apparently missed out on a century of women’s liberation and made no secret of their reluctance to take orders from a female. My attempts to involve them in team-building exercises had not gone down well.

For a while, I admit, I had wondered if I had made a terrible mistake leaving the massive firm in London, but my plan was clear. I badly needed some site experience, and the Whellerby project was too good an opportunity to miss.

And now it might all just be coming together, I congratulated myself, checking another grid off on my clipboard. I’d won a knock-down-drag-out fight with the concrete supplier, which might account for Frank’s—sort of—smile and now we could start building.

Perhaps I could let myself relax, just a little.

That was when George arrived.

He drove the battered Land Rover as if it were a Lamborghini, swinging into the site and parking—deliberately squint, I was sure!—next to Audrey in a flurry of mud and gravel.

I pressed my lips together in disapproval. George Challoner was allegedly the estate manager, although as far as I could see this involved little more than turning up at inconvenient moments and distracting everyone else who was actually trying to do some work.

He was also my neighbour. I’d been delighted at first to be given my own cottage on the estate. I was only working on the project until Hugh Morrison, my old mentor, had recovered from his heart attack, and I didn’t want to get involved with expensive long-term lets so a tied cottage for no rent made perfect sense.

I was less delighted to discover that George Challoner lived on the other side of the wall, his cottage a mirror image of mine under a single slate roof. It wasn’t that he was a noisy neighbour, but I was always so aware of him, and it wasn’t because he was attractive, if that’s what you’re thinking.

I was prepared to admit that he was extremely easy on the eye. My own preference was for dark-haired men, while George was lean and rangy with hair the colour of old gold and ridiculously blue eyes, but, still, I could see that he was good-looking.

OK, he was very good-looking. Too good-looking.

I didn’t trust good-looking men. I’d fallen for a dazzling veneer once before, and it wasn’t a mistake I intended to make again.

I watched balefully as George waved and strode across to join me at the foundations. The men had all brightened at his approach and were shouting boisterous abuse at him. Even Frank grinned, the traitor.

I sighed. What was it with men? The ruder they were, the more they seemed to like each other.

‘Hey, Frank, don’t look now but your foundations are full of holes,’ said George, peering down at the steel cages.

‘They’re supposed to be that way,’ I said, even though I knew he was joking. I hated the way George always made me feel buttoned-up. ‘The steel takes the tensile stress.’

‘I wish I had something to take my stress,’ said George. He had an irritating ability to give the impression that he was laughing while keeping a perfectly straight face. Something to do with the glinting blue eyes, I thought, or perhaps the almost imperceptible deepening of the creases around his eyes. Or the smile that seemed to be permanently tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Whatever it was, I wished he wouldn’t do it. It made me feel...ruffled.

Besides, I had never met anybody less stressed. George Challoner was one of those charmed individuals for whom life was a breezy business. He never seemed to take anything seriously. God only knew why Lord Whellerby had made him estate manager. I was sure George was just playing at it, amusing himself between sunning himself on the deck of a yacht or playing roulette in some swish casino.

I knew his type.

‘What can we do for you, George?’ I said briskly. ‘As you can see, we’re rather busy here today.’

‘The guys are busy,’ said George, nodding at the foundations where the men had gone back to pouring the concrete. ‘You’re just watching.’

‘I’m supervising,’ I said with emphasis. ‘That’s my job.’

‘Good job, just watching everyone else do the work.’

I knew quite well that he was just trying to wind me up, but I ground my teeth anyway. ‘I’m the site engineer,’ I said. ‘That means I have to make sure everything is done properly.’

‘A bit like being an estate manager, you mean?’ said George. ‘Except you get to wear a hard hat.’

‘I don’t see that my job has anything in common with yours,’ I said coldly. ‘And talking of hard hats, if you must come onto the site, you should be wearing one. I’ve reminded you about that before.’

George cast a look around the site. Beyond the foundations where the concrete mixer churned, it was a sea of mud. It had been cleared the previous autumn and was now littered with machinery and piles of reinforcing wires. ‘I’m taller than everything here,’ he objected. ‘I can’t see a single thing that could fall on my head.’

‘You could trip over and knock your head on a rock,’ I said, adding under my breath, ‘with any luck.’

‘I heard that!’ George grinned, and I clutched my clipboard tighter to my chest and put up my chin. ‘I never had to wear a hard hat when Hugh Morrison was overseeing,’ he said provocatively.

‘That was before we’d started construction, and, in any case, that was up to Hugh. This is my site now, and I like to follow correct procedures.’

I promise you, I wasn’t always unbearably pompous, but there was just something about George that rubbed me up the wrong way.

‘Now, that’s a useful thing to know,’ he exclaimed. ‘Maybe that’s where I’ve been going wrong!’

His gaze rested on my face. Nobody had the right to have eyes that blue, I thought crossly as I fought the colour that was stealing along my cheekbones. My fine, fair skin was the bane of my life. The slightest thing and I’d end up blushing like a schoolgirl.

‘So what’s the correct procedure for asking you out?’ he asked, leaning forward confidentially as if he really expected me to tell him.

I kept my composure. Making a big play of looking over at the foundations and then checking something off my list, I said coolly: ‘You ask me out, and I say no.’

‘I’ve tried that,’ he objected.

He had. The first night I arrived, he had popped round to suggest a drink at the pub in the village. He asked me every time he saw me. I was sure it was just to annoy me now. Any normal man would have got the point by then.

‘Then I’m not sure what I can suggest.’

‘Come on, we’re neighbours,’ said George. ‘We should be friendly.’

‘It’s precisely because we’re neighbours that I don’t think it’s a good idea,’ I said, making another mark on my clipboard. George wasn’t to know it was meaningless. ‘You live right next door to me. If we went for a drink and you turned out to be some kind of weirdo, I’d never be able to get away from you.’

‘Weirdo?’

He was doing his best to sound outraged, but he didn’t fool me. I could tell he was trying not to laugh.

Pushing my hair behind my ears, I glared at him.

‘Maybe weirdo isn’t quite the right word,’ I allowed, ‘but you know what I mean.’

‘I see.’ George pretended to ponder. ‘So you think that after one date, I might never leave you alone? I might pester you to go out again or fall madly in love with you?’

My beastly cheeks were turning pink again, I could feel it. ‘I don’t think that’s very likely.’

‘Why not?’

I looked down at my clipboard, wishing that he would stop asking awkward questions and just go away.

‘I’m not the kind of girl men fall madly in love with,’ I said evenly after a moment.

Sadly, all too true.

George pursed his lips and his eyes danced. ‘OK, so if you’re not worried about me falling for you, maybe you’re worried you’ll fall madly in love with me.’

‘I can assure you that’s not going to happen!’ I snapped.

‘That sounds like a challenge to me.’

‘It certainly isn’t,’ I said. ‘I’m just saying that you’re not my type.’

Of course, he couldn’t leave it there, could he? ‘What is your type, then?’

‘Not you, anyway,’ I told him firmly, and he put on an injured look. Like I say, he didn’t take anything seriously.

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t trust handsome men,’ I said. ‘You’re too good-looking for me.’

‘Hey, isn’t that lookist or something?’ he protested. ‘You wouldn’t hold my looks against me if I was ugly, would you? Or at least you wouldn’t admit it.’

I sighed. ‘I don’t know why you’re so keen to ask me out anyway,’ I said. ‘You must be desperate for a date.’

‘I’m just trying to be friendly.’

‘Well, I appreciate it,’ I said crisply, ‘but I’m only here for a couple of months and I’d rather keep our relationship professional if that’s all right with you.’

‘I like the idea of us having a relationship,’ said George, ‘but I’m not so sure about the professional bit. Is everything professional with you, Frith?’

‘It is while I’m here. This job is important to me,’ I told him. ‘I really needed some site experience and this is my first time in charge. It’s a great chance for me. Plus, this contract is really important to Hugh. He’s been so good to me, I don’t want to let him down.’

I looked around the site, narrowing my eyes as I envisaged what the centre would look like when it was finished. The specifications were for the use of sustainable materials wherever possible, and the wood and glass finish was designed to blend into the backdrop of the trees edging the site.

‘It’s going to look good,’ I told George. ‘It’s expensive, but I gather Lord Whellerby’s plan is to make Whellerby Hall the top conference venue in the north, and the centre will be a step towards that. It’s a good idea,’ I added. I rather liked the sound of Lord Whellerby. I hadn’t met him yet, but I got the impression that he was astute and sensible—unlike his estate manager!

George had been following my gaze, rocking back on his heels as he studied the site thoughtfully. The breeze ruffled his hair and set it glinting where it caught the sunlight. In spite of the muddy boots and worn Guernsey, he looked as if he were modelling for a country sports catalogue.

‘He had to do something,’ he said frankly. ‘These stately homes are expensive to keep up. Roly nearly passed out when he saw the first heating bill!’

‘Does Lord Whellerby know you call him Roly?’ I asked disapprovingly. In spite of his regular requests for progress reports, he had never visited the site, apparently happy to appoint the laid-back George as his go-between.

‘We were at school together,’ George said. ‘He’s lucky if Roly is all I call him!’

‘Oh.’ I was disconcerted. ‘I’d imagined an older man.’

‘No, he’s thirty-two. He never expected to inherit Whellerby. The last Lord Whellerby was his great-uncle, and he had a son and a grandson who were groomed to take over the estate in due course. But they had a whole string of family tragedies and Roly was pitched into the middle of things.’

‘It must have been difficult for him,’ I said, still trying to picture Lord Whellerby as a young man instead of the experienced landowner I’d imagined.

‘It was. This is a big estate. It was a lot to take on, and Roly had never even lived in the country before. He had no experience and he was frankly terrified. I don’t blame him,’ said George.

‘Oh.’ The breeze was pushing in some clouds, I noticed worriedly. It kept blowing my hair around my face and I wished I’d taken the time to plait it. My hair, by the way, is another bane of my life. It is fine and straight and brown and I can’t do anything with it other than let it hang there.

I pulled away a strand that had plastered itself against my lips, still trying to reconfigure this new information about Lord Whellerby, who was, after all, the client.

‘Did you come here at the same time?’ I asked George.

‘Not immediately. Roly inherited an estate manager from his great-uncle and the guy was running rings round him. I was...at a loose end, shall we say? Roly invited me up to keep him company for a while, and when the estate manager left he asked if I wanted the job.’ George grinned and spread his hands. ‘I had nothing better to do, so here I am.’

That rang true. George was exactly the kind of person who would get a job because of who he knew rather than what he knew, I thought darkly.

‘Jobs for the boys, in fact?’

George’s smile was easy. ‘No one else would employ me,’ he said, clearly unfazed by my disapproval.

I sniffed. ‘I still think you should show your employer some respect and refer to him as Lord Whellerby,’ I said primly.

‘Do you call Hugh Mr Morrison?’

‘That’s different.’

‘How?’

‘He’s not a lord, for a start.’

George made a big deal of shaking his head and then smacking his ear as if to clear it. ‘Sorry, that was really weird,’ he told her. ‘For a minute there I thought we were in the twenty-first century, but, thank God, we’re back in the nineteenth where we all know our place!’

‘Maybe it is old-fashioned of me,’ I conceded, ‘but I happen to think there’s nothing wrong with using a title to show a bit of respect.’

‘You call me George.’

‘And your point is...?’

He raised his hands in surrender and smiled. ‘I’d hate to be called Mr Challoner, anyway,’ he said. ‘I’d constantly be looking over my shoulder for my father.’ For a second, his mouth was set and a grimness touched his eyes, but so fleetingly that afterwards I decided that I must have imagined it.

A moment later, and the blue eyes were full of laughter once more. As they rested on my face I realised just how long I had been standing and talking to him when I should have been overseeing the pouring of the concrete.

‘Look, did you want something in particular?’ I said, summoning my best crisp manner. ‘Because I really do need to get on.’

‘I’m on my way up to the Hall. I just thought I’d drop by and see how things were going so I can give Roly—excuse me, Lord Whellerby—an update.’

‘I’ve done a progress report if he’d like one.’

‘Another one?’

‘I got the impression Lord Whellerby likes to be kept informed,’ I said stiffly. ‘It’s part of my job to keep the client happy.’

‘I must remember to tell Roly that,’ said George with a wink, which I met with a stony look.

‘Would he like this report or not?’

‘Oh, absolutely.’

‘Fine.’ Tucking my clipboard under my arm, I shouted to Frank over the sound of the concrete mixer. ‘Can you carry on, Frank?’ I pointed at the clouds. ‘And keep an eye on those!’

Frank lifted a hand in acknowledgement and I led the way to the site office. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried it, but there is no way to walk gracefully through mud in a pair of Wellington boots. The mud sucked at my feet and made horrible squelching sounds, and I was horribly aware of George behind me, watching me waddle. I had to resist the urge to tug my safety jacket further down over my rear.

‘Boots,’ I said, pointing to George’s feet when we reached the prefabricated building that housed the site office, and he threw a crisp salute. Needless to say, he had made it across the mud as if he were walking across a perfectly mown lawn.

I ignored him. My boots were so clogged with mud that I struggled to get them off even using the scraper at the bottom of the steps, but after a tussle that George watched with undisguised amusement I managed to replace them with a pair of pumps I kept just inside the door. Tossing my hard hat onto a chair, I stalked across to my computer and pulled up the file, my colour still high.

George—of course—had no trouble taking off his own boots. He lounged in the doorway in his socks while I bent over the printer and concentrated fiercely on the pages spewing out. I could feel his eyes on me, and I plucked at the collar of the simple blue shirt I was wearing, wishing I could blame the single electric radiator for the warmth climbing into my cheeks.

Collecting up the pages, I banged them neatly together on the desk and fastened them with a bang of the stapler. ‘There you go.’

‘Thanks.’

But instead of leaving, George threw himself down in the visitor’s chair on the other side of the desk and flicked through the pages. ‘I see you’ve changed the specifications for the storm water drainage system,’ he said, then he glanced up at my face. ‘What?’ he said.

‘Nothing. I was just...surprised.’

‘What, you thought I couldn’t read a report?’

‘Of course not.’ I tugged at my shirt front. The truth was that I had assumed that he was too laid-back to pick up on the details of the report. ‘You don’t strike me as a details person, that’s all.’

A faint smile curled his mouth. ‘I can pay attention when required,’ he said.

‘Right.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Well, as you’ve noted, I’m putting in a different kind of underground chamber to store the rainwater run-off. I think this one is a better design.’

‘More expensive though,’ George commented, flicking through to the figures.

‘It is, but we’re saving money with a better deal on the glass wool cavity insulation slabs. If you look at the last page, you’ll see we’re still on target to stick to the budget.’

‘Good. We can’t—’ George broke off as a disembodied voice started shouting:

HEY, YOUR PHONE IS RINGING! PICK UP THE PHONE! YES, YOU, IT’S YOUR PHONE. DON’T EVEN TRY AND IGNORE IT! PICK IT UP RIGHT NOW!

He laughed at my expression. ‘Good, isn’t it?’

Embarrassed at having jumped so obviously, I smoothed back my hair. ‘Hilarious,’ I said, watching as George extracted the still-squawking phone from his pocket. I always leapt to answer my phone, but George only studied the screen in a leisurely manner, apparently able to ignore the noise it was making.

‘It’s Roly,’ he said. ‘Wonder what he wants?’

ANSWER THE PHONE! PICK UP THE PHONE! It wasn’t often that I found myself in agreement with an object.

‘Crazy idea, I know, but you could try answering it and find out,’ I suggested acidly.

George only grinned as he pressed the answer button. ‘Yes, my lord?’ The comment at the other end made him laugh. ‘I understand I’m not showing you enough respect,’ he explained, waggling his eyebrows at me. I tucked in the corners of my mouth and refused to respond.

Irritably, I began straightening the already immaculately aligned files set out in order of priority. I had phone calls to make of my own, but how could I concentrate when George was leaning back in the chair, tipping back dangerously as he yakked on to Lord Whellerby?

‘Who?’ he said suddenly, letting the chair crash forwards in his surprise. ‘You’re kidding! What’s she doing there?’ A pause as he listened, his eyebrows climbing towards his hairline. ‘Yes... Yes, it is... Her what?’

I shifted uneasily as the blue eyes focused on my face. ‘You’re kidding!’ he said again, looking at me so strangely that I mouthed What? at him. ‘Yes...yes...I’ll tell her. See you in a bit.’

George snapped the phone back and stared at me.

‘What?’ I said out loud.

‘You’ve heard of Saffron Taylor?’ he said conversationally, and a dreadful feeling of foreboding stole over me.

‘Omigod,’ I said in a sinking voice.

‘Adored daughter of charismatic tycoon Kevin Taylor? The ultimate IT girl? Darling of the celebrity circuit?’

‘Omigod,’ I said again.

‘She’s crying in Roly’s private sitting room.’

I stared at him, aghast. ‘Omigod!’ It was all I could say.

‘And she says she’s your sister.’

I dropped my head in my hands. ‘Please tell me this is a joke! Saffron can’t be here. She gets disorientated if she leaves Knightsbridge!’

‘Saffron Taylor is your sister?’

‘OK.’ I lifted my head and set my palms flat on the desk. Drawing a deep breath in through my nose, I exhaled slowly. ‘Random sister in client’s house. No need to panic.’

‘She is your sister!’

‘Half-sister,’ I said, rummaging in my bag for Audrey’s keys. ‘What in God’s name is she doing at Whellerby Hall?’

‘Crying, I think.’

A thought zoomed in out of nowhere and hit me so hard I almost buckled at the knees. ‘Has something happened to my father?’

God, what if something had happened to him? My mind spun frantically. What would I do? What would I say? What would I feel?

‘I think we’d have heard on the news if something had happened to Kevin Taylor,’ said George in a practical voice and I clutched at the thought.

‘Yes, yes, you’re right!’ I said gratefully.

‘Roly said something about a wedding, I think,’ he went on. ‘But he was whispering, so I might have got that wrong.’

I clutched my hair. ‘Please don’t tell me Saffron has come all the way up here because of some wedding crisis!’

‘I gather she wanted to talk to you.’

‘Then why didn’t she just ring? Oh!’ A horrible thought struck me. Another one. I pulled out my phone and stared at its blank screen. ‘I switched my phone off last night,’ I remembered in a hollow voice.

‘I always find it helps to keep my phone on if I want people to get in touch with me,’ said George, but I was in too much of a fret to rise to his smug tone.

‘I’ve just had so many phone calls from Saffron about the wedding,’ I said as I switched on the phone. ‘It’s been going on for months already. Which superstar rock band should be flown in to perform? Should she get her dress designed in New York or Paris or London? Castle A will look better in the photos, but castle B has a helipad, so which should she choose? It’s totally out of control!’

My phone began beeping as message after message came through. Distractedly, I scrolled through the ream of texts. ‘Call me... Call me... Crisis... Where r u?...I need u,’ I read. ‘Good grief, what’s been going on?’

‘Perhaps you’d better see her and find out.’

‘I would if I could just find my car key!’ I went back to scrabbling in the depths of my bag. ‘I know it’s in here!’

George got to his feet. ‘I’ll give you a lift, if you like. I’m going up to the Hall anyway.’

He was really enjoying the fact that I was so flustered, I could tell. The moment I knew Saffron was all right, I was going to kill her, I thought vengefully.

‘There’s really no need—ah!’ My fingers closed around the car key at last and I pulled it triumphantly out of my bag. ‘Here it is. I’ll be fine, thanks.’

I hurried down the steps and hop-skip-jumped my way around the puddles to Audrey while George was putting on his boots.

‘I’ll tell Frank you’ll be a while, shall I?’

Oh, God, I’d forgotten about the foundations! I dithered desperately as I hung onto the driver’s door. I needed to be on site, but I couldn’t leave my sister weeping all over my client. I hated being beholden to George Challoner, but I didn’t have time to explain to Frank now.

‘Er, yes...thank you,’ I said. ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

‘Sure.’

He strolled over to the foundations while I flung myself into Audrey and shoved the key in the ignition.

Audrey wheezed, coughed, managed a splutter and then died.

I made myself breathe slowly. My sister was having hysterics over the client who was key to the success of Hugh’s business. I mustn’t panic. I would deal with it the way I dealt with everything else, firmly and capably. All I had to do was to apologise to Lord Whellerby and remove Saffron.

No problem.

Except that Audrey had chosen now not to cooperate. I tried to start the engine again, but got only more wheezing, feebler this time.

More deep breaths. I counted to ten and then turned the ignition key once more.

‘Please, Audrey,’ I muttered, jaw clenched. I was acutely aware of George Challoner, who had delivered the message to Frank and was now watching me from behind the wheel of the Land Rover. ‘Don’t let me down,’ I begged Audrey. ‘Not when he’s watching.’

But Audrey did.

One last turn of the ignition key, and not even a wheeze in return.

I resisted the urge to bang my head against the steering wheel. Just.

I couldn’t sit there any longer. I knew what Saffron was like when she got in a state, and if Lord Whellerby was anything like every other man I had known, he would be terrified. He was probably already Googling for another design and build company to complete his conference centre, I thought bitterly.

How was I going to explain that to Hugh?

I know this was the big contract to ensure the future of your company, but, see, Saffron was having a bit of a crisis and now we’ve lost the contract? I’d be lucky if Hugh didn’t have another heart attack.

Barely two weeks on the job, and what would I have to show for it? Hugh back in hospital, out of a job, my best chance for site experience blown. My plan would be in tatters, my career would be over before it had really begun.

I pulled myself up short. Good grief, I was getting as bad as Saffron! There was no point in overreacting until I knew what the situation was, and to do that I had to get to Whellerby Hall.

My eyes flickered to George, and then away.

I could walk to the Hall, but it would take too long to cross the estate.

There was only one thing to be done.

Sucking in a breath, I got out of Audrey, closed the door, walked deliberately around the bonnet of the Land Rover and got in next to George without a word.

For a moment I sat there, looking straight through the windscreen, my lips pressed so firmly together they almost disappeared.

‘Thank you,’ I said at last, forcing the words out. ‘I’d be very glad of a lift.’

‘My pleasure,’ said George.

To my annoyance, his engine leapt into life without so much as a murmur of protest. I cast a reproachful look at Audrey as George reversed out behind her, and changed gear.

‘You know, you could invest in a reliable car,’ he said, a ghost of amusement in his voice.

‘I couldn’t get rid of Audrey,’ I said, instantly on the defensive. ‘She’s a great car. It’s just that she can be a little...temperamental.’

Or downright contrary, at times.

George raised an eyebrow. Have you ever met anyone who could actually do that? Raise one brow? George could.

‘Audrey?’ he said.

‘She’s named after Audrey Hepburn. Because she’s so glamorous,’ I added when George seemed unable to make the connection.

‘Right.’ He glanced at me and then away, shaking his head a little, but I could see the curl at the corner of his mouth.

I pushed my seat belt into place with a firm click. ‘She’s got style,’ I said defiantly. Vintage, perhaps, but definitely style.

‘Lime green is an interesting choice of colour,’ George commented.

‘It’s not everyone’s first choice, I know,’ I said, ‘but she was the only car I could afford when I bought her. I washed dishes for three years to pay for a car of my own,’ I told George. ‘Audrey’s a symbol as much as a car.’

George swung the Land Rover out of the site gates and onto one of the narrow lanes that criss-crossed the Whellerby estate. ‘I’m surprised to hear Kevin Taylor’s daughter had to buy her own car,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t your father buy you one? It’s not like he can’t afford it.’

My face closed down the way it always did when I had to talk about my father. I hugged my arms together and looked out of the window. I hadn’t taken a penny from him since I left school, and I wasn’t about to start now.

‘I pay my own way,’ I said. ‘I always have, and I always will.’

TWO

‘I didn’t even know Kevin Taylor had another daughter,’ said George.

I kept my eyes on the hedgerow brushing past my window. ‘Few people do,’ I said. My voice was perfectly even, the way I had trained it to be when I talked about my father. ‘I’m not sure he even knows himself any more.’

‘How long is it since you’ve seen him?’

‘Six years. I made the mistake of asking if he’d come to my graduation,’ I said. ‘He went to New York on business instead.’

As soon as I said it, I regretted it. I couldn’t think what had possessed me to tell George Challoner of all people about that bitter memory. I tensed, waiting for the sympathetic noises, but he surprised me.

‘I haven’t seen my parents for four years,’ he said, and I slewed round in my seat to look at him in surprise. He was so golden, so effortlessly charming. I couldn’t imagine him falling out with anyone.

‘Why not?’

‘We had an...er...disagreement,’ he said, lifting one hand from the steering wheel and spreading it in an eloquent gesture of resignation. ‘It culminated in one of those never-darken-our-doorstep-again conversations, and so I haven’t.’

‘I know what those are like,’ I said, unprepared to find myself sharing some fellow feeling with George.

‘Fun, aren’t they?’

‘Fabulous,’ I agreed. ‘Can’t get enough of them.’

‘Still, at least you’ve got your sister,’ said George. ‘I did family estrangement as a job lot. I haven’t seen my brother since then either.’ He spoke lightly, but I sensed the pain lurking, and I looked away.

‘Perhaps I should be grateful for Saffron, then,’ I said, keeping my tone light to match his. ‘Although if she upsets Lord Whellerby and anything goes wrong with Hugh’s contract, I will personally strangle her and then I’ll end up without any family either.’

‘Don’t worry about Roly,’ said George reassuringly. ‘He’s really not the grudge-bearing type.’

‘I hope you’re right.’ I gnawed fretfully at my thumbnail.

‘Is your sister really going to marry Jax Jackson?’ George asked to distract me after a moment.

‘Half-sister,’ I said automatically. ‘And so she says. I’m not really sure what it’s all about,’ I confessed, shifting back with a sigh to look out of my window where the hedgerows were a blur of spring green.

‘As far as I can tell Jax was a mediocre pop star until he started dating Saffron and became a celebrity. Now he’s on the cover of all those glossy magazines you get at the checkout in the supermarket. He seems to spend most of his time on tour, but Saffron’s so thrilled by the idea of getting married that he appears to be incidental to the whole process.

‘It’s going to be the wedding of the century, I gather,’ I added with a sigh. Ever since Saffron had announced her engagement, she had been in a frenzy of wedding plans, and if I never heard the word wedding again right then, I’d have been more than happy.

George glanced at me. ‘So are you going to be bridesmaid?’

‘No, thank God. Saffron did ask me, but obviously only because she thought she should, and when I said I didn’t think I’d fit with her other bridesmaids and would rather just be happy for her on the sidelines, she was so relieved it was funny. I really don’t blend with Saffron’s décor,’ I said to George. ‘She’s a socialite and I’m an engineer...you can probably imagine how much we have in common!’

‘I’d certainly never have guessed you were sisters,’ he agreed. ‘You don’t look at all alike.’

‘No, Saffron’s gorgeous,’ I said without rancour. ‘Her mother was a model, and Saffron gets her looks from her, not my father. Saffron’s blonde and bubbly and beautiful, and I’m...not.’

I wasn’t looking at George, but I could feel the blue eyes on my profile. Instinctively, I lifted my chin a little higher to show him that I didn’t care.

‘No one could argue that you were blonde,’ he said. ‘And I’d put you down as prickly rather than bubbly, but otherwise I think you underestimate yourself.’

‘You don’t need to be polite,’ I said, in what he probably thought was a very prickly way. ‘I know I’m not beautiful. I’m not ugly either. I’m just...ordinary. As my father never tired of telling people when I was younger, Saffron got the beauty, and I got the brains.’

‘Ouch.’

‘It’s true.’ I shrugged. ‘Saffron and I are so different it’s almost comical when we’re together, which isn’t very often.’

‘And yet it’s you she rings when she’s upset.’

‘That’s because she doesn’t have a mother. Tiffany ran off with her personal trainer when Saffron was a baby, and she died a couple of years after that. I always felt sorry for Saffron. She was the prettiest little girl, and she’s always been the apple of my father’s eye, but nobody really had any time for her.’

‘So you’re the big sister?’

‘That’s right. I was seven when my father decided a model suited his image better than my mother. Mum didn’t want a divorce, but when Tiffany got pregnant, Dad insisted. His company wasn’t as successful as it is now, so the settlement was fairly modest, and Mum and I had a very ordinary life. We lived in the suburbs and I went to the local school.

‘It was fine,’ I said, pushing away the memory of my mother weeping at night when she thought I couldn’t hear her. It hadn’t been fine for her. ‘But I had to spend two weeks every summer with my father, who was super rich by then and kept getting richer. It was like being dropped into a whole different world. I hated it,’ I said.

I sighed. ‘And then Mum died when I was fifteen.’

‘I’m sorry,’ George said, all traces of his usual lurking smile gone. ‘That must have been hard for you.’

‘It was awful.’ I pressed my lips together in a straight line. Just thinking about that time could still send a wave of desolation crashing over me.

Mum was only thirty-nine when she dropped dead at the sink one day. ‘The doctors said it was an embolism, and that she wouldn’t have felt a thing. I wasn’t there,’ I told George. ‘I was at school, and a neighbour found her. By the time I got home, they had taken Mum away.’

I swallowed hard, remembering how I had stood in the kitchen in dazed disbelief. One minute my mother had been there, the next she wasn’t. Gone, just like that.

There was nothing I could have done, even if I had been there. Everybody said so. But deep down, I always felt as if I should have known. I should have said goodbye and told her I loved her instead of cramming a piece of toast in my mouth and running for the bus. I wish I could remember the last thing I said to her, but I can’t. It was just an ordinary day.

And then it wasn’t.

‘My whole world fell apart.’ I’d almost forgotten that I was talking to George by then.

My nice safe life had vanished the moment that clot blocked my mother’s brain and I was pitched into an existence where nothing seemed certain any more. For months I flailed around in a hopeless search for something to hold onto, until I realised one day that the only thing I could be sure of was myself.

Slowly, carefully, I built a new life, and I made it as secure as I could. Friends sighed and called me a control freak, and maybe I was, but routines and plans at least gave me a structure, one that nobody else could take away from me without warning. Without them, I would have been lost.

‘Presumably you went to live with your father then?’ said George after a moment.

‘If you can call being packed off to boarding school “living” with him,’ I said. ‘At least I had Saffron in the holidays. She’s over seven years younger than me, but neither of us had a mother and she was so desperate for attention that we used to spend a lot of time together then.

‘It was Saffron who painted the eyelashes over Audrey’s headlights,’ I told George.

‘I wondered about that.’

‘She was so pleased with them, I didn’t have the heart to paint them out, and now they’re part of her.’ My smile was probably a little twisted. ‘Saffron’s spoilt, but she’s got a sweet nature and all she wants is a little attention. Unfortunately, this wedding has made her hysterical.’ I sighed, remembering the situation. ‘I just hope Lord Whellerby’s not too angry.’

‘You haven’t met Roly yet, have you? If you had, you’d know you’ve got nothing to worry about,’ said George when I shook my head.

‘Easy for you to say,’ I said tensely. ‘It’s not your sister having hysterics over your most important client!’

* * *

We were bowling up an avenue lined with stately trees. To either side stretched lush parklands, with placid cows grazing under the horse chestnuts. The Land Rover rattled over a cattle grid, the avenue curved round over a hill, and I caught my first sight of Whellerby Hall. I’d been too busy to visit before, and my jaw dropped.

It was an extravaganza of a house, a vast Baroque structure with a domed roof in the centre, and two wings stretching out on either side, set atop a slope on the far side of a serene lake.

George drove right up to the imposing entrance and parked with a crunch of gravel. The door was opened by a cadaverous-looking individual who looked offended by George’s cheerfully casual greeting but unbent enough to explain that Lord Whellerby was in his private sitting room.

‘That’s Simms.’ George led the way up a sweeping marble staircase, past massive oil paintings of naval battles and skimpily clad nymphs. My father’s house was ostentatiously ornate, but still I had to make an effort not to goggle at the sheer size of the Hall. ‘He was old Lord Whellerby’s butler, and Roly inherited him along with the house. Roly’s terrified of him.’

‘I don’t blame him.’

‘You’d get on well with Simms. He always refers to Roly as Lord Whellerby too. He’d really like Roly to be out shooting peasants all day and coming home to sit over his port and cigars.’

‘It’s a strange way to live, isn’t it?’ I said as we climbed another flight of stairs, rather less imposing this time.

‘I know. I feel as if I’m part of a costume drama whenever I come to see Roly. I keep expecting a dowager duchess to pop up and tick me off for seducing the housemaids under the stairs—and no, before you ask,’ he said, turning his head with a smile that did odd things to my breathing. ‘There are no maids. A very efficient cleaning firm comes in once a week, and they’re far too busy to dally with me anywhere.’

‘Disappointing for you,’ I said tartly to cover the fact that my lungs were still not cooperating with the business of inflating and deflating. Perhaps it was all these stairs, I thought hopefully. George was taking them awfully fast. It was hard to believe a single smile could have such an effect.

‘Not at all. I’m fussy about who I dally with,’ said George. ‘I like a challenge,’ he said, turning his head to look straight at me. ‘I like to be intrigued. I like classy girls who don’t need me and maybe don’t even like me. I like to feel that any dallying I do will lead to something really...special.’

I waited for him to smile to show me that he was joking, but he didn’t. He just kept looking into my eyes and for some reason my breathing got all tangled up again.

So, nothing to do with his smile. Must be those stairs after all.

‘Here we are.’ A minute or so later, when we had trekked down a long corridor, and I had given up trying to work out whether or not he had been serious, George flung open a door. ‘Frith to the rescue,’ he announced.

There was a moment of silence in the room, and then both occupants of a sofa leapt to their feet.

I had a professional smile fixed on my face to greet Lord Whellerby, but Saffron gave me no chance to make the fluent apology I had planned. She stumbled across the room to throw herself into my arms. ‘Oh, Frith,’ she wailed. ‘I’m so glad to see you! Everything’s gone so horribly wrong!’

I held her close and patted her back comfortingly, while trying to grimace apologetically over her shoulder at Lord Whellerby, who was hovering anxiously. I could see why George had been amused when I insisted on referring to him as Lord Whellerby. He had a pleasant face, fair skin that clearly flushed as easily as mine, a solid figure that was already growing stout and a hesitant air in marked contrast to George’s easy assurance.

I could feel George watching us, and, although I couldn’t see his face, I knew that his eyes would be dancing. We must have looked ridiculous. Saffron was so much taller than I was, she had to bend right over to bury her head on my shoulder. She was shuddering with little sobs and clearly teetering on the edge of hysterics. That was all I needed.

‘That’s enough, Saffron,’ I said sharply. ‘Stop crying and tell me what you’re doing here.’

My sister is one of those irritating women who can cry prettily. When I held her away from me, tears spangled the end of her beautiful green eyes, and her soft mouth trembled, but under my stern gaze she made an effort to gulp back her tears and bravely knuckled beneath her eyes, being careful, I noted, not to smudge any of her mascara.

Roly—impossible to think of him as anything else now!—hovered nearby, clearly torn between relief that Saffron had stopped crying at last and alarm at my crisp approach.

‘I had to s-see you,’ Saffron hiccupped. ‘Daddy’s in Beijing and there’s no one else.’

‘What’s the matter?’ She really did seem upset, I thought with compunction. Perhaps there was something really wrong. ‘Is it Jax?’

‘No.’ The beautiful face crumpled and Saffron buried her head back on my shoulder. ‘It’s Buffy!’

‘Buffy?’ I echoed blankly. ‘Who’s Buffy?’

‘My bridesmaid! My chief bridesmaid! She’s ruined everything!’

Another outburst of weeping. Roly wrung his hands helplessly, and I began to feel a little frayed at the edges.

‘What on earth has this Buffy done?’

‘She’s getting married!’

George was grinning. He thought this was funny! I glared at him as I mentally counted to ten.

‘OK, look, I’m sure we can sort this out, Saffron,’ I said, keeping my voice calm, ‘but not here. We’ll go back to my cottage, I’ll make you a cup of tea, and it’ll all be fine.’

‘What c-cottage?’ sobbed Saffron.

‘The cottage where I live,’ I said with emphasis, and Saffron lifted her head, momentarily distracted from whatever crisis had been precipitated by the unknown Buffy.

‘I thought you said you were living at Whellerby Hall?’

‘I said I worked on the estate.’ I drew a calming breath. ‘This is Lord Whellerby’s home and we’re intruding.’

‘Oh...really...no problem...’

‘Who’s Lord Whellerby?’ Saffron’s puzzled question broke over Roly’s inarticulate stammer.

For answer, I turned her to face Roly, who shifted from foot to foot and blushed painfully.

‘Oh, you should have told me!’ Saffron gazed at him, her eyes still swimming with tears. ‘You’ve been so sweet to me, too.’

‘Pleasure,’ he muttered, embarrassed. ‘Please, call me Roly...er...I mean...’ He lost himself in a morass of pleasantries.

I suppressed a sigh. This wasn’t how I had imagined my client! But somehow I had to retrieve something from the situation. I hadn’t wanted to meet him this way, but I would just have to make the best of it.

Tugging my jacket into place, I stepped forward and offered my hand. ‘I’m so sorry about the misunderstanding, Lord Whellerby,’ I said briskly, avoiding George’s amused gaze. ‘I’m Frith Taylor, the site engineer—and Saffron’s sister, as you’ve obviously gathered.’

‘Er...delighted.’ Roly looked daunted by my formality, but he shook my hand.

‘Thank you for looking after Saffron,’ I went on. ‘We’ll get out of your way now.’

‘Oh, but there’s no n-need to go just y-yet,’ said Roly, dismayed. ‘Stay and, er, have some coffee or something.’

‘That’s very kind of you,’ I said firmly, ‘but we’ve imposed enough. Come along, Saffron,’ I added to my sister, who was drawing shuddery little breaths and wiping tears pitifully from her cheeks with the back of her hand.

‘It’s starting to rain.’ Roly dug in his pocket and produced a handkerchief, which he offered to Saffron, while my eyes flew to the window in consternation.

Sure enough, the clouds I’d told Frank to watch out for had grown into a threatening mass, and a sulky drizzle was already smearing the panes of the elegant windows.

Roly didn’t care about my foundations. ‘You’ve been so upset,’ he told her. ‘Sit and have something warm to drink before you go out in the cold,’ he said, ignoring the tray of coffee that they had been drinking before George and I arrived.

Saffron took the handkerchief with a tremulous smile and dabbed at her cheeks with it. ‘You’re so kind,’ she whispered, and Roly swelled with pleasure.

Oh, please, I thought, and caught George’s eye. His expression was perfectly straight, but his blue eyes brimmed with amusement.

‘I really don’t think you should go out just yet,’ Roly was saying. ‘Now that your sister is here, you’ll feel better. I’m sure she won’t mind staying a bit longer and perhaps we can all help you resolve your problem.’

I opened my mouth to object to the delay, but George got in first. ‘You may as well give in,’ he murmured in my ear as Roly led Saffron tenderly back to the sofa. ‘Once Roly starts stringing together real sentences, there’ll be no budging him.’

‘But the foundations—’

‘You want to keep your client happy, don’t you? I’ll organise coffee and you see if you can find out why the diabolical Buffy’s marriage has thrown her into disarray.’

So I found myself sitting on the sofa opposite my sister and my client, keeping a fretful eye on the rain, while Saffron, tears miraculously dried now that she had everyone fussing around her, lapped up Roly’s admiration.

‘I’m so sorry to cause all this trouble,’ she was saying, her eyes wide and green. I have green eyes too, as a matter of fact, but mine are the ditchwater end of the spectrum while Saffron’s are like the deep green of the Caribbean. Or so I’ve been told.

‘I can’t tell you how much better I feel! I was so upset last night, I couldn’t sleep a wink. I couldn’t get hold of Frith, and I really needed her, so in the end I just had to come and find her myself. It was quite an adventure.’

I frowned. ‘How did you get here?’ I asked, trying to imagine Saffron finding out about trains or looking at a map.

‘Burke drove me.’

I should have known. Only Saffron would think being driven up the motorway in the back of luxurious limousine with tinted windows counted as an adventure.

‘I had no idea it would be so far,’ Saffron said and Roly gazed at her admiringly.

‘You must be exhausted.’

‘Oh, I am, but now that I’m here that doesn’t matter.’ Bravely, Saffron lifted her chin and managed a wobbly little smile.

Privately, I thought that my father’s chauffeur was likely to be more tired than Saffron, but I knew better than to say so. I cast another glance at the window. For now the heavy rain was holding off, but I really needed to be on the site.

It was George who poured out the coffee when it arrived and passed around the cups. Then he sprawled in the corner of the sofa, one arm along the back, long legs stretched at an angle towards me. I perched at the other end, pretending not to notice that if I leant back he would be able to touch my shoulder. He’d hardly have to move at all to stroke my hair, or let his fingers drift along my jaw.

My pulse kicked a little just at the thought of it.

Annoyed with myself, I inched further along until I was pressed against the arm of the sofa. Why was I even thinking about George? I had more important problems to deal with.

‘So, Saffron.’ I cleared my throat and set my cup and saucer on the table between the two sofas. ‘What exactly is the problem with Buffy?’

‘She’s not going to be here for my wedding!’ said Saffron, eyes glistening with remembered outrage. ‘She met this guy when she was skiing in Aspen earlier this year, and she thought it was just, like, a holiday romance, but yesterday he rang her and asked her to go back and marry him, and she’s like, yes, I’m changing my life, so she’s going next week.’

Crushed by the unfairness of it all, Saffron subsided back into the cushions, her beautiful mouth trembling.

‘What a shame,’ said Roly loyally and patted her hand.

I was irritatingly aware of George’s hand just inches away. He was just sitting there, not doing anything but still making the air hum with an energy that made my scalp shrink alarmingly and raised the hairs on the back of my neck.

Not to mention making it almost impossible to concentrate.

‘Well, that’s OK, isn’t it?’ I had to feel my way cautiously. This wasn’t quite how I had anticipated demonstrating my negotiating skills to the client, but Roly was paying close attention and was so obviously smitten with Saffron that I would have to be careful. ‘I mean, it’s quite romantic, isn’t it?’

‘What about my wedding? How am I going to manage without my chief bridesmaid?’

‘Can’t one of your other bridesmaids do it?’ The last time I had been involved in exhaustive bridesmaid negotiations, Saffron had planned on at least six.

‘There’s no one suitable.’

I was losing patience. ‘Being chief bridesmaid doesn’t call for great management skills,’ I said. ‘It’s not exactly life and death stuff, is it?’

A mistake. Saffron’s emerald eyes flashed and she bounced up indignantly on the cushions. ‘Are you saying my wedding’s not important?’

‘Well, it’s not—’ A casual nudge against my knee by George’s foot made me pause, and realise that I was going about this quite the wrong way. ‘I mean, of course it’s important for you,’ I amended with a quick glance at Roly. ‘I just thought one of the other girls would do as well.’

It turned out that I had no idea what was involved in planning a wedding. Saffron enumerated all the chief bridesmaid’s duties, ticking them off on her fingers, until I was lost in details of fittings and favours and rehearsal dinners.

‘And then, of course, there’s the hen party,’ said Saffron. ‘That’s nearly as important as the wedding itself. That’s your main job.’

‘Wait, hold on! My job?’ I struggled forward on the sofa in consternation.

‘You’re the only one who can do it.’

‘Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no, no.’ I waved my hands frantically to push the very idea away. ‘That’s a very bad idea.’

George, the beast, was shaking with laughter. I could feel it reverberating along the sofa, and I glared at him.

‘But you’re my sister,’ said Saffron, hurt.

‘Saffron, we discussed this before, and we agreed I wouldn’t fit in with everyone else.’

‘And you’re good at managing projects,’ Saffron went on as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘It has to be you.’

I drew in a deep breath. I had to put a stop to this right away. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said as firmly as I knew how. ‘I can’t drop everything to run up and down to London, Saffron. I’ve got a visitor and conference centre to build on schedule and on budget...’

I stopped, realising that I might as well have been speaking Polish. It was doubtful if Saffron had ever come across the word ‘budget’ before.

‘The thing is, Hugh’s depending on me to see this project through for him,’ I tried to explain. ‘I can’t let him down.’

‘But you can let me down!’

Suppressing a sigh, I tried a different tack. ‘You need a bridesmaid who can really give you the attention you deserve,’ I said. ‘One of your friends who lives in London and has the time to find you just the right place for your party, and help you choose all the wedding details. You know I’m no good at that kind of thing,’ I added with a cajoling smile, but Saffron refused to be consoled.

‘You’re my sister.’ Saffron’s lower lip trembled tragically. ‘I’d think you’d want to be part of my big day. There’s no one else I can rely on. Daddy’s always working, and I’ve never had a mother.’

Saffron: barely a GCSE to her name, but a PhD in emotional blackmail.

‘You’ve got Jax.’

‘He’s touring, and anyway he’s no good at wedding stuff.’ The green eyes swam with tears. Wordlessly, Roly reached for her hand, and Saffron permitted herself a little sob. ‘Couldn’t you at least organise the hen party? Otherwise I won’t have one, and what sort of bride doesn’t have a party?’

I drew a breath and told myself to stay firm. ‘I would, but I have this pesky thing called a job. I realise you may not have come across the concept before,’ I added, although the irony was lost on Saffron, ‘but a job involves turning up at a specific time and place and working in exchange for money.’

‘Well, that’s not a problem. Daddy would pay you if you need money.’

My expression tightened. ‘I’m not taking anything from him,’ I said in a flat voice. ‘And anyway, it’s not about money. It’s about responsibility. I’ve made a commitment to see this job through until Hugh is better. We have a contract and a responsibility to our client—who is Lord Whellerby here,’ I said, not that I expected that to mean much to Saffron.

It was too much to hope that my sister might realise what an awkward situation she was putting me in and suddenly become rational.

Not that Roly was helping by patting Saffron’s hand sympathetically, as if her bridesmaid crisis were more important than getting his new conference centre built on time.

Saffron pouted. ‘I don’t see why you need a stupid job anyway. If you’d only talk to Daddy, you could do whatever you liked. I don’t understand why you’re both so stubborn about each other!’

‘My career is what I like,’ I said, exasperated. ‘I don’t understand why you can’t understand that!’

‘Then what am I going to do?’ Saffron’s face crumpled. ‘Oh, I can’t believe you’d be this mean to me!’

I rubbed my temples. I loved my sister, but sometimes she could be exasperating.

‘I know the wedding is important to you, Saffron, but the conference centre is important to Lord Whellerby,’ I said. ‘A lot of money and a lot of jobs are depending on it, and the project has to come in on time.’

I threw an appealing look at Roly, who missed his cue completely. ‘I’m sure a week or two late wouldn’t matter,’ he said, gazing adoringly at Saffron, who was making a great play of biting her lip while the tears trembled and sparkled bewitchingly on the ends of her lashes.

Helplessly, I turned without thinking to George. I don’t know what my expression was like, but I must have seemed as if I was begging for help.

‘I think it would matter to Hugh Morrison,’ he said. ‘It’s not that long since his heart attack, and any delays would add a stress that he just doesn’t need at the moment.’

‘Exactly,’ I said, with a grateful look, and Roly looked chastened.

Sensing that she was losing her support, Saffron slumped back. ‘You don’t seem to realise that organising a wedding is stressful too,’ she complained. ‘It’s one of the most stressful times of your life, and that’s why you need the support of your family. But if this Hugh person is more important to you than I am, I—’

George sat forward. ‘Perhaps I could make a suggestion?’

I immediately looked wary, Saffron hopeful. ‘What?’ she asked tearfully.

‘You want Frith to organise a bridal party for you, but she can’t spare the time to go to London, right?’ He waited for Saffron to nod, while my brows drew together suspiciously. ‘So why not have the party here?’ he said.

‘Here?’

‘Now I know what you’re going to say.’ George held up his hands to stop Saffron from going any further, focusing on her rather than on me, although he must have been able to feel me glaring at him from the other end of the sofa. ‘You can’t go clubbing in Whellerby. This isn’t London, it isn’t cool...but why not make your party different from all the others? Anyone can go to a club or a restaurant in London. How many people can take over a stately home?’

‘Probably most of Saffron’s friends,’ I said crisply, my gratitude forgotten. I had a sinking suspicion where this was going. ‘There’s no question of—’

‘You mean, like, a house party?’ Saffron interrupted me.

‘Exactly,’ said George.

‘We could wear costumes, like in that TV series...’

‘You’ve got it. You could be the beautiful daughter, your friends can be dashing widows, or young ladies waiting to make their come out, and Frith could be the repressed housekeeper who’s secretly in love with one of the footmen.’

‘Hey—’ I began, but Saffron was already clapping her hands.

‘I love it! Think of the costumes! I’ve always wanted to wear one of those lovely evening gowns. I could wear long gloves!’

Buffy’s treachery was forgotten. Saffron was positively bouncing on the sofa in excitement. ‘Ooh, and we could make it a proper Edwardian house party...assignations in the conservatory, croquet on the lawn, dance cards...dancing!’ Her eyes lit up as the idea caught hold. ‘We could have a ball!’

‘Now see what you’ve done,’ I said to George with a severe look.

‘We’ll have to ask men too,’ Saffron was bubbling on. ‘We can’t have a ball with just girls. But that’s all right. Jax would look super hot in a DJ. A house like this must have a ballroom, right?’

I had heard enough. I held up my hands like a traffic cop. ‘Stop!’ I said so forcefully that Saffron was startled into silence. ‘Now just hold on a minute,’ I said more calmly. ‘We are not having a ball here. Or a dinner. Or anything at all. This is Lord Whellerby’s home. It’s not open to the public.’

‘Yet,’ said George.

‘What?’ I said, thrown by his calm interjection.

‘The conference centre is just part of our strategy to turn Whellerby Hall into the leading venue for events in the north,’ George said, with a glance at Roly, who nodded encouragement. ‘Eventually, we’ll turn the east wing into top-of-the-market accommodation for weddings and parties using the state rooms.’

‘George says we’ll be able to ch-charge an arm and a leg,’ Roly confided.

‘Of course, the east wing needs a lot of renovation before we can do that,’ George added, ‘but as that’s the long-term plan, why don’t we take advantage of Saffron’s celebrity?’

My chest swelled with unreasonable resentment as he sat there, talking persuasively while Saffron and Roly lapped it up. I had had George down as a lightweight, a playboy down on his luck just playing at estate management. He wasn’t supposed to be talking about strategies or long-term plans.

‘You’ve both been too discreet to mention it,’ he went on, ‘but I think we all know how famous she is. Saffron Taylor is the ultimate party girl, and she’s a social leader. Where she goes, others will follow.’

I closed my eyes in despair.

‘We couldn’t ask for better publicity. If Saffron and her closest friends have a private party up here, you can bet your bottom dollar everyone else will be clamouring to do the same. We don’t need to do anything so vulgar as advertise. Word will get round—especially if we ask your friends not to give away the secret location of the party. Before we know where we are, we’ll be beating people off with a stick.’

And so it was decided. I not only had to build a conference centre, I had to organise a costumed house party for a load of spoiled socialites.

I looked out of the window. It had started to rain in earnest.

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