Page 2

“Eleanor,” she said, standing up to receive a kiss on the cheek. “How very dutiful of you.”

“Grandmother,” said Eleanor, sliding the folder full of paperwork onto the side table. “Dutiful would be once a week on a Saturday afternoon, I think you’ll find. Nearly every day is verging more on affectionate, don’t you think?”

Isabella smiled and patted her granddaughter’s hand. “I’m teasing, my dear. Now, what delights have you brought me today?”

“The final renovation plans that are simply awaiting your signature,” Eleanor said, nodding at the folder.

Isabella took the folder and began reading through the enclosed papers with the unhurried scrutiny of a woman who knew how to terrify bank managers and had no time for haste. After what felt like an eternity, she beckoned for a pen, whichEleanor provided, signed with a flourish, and laid the folder down again.

“Permission granted,” she said. Her sharp eyes were on Eleanor’s face. “Although why you’re quite going to all this trouble, I’m not sure I understand.”

“Because the house is falling down, grandmama,” Eleanor said, hoping that they weren’t about to fight.

“My house is falling down,” her grandmother said.

Eleanor wanted to groan, but was far too well-brought-up. So she simply smiled. “Your house.”

“It’s not that I don’t want you to have the house,” Isabella said. “I very much do. I can’t think of anyone that I’d rather have it. But you know the terms.”

“Terms that you could change should you choose to.”

Isabella raised an eyebrow. “The house is held in trust, I could no more change the terms of it than I could climb Everest. Besides, even if I could, I wouldn’t. Marriage is a sign of maturity and responsibility. If you can’t find a partner in life, then why should you be trusted to run an entire estate?”

“Because I’ve been doing it for years,” Eleanor pointed out. “And because having to be married in order to inherit the house is an archaic and absurd condition.”

“You’re just lucky that the terms simply state that you must be married, not that you must be married to a man,” her grandmother pointed out. “Otherwise, we’d be marrying you off to the middle son of a local lord like we all lived in one of those awful Jane Austen novels.”

“Lucky, am I?” Eleanor said, raising an eyebrow of her own. “In that case, I shall be on the lookout for the perfect woman to scandalize the town with.”

Isabella grinned. “At this point, dear, I’d accept a circus performer if it meant you showed some commitment to something other than these dastardly renovation plans.”

“They’renecessaryrenovation plans,” Eleanor said. Then she shook her head. Arguing with Isabella was like arguing with a stone wall, something her grandfather had always told her. Shestood up and collected the papers. “I’d better get these back to Samson.”

“Of course, darling,” said Isabella, with the air of someone who knew they’d won an argument.

As Eleanor stepped outside into the bright freshness of the morning, she took a deep, full breath.

There was little point in arguing with Isabella. However stupid the terms of the trust might be, there was nothing that either one of them could do about it. In the absence of a son, a daughter might inherit, providing that she was married.

She threw the folder onto the passenger seat of the car. She didn’t particularly want to be married. She certainly didn’t need a husband. Thinking about the weak-chinned men of suitable ancestry that she’d known all her life made her feel just a little bit sick.

What she did need though, was her house. Brewster Manor was the only place she’d ever really known, and she felt as attached to it as most people would to a person.

And for the first time, she wondered just how far she would be willing to go to keep the house that was hers by right.

Chapter Two

Danni Franks didn’t consider herself a pessimist. She was a farmer. By nature, farmers had to be optimists. Every year, she planted seeds in the ground with the blind faith that they’d actually grow. Despite the persistent threats of drought, disease, and sheep with no sense of self-preservation. Though this was the first year she’d be reaping the rewards of her very own sowing.

But even Danni’s optimism had its limits. Today, that limit was reached when her ancient tractor let out an almighty wheeze, shuddered violently, and died in the middle of the back field.

Ten minutes later, she threw her spanner down into the mud and stood back, hands on her hips, glaring at the offending machine. “You’re a bloody menace,” she growled through gritted teeth.

Tommy Ellis, her farmhand and occasional source of unwanted wisdom, stood nearby, leaning against a fence post with all the urgency of a man watching paint dry. “Try hitting it,” he said, nodding sagely toward the tractor.

She turned her glare on him. “Oh, brilliant idea, Tom. Why didn’t I think of that? It’s not a vending machine that’s eaten your last Crunchie.”

Tommy shrugged. “Sometimes a bit of tough love works.”