Page 100 of A Fresh Start at Bramble Cottage
She glanced across the table at him. Did he really think she would want to go back to London? “Of course.”
The warm gleam in his eyes suggested that he had liked her response. “So what are you going to do with your money? I heard you tell Debbie you didn’t fancy a world cruise.”
She laughed at that. “No, I don’t — I can’t think of anything I’d dislike more. But all that money... even after I’ve paid the commission to the auction house and the inheritance tax, I’ll have plenty to live on — I’ll be able to concentrate on writing my novel.”
“That’ll be good.”
He sounded sincere. Not like Jeremy, who had dismissed her dream of being a writer as childish nonsense.
“I almost deleted it at one point,” she confessed. “But when I went back to it... the break seemed to have worked. It all started to flow; new ideas kept popping into my head. I don’t know if it’ll be any good, or if it’ll ever get published. But I’ve dreamed about it for a long time. And... I have another idea.”
“Oh?”
“I thought I might buy some houses in Sturcombe, and let them just to local people at affordable rents. When I thought the painting might make a couple of million I was thinking of just one or two, but now I could buy maybe half a dozen. And then I could put the income from the rents to buying more. What do you think?”
He smiled with instant approval. “I think it’s a great idea.”
She laughed again. “I know I said I didn’t want to be an estate agent, but this would be different. I wouldn’t be working for Charlotte Thorington, for a start! It would be mine. And it would be about helping people have a home, not making some greedy landlord rich.” She picked up her champagne glass and raised it in another toast. “Sturcombe Properties.”
“Sturcombe Properties.” Tom smiled as he clinked his glass against hers. “And I have something else we might drink to.”
He put his hand in his pocket and took out a small box, which he laid on the table in front of her. A jeweller’s box. Dark blue velvet, inscribed in gold — Digby’s. She lifted her gaze to his.
“Open it,” he urged softly.
Her hand was shaking as she lifted the lid. A glint of emeralds, rich green, reflecting the fairy lights above her head in pinpricks of fire.
“Aunt Molly’s ring . . .”
“Your ring.”
“But . . . how did you get it?”
“I went into Digby’s to get a new strap for my watch, the day after you went in to sell Molly’s jewellery. We were chatting while old Cyril was fitting the strap, and he showed it to me, told me how you’d loved it. He’d decided to keep it back in case you changed your mind about selling it.”
“Oh . . . what a lovely man!”
“He is. I asked if he’d sell it to me, and he said only if I gave it to you. I think he must be psychic.”
Vicky felt her heart pounding. She didn’t want to jump to conclusions about his intentions, but... there was usually only one reason why a man would give a woman a ring like this.
“But... you didn’t even like me then,” she protested, laughing unsteadily.
“Didn’t I?” He smiled, a slow, enigmatic smile that left her even more confused.
“Well, I . . .”
He took the ring from the box and picked up her left hand. “I needed to know that you really are going to stay, that it’s what you really want, for yourself, without any pressure from me. I love you, Vicky Marston. Will you marry me?”
And breathe . . .“I . . . don’t think I’d make a very good farmer’s wife.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “You’ll make this farmer an excellent wife. It’s you I want, just as you are.”
She looked at the ring, and his hand holding hers. He was waiting for an answer. It had been a day for dreams to come true, but this... to marry him...
But... could he really be in love with her? Could skinny and not-quite blonde really replace that gorgeous redhead? Would she always be second best, even though she wore his ring?
Or should she take the chance, trust her dreams... ?
