Page 31 of Not Exactly Mr. Darcy
“I guess I’m just a little sad to think this house was built with the expectation that children would use this space, and now it doesn’t seem like there are any children at all.”
“Mm.” George traced a finger along the wooden windowsill. Liam said nothing.
“Arethere any children?” Liv pressed.
The air in the room seemed to crackle with unsaid things. Had she trespassed again unknowingly?
George’s face had lost its usual animation as she turned to face the parkland. “The present owner is a widower. There are no children,” she added softly.
Poor man. Just as she’d thought. She imagined a man in his sixties, a little on the portly side like Tobias the vicar, living in London, an uncle-like figure to these two siblings who clearly cared about the property.
“Come on,” George said. “We better find your grandmother.”
She nodded, then realized Liam had gone.
Liam clenched and unclenched his hands, pacing in the sitting room as he waited for the others to arrive. After all this time he expected to have his emotions under control. But there’d been that moment of softness in her voice that somehow slipped under his armour and tugged at him. Like she understood just what the loss of a family meant to a place like this. The need for future generations to carry on the “caretaking” he’d devoted his life to. It was why he’d agreed to marry the woman his parents had picked out for him.
Letitia “Trinny” Ogilvie had possessed the right name, the right connections, and definitely the right bank account, and seemed the answer to every dream of a land-rich but cash-poor member of society. Pity he hadn’t known that her cool demeanour hinted at an even colder heart, one she’d proved when she’d run off with her lover, only to be killed in a car crash that very night.
The Ogilvies still blamed him, the failure of their lawsuit against him only exacerbating their hatred, and he blamed himself for the final argument. Especially when the autopsy revealed the child she was carrying had indeed been his own. His heir, gone. It had taken years to overcome his mistrust of women, only finally agreeing to go out with Sir Olyphant’s daughter Antonia because they were thrown together so much at the time. But that too proved a failure, as—contrary to Trinny—Toni’s blood ran far more hot than cold, proved when she too had run off with another rather than face Liam on their wedding day.
Society had shunned him. The newspapers called him cursed. Called Hartbury “Heartbreak Hall.” And while the local villagers had tried their best to protect him, he knew he wasn’t doing well. Mr. Wheaton-Smythe, his one supportive trustee, and his father’s connections had helped smother certain news stories, so there wasn’t much to be found online about the current heir to Hartbury Hall, which was just the way he liked it. He couldn’t stand people’s pity. Especially from someone like Liv.
His fingers squeezed together; then he released. Shoved his hands through his hair. Prayed to find a measure of calm. Was this idea simply foolish? Or an answer from heaven?
Voices echoed off the Entrance Hall’s tiles, and he hurried to the fireplace, busying himself with lighting it so he wouldn’t have to face them. He’d asked Veronica to not out him, Tobias and Marge too. They’d agreed, and he was grateful. What he was asking was worthy of more pity, and he’d had enough today.
“Oh, Tobias, you’re here,” Liv said. “And Marge also! Well, this is a party, isn’t it?”
He might not like Liv’s pity, but he did like her voice, inflected with the warmth that George also owned. George was right. He needed more light and hope in his life. But would Veronica’s proposal to her granddaughter result in too much light?
Hope was a dangerous thing. He’d lived with hope before, only to see it crash and burn. He had little heart for more.
“… and this has been quite a treat to see this lovely place. But I’m afraid I still don’t quite understand what I’m doing here.”
He slowly rose, then glanced at those now assembled. George, Veronica, Liv, Tobias, Marge. He glanced at his sister, who nodded.
“Perhaps we should all take a seat,” George invited.
Thanks, George.
“We can sit here?” Liv murmured, to George’s nod.
He moved to assist Veronica to take the most comfortable chair, near the fire, which earned him a murmured “Thanks,” and a look that might be surprised gratitude from her granddaughter.
He ignored it. He couldn’t look at her. Even if she was the entire reason for that hastily put together tour of dusty rooms and memories. He and George had been hard at work all day, doing their best to remove covers, clean the worst of the dust, and present the rooms as best they could.
George had insisted they should let Liv come through the main entrance, “so she can have the best first impression.” Maybe he’d been foolhardy to agree but he couldn’t deny it was a spectacular way to enter the house. And heaven knew he needed to do all he could to improve her first impression of him. And the second. Or was it third?
He grew conscious that everyone was looking at him, and as he still didn’t quite know how to proceed—especially without owning all the truth of who he was—he nodded to the woman who seemed to think this was the best idea.
“Veronica? Perhaps you can explain.”
Veronica pushed back her shoulders and looked at Liv. “Did you enjoy the tour?”
“Yes. It’s a lovely house. And I can’t wait to see the gardens, even though some people here might wish otherwise.” She shot him a smile.
He swallowed. He wasn’t falling for another woman’s tricks.
