Читать книгу In Bed With...Collection - Emma Darcy, Emma Darcy - Страница 43

CHAPTER TWO

FEELING extremely nervous about meeting Beau Prescott, Maggie once more studied the photograph Vivian had insisted she keep.

“That’s my boy, Beau. The wild child.”

Her mouth curved whimsically at the epithet given to his grandson. The photograph was three years old, taken at Vivian’s eighty-second birthday party, and the handsome hunk filling out a formal dinner suit in devastating style could hardly be called a child. Though there was an air of boyish recklessness in his grin, and a wild devil dancing in his eyes.

Green eyes. They were certainly very attractive set in a deeply tanned face and framed with streaky blond hair so thick it hadn’t been fully tamed for the formality of the photograph. Nevertheless, its somewhat shaggy state was rather endearing, softening the hard, ruggedness of a strong-boned face and a squarish jaw. He had a nice mouth, the lips well-defined, neither too full nor too thin. He looked good, no doubt about it, but looks weren’t everything.

“Tame him long enough to get him to the marriage altar and father a child with you, and Rosecliff and all that goes with it will be yours, Maggie.”

How many times had Vivian put that proposition to her in the past two years? A challenging piece of mischief, Maggie had always thought, a running bit of fun between them. She’d never taken it seriously, usually making a joke of it—

“What would I want with him? You’ve spoilt me for younger men, Vivian. None of them have your savoire faire or charisma.”

—or shrugging it off—

“I might not like him, Vivian. And there’s no way I’d many a man without at least liking him.”

“Every woman likes Beau,” was his stock answer.

“Well, he might not like me,” she’d argued.

“What’s not to like?”

Maggie had always let the banter slide at that point. Putting herself down in any shape or form was against her principles. She had a long history of a lot of mean people wanting to squash self-esteem out of her, treating her as worthless and of no account in the world, and she had determinedly risen above it. Nevertheless, too many disappointments had taught her liking could not be counted upon.

It had been one of the miracles of coming to this marvellous place, everyone on the staff liking her, welcoming her into the family, so to speak, and not a mean bone in any of them. Vivian had said she was his nanny and despite his highly eccentric notion of her job with him, she’d been accepted into the household as Nanny Stowe as though it were a perfectly normal position.

Vivian’s oft-repeated idea of her roping in the wild child to extend the family line and ensure a succession of Prescotts at Rosecliff also met with general approval.

It was, of course, a totally mad idea.

Except it wasn’t quite so mad anymore.

It was beginning to feel very much like a burden of responsibility.

Maggie shook her head, hopelessly uncomfortable with the pressure to perform. Yet it was there, and she couldn’t shrug it off. Nor could she bring herself to snuff out the hope that was riding on her shoulders. People she cared about were hurting. And there was also the sense of not letting Vivian down.

“You weren’t here. You have no idea how it is,” she said accusingly to the photograph. “You shouldn’t have been off in the wilds, Beau Prescott.”

They’d had to handle it all without him. After the first couple of grief-stricken days following Vivian’s untimely death, everyone had been so busy trying to get the funeral right, none of them had looked beyond it. Only when the funeral was over, did the loss really hit, and then the solicitor had come to spell out where they stood.

The one-year residency clause in the will had brought home the fact that Vivian Prescott was gone—really gone—and Rosecliff now belonged to his grandson who clearly had no use for it since he was always off travelling. After the stipulated year, the property could be sold or disposed of as he saw fit. Vivian Prescott’s reign here was over, and so were their lives with him.

Maggie knew she could always fall on her feet somewhere else. At twenty-eight she was young enough to cope with a downturn in fortune and she’d had plenty of practice at making do with odd jobs in the years before meeting Vivian Prescott. Flexibility was her strong point. Though it would be hard leaving this magical mansion and its magnificent setting. Harder still leaving the people who had given her the sense of being part of a real family.

However, it was like the end of their world for Mrs. Featherfield, and Sedgewick and Wallace and Mr. Polly. As young at heart as they all were, they would be viewed by other employers as at retirement age. If Beau Prescott decided to sell Rosecliff, where would they go? What would they do? Who would have them?

This was home to them. They didn’t want to be split up. They didn’t want to be dumped on the useless scrapheap, surviving on pensions. They weren’t old. They had at least another twenty good years in them. Probably more.

The flurry of fear added a further weight of grief.

Then Sedgewick had remembered.

He’d stood up, elegantly tall and splendidly dignified, his ingrained authority providing a point of calm in the storm. His big, soulful brown eyes had fastened on Maggie, and there was not the slightest bit of tremulous doubt in his delivered opinion.

“Nanny Stowe, you can save us. Mr. Vivian wanted you to.”

She’d shaken her head sadly. “I’m terribly sorry, Sedgewick. I simply don’t have the power to change his will.”

“You promised him...I heard you...the very night Mr. Vivian died. It was just before the guests arrived for the party and he asked me to pour you both a glass of champagne, remember?”

“Yes. But we were only chatting...”

“No. He said—I distinctly remember it—Promise me you’ll give it a chance with Beau when he comes home. And you did. You clicked glasses with him and gave your promise.”

“It was only funning, Sedgewick.”

“Oh no! No, no, no, no!” Mrs. Featherfield had clucked. “Mr. Vivian was very serious about getting Master Beau married off to you, Nanny Stowe. He talked about it many, many times...to all of us,” she’d added significantly.

“Always treated you like one of the family,” Wallace had chimed in. “That’s where his sights were set. Getting it legal.”

Mr. Polly, his glorious gardens under threat of being taken over by someone else—or worse, destroyed by some developer—had stirred himself to put in his sage opinion. “Matter of cross-pollination, getting the two of you together.”

“And in the light of Mr. Vivian’s passing over that night,” Sedgewick had added portentously, “I think everyone must agree you gave him a deathbed promise, Nanny Stowe. One cannot disregard the gravity of a deathbed promise.”

“A chance, Sedgewick,” Maggie had hastily pleaded. “I only promised to give it a chance. There’s no guarantee that Beau Prescott would ever see me as...as a desirable wife. Or, indeed, that I’d see him as a desirable husband.”

“But you’ll give it a good chance, won’t you, dear?’ Mrs. Featherfield had pressed. ”And you do have a year to make the best of it.”

“Be assured you will have our every assistance,” Sedgewick had declared.

“Hear, hear!” they had all agreed, their eyes pinning Maggie down with their anxious hope.

She had wanted to say again and again it was only a joke, but to Sedgewick and Mrs. Featherfield and Wallace and Mr. Polly, it was deadly serious. Their future was at stake. Making some other life was unthinkable, and their expectations of continuing the status quo into the sunset were riding on her and what Mr. Vivian had wanted.

The truly dreadful part was they had convinced themselves she could bring it off—marry the heir, have his child, and they would all live happily ever after at Rosecliff. The doubts she voiced were brushed aside. Worse...they attacked the doubts by plotting outrageous ways to get around them. The goal was now fixed in their minds and it was so blindingly wonderful, they didn’t want to see anything else.

Giving it a chance did not promise a certain result, she had warned each one of them.

And what were their replies?

Sedgewick, bending his head in soulful chiding, “Nanny Stowe, you know what Mr. Vivian always preached. You must cultivate a positive attitude.”

Attitude did not necessarily produce miracles!

Mrs. Featherfield, doing her endearing mother hen thing, “Think of a baby. A new baby at Rosecliff. I can’t imagine anything more perfect.”

Babies were not high on Maggie’s agenda. She was only twenty-eight, not thirty-eight!

Wallace, a lecherous twinkle in his eye as he pointedly looked at the long tumbling mass of her red-gold hair. “No need to worry. Nanny Stowe. I can assure you Master Beau will take one look at you and his brain will register—red hot mamma. It’ll be a piece of cake.”

Maggie was not interested in the brain below Beau Prescott’s belt! Not unless there was an engaging brain above it, as well.

Mr. Polly, tending his prize roses. “Nature will take its course, Nanny Stowe. A little help and care and you can always get the result you want.”

Marriage, unfortunately, was not a bed of roses. It was a lot more complicated.

Maggie couldn’t truthfully claim she absolutely didn’t want it. Not having met the man, how could she know one way or the other? Even looking at Beau Prescott’s photograph and assessing his physical attractions, she couldn’t help feeling terribly uneasy with the situation.

It was fine for Vivian and all the faithful staff to dismiss the possibility of Beau Prescott’s not liking her or her not liking him. They didn’t want to admit the possibility. Maggie, however, had her reservations and many of them.

Besides, when it came to marriage, there was a matter of chemistry, too. Good-looking men had often left Maggie quite cold in the past. They were so full of themselves, there was no room for a two-way relationship. Not really. All they wanted was for a woman to fall on her back for them. Well, no thanks.

But maybe there could be magic with Beau Prescott. He did look very engaging in the photograph. If enough of Vivian had rubbed off on his grandson...

The ache in her heart intensified. Vivian Prescott had given her the most wonderful two years of her life. She hadn’t realised quite how much she’d loved that old man until... suddenly he wasn’t here anymore... and never would be again.

Joie de vivre.

Did his grandson have the same amazing zest to find pleasure in everything? Or make pleasure out of nothing! Or did one have to be old before time became so precious, the need to make the most of it inspired a creative talent for delight?

Her bedside telephone rang.

Maggie dropped the photograph back in the drawer of her writing desk, shutting it away before answering the call which would be from Sedgewick, telling her the real live flesh-and-blood Beau Prescott was on the last lap of his journey home. Her heart fluttered nervously as she picked up the receiver.

“He’s earlier than we thought, Nanny Stowe.” Sedgewick’s plummy tones rang in her ears. “Master Beau does have a way of getting out of airports in record time.” A touch of pride there.

They all loved him; Sedgewick, Mrs. Featherfield, Wallace, Mr. Polly. To them Beau Prescott was still their wild child, grown to manhood admittedly, but in no way changed from their long affectionate view of him. They wanted her to love him, too, but that was an entirely different ball game. To Maggie he was a stranger, even though he was Vivian’s grandson.

“Did Wallace say how far away they are?” she asked.

“About twenty minutes.” A lilt of excitement, anticipation. “I trust you are dressed and ready, Nanny Stowe.”

To knock Beau Prescott’s eyes out. That was the general advice. The plan. Consensus had been absolute—Mr. Vivian would have expected it of her.

“Yes, Sedgewick,” she returned dryly. “But I think it best to give Master Beau time to greet you and Mrs. Featherfield before I intrude. After all...”

“Splendid ideal We’ll hold him in the vestibule chatting. Then you make your entrance. I do hope you’re wearing black, Nanny Stowe. It looks so well against the red carpet on the staircase.”

Maggie rolled her eyes. “Yes, Sedgewick, I am wearing black,” she assured him. “In mourning. Not for dramatic effect.”

“Most appropriate,” he warmly approved. “Though you must remember Mr. Vivian’s principles, Nanny Stowe. You don’t mourn a death. You celebrate a life. We cannot let sadness get in the way of...uh...propelling the future forward.”

“Thank you, Sedgewick.”

Maggie put the receiver down and heaved a long sigh, needing to relieve some of the tightness building up in her chest. She wandered around the room, trying to work off her inner agitation. Then on impulse, she opened the French doors that led onto the balcony and stepped outside.

The view drew her over to the balustrade. It was beautiful. Maggie doubted there was a more splendid position than here at Vaucluse, perched above Sydney Harbour, the magnificently kept grounds and gardens of Rosecliff spreading down to the water’s edge in geometrically patterned tiers, each one featuring a fountain to delight the eye.

The mansion itself was a famous landmark for tourist cruises on the harbour. Built on a grand scale in the neoclassical style and set on five acres of prime real estate, its gleaming white-glazed terracotta exterior with its graceful Ionic columns and other lavishly decorated architectural features made it stand out, even amongst a whole shoreline of mansions. It seemed rather ironic that Vivian had made his fabulous fortune from parking lots. From the most practical of properties to the sublime, Maggie thought.

He’d taken enormous pride in what he’d privately called the Prescott Palace, using it as it should be used for splendid charity balls and fabulous fund-raising soirees. She mused over the marvellous memories Vivian had given her. He’d loved showing off his home, loved the pleasure it gave to others simply by coming here, enjoying the wonders of great wealth.

But nothing went on forever.

Nothing ever really stayed the same.

Maggie checked the time on her watch. The last bit of leeway for her was running out. She looked up at the cloudless blue sky, then down at the sparkles of sunshine on the water.

If you’re out there somewhere, Vivian, and you really want this plan to work you’d better start waving your magic wand right now, because fairytales just don’t happen without it. Okay?

The only reply was the cry of gulls and the sounds of the city.

Maggie took a deep breath and turned to go.

The welcome mat was out for Beau Prescott.