The Heiress's Harem Box Set

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Mia watched, impressed, as Thomas effortlessly lit the fire in the grate. His cottage had originally been a gamekeeper’s cottage, but there hadn’t been a gamekeeper on the estate for decades, so it was now part of the salary package for the resident gardener. The sturdy, grey-stone building was like something out of a fairytale, especially when viewing it from the woods, where one couldn’t see the track leading off to the nearest minor road, or Thomas’s car parked beside it.

“You’ve done that a few times,” she remarked as he carefully loaded sticks and logs onto the growing flames.

Getting to his feet and turning to her with a smile, he said, “At this time of year, it’s either that or freeze my arse off. No central heating in here.”

She gave an involuntary shiver. “I see your point.”

“Please, sit down. So, what are you having to drink? Cider? Or are you braving the whiskey?”

Settling into the nearest armchair, she replied, “I just buried my father. I think I’ve earned a spot of whiskey, don’t you?”

“Absolutely. Coming right up. Ice?”

She looked at him incredulously. “In this weather? You’re kidding.”

Thomas shrugged and strode through the doorway into the kitchen, raising his voice as he went. “I’m not much of a whiskey drinker myself, and in films they seem to have it with ice a lot, so I just thought I’d ask.”

“Neat is fine, thanks,” she called back. She’d never had cause to enter the building before, despite the fact it was at the end of her garden—albeit a very large garden—so she took the opportunity to look around while he was out of the room. The living room she sat in, which was entered directly via the cottage’s front door was as rustic as one would expect, given the exterior. From what she could tell, the dark grey slate floor tiles continued right into the kitchen. In this room, they were covered here and there by rugs that had seen better days, as well as the hefty, old-fashioned three-piece suite. The ceiling had beams, and the walls were exposed stone, interrupted only by the doors, window, and fireplace. It was lovely, actually, and its small size meant that the fire now blazing merrily heated the place very effectively.

In a way, she envied Thomas for living here—she could certainly see the charm of living alone in a compact space like this, rather than rattling around in the mansion at the other end of the garden. In cold weather, heavy curtains, central heating and blazing fires barely kept the chill from the large, high-ceilinged rooms. It was little wonder that, before her father’s illness, she’d often escaped to her London apartment during the chillier months for some respite from the draughts, tightly-drawn drapes, and gloomy lighting. At least there she had double glazing, fully-insulated walls, floor and ceiling, and rooms of a much more modest size which were easier to heat. She dearly loved her childhood home and all the memories it held, but she was grateful that she had the means and opportunity to escape from time to time.

Now, she realised, she was torn between wanting to escape to the city, and wanting to hole up in the huge house and wallow in her grief in the very place where its memories were so recent and so raw.

At the moment, though, she was perfectly happy in her armchair in Thomas’s cottage. Perhaps it was exactly the in-between place she needed right now. And she was happier still when the man in question returned with a tumbler of whiskey in one hand, and a glass of what she assumed was cider in the other. She took the proffered whiskey with a murmur of thanks.

“So,” he said, settling into the matching armchair on the opposite side of the fireplace to hers, “what’s going on? What woes don’t I want to be burdened with?”

Instead of replying, Mia lifted the glass and took a sip of the whiskey, closing her eyes as it burned its way over her tongue and down her throat before finally warming her stomach. She blew out a heavy breath, then opened her eyes and focussed on Thomas. “It all started when the solicitor came to go through Dad’s will with me.”

“Yeah?” His tone was casual as he prompted her to continue, but Mia didn’t miss the flicker of concern on his features before he arranged his face into a questioning expression.

She nodded. “Most of it was exactly as I had expected. Quite a lot of Dad’s money was allocated to charity, and the house, estate, and the rest of his assets were to go to me, as his only child and next of kin. Unfortunately, though, there was a… condition.”

Thomas had been nodding through most of her speech, but now he stopped and frowned. “A condition?”

“Mmm-hmm. This is pretty out there, so if I were you, I’d have a drink.” She took her own advice, feeling the burn once more, and also the tiniest bit of fuzziness in her head as the alcohol began to do its job. She wasn’t much of a drinker, and when she did partake she was more of a wine or vodka-with-a-mixer girl, so she was unused to neat spirits, much less a strong whiskey.

When he’d downed some of his booze and made eye contact with her again, Mia continued. “My inheritance isn’t straightforward. At this moment in time, nothing has really changed. I’m in charge of the house, the estate, dealing with the staff, the tenants. However, I can only access funds—with the exception of my salary, which will continue to be paid directly into my personal account as it always has been—if it’s to be spent directly on the estate. You know, if some new fencing is needed somewhere, or the roof needs fixing—you get the idea. So basically I can’t dip into bank accounts or cash in Dad’s investments and blow the money, which is fine, since I had no intention of doing that anyway.”

“So, er, what’s the problem? I’m assuming your salary gives you enough to live on.”

“It does, fortunately, including the mortgage and bills on my place in London. But that’s not the problem. The problem is, if I don’t marry a suitable man within twelve months, I will lose everything. The house, the estate, my job… all I’d have is a monthly allowance to help me keep my head above water. Worse still—”

“It gets worse?” Thomas said, his eyes wide as he downed some more of his drink, clearly struggling to process what she was saying.

“I’m afraid it does. If I don’t find a suitable husband, not only will I not be able to inherit… my f*****g cousin will be entitled to the bloody lot!”

“Your cousin Quinn? The stuck up, smarmy-looking bugger that scarpered as soon as he possibly could this afternoon?”

“That’s the one. He’s got no idea about any of this—nobody has, except for the solicitors. Thank God. But you saw him—he’s a total prick. If he got his hands on this place, he’d blow the cash, ruin the business, then sell up and pocket what was left without a second thought. He’s got no interest in running an estate. And there’s no way in hell I’m going to allow him to get his wretched hands on everything my father, and his father before him, worked for, and piss it away. People rely on this estate, rely on me now, for employment, for their livelihoods, and there’s no way I’m going to let them down.”

She swallowed the rest of the whiskey, then fixed her gaze on Thomas, waiting for his response. Amazingly, despite the fact she’d just rehashed her living nightmare, she felt better having confided in someone.

Thomas stared right back at her in silence, apparently dumbfounded. After a few moments, colour rushed into his cheeks and he burst out, “But that’s ridiculous. I hope you don’t mind me saying this, Mia, but what on earth was Edward thinking? Forcing you to marry someone, just so you can inherit what you’re entitled to—what you bloody well deserve, given how hard you work for this estate. I don’t get it. I just don’t get it at all. What difference is you having a husband going to make to anything? This isn’t the eighteen hundreds.”

“Tell me about it,” she said wryly. “I didn’t get it at first, either. I’m still not one hundred percent sure I get it now, but I do have a theory.”

“Go on…”

“Like I said to you earlier, Dad was always on at me to ‘find myself a nice man’. He was worried about me being by myself after he was gone, especially since I’m an only child. You know, doing all the work, shouldering all the responsibility by myself. Perhaps he thought if I got myself a husband, he could help with all that. I know, I know, it still sounds pretty stupid, but I think Dad’s heart was in the right place. Only so was his bloody signature, so it’s legally binding, not just the wishes of a concerned father. Basically, it’s an ultimatum—get married, or get out and that arsehole Quinn gets everything. Oh, and I forgot!”

“There’s more?” Thomas’s eyebrows almost disappeared into his hairline.

“Yes. My husband, who must be someone worthy of my social status and class—Dad’s words, not mine—also has to agree to take my name when we marry, so any children we have will carry the Harrington name, and therefore continue the line of Harringtons. And last, but certainly not least, he will be required to sign a pre-nuptial agreement to state that should we divorce, he will not be entitled to anything.”

“Fuck.” Thomas ran a hand through his hair, then got up and strode into the kitchen, returning a moment later with the bottle of whiskey and a clean tumbler. He refilled Mia’s glass, then dropped back into his seat and poured himself a healthy measure. “f*****g hell.”

“That about sums it up,” she replied, noting that her bombshell had driven Thomas to the whiskey. “And thanks.” She lifted the glass.

He nodded acknowledgement. “So what are you going to do?”

“Well, I’ve got no choice, have I? It’s legally binding.” After gulping down half the contents of her glass, she continued, “It’s f*****g blackmail from the afterlife, that’s what it is. I loved that man to pieces, but he must have been out of his bloody mind when he changed his will to add this ridiculous caveat. I’ve got nothing against having a husband, but I’m in no particular rush, either. And I certainly don’t need one to help me run the estate. I can manage perfectly well on my own, and if I couldn’t, I’d employ someone to help out. Why the hell didn’t that occur to him?”

“Maybe he was out of his mind when he changed the will—I mean literally,” Thomas said quietly.

“What are you on about?”

“I don’t know how to say this without it coming across as insensitive, so I apologise in advance, but Edward was in pain, wasn’t he? He was having treatment for the cancer; I assume he was on all kinds of drugs, pain relief and whatnot. Maybe all those chemicals whizzing around his system affected his brain, his capacity for thinking and logic. Perhaps, in his mind, this crazy idea of his made perfect sense. You know he would have never done anything to deliberately hurt you, Mia, so I can only think that, like you say, whatever his reasoning, his heart was in the right place. He had to have thought he was doing his best for you, to make sure you would be all right after he was gone. Had to.”

Silence reigned as Mia turned Thomas’s words over in her head. There was something in them, some thread of significance, but she couldn’t quite figure out what it was just yet. She took a healthy swallow of whiskey, willing her synapses to fire faster, to come up with the solution she knew was eluding her.

Then, suddenly, it hit her. She jumped up, almost spilling her drink in her excitement. “Tom—you’re a f*****g genius! Oh my God, I knew talking to you about this would be a good idea!”

Thomas got to his feet, his confused expression showing that he hadn’t yet come to the same conclusion Mia had reached. He moved in front of her and looked into her eyes. “Not that I don’t enjoy being called a ‘f*****g genius’, but I’m feeling far from clever right now. What the hell are you talking about?”

Barely able to contain her enthusiasm, she bobbed up and down on the balls of her socked feet. “What you said, about the drugs and chemicals—it’s the only thing that makes sense. He can’t have been himself when he made the change to the will. What do they call it, diminished mental capacity or something? Hopefully it means I can contest the will and insist it’s reverted back to the previous version on file, which will get rid of this stupid clause about me having to get married. Then I can get on with running things here and not worry about finding a husband I don’t bloody want.”

“Wow, erm… I’m not sure what to say.” He shook his head. “I’m not trying to be devil’s advocate here, but how could you possibly prove what his mental capacity was at the time? Didn’t you say it was months ago? And now, obviously, it’s, erm, too late to do any tests…”

Mia shrugged, the alcohol making her bold and blasé. “Way I see it, it’s not up to me to prove his mental capacity was diminished. It’s up to the solicitors to prove it wasn’t. And if nobody can prove anything either way… who knows? Just having the question raised, the doubt, might be enough to allow me to contest. Don’t you see how exciting this is? I can stop that greedy bastard Quinn getting his hands on this place! I told Lenton it would only happen over my dead body, and I bloody well meant it.” She threw her arms around Thomas’s neck, this time sloshing whiskey over her hand and onto the rug beneath their feet, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you so much, Tom. You’re a total genius. If you weren’t the only gardener, I’d give you a promotion!”

“A pay rise wouldn’t go amiss,” he quipped, putting his free hand on her shoulder and gently guiding her back so he could look her in the eye. “But in all seriousness—”

His words were cut off as Mia planted another kiss on him—this time on his mouth.