Wish For The Moon. Carole Mortimer

long easy movements. ‘I’ll see you both again soon.’

      It sounded more like a threat than a politely made parting comment. But she knew her grandfather would want to accept this man’s invitation, whereas she didn’t believe it was necessary for them to meet again, for dinner tomorrow or anything else, now that they had politely done their duty.

      They stood at the top of the steps watching the car as it disappeared in the direction of the west lawn, her grandfather’s arm about her shoulders as they went back into the house.

      ‘You weren’t very polite to him, darling,’ her grandfather finally reproved, as she had known he would.

      ‘His approach wasn’t very original,’ she derided. ‘That “you remind me of someone” routine must be years old,’ she dismissed scathingly.

      ‘It used to work when I was a young man,’ he frowned. ‘OK, point taken,’ he smiled as she gave him a pointed look. ‘But it didn’t seem like an approach to me.’

      ‘Perhaps not,’ she shrugged. ‘But I didn’t like the way he kept staring at me through lunch.’

      Her grandfather smiled again. ‘He did seem rather taken with you, didn’t he?’

      ‘There’s no need to sound so smug,’ Elizabeth snapped. ‘Quinn Taylor is certainly not my type!’

      ‘Because he sings for a living?’ her grandfather frowned. ‘Darling, the man is an artist, not some hack who can’t pitch a note!’

      Elizabeth knew exactly who Quinn Taylor was, and what he was. The Lise Morrison part of her would never forget that he had taken to his bed the girlfriend of a man who had called him friend.

      Or that he had once broken her heart.

       CHAPTER TWO

      ELIZABETH didn’t for a moment believe he really remembered that slightly overweight schoolgirl who had once been so infatuated with him that she had thrown herself at him shamelessly.

      But she remembered every painful moment of that night six years ago. She had thought she had put it behind her, had believed seeing Quinn Taylor again after all this time would mean nothing to her. But she had been wrong; how could anyone forget the person who had shattered their childhood for ever?

      At seventeen she had been extremely naïve, believed everything to be exactly as it appeared to be: Quinn’s kindness to her a sign that he liked her too, his friendship with Fergus just that. Instead it had merely been a cover for something much more sordid. Terri hadn’t returned to her bedroom until early the next morning!

      Quinn said she reminded him of someone, but the name was all wrong. Maybe it was just a line to him, but for her it had been a traumatic experience to learn that she wasn’t little Lise Morrison at all but Elizabeth Farnham, heiress to the Farnham estate.

      She had been eighteen when the man her Uncle Hector called ‘Master Gregory’, had been killed racing one of his cars much too fast during wet conditions. The people in the area had mourned the loss of the Farnham heir with the elderly man who owned most of the farms and houses they lived in. For days they had been stunned by the death, wondering what Gerald Farnham would do for an heir now that his only son had died, Gregory Farnham never having married himself.

      Elizabeth could still remember her surprise—and nervousness!—when the Farnham limousine had arrived at the farm and Gerald Farnham himself had asked to see her.

      His son had left a letter to be read in the event of his premature death—and with the reckless way he lived his life that had always been more than a possibility—stating that he and Claire Morrison had been lovers, and claiming Lise’s paternity.

      The man who claimed to be her grandfather had shown her the letter, not attempting to shield her from the fact that her father had always known of her existence, that he had scorned her mother when she told him of her pregnancy. It hadn’t been easy to accept that, if Gregory Farnham hadn’t died the way he had, she would never have known who she really was; that the secret of her father’s identity, which her mother had chosen to take to the grave with her, would have remained a secret for ever.

      Her mother had gone to live with her brother Hector when their parents died shortly after she was sixteen, and she and Gregory Farnham had met when she was only seventeen. Considering the reputation the Farnham heir had always had concerning women, Lise could only believe that her mother had been as mesmerised by his reckless charm as so many other women had seemed to be. But at only nineteen Gregory Farnham had had no intention of marrying anyone, especially some little country bumpkin who lived on one of the estate’s farms, even if she was pregnant with his child.

      Her aunt and uncle had been as stunned by this revelation as she was, and she was sure they had never had any idea who her father was. Her Aunt Madge certainly wouldn’t have remained silent if she had known!

      It had been too much for Lise to absorb, and she had run off, needing to be alone, to try to come to terms with the fact that she was Elizabeth Farnham and not Elizabeth Morrison.

      Her poor mother, rejected by the man she had believed loved her. Not even her death had made him relent about acknowledging their child’s birth.

      Maybe if she had been able to comfort herself with the certainty that Gregory Farnham had lived his life so recklessly because the woman he had loved, and foolishly hadn’t married, had died giving birth to his child, there might have been something to redeem from the heartache she was now suffering. But that would have been a fairy-tale, and her belief in those had been shattered a year ago.

      In which case she had to believe that her father had been a selfish bastard who had never had any intention of recognising her as his daughter while he was still alive. To her he had just been the Farnham heir who occasionally visited the estate, driving about the narrow country lanes in one of his flashy sports cars, usually with some beautiful woman at his side.

      She didn’t want him to be her father, hated the thought of that blond-haired devil having sired her. She didn’t have to accept him as her father if she didn’t want to. She knew her aunt and uncle expected her to move into Farnham Hall as her grandfather wanted her to, but she was eighteen now, could go where she wanted, be what she wanted. She didn’t have to be beholden to anyone any more—–

      ‘He was a bastard, wasn’t he.’

      She looked up with resentful eyes, glaring at the man who now claimed to be her grandfather. He had a perfect right to be here, this river was part of his estate, but she didn’t have to stay and talk to him.

      He caught her arm as she would have leapt up and run away. ‘Lise,’ he halted her gently. ‘That is what they call you, isn’t it?’ he prompted softly.

      Her head went back defiantly, green eyes flashing. ‘It’s the family name for me, yes,’ she acknowledged bitterly.

      He nodded his head, a man in his mid-sixties who was obviously finding it difficult to converse with a young woman. ‘If you prefer I’ll call you Elizabeth,’ he said sadly. ‘But I am your family.’ His hand tightened about her arm as she would have pulled away. ‘You know, I used to see your mother about the village and estate,’ he spoke quietly. ‘She was a lovely little thing, just like you to look at.’

      ‘Perhaps if she hadn’t been quite as lovely your son wouldn’t have ruined her life by leaving her pregnant with his child,’ she stormed at him.

      He gave a sad sigh. ‘Gregory was always wild, but—if I had known of your existence I would have acknowledged you years ago!’ he rasped.

      ‘Even an illegitimate heir is better than no heir at all?’ she challenged contemptuously.

      He suddenly looked old, not quite as tall, nor as arrogant. ‘I probably deserved that,’ he said heavily. ‘Having a grandchild has meant everything to me in recent years, I’ve