The Million Pound Marriage Deal. Michelle Douglas

      ‘How would you specifically turn your life around with this hypothetical million pounds?’

      Her chin wavered between jutting up and angling down. He found himself holding his breath. Would she explain what she meant...or would she wave it all away with a laugh and descend into inanity as usual?

      Her chin remained firmly at a midpoint, and he didn’t know what that meant. Mind you, he’d never been brilliant at deciphering what went on in that puzzling head of hers. All he knew was that when Peter had died, he seemed to have taken a part of Sophie with him.

      And it now seemed that she was incapable of reclaiming it. Or refused to reclaim it. He wasn’t sure which.

      He knew only what he’d promised Peter—that he’d keep an eye on Sophie—but today he’d had to face the fact that his and Sophie’s lunch and coffee dates were doing her more harm than good.

      A hand reached inside his chest and squeezed. He’d made her cry. Well done! He’d wanted to ease her pain, not add to it. But then, just for a moment, there’d been that spark. As if she’d had a vision of something better.

      He wanted to see that spark again. He wanted to help her reclaim the part of herself she’d lost. He wanted to do it for Peter, because of the promise he’d made. But he wanted to do it for Sophie’s sake too.

      She speared a bean on the end of her fork—delicately because, whatever else you wanted to say about Sophie, she had an innate grace—and ate it. She’d eaten at least half of her meal so far. That in itself was cause for celebration.

      ‘You really want to know?’

      ‘I really want to know.’ He knew he must be coming across as intense, but he couldn’t help it.

      ‘Well... The first thing I’d do is get out of the city.’

      Why? Because of her father? ‘I thought you loved London.’

      ‘I do, but it’s not exactly been good for me, has it? For the last two years I’ve thrown myself into the party scene trying to forget. It hasn’t worked. All I’ve done is drunk too much champagne, had too many indiscreet photos snapped by the press and stumbled so late into my job so many times that they had no choice but to let me go.’

      Until a month ago she’d worked at an art gallery in the West End.

      Her fork made a circle in the air. ‘Of course, the upside is all of that has annoyed my father no end, so...’

      She and Lord Collingford had always had a fraught relationship. It was worse now that Peter was no longer around to play peacemaker.

      ‘But it needs to stop.’ She stabbed another bean. ‘Enough is enough.’

      Her self-awareness surprised him, though he wasn’t sure why. She’d never been stupid just...wilful.

      ‘Where would you go?’

      ‘Cornwall.’

      His jaw dropped and for the briefest moment she grinned, as if delighted by his surprise. That spark definitely lurked in the backs of her eyes. What had brought it back?

      ‘My mother’s mother left me a bit of land that borders Bodmin Moor. It’s not much...but it has a run-down stables and I thought...’ She trailed off with a shrug.

      He had to fight the urge to lean in towards her. ‘You’re riding again?’ It had been her enduring passion since he’d met her as a pudgy eleven-year-old.

      ‘I never stopped riding, Will.’

      She hadn’t?

      ‘After Peter died I thought I should give it up. It felt wrong to still enjoy anything.’

      He knew what she meant, but... ‘He wouldn’t have wanted you to.’

      She stared down at her plate. Please don’t cry again.

      A moment later she lifted her chin and sent him a game smile. ‘I haven’t been riding as much these past couple of years as I normally would. Riding and hangovers don’t mix.’

      She was choosing riding over hangovers? Excellent choice!

      ‘If I had a million pounds I’d turn those stables into a riding school—an equestrian centre. There are a few acres down there so perhaps I could offer agistment as well.’

      ‘How many acres?’

      ‘Seventeen and three quarters. There are fields and a stream but no house.’

      Ah.

      ‘My million pounds would buy me a modest cottage.’

      It would buy more than that if she had a fancy for grander living, but before she could make any of that a reality, she’d need start-up funds.

      She set about demolishing the rest of her lamb. When she was done—and true to her word she cleaned her plate—she set her cutlery onto the plate at a neat angle and dabbed her lips with her serviette. ‘Will, for the last five minutes straight you’ve been staring at me without saying a word. I can’t imagine that watching me eat is that fascinating. I really would prefer it if you simply said what was on your mind.’

      Her words made him jerk back in his seat. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. I was thinking.’

      ‘About?’

      ‘I don’t want you to take this the wrong way.’ He pushed his plate away and folded his arms on the table in front of him.

      She grimaced, but her chin didn’t drop. ‘Okay.’

      ‘But what makes you think you could stick to this hypothetical plan of yours? I mean, running a stables and riding school isn’t precisely glamorous. It’s hard work and...’

      ‘And hard work isn’t something I’ve been known for these past couple of years.’

      She nodded, evidently not the least offended. And that was what got to him about Sophie. She never reacted the way he expected. She could take criticism on the chin.

      Unless it came from her father.

      She stared up at the ceiling and wrinkled her nose. ‘Needs must, Will. I’m losing myself. Playing the party girl isn’t the answer—it’s left me feeling hollow...ashamed.’

      Whoa! He chose his words carefully. ‘I think you’re being a little too harsh on yourself.’

      ‘No, you don’t.’

      He blinked.

      ‘And being my father’s hostess with the mostest is shredding what little self-respect I have left.’

      He could see that was true, even though he didn’t understand it.

      She pushed her hair back from her face, pulled it momentarily into a tight ponytail that highlighted the exhausted lines fanning from her eyes, and Will’s gut gave a sick kick. Hell, he’d be happy to just give her a million pounds, though he knew her pride would forbid her from accepting it.

      ‘Of course, the million pounds is a pipe dream.’ She let her hair go and it fell back down around her shoulders in a blonde cloud. ‘But my plan is to get a job in Cornwall and save madly until I can do something with my little property.’

      ‘What kind of job are you looking for?’ Was she hoping to land another gallery job? He didn’t like her chances.

      ‘Events management. I know to the outside gaze it’d look like I’m just continuing with my party-girl ways. But running an event is very different from attending as a guest. I used to run all the gallery’s events. And, even if I say it myself, I have a knack for pulling together a halfway decent party, ball, charity luncheon or any other kind of get-together you’d like to name.’

      He sat up straighter. She’d be perfect at it. Lord Collingford demanded the best when he entertained.