Her Guardian's Christmas Seduction

“Will you come home now?”

“I am home,” she said softly.

“Your London home,” he said with a shrug. “But you belong at Barnwell. With me, and that enormous tree.”

And finally, everything clicked together, locking intention and certainty into place, welding them alongside hope and heart. “Home,” she nodded. “Yes. Let’s go home.”

THE END

Following is an excerpt from ALL SHE WANTS FOR CHRISTMAS by CLARE CONNELLY.

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS SO, SO much worse than she’d anticipated.

Elizabeth couldn’t help the gasp of horror that escaped her lips as she slowly cast her lavender blue eyes over the now-dilapidated ruins of the once-grand Bashir Hall.

“Oh, Marianne,” she said weakly, pressing her manicured fingers into her mother-in-law’s forearm. “I can’t believe it.”

Marianne, to her credit, maintained her effortless expression of poise. Not a single hair in her elegantly styled chignon was out of place. “I’m afraid it’s quite a state, darling. Nothing that can’t be fixed, with time, of course.”

Elizabeth’s laugh was manic. “Time? What time? Oh, God! The Ball is in less than a month. I have sponsors coming out of my backside, A-list guests from all over Europe confirmed to attend, and a venue that’s almost completely burned to a crisp.”

Lady Marianne Sanderson lowered her darkly tinted Gucci sunglasses onto her face. It had less to do with shielding her eyes from the cold late November wind that was buffeting the whole of Somersetshire, and more to do with needing a disguise for her inspection. Her late son’s wife (even now, almost five years after his death, it was still impossible to think of dear Alastair as ‘late’.), Bessie, was looking thin. Too thin. She’d always erred on the side of ethereal, wispy beauty, but there was a frailty to her now that brought a small frown to Marianne’s pink lips.

With her Danish heritage, Elizabeth was as stunningly beautiful as always. Even in the depths of one of the coldest British winters on record, her skin had a honey glow to it. Her eyes were the brightest blue she’d ever seen, and her hair, naturally as blonde as gold, she wore long. Marianne supposed it was fashionable, but it looked like it would take a lot of effort to keep it so beautifully maintained, and yet Elizabeth never failed to look elegant and somehow neat, despite the long, hair that fell half way down her back in big, loose waves. No, it was the slender figure that worried Marianne. Life as a single parent was wearing her daughter in law down, and she worried now that she should have been doing more to help.

“You’ve taken on so much, Bess. Are you sure you won’t relinquish some of the organisational control?”

Elizabeth glared at Marianne with staunch, ferocious pride, as Marianne had known she would. “No. This is Alastair’s legacy, and nobody but me is qualified to oversee it.” A becoming blush hinted at her cheeks, as she added, quickly, “Except you and Rupert, of course.” Her parents in law were the only people in the world who felt Alastair’s loss as keenly as she did. The only people who still grieved his passing as though it were a fresh hurt. Even Rose, their beautiful daughter, thought of Alastair as a being of fascination rather than affection. He was an abstract concept. The man who had given her life, but who she had never known. His photograph was beside her bed, and she was told stories of him every night, before falling into the land of nod, but she’d never heard his laugh. Never seen the way his whole face lit up with mirth as he launched scathing reviews of the political pieces in the weekend Guardian. The very kernel of vitality that had died with Alastair was missed most by three people, and Elizabeth was one of them.

“I’ll sort it out,” she said with a confidence she was far from feeling. Her eyes scanned the stately home once more, arresting on a badly charred beam across the sixteenth century tiled floor.

Marianne hated being the bearer of bad news, or at least reality, but she was forced to tuck her hand through the crook of Elizabeth’s designer-coat clad elbow now. She tapped on it slowly, warningly. “It’s a disaster, Bess. It will take a lot of time to repair. The damage is structural, and it’s through the whole darn place.”

Elizabeth nodded. “I know.” She threw the older woman a small smile then turned to survey the country fields that had long-surrounded the estate. “There’s always a marquee…”

“On Christmas Eve? Your guests will not thank you, dearest.” Marianne grimaced at the very thought. In the four years since its inception, The Alastair Sanderson Ball had become a premiere event on the society calendar. It was an affair that was synonymous with glamour and style, comfort and country charm. A marquee on a snow-drenched field would simply not do.

“What a dratted mess,” Elizabeth commented unnecessarily, and it was such a close approximation of Alastair’s well-worn expression that Marianne couldn’t help but smile.

“We’d been meaning to replace the wires for years,” Marianne observed, stepping away from Elizabeth to inspect a tumble of blackened electricity cables.

“I should have done it,” Elizabeth demurred. “It just felt strange to change a damned thing about the place now Al’s gone. Stupid sentimentality. Can you imagine how cross he’d be?” She winced. “He loved this place.”

“He loved you, Elizabeth, and you know as well as I do that he could never have been cross with you.”

It was a fact. Alastair and Elizabeth’s relationship had been one of calm respect and an affection borne out of the deepest friendship. They’d never quarrelled. Neither had so much as raised their voices at the other. It had been a perfect union, but for the terribly short duration.

“Well, I’m sure he’d have pointed out how ludicrous I was being to put off making any changes to his beloved Bashir House.” She shivered as a gust of freezing cold tore through the home, making a pane of glass rattle precariously in its sooty frame. “Marianne, let’s go. I’m not sure we’re safe here.”

To underscore her point, a section of the wall at the other end of the parlour crumbled and fell to the flagstone floor, spreading chalky dust throughout.

“Right you are, dearest.” Marianne nodded, linking arms with her daughter in law once more and moving quickly towards the opening. The tape left by the first responders to the blaze was still strung along the perimeter of the home, and Elizabeth lifted it gingerly, waiting for Marianne to ease herself underneath it before following suit.

Outside, the weather was even wilder than when they’d arrived. The sky was thick with heavy grey clouds, and rain was surely not far off.

Marianne’s jet-black Range Rover was only a stone’s throw from the house; Elizabeth’s convertible just behind it.