His Cinderella Heiress. Marion Lennox
really not going far?’
‘N... No. Just to the village.’
‘Are you sure you’ll be fine?’
‘I’m sure,’ she managed and hit the ignition and her bike roared into unsociable life. ‘Thank you,’ she said again over its roar. ‘If I can ever do anything for you...’
‘Where will I find you?’ he asked and she tried a grin.
‘On the road,’ she said. ‘Look for Jo.’
And she gave him a wave with all the insouciance she could muster and roared off into the distance.
AS CASTLES WENT, it seemed a very grand castle. But then, Finn hadn’t seen the inside of many castles.
Mrs O’Reilly, a little, round woman with tired eyes and capable, worn hands, bustled into the dining room and placed his dinner before him. It was a grand dinner too, roast beef with vegetables and a rich gravy, redolent of red wine and fried onions. It was a dinner almost fit for...a lord?
‘There you are, My Lord,’ the housekeeper said and beamed as she stood back and surveyed her handiwork. ‘Eh, but it’s grand to have you here at last.’
But Finn wasn’t feeling grand. He was feeling weird.
My Lord. It was his title. He’d get rid of it, he decided. Once the castle was sold he didn’t need to use it. He wasn’t sure if he could ever officially abandon it but the knowledge of its existence could stay in the attic at the farm, along with other family relics. Maybe his great-great-great-grandson would like to use it. That was, if there ever was a great-great-great-grandson.
He thought suddenly of Maeve. Would she have liked to be My Lady? Who knew? He was starting to accept that he’d never known Maeve at all. Loyalty, habit, affection—he’d thought they were the basis for a marriage. But over the last twelve months, as he’d thrown himself into improving the farm, looking at new horizons himself, he’d realised it was no basis at all.
But Maeve’s father would have liked this, he thought, staring around the great, grand dining room with a carefully neutral expression. He didn’t want to hurt the housekeeper’s feelings, but dining alone at a table that could fit twenty, on fine china, with silver that spoke of centuries of use, the family crest emblazoned on every piece, with a vast silver epergne holding pride of place in the centre of the shining mahogany of the table... Well, it wasn’t exactly his style.
He had a good wooden table back at his farm. It was big enough for a man to have his computer and bookwork at one end and his dinner at the other. A man didn’t need a desk with that kind of table, and he liked it that way.
But this was his heritage. His. He gazed out at the sheep grazing in the distance, at the land stretching to the mountains beyond, and he felt a stir of something within that was almost primeval.
This was Irish land, a part of his family. His side of the family had been considered of no import for generations but still...some part of him felt a tug that was almost like the sensation of coming home. Finn was one of six brothers. His five siblings had left their impoverished farm as soon as they could manage. They were now scattered across the globe but, apart from trips to the States to check livestock lines, or attending conferences to investigate the latest in farming techniques, Finn had never wanted to leave. Over the years he’d built the small family plot into something he could be proud of.
But now, this place...why did it feel as if it was part of him?
There was a crazy thought.
‘Is everything as you wish?’ Mrs O’Reilly asked anxiously.
He looked at her worried face and he gazed around and thought how much work must have gone into keeping this room perfect. How could one woman do it?
‘It’s grand,’ he told her, and took a mouthful of the truly excellent beef. ‘Wonderful.’
‘I’m pleased. If there’s anything else...’
‘There isn’t.’
‘I don’t know where the woman is. The lawyer said mid-afternoon...’
He still wasn’t quite sure who the woman was. Details from the lawyers had been sparse, to say the least. ‘The lawyer said you’d be expecting me mid-afternoon too,’ he said mildly, attacking a bit more of his beef. Yeah, the epergne was off-putting—were they tigers?—but this was excellent food. ‘Things happen.’
‘Well,’ the woman said with sudden asperity, ‘she’s Fiona’s child. We could expect anything.’
‘You realise I don’t know anything about her. I don’t even know who Fiona is,’ he told her and the housekeeper narrowed her eyes, as if asking, How could he not know? Her look said the whole world should know, and be shocked as well.
‘Fiona was Lord Conaill’s only child,’ she said tersely. ‘His Lady died in childbirth. Fiona was a daughter when he wanted a son, but he gave her whatever she wanted. This would have been a cold place for a child and you can forgive a lot through upbringing, but Fiona had her chances and she never took them. She ran with a wild lot and there was nothing she wanted more than to shock her father. And us... The way she treated the servants... Dirt, we were. She ran through her father’s money like it was water, entertaining her no-good friends, having parties, making this place a mess, but His Lordship would disappear to his club in Dublin rather than stop her. She was a spoiled child and then a selfish woman. There were one too many parties, though. She died of a drug overdose ten years ago, with only His Lordship to mourn her passing.’
‘And her child?’
‘Lord Conaill would hardly talk of her,’ she said primly. ‘For his daughter to have a child out of wedlock... Eh, it must have hurt. Fiona threw it in his face over and over, but still he kept silent. But then he wouldn’t talk about you either and you were his heir. Is there anything else you’ll be needing?’
‘No, thank you,’ Finn said. ‘Are you not eating?’
‘In the kitchen, My Lord,’ she said primly. ‘It’s not my place to be eating here. I’ll be keeping another dinner hot for the woman, just in case, but if she’s like her mother we may never hear.’
And she left him to his roast beef.
For a while the meal took his attention—a man who normally cooked for himself was never one to be ignoring good food—but when it was finished he was left staring down the shining surface of the ostentatious table, at the pouncing tigers on the epergne, at his future.
What to do with this place?
Sell it? Why not?
The inheritance had come out of the blue. Selling it would mean he could buy the farms bordering his, and the country down south was richer than here. He was already successful but the input of this amount of money could make him one of the biggest primary producers in Ireland.
The prospect should make him feel on top of the world. Instead, he sat at the great, grand dining table and felt...empty. Weird.
He thought of Maeve and he wondered if this amount of money would have made a difference.
It wouldn’t. He knew it now. His life had been one of loyalty—eldest son of impoverished farmers, loyal to his parents, to his siblings, to his farm. And to Maeve.
He’d spent twelve months realising loyalty was no basis for marriage.
He thought suddenly of the woman he’d pulled out of the bog. He hoped she’d be safe and dry by now. He had a sudden vision of her, bathed and warmed, ensconced in a cosy pub by a fire, maybe with a decent pie and a pint of Guinness.
He’d like to be there, he thought. Inheritance or not, right now maybe he’d rather be with her than in a castle.