Who Needs Mr Willoughby?. Katie Oliver
nodded. “I’ll start making inquiries right away.”
“But – where will we go?” Marianne demanded. “Where will we live?”
“It’s all been arranged,” Mrs Holland said. “Come into the sitting room, girls, while we may still call it our own, and we’ll discuss it.”
Elinor and Marianne exchanged puzzled glances, but followed their mother into the small but comfortable sitting room and sat beside each other on the worn sofa.
“I’ve spoken with Lady Valentine,” Mrs Holland began as she settled herself in the armchair across from them. “She’s offered a very generous solution to our problem.”
Marianne rolled her eyes. Lady Violet Valentine was a writer of romance novels of the most revolting, flowery kind, and an acquaintance on their dead father’s side; he’d always spoken highly of her, and of her great kindness. But Marianne suspected it was the lady’s great wealth that had most impressed her father.
“There’s a house standing empty on her property in Northumberland,” their mother went on. “A cottage. The late baron often hosted hunts on the estate; the cottage was used as a guesthouse. It all belongs to Lady Valentine now.”
“Northumberland?” Marianne echoed. “But that’s practically in Scotland.”
Elinor shushed her. “Has Lady Valentine made the house available to us? That’s very kind.”
“She has, and it is,” Mrs Holland said, and nodded emphatically. “Very kind indeed. She’s agreed to let it out to us at such a low cost that she’s practically letting us live there for free. If not for her offer, I don’t know what we’d do. We’ll need to sell what we can, pack what we can’t, and prepare to move house very soon.”
“How soon?” Marianne asked.
“We have until the end of the month.”
“But…that’s barely three weeks.” She stood up and began to pace the confines of the room in outraged agitation. “How can we possibly pack, and move house, and leave our home behind, in such a ridiculously short amount of time?”
“It won’t be easy,” Elinor agreed, “but we’ll manage. I’ll organise a removal van, and call round to the shops in Litchfield to see if they’ll buy our furniture.”
“We can’t take our furniture along? But what’ll we sleep on, how will we eat our dinner or have tea with no table, and no silverware, no plates or cups –?”
“The house is already furnished,” Mrs Holland said with a trace of impatience. “As for the plates, of course we’ll pack those up and take them along. I suggest you go upstairs and begin sorting through your things.”
“How can you both be so calm? Life as we know it is ending and we’re losing our home.”
“And you’re being a drama queen,” Elinor said, and lifted her brow. “Again.”
“Better a drama queen than a rude cow. You were horrible to Edward just now, for no reason.”
Elinor regarded her in surprise. “I wasn’t. I barely know him. And I was perfectly polite.”
“You didn’t say more than two words to him…even though he looked at you like he was starving and you were the last Galaxy bar in the box.”
Elinor flushed. “He didn’t.”
“He did.” Marianne flung herself into a chair and sighed. “What I wouldn’t give to have a man look at me like that…”
“Never mind Edward Ferrars,” Mrs Holland said. “He’s neither here nor there. What matters is that thanks to Lady Valentine’s offer, we’ll have a decent place to live.”
Marianne snorted. “Right. If you consider a poky little cottage in Northumberland to be a decent place to live. The fireplace probably smokes and doesn’t half work, and we’ll freeze to death in the winter –”
“That’s enough, Mari.” Mrs Holland pressed her lips together. “I’ll hear no more complaints. We should all be grateful to her ladyship for offering us a home, no matter if it’s a distance away.”
Marianne pushed herself to her feet. “I’m not grateful. I refuse to be grateful for Lady Valentine’s charity. And I’ll never call Northumberland – or her cottage – home.”
So saying, she turned sharply on her heel and stalked out of the room.
Marianne hated to wait.
Other people could stand in queues, absently staring into space or fiddling with their mobiles; they could sit in waiting rooms or airline lounges without a word of complaint. But Marianne could not.
Which was why, as she waited on the front steps for Lady Valentine’s arrival, she switched on her mobile phone and opened the e-reader app. She’d downloaded His Lordship’s Touch, the new (and no doubt completely nauseating) book by Lady V last night out of curiosity. She sighed and began to read it now, expecting to be bored senseless inside of a few paragraphs.
But as she read the first chapter, her eyes widened and her brows rose skyward. Cripes – this wasn’t at all what she’d expected. Marianne blushed and hunched over her mobile, glad that no one, particularly not her mother or sister, could see the racy words as she devoured them.
“I want you,” Lord Selkirk growled as he tugged at the fastenings on Annabelle’s bodice. “I mean to make you mine.”
Although her blood raced and every inch of her yearned for his touch, Annabelle refused to yield to Selkirk’s desire. She closed her eyes as his lips moved hotly down her neck. His breath warmed her skin, and his mouth chased every sensible thought from her mind.
“But we’re not married, my lord,” she breathed. Her wits had not entirely gone wanting. “This is wrong.”
His mouth moved to the delicate skin behind her ear. “Tell me to stop, then.”
Annabelle wanted to push him away. She wanted to slap him, and leave, and flounce away in high dudgeon. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. Instead she reached for him, and slid her arms around his neck, putting a dark and dangerous glint of desire in Selkirk’s eyes…
“Did you pack your allergy medication?” Mrs Holland asked her youngest daughter as she appeared behind her in the doorway. “And your driving licence?”
With a guilty start, Marianne switched the mobile off and dropped it into the rucksack at her feet. “Yes, I brought my licence. Even though,” she couldn’t help adding, “we no longer have a car.”
“We’ll find another one once we’re settled.” Her mother sighed. “God knows Northumberland is remote, but it’s cheaper than South Devon. And we must have a car. I’m sure we’ll find something at auction after we arrive.”
Marianne didn’t share her optimism. With the house now belonging to Harriet, they’d sold everything of value – furniture, paintings, their old Peugeot – to finance the move to Lady Valentine’s cottage.
And as a result, there wasn’t much money left.
“I’m sure you’re right,” Marianne agreed, having vowed to try and keep her complaints about the move to herself. “I brought plenty of sun cream – not that I expect I’ll need it up there – and my mobile phone, too.”
“Just be sure and call the minute you arrive and let us know how you’re getting on. Your sister and I will be along in a week or so, after all of this –” she gestured vaguely at the front door behind her “is dealt with.”
Marianne