EXCERPT

 

Priscilla, who had been listening to Shane and her father’s conversation outside the study door, ran to the staircase, climbing up halfway, then turning around to wait until Shane exited the study.

She and Shane both had a problem, and in a very strange turn of events, they could also be each other’s solution. As long as Shane would agree to marrying her instead of Margaret, she would have a preapproved father for her unborn child and full access to her trust fund after a year…and Shane could marry into the Story family, ensuring his eventual control over Story Imports.

Her hands sweated as she heard the knob turn on the study door, and she started down the steps, looking up just as Shane stepped into the hallway.

“Shane.”

He blinked at her, as though surprised to see her. “Priscilla.”

“Are you leaving?”

He nodded curtly, turning toward the door. “Yes.”

She hurried across the hallway to catch up to him. “How was dinner?”

“Terrible.”

He opened the front door, stepping onto the outside landing.

“I’m sorry,” she said, following him outside and pulling the door shut behind her.

He turned to look at her, his eyes connecting with hers, then sliding lower to land, for a second, on her lips. He huffed softly, reaching up to drag a hand through his hair. “Good night, Priscilla.”

She reached out and grabbed his arm just as he turned away. “Wait.”

He pivoted slightly to look at her, but suddenly she was distracted by the bare forearm she held tightly. She had expected Shane to feel elegant, not muscular, and the hardness under her fingers surprised her. She stared at his arm for a moment before sliding her eyes up his chest to his face.

“I want to talk to you,” she said.

“It’s been a long evening. I’m not in the mood for games.”

“No games. I promise,” she said, releasing his arm. “Just a possible solution.”

“To what?”

Her cheeks flushed. There wasn’t much that embarrassed Priscilla, but she was about to ask a virtual stranger to marry her: this was downright awkward. “To the reason dinner was so terrible.”

He flinched, then straightened, his eyes shrewd with interest. “How do you mean?”

She flicked a glance at the house, hoping that her father had fallen asleep on his desk but not willing to risk his involvement should he see them talking outside. Cocking her head to the side, she smiled, hoping to lighten the mood and put Shane at ease. “Walk with me for a little bit?”

Shane sighed. “I’m really not up for—”

“Shane,” she said, using the same no-nonsense tone that Margaret and Alice used when they wanted to be taken seriously in business, “what I have to say is worth a few minutes of your time. I promise.”

Without waiting to see if he’d follow, she slipped around the side of the house, her bunched shoulders relaxing when she heard his footsteps crunching on the gravel behind her.

“What’s this about, Priscilla?”

She slowed down so they were walking next to one another, over the white stone path that cut across the great lawn of Forrester and up to the stables on a hill. “We both have a problem.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Well, you weren’t at dinner…so what’s mine?”

“Voices carry…especially when they’re upset,” she said. Then, taking a deep breath, she turned, stopped walking, and seized his eyes. “My father wants a son-in-law to run Story Imports, but Margaret won’t marry you. It’s never going to happen.”

“How do you—?”

“When Margaret was eight, our nanny made us a breakfast of English porridge. She set it in front of us on the nursery table, all jiggly and gray. Margaret took one look, and without trying it, she declared it disgusting.” Priscilla laughed softly, remembering the look on her older sister’s face. “Nanny didn’t want to hear it. She told Margaret to eat, and again Margaret refused.” She looked up at the barn, at the spring sun setting behind it, bathing it in gold. So beautiful. She’d love to paint it or grab her camera and—Don’t get distracted. “So Nanny said that Margaret would sit at that table until the porridge was gone. The rest of us held our noses and ate the porridge. And Margaret was right,” she said. “It was disgusting.”

“I really don’t know what this has to do with—”

“How long do you think she sat there?”

Shane shrugged. “I don’t know. Until lunchtime?”

“Longer.”

“Dinner?”

“Longer.”

“Bedtime?”

“No,” said Priscilla. “She sat there until the breakfast dishes were cleared the next day when she was finally excused. She missed two meals in a row, peed her pants twice, and slept with her head beside the bowl of cold, congealed porridge.”

He screwed up his face in shock. “Margaret?!”

She nodded. “Mm-hm. She’s got a backbone of steel.”

“Margaret,” he said again, shock still thick in his voice. “But she’s so…so…”

“Polished? Proper? Yes, she is. But she’s also strong, and she knows her mind. And in case you missed it, she’s a romantic.” She gave him a look, then sighed. “And your proposal wasn’t exactly romantic, Shane. Your proposal wasn’t even in the same universe as romantic.” Priscilla started walking again. “She will never, ever marry you.”

“Fantastic,” he growled. “Great talk. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

“You didn’t ask what my problem is,” she said, turning to watch him stalk off.

He turned around as she knew he would. “Fine. What’s your problem, Priscilla?”

She took a deep breath and held it. “I need a husband.”