LITMIR.BIZ

       CHAPTER TWO

      FEELING extremely nervous about meeting Beau Prescott, Maggie once more studied the photograph Vivian had insisted she keep.

      “That’s my boy, Beau. The wild child.”

      Her mouth curved whimsically at the epithet given to his grandson. The photograph was three years old, taken at Vivian’s eighty-second birthday party, and the handsome hunk filling out a formal dinner suit in devastating style could hardly be called a child. Though there was an air of boyish recklessness in his grin, and a wild devil dancing in his eyes.

      Green eyes. They were certainly very attractive set in a deeply tanned face and framed with streaky blond hair so thick it hadn’t been fully tamed for the formality of the photograph. Nevertheless, its somewhat shaggy state was rather endearing, softening the hard, ruggedness of a strong-boned face and a squarish jaw. He had a nice mouth, the lips well-defined, neither too full nor too thin. He looked good, no doubt about it, but looks weren’t everything.

      “Tame him long enough to get him to the marriage altar and father a child with you, and Rosecliff and all that goes with it will be yours, Maggie.”

      How many times had Vivian put that proposition to her in the past two years? A challenging piece of mischief, Maggie had always thought, a running bit of fun between them. She’d never taken it seriously, usually making a joke of it—

      “What would I want with him? You’ve spoilt me for younger men, Vivian. None of them have your savoire faire or charisma.”

      —or shrugging it off—

      “I might not like him, Vivian. And there’s no way I’d many a man without at least liking him.”

      “Every woman likes Beau,” was his stock answer.

      “Well, he might not like me,” she’d argued.

      “What’s not to like?”

      Maggie had always let the banter slide at that point. Putting herself down in any shape or form was against her principles. She had a long history of a lot of mean people wanting to squash self-esteem out of her, treating her as worthless and of no account in the world, and she had determinedly risen above it. Nevertheless, too many disappointments had taught her liking could not be counted upon.

      It had been one of the miracles of coming to this marvellous place, everyone on the staff liking her, welcoming her into the family, so to speak, and not a mean bone in any of them. Vivian had said she was his nanny and despite his highly eccentric notion of her job with him, she’d been accepted into the household as Nanny Stowe as though it were a perfectly normal position.

      Vivian’s oft-repeated idea of her roping in the wild child to extend the family line and ensure a succession of Prescotts at Rosecliff also met with general approval.

      It was, of course, a totally mad idea.

      Except it wasn’t quite so mad anymore.

      It was beginning to feel very much like a burden of responsibility.

      Maggie shook her head, hopelessly uncomfortable with the pressure to perform. Yet it was there, and she couldn’t shrug it off. Nor could she bring herself to snuff out the hope that was riding on her shoulders. People she cared about were hurting. And there was also the sense of not letting Vivian down.

      “You weren’t here. You have no idea how it is,” she said accusingly to the photograph. “You shouldn’t have been off in the wilds, Beau Prescott.”

      They’d had to handle it all without him. After the first couple of grief-stricken days following Vivian’s untimely death, everyone had been so busy trying to get the funeral right, none of them had looked beyond it. Only when the funeral was over, did the loss really hit, and then the solicitor had come to spell out where they stood.

      The one-year residency clause in the will had brought home the fact that Vivian Prescott was gone—really gone—and Rosecliff now belonged to his grandson who clearly had no use for it since he was always off travelling. After the stipulated year, the property could be sold or disposed of as he saw fit. Vivian Prescott’s reign here was over, and so were their lives with him.

      Maggie knew she could always fall on her feet somewhere else. At twenty-eight she was young enough to cope with a downturn in fortune and she’d had plenty of practice at making do with odd jobs in the years before meeting Vivian Prescott. Flexibility was her strong point. Though it would be hard leaving this magical mansion and its magnificent setting. Harder still leaving the people who had given her the sense of being part of a real family.

      However, it was like the end of their world for Mrs. Featherfield, and Sedgewick and Wallace and Mr. Polly. As young at heart as they all were, they would be viewed by other employers as at retirement age. If Beau Prescott decided to sell Rosecliff, where would they go? What would they do? Who would have them?

      This was home to them. They didn’t want to be split up. They didn’t want to be dumped on the useless scrapheap, surviving on pensions. They weren’t old. They had at least another twenty good years in them. Probably more.

      The flurry of fear added a further weight of grief.

      Then Sedgewick had remembered.

      He’d stood up, elegantly tall and splendidly dignified, his ingrained authority providing a point

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