Lynn Hulsman - Summer at Castle Stone

Lynn Marie Hulsman

A division of HarperCollins Publishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

HarperImpulse an imprint of

HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2014

Copyright © Lynn Marie Hulsman 2014

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Lynn Marie Hulsman asserts the moral right

to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is

available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International

and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

By payment of the required fees, you have been granted

the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access

and read the text of this e-book on screen.

No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted,

downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or

stored in or introduced into any information storage and

retrieval system, in any form or by any means,

whether electronic or mechanical, now known or

hereinafter invented, without the express

written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © July 2014

ISBN: 9780007588091

Version 2018-10-25

Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.

For my children, Rose and Wolf. You are my everything.

Copyright HarperImpulse an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2014 Copyright © Lynn Marie Hulsman 2014 Cover images © Shutterstock.com Lynn Marie Hulsman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Ebook Edition © July 2014 ISBN: 9780007588091 Version 2018-10-25 Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.

Dedication For my children, Rose and Wolf. You are my everything.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Christmas at Thornton Hall

Acknowledgments

Lynn Marie Hulsman

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

Who keeps his tongue, keeps his friends.

“I’m sorry, there’s no table for Shayla Sheridan.” I couldn’t read the tall hostess’s expression behind the ebony curtain of hair obscuring her face, but I can tell you this: she didn’t sound sorry.

Soaked from a surprise downpour, I stood dripping on the polished wood floor in the vestibule of Le Relais , a restaurant situated roughly 40 blocks hipper than I was used to. I peeled off my soggy Adirondack jacket and folded it over my arm, hoping to raise my profile a little. I so didn’t want to be there.

Before Maggie called, my Friday night plan was to grab a burrito from La Paloma and get my dark roots touched up and my hair straightened at the little walk-in hair salon around the corner from my apartment. Instead, I stood in the driving rain to catch a 20-dollar cab from midtown to Soho for the privilege of being ignored. I cleared my throat.

The hostess shot me a glance, annoyed that I was still standing there. Dragging her eyes down the length of me, she huffed out a small noise of disapproval. Understand this: I’m a native New Yorker. I know better than to show up at a place like this wearing a twinset and flats. But I’d come straight from the office and really, if I had stopped home to change, what did I have in my closet that was much of an upgrade? Even if I liked shopping, I don’t have the time. I work a 50-hour week at Haversmith, Peebles, and Chin Publishers, not to mention ghostwriting how-to books, and working on my own book.

My own book. My stomach plummeted. Brenda Sackler, my terrifying bulldog of an agent, had red-lighted it this very afternoon. Boom. She didn’t even invite me into the agency to talk about it. Just a no-go over the phone. Access denied. Dream dead on arrival. I wanted a vodka and soda more than I wanted to breathe air, and this clothes hanger on stilts was standing between me and sweet relief. Squaring my shoulders, I mustered a shred of strength from the depths of myself, ready to engage in battle. Who did she think she was, anyway? As if looking like an upmarket shampoo ad qualified her to be the gatekeeper of those precious bottles of Skyy lined up behind the bar.

I caught an unfortunate glimpse of myself in the side of a towering metallic vase, filled with sharp, pointy birds of paradise. Even handicapping for the fun-house distortion of the mirrored curve, I could see clearly what I looked like and it wasn’t good. Dark circles under my eyes, frizzy two-toned hair, and a gray cardigan. The top pearl button had fallen off at lunch, and I’d stuck it back on with a safety pin. By New York standards, I wasn’t even a 5. Disgusted, I shook my head at myself in my reflection. Why would I even think like that, ranking myself? Fucking Soho. So much for all those Women’s Studies classes I’d taken at Sarah Lawrence. I felt so exposed in the open-plan restaurant, with the vaulted ceilings. I just wanted to blend in and get my body behind a table. And, for the love of God, to have a drink.

I didn’t like to do it, but I had no choice. Leaning in, I whispered, “Can you try Shayla de Winter?”

“Mmm-mm, sorry” the hostess said automatically, shaking her head no. “Wait!” Her body went stiff. She flipped her hair over to one shoulder and squinted at me. “You mean, like, Hank de Winter?”

“Yes, he’s my father,” I mumbled.

“Bruno!” she shouted, still gazing at my face. An almond-eyed man-boy in a crisp white shirt appeared at her side. “Take Miss de Winter’s coat.” The stunning and obedient Bruno bowed his head and gently urged the formerly offensive canvas garment from me as if it were a Russian sable, disappearing as quickly as he’d shown up.