Daphne Clair - Grounds For Marriage

“I’m planning to get married.” “I’m planning to get married.” For perhaps three seconds Tully didn’t move, just sat staring at her, his expression a total blank. Then he moved like an explosion, scraping his chair away from the table so it screeched on the floor and the jacket hanging over the back swung violently. “You’re what?” Looking at him looming over her, Lacey blinked. “I’m getting married,” she repeated. His eyes looked black and brilliant, fixing intently on her. “So...” he said. “Who’s the lucky man?” About the Author FROM HERE TO PATERNITY—romances that feature fantastic men who eventually make fabulous fathers. Some seek paternity, some have it thrust upon them, all will make it—whether they like it or not! DAPHNE CLAIR lives in Aotearoa, New Zealand, with her Dutch-born husband. Their five children have left home but drift back at irregular intervals. At eight years old she embarked on her first novel about taming a tiger. This epic never reached a publisher, but metamorphosed male tigers still prowl the pages of her romance novels. Her other writing includes nonfiction, poetry and short stories, and she has won literary prizes in New Zealand and America. Daphne Clair also writes as Laurey Bright. Title Page Grounds For Marriage Daphne Clair www.millsandboon.co.uk CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN Copyright

“I’m planning to get married.”

For perhaps three seconds Tully didn’t move, just sat staring at her, his expression a total blank.

Then he moved like an explosion, scraping his chair away from the table so it screeched on the floor and the jacket hanging over the back swung violently. “You’re what?”

Looking at him looming over her, Lacey blinked. “I’m getting married,” she repeated.

His eyes looked black and brilliant, fixing intently on her. “So...” he said. “Who’s the lucky man?”

FROM HERE TO PATERNITY—romances that feature fantastic men who eventually make fabulous fathers. Some seek paternity, some have it thrust upon them, all will make it—whether they like it or not!

DAPHNE CLAIR lives in Aotearoa, New Zealand, with her Dutch-born husband. Their five children have left home but drift back at irregular intervals. At eight years old she embarked on her first novel about taming a tiger. This epic never reached a publisher, but metamorphosed male tigers still prowl the pages of her romance novels. Her other writing includes nonfiction, poetry and short stories, and she has won literary prizes in New Zealand and America. Daphne Clair also writes as Laurey Bright.

Grounds For Marriage

Daphne Clair

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

IT SHOULDN’T be difficult to tell him, Lacey thought, tipping a tray of warm, sweet-smelling biscuits onto the wire rack to cool.

Her ears, alert for the sound, identified the muted hum of the Peugeot’s engine as the car swept into the drive outside, then the double slam of the doors, and Emma’s childish voice answered by Tully’s deep masculine one.

Lacey took a shaking breath. There was no reason for the flutter of nerves in her midriff, the unsteadiness of her hand as she picked up a biscuit that had dropped onto the counter and placed it on the rack. She stowed away the tray and pushed back a tress of light brown hair that had fallen across her cheek, curving it behind her ear with one finger.

Then the door burst open and Emma came in, her face flushed and eyes alight, wisps of dark, fine hair escaping from the hood of her padded windbreaker.

‘Mum, we’ve been horse-riding—it was neat fun! The lady said I’ve got a natural seat. Can I please have a pony of my own? Please?’

Emma was tall for a ten-year-old, taking after her father. Not for the first time, as Tully followed the child inside, Lacey thought how alike they were, with their near-black hair and inky blue eyes. Even some of Emma’s mannerisms resembled his. Of course, she would never have Tully’s masculine assurance, the underlying awareness of being male and liking it that was implicit in every movement he made. He couldn’t even stand still without radiating a subtle sexual challenge to every adult woman in the vicinity. It wasn’t deliberate, just part of his personality.

Over Emma’s head his amused eyes met Lacey’s. The heat of the stove had warmed the small, primrose-painted kitchen, and one long-fingered hand slid down the zip of his fleece-lined jacket as he closed the door to shut out the gusty wind. According to the radio news the ski fields at Tongariro were deep in snow, and in the South Island farmers were losing lambs. It never snowed in Auckland, which was close to New Zealand’s subtropical north, but grey days like this could be chilly.

Lacey said, ‘Owning a pony is a big responsibility, Emma. And expensive. We’ve nowhere to keep a horse.’ The suburban section on which the modest two-bedroom bungalow stood wasn’t even big enough for them to have a dog.

Some of the glow died from Emma’s face. ‘We could find somewhere. I’d look after it. I look after Ruffles.’

‘A cat is a bit different from a horse,’ Lacey pointed out.

‘Why?’ Emma’s voice held both disappointment and a hint of impending argument.

Tully ambled over to the counter and picked up a biscuit. ‘For one thing, it’s bigger,’ he said. ‘But we’ll talk about it when you’ve had a bit more practice, Em.’ He bit into the biscuit. ‘Mm. This is good.’

Distracted, Emma asked, ‘Can I have one?’ ‘They’re not ready,’ Lacey objected, eyeing Tully with exasperation as he grinned down at her, totally unintimidated. ‘They’ve only just come out of the oven.’

“That’s when they taste best,’ Tully said, and took another, tossing it to Emma. ‘Catch!’

She did so, giggling and then shooting a half-guilty, half-triumphant look at Lacey as she stuffed the biscuit into her mouth.

Giving up, Lacey took some cups from the hooks under the cupboards. ‘I suppose you want coffee?’ she asked Tully.

His mouth full of biscuit, he nodded, moving aside to allow her to reach the coffee maker.

‘Sit down,’ she said. ‘Emma, when you’ve finished that go and hang up your jacket, and then you can do your homework.’

‘I’ll do it afterwards,’ Emma offered.

‘Now. I told you if it wasn’t done Friday night you’d have to do it Sunday afternoon.’

‘I’ll do it after tea.’

‘You’ll be tired.’

‘But Daddy—’

‘I want to talk to your father,’ Lacey said firmly. ‘Homework.’

Emma made a face and turned towards the door. Then she whirled, coming back to give Tully a hug. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I had the greatest time today!’

‘Shut the door,’ Lacey ordered as she left the room. Tully looked after her with a smile that faded as he turned towards Lacey. ‘One biscuit won’t hurt her,’ he said.

Lacey poured coffee into two cups and set them on the laminated table. Tully had taken off his jacket and hooked it onto the back of a chair before sitting down. In well-worn jeans, with the cuffs of his cotton shirt pushed back and the collar open, he looked more like a manual worker of some sort than the managing director of a highly successful business.

He said, ‘Am I in for a lecture?’ With a mixture of impatience and mock-solemnity he added, ‘I’m sorry if I undermined your discipline.’

It wasn’t what she’d wanted to talk to him about, but she seized on the issue as a delaying tactic. ‘You do spoil her.’

For an instant his handsome face wore an expression that reminded her of Emma’s when she was being stubborn. ‘I don’t see it that way.’