A Country Rivalry Read online

  A COUNTRY RIVALRY

  Also by Sasha Morgan

  A Country Scandal

  A Country Rivalry

  Sasha Morgan

  AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS

  www.ariafiction.com

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2019 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © Sasha Morgan, 2019

  The moral right of Sasha Morgan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  9 7 5 3 1 2 4 6 8

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN (E) 9781786699039

  Aria

  an imprint of Head of Zeus

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  www.ariafiction.com

  www.headofzeus.com

  For my mum, a tough old bird who tells it like it is.

  Contents

  Also by Sasha Morgan

  Welcome Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Become an Aria Addict

  1

  Tobias raised his glass. ‘To the last night of our honeymoon.’

  Megan raised hers to his. ‘And the beginning of our lives together. Cheers.’

  It had been a magical holiday, spent in tranquil, rural Normandy in an enormous farmhouse oozing with character. The ancient beams, stone walls and huge open fireplaces had been a welcome sight for the newlyweds, as had the south-facing terrace, which caught the sun all day. But what made the farmhouse so special was the garden and its wild Parma violets growing in abundance. Their sweet aroma had hit Megan immediately, transporting her back in time and bringing to mind memories of her gran, who always wore the fragrance of violets.

  None of this was coincidence, of course. Tobias had known exactly what he was doing when booking the accommodation. It had been Ted, Megan’s grandfather, who had told him about the farmhouse and the part it played in his life years ago during the war. It was here that the kind French family had helped him recuperate from his injuries. He had lived with them for almost a year, as his lost memory slowly eased its way back to life, and the smell of Parma violets had given him the jolt he needed to recover the faded memories of his first love, Grace, Megan’s grandmother. Now the farmhouse was a luxurious B & B, which retained its rustic charm. Tobias had been thorough in his research and, with Ted’s help, he had managed to track it down and make his wife’s honeymoon all the more special for the sentimental link.

  Together Tobias and Megan had lazed by the still, turquoise pool, walked through the wooded valley, meandered through the busy market square, eaten fine French cuisine and drunk rich, fruity wine in the dusk by candlelight, listening to the cicadas. They had all they needed: each other and the promise of a family on the way. As Lord Cavendish-Blake and the new custodian to the ancestral home, Treweham Hall, it fell on Tobias’ head to produce an heir, an obligation he had fulfilled with Megan a month before marrying her. They had yet to announce the good news, choosing to keep it secret for the moment.

  For Tobias, this was a cherished time. Having been dubbed a ‘wild child’ in his youth, along with his two close friends, Seamus Fox and Dylan Delany, his meeting Megan only seven months ago and falling head over heels in love was somewhat out of character, or so the tabloids would have their readers believe. According to them ‘Lord Cavendish-Blake-the-rake’ had been untameable, a hell-raiser, who, together with Seamus, had been nicknamed ‘the Heir and the Fox’. Their antics had been reported in many a newspaper, but now it appeared they had been tamed and disciplined, just like the stallions they rode. Seamus was now the obedient husband to the fiery Tatum, who was more than capable of cracking the whip, and a doting father to their two little girls. Tobias was the love-struck new husband to Megan, who had moved into Treweham village last spring after inheriting her grandmother’s cottage.

  Megan had worked in the local pub, The Templar, becoming close friends to Finula, who was the landlord’s daughter and who couldn’t speak highly enough of Tobias and his family. Megan had been instantly attracted to the dark-haired, green-eyed, devilishly handsome lord, who made her laugh. She also fell for the caring, compassionate side to him that had never been described in the papers. It had been a whirlwind romance, leaving Megan a touch dizzy. Tobias had provided practical help whilst renovating her grandmother’s cottage and offered emotional support when she had discovered the truth about who her granddad actually was. He’d made no secret of his attraction towards her either, and despite her wariness of his notorious past, his charm had won her. And when she had realised she was pregnant, her whole being had well and truly spun.

  For Tobias, it was simply the icing on the cake; all he ever wanted. He’d craved a deep, loving relationship and yearned for children, especially when witnessing how happy his best friend, Seamus, was with his wife and two daughters. From the moment he first set eyes on Megan he knew she had to be his. He’d fallen under the spell of her brown, almond-shaped eyes, her freckled, button nose and silky, brown hair cut neatly into a bob. The feeling he had wasn’t just lust, of that he was certain. He found her company refreshing; she often made him laugh and her quiet confidence gave her a pleasant self-assuredness, not like the brash, overbearing women who had thrown themselves at him. Her interest in his upbringing hadn�
��t been crass, it was genuine, his background being a total contrast to her own. Despite his reputation and all the glamorous girlfriends that had been pictured on his arm, he had only felt like this once before. He had previously been engaged to another local girl, years ago. Tragically she had been hit and killed by a drunk driver, leaving Tobias heartbroken. The press still hadn’t relented, choosing to home in on a young man’s desperate grief. In the end Tobias had retaliated and given them something to write about, each exploit getting more daring and outrageous than the next. Now it was different: now he had settled down.

  Even so, he was ever mindful of the media’s presence. Not wanting to alarm his new wife, Tobias had secretly had the French B & B ‘looked over’ before arriving, and he had it on good authority that the only guests staying in the five-star hotel were genuine holidaymakers like themselves. The staff had been made well aware of the high profile of their visitors, although Tobias and his new wife were at pains not to give any clues to their status. Tobias had wanted the two of them to blend in anonymously, so that he and Megan could enjoy a much-needed peaceful honeymoon.

  The last few months had been hectic with Treweham Hall opening for the first time to the public, and the renovation of the old stable block into a superb racehorse training yard, which his friend Dylan had taken over. Dylan Delany was the most famous jockey on the circuit. His dark, gypsy looks, black curls and piercing blue eyes made him the most attractive, too. His reputation matched that of his best friends, Tobias and Seamus, although there had been a shift in the sand of late. It appeared even Dylan was on the verge of calming down, if his relationship with his pretty, fresh-faced assistant trainer, Flora, was anything to go by. Together they were working every hour God sent to make the stable yard work. Dylan was seriously hoping to make Delany’s Racing Yard a huge success and Tobias was more than happy to collect the rent his renovated stable block and land would bring. When he had first assessed the estate’s accounts last spring, Tobias had been astounded at the state his late father, Lord Richard Cavendish-Blake, had left them in. With mounting debts threatening to close the Hall, Tobias had had to put urgent financial plans in place and thankfully he had started to turn things round.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Tobias asked yet again, looking towards his wife’s stomach.

  ‘Fine. Really.’ She could tell he wasn’t convinced, hardly surprising when she had started with morning sickness two days into their honeymoon.

  Once the first few hours of the morning had passed, and after keeping most of her breakfast down, Megan’s face had started to regain colour and they were able to enjoy the rest of the day. Although they wanted to keep her pregnancy secret for a little while longer, Megan feared that when they returned to live in Treweham Hall, with Tobias’ mother, brother and a team of staff, it would be hard to conceal, especially if she was throwing up most mornings. She imagined the look of disdain on Henry, the butler’s, face and couldn’t help but laugh to herself. It was going to take some adjustment, living in such a grand place, especially when comparing the greatness of the Hall to the humble cottage that her gran had bequeathed her.

  Megan couldn’t bear the thought of selling. Bluebell Cottage. It held such fond memories of her beloved grandmother and she had treated it as a second home since she was little. Tobias had promised that they would still have their privacy and they were going to have the rooms in the south wing of the Hall. Megan was looking forward to choosing the décor and really making it their own, although she wasn’t confident she would have the final say, as Tobias ran his own property development business and it was second nature for him to get involved.

  ‘Looking forward to going home?’ he smiled, admiring her beautiful face in the moonlight. They were sitting on the small balcony of their room and a lantern flickered brightly on the table. It was mid-September, but luckily the summer was proving hard to shake off and the air was still pleasantly warm.

  ‘Yes, but if I’m honest, a bit apprehensive.’ Megan had always been made to feel welcome at Treweham Hall, but even so, the thought of having staff permanently on call was nerve-racking and she feared they would be intrusive. Little had she known when first arriving in the picturesque village of Treweham that she would end up being Lady Cavendish-Blake, living in Treweham Hall. It still felt surreal.

  Then she turned to her husband, who had become her rock; the reassurance, kindness and care he had shown her meant she couldn’t help but fall for him. That and the fact she’d found him utterly irresistible with those mesmerising green eyes that twinkled with mischief and blazed with passion. He still made her heart flutter and she couldn’t imagine a time when he wouldn’t.

  Tobias understood Megan’s apprehension and he was anxious for his wife to settle at Treweham Hall. He knew she was popular with the staff, having seen her interact with them. Megan had overseen the guided tours of the Hall when it had first opened, along with the tearoom and gift shop, into which he had converted part of the ground floor. She was a natural with the staff; even his butler was finally succumbing to her charm.

  ‘Don’t worry, my darling, everything will be fine. We have our own rooms waiting for you to furnish.’ He took her hand in his and squeezed it.

  ‘I think I’ll start with the nursery,’ she replied with a smile.

  ‘Good idea.’ He kissed her lingeringly on the lips. ‘And now, let’s go to bed,’ he whispered in her ear.

  2

  The quaint country inn of Treweham village was still recovering. The Templar was well used to playing host to its local celebs and all the hullabaloo that entailed, but the village’s latest event had taken its toll on the sixteenth-century coaching inn. Lord Cavendish-Blake’s wedding had caused utter mayhem, attracting local and national press, not to mention the public, who had flocked to Treweham to capture anything they could of this momentous occasion. Dermot O’Grady, landlord of The Templar, wasn’t complaining, though: business had boomed and profits had soared. He made sure his staff had reaped the rewards, giving them hefty bonuses as well as the tips they’d earned.

  Finula, his daughter and chef at The Templar, was worn out. He could see she needed a break and was going to suggest she take a few days off. He knew she missed her best friend, Megan, who had worked alongside her in the pub. Now that Megan was the new Lady Cavendish-Blake and had a role in the revamp of Treweham Hall, he doubted Finula would see her as much, which was a shame as he’d enjoyed the camaraderie between the two of them.

  Dermot bent down to pick up the post that had been delivered that morning and noticed a cream envelope addressed to Finula. It was thick good-quality paper and had bold black writing in fountain pen. Dermot frowned; whose handwriting could that be? He walked through to the bar area, where the traditional wooden benches, oak panelling and stone floor gave it real character. Finula was behind the bar.

  ‘Fancy a coffee, Dad?’

  He nodded. ‘Thanks, Fin. You’ve got a letter.’ He held up the cream envelope before passing it to her.

  Finula looked at it curiously. She didn’t recognise the curvy handwriting. Choosing to open it later, alone, she passed Dermot his coffee and made herself one.

  ‘Finula, I’ve been thinking.’ He eyed his daughter thoughtfully.

  ‘About what?’ She sipped her cappuccino and winced as it burnt her lips.

  ‘Maybe you should take a break. Have a few days away from this place.’

  ‘But what would you do?’ she answered, surprised at his suggestion.

  ‘I can always get help in, no one’s indispensable.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Now you know what I mean,’ he gently reproached. ‘You know I think you’re the best chef ever, but seriously, Fin, you need a rest.’

  She couldn’t argue with that. The last week had certainly been taxing, working long hours to accommodate the fully booked inn. Only now was normal life gradually returning, although being Megan’s bridesmaid and having the media buzz on her own doorstep
was an experience Finula would never forget. The day had been wildly thrilling. She’d worn a beautiful bronze dress and had been driven in a horse-drawn carriage to Treweham Hall. Reporters, journalists, and the public had lined the country footpaths, waving as Dylan had gently guided the two carriage horses through the cheering crowds. It had felt surreal, and once the carriage had made its way through the security of the cast-iron gates of Treweham Hall, Finula had sighed with relief.

  Even now she couldn’t help smiling when she thought of it. She smiled when she thought about a certain guest who had stayed at The Templar last week, too. Originally assuming he had been a reporter, she had been corrected by her dad, who had informed her that he was in fact a film producer called Marcus Devlin. From the short conversation she had had with him, Finula immediately realised he was from the same county as her dad, Roscommon, which was clear from his soft, Irish lilt. Dermot had soon struck up a rapport with their guest, exchanging tales from their home turf. Finula tried to deny her attraction to Marcus, knowing he’d be gone all too soon, but that hadn’t stopped her looking him up on the internet. Marcus Devlin apparently was an up-and-coming documentary producer with vision, flair and plenty of grit. Finula had admired his profile picture, the way his green eyes with amber flecks had stared broodingly into the camera. They reminded her of someone, but she couldn’t place who. His dark stubble and hair looked slightly unkempt, which gave him a rugged look. Finula read that he had been born in Roscommon thirty-two years ago, had attended the Institute of Art, Design and Technology in Dún Laoghaire, County Dublin, obtaining a BA Hons Degree in Film and Television Production, and thereafter had gone from strength to strength. He’d started out as a runner, quickly climbing up the career ladder to production assistant, director, then finally to the award-winning documentary producer he now was.

  ‘When I’m making a documentary, I live with it twenty-four hours a day,’ he’d stated in an interview. ‘It takes over my life.’