Inherited: One Nanny

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 of calm in the storm. His big, soulful brown eyes had fastened on Maggie, and there was not the slightest bit of tremulous doubt in his delivered opinion.

“Nanny Stowe, you can save us. Mr. Vivian wanted you to.”

She’d shaken her head sadly. “I’m terribly sorry, Sedgewick. I simply don’t have the power to change his will.”

“You promised him...I heard you...the very night Mr. Vivian died. It was just before the guests arrived for the party and he asked me to pour you both a glass of champagne, remember?”

“Yes. But we were only chatting...”

“No. He said—I distinctly remember it—Promise me you’ll give it a chance with Beau when he comes home. And you did. You clicked glasses with him and gave your promise.”

“It was only funning, Sedgewick.”

“Oh no! No, no, no, no!” Mrs. Featherfield had clucked. “Mr. Vivian was very serious about getting Master Beau married off to you, Nanny Stowe. He talked about it many, many times...to all of us,” she’d added significantly.

“Always treated you like one of the family,” Wallace had chimed in. “That’s where his sights were set. Getting it legal.”

Mr. Polly, his glorious gardens under threat of being taken over by someone else—or worse, destroyed by some developer—had stirred himself to put in his sage opinion. “Matter of cross-pollination, getting the two of you together.”

“And in the light of Mr. Vivian’s passing over that night,” Sedgewick had added portentously, “I think everyone must agree you gave him a deathbed promise, Nanny Stowe. One cannot disregard the gravity of a deathbed promise.”

“A chance, Sedgewick,” Maggie had hastily pleaded. “I only promised to give it a chance. There’s no guarantee that Beau Prescott would ever see me as...as a desirable wife. Or, indeed, that I’d see him as a desirable husband.”

“But you’ll give it a good chance, won’t you, dear?’ Mrs. Featherfield had pressed. ”And you do have a year to make the best of it.”

“Be assured you will have our every assistance,” Sedgewick had declared.

“Hear, hear!” they had all agreed, their eyes pinning Maggie down with their anxious hope.

She had wanted to say again and again it was only a joke, but to Sedgewick and Mrs. Featherfield and Wallace and Mr. Polly, it was deadly serious. Their future was at stake. Making some other life was unthinkable, and their expectations of continuing the status quo into the sunset were riding on her and what Mr. Vivian had wanted.

The truly dreadful part was they had convinced themselves she could bring it off—marry the heir, have his child, and they would all live happily ever after at Rosecliff. The doubts she voiced were brushed aside. Worse...they attacked the doubts by plotting outrageous ways to get around them. The goal was now fixed in their minds and it was so blindingly wonderful, they didn’t want to see anything else.

Giving it a chance did not promise a certain result, she had warned each one of them.

And what were their replies?

Sedgewick, bending his head in soulful chiding, “Nanny Stowe, you know what Mr. Vivian always preached. You must cultivate a positive attitude.”

Attitude did not necessarily produce miracles!

Mrs. Featherfield, doing her endearing mother hen thing, “Think of a baby. A new baby at Rosecliff. I can’t imagine anything more perfect.”

Babies were not high on Maggie’s agenda. She was only twenty-eight, not thirty-eight!

Wallace, a lecherous twinkle in his eye as he pointedly looked at the long tumbling mass of her red-gold hair. “No need to worry. Nanny Stowe. I can assure you Master Beau will take one look at you and his brain will register—red hot mamma. It’ll be a piece of cake.”

Maggie was not interested in the brain below Beau Prescott’s belt! Not unless there was an engaging brain above it, as well.

Mr. Polly, tending his prize roses. “Nature will take its course, Nanny Stowe. A little help and care and you can always get the result you want.”

Marriage, unfortunately, was not a bed of roses. It was a lot more complicated.

Maggie couldn’t truthfully claim she absolutely didn’t want it. Not having met the man, how could she know one way or the other? Even looking at Beau Prescott’s photograph and assessing his physical attractions, she couldn’t help feeling terribly uneasy with the situation.

It was fine for Vivian and all the faithful staff to dismiss the possibility of Beau Prescott’s not liking her or her not liking him. They didn’t want to admit the possibility. Maggie, however, had her reservations and many of them.

Besides, when it came to marriage, there was a matter of chemistry, too. Good-looking men had often left Maggie quite cold in the past. They were so full of themselves, there was no room for a two-way relationship. Not really. All they wanted was for a woman to fall on her back for them. Well, no thanks.

But maybe there could be magic with Beau Prescott. He did look very engaging in the photograph. If enough of Vivian had rubbed off on his grandson...

The ache in her heart intensified. Vivian Prescott had given her the most wonderful two years of her life. She hadn’t realised quite how much she’d loved that old man until... suddenly he wasn’t here anymore... and never would be again.

Joie de vivre.

Did his grandson have the same amazing zest to find pleasure in everything? Or make pleasure out of nothing! Or did one have to be old before time became so precious, the need to make the most of it inspired a creative talent for delight?

Her bedside telephone rang.

Maggie dropped the photograph back in the drawer of her writing desk, shutting it away before answering the call which would be from Sedgewick, telling her the real live flesh-and-blood Beau Prescott was on the last lap of his journey home. Her heart fluttered nervously as she picked up the receiver.

“He’s earlier than we thought, Nanny Stowe.” Sedgewick’s plummy tones rang in her ears. “Master Beau does have a way of getting out of airports in record time.” A touch of pride there.

They all loved him; Sedgewick, Mrs. Featherfield, Wallace, Mr. Polly. To them Beau Prescott was still their wild child, grown to manhood admittedly, but in no way changed from their long affectionate view of him. They wanted her to love him, too, but that was an entirely different ball game. To Maggie he was a stranger, even though he was Vivian’s grandson.

“Did Wallace say how far away they are?” she asked.

“About twenty minutes.” A lilt of excitement, anticipation. “I trust you are dressed and ready, Nanny Stowe.”

To knock Beau Prescott’s eyes out. That was the general advice. The plan. Consensus had been absolute—Mr. Vivian would have expected it of her.

“Yes, Sedgewick,” she returned dryly. “But I think it best to give Master Beau time to greet you and Mrs. Featherfield before I intrude. After all...”

“Splendid ideal We’ll hold him in the vestibule chatting. Then you make your entrance. I do hope you’re wearing black, Nanny Stowe. It looks so well against the red carpet on the staircase.”

Maggie rolled her eyes. “Yes, Sedgewick, I am wearing black,” she assured him. “In mourning. Not for dramatic effect.”

“Most appropriate,” he warmly approved. “Though you must remember Mr. Vivian’s principles, Nanny Stowe. You don’t mourn a death. You celebrate a life. We cannot let sadness get in the way of...uh...propelling the future forward.”

“Thank you, Sedgewick.”

Maggie put the receiver down and heaved a long sigh, needing to relieve some of the tightness building up in her chest. She wandered around the room, trying to work off her inner agitation. Then on impulse, she opened the French doors that led onto the balcony and stepped outside.

The view drew her over to the balustrade. It was beautiful. Maggie doubted there was a more splendid position than here at Vaucluse, perched above Sydney Harbour, the magnificently kept grounds and gardens of Rosecliff spreading down to the water’s edge in geometrically patterned tiers, each one featuring a fountain to delight the eye.

The mansion itself was a famous landmark for tourist cruises on the harbour. Built on a grand scale in the neoclassical style and set on five acres of prime real estate, its gleaming white-glazed terracotta exterior with its graceful Ionic columns and other lavishly decorated architectural features made it stand out, even amongst a whole shoreline of mansions. It seemed rather ironic that Vivian had made his fabulous fortune from parking lots. From the most practical of properties to the sublime, Maggie thought.

He’d taken enormous pride in what he’d privately called the Prescott Palace, using it as it should be used for splendid charity balls and fabulous fund-raising soirees. She mused over the marvellous memories Vivian had given her. He’d loved showing off his home, loved the pleasure it gave to others simply by coming here, enjoying the wonders of great wealth.

But nothing went on forever.

Nothing ever really stayed the same.

Maggie checked the time on her watch. The last bit of leeway for her was running out. She looked up at the cloudless blue sky, then down at the sparkles of sunshine on the water.

If you’re out there somewhere, Vivian, and you really want this plan to work you’d better start waving your magic wand right now, because fairytales just don’t happen without it. Okay?

The only reply was the cry of gulls and the sounds of the city.

Maggie took a deep breath and turned to go.

The welcome mat was out for Beau Prescott.

CHAPTER THREE

THE huge black wrought-iron gates that guarded the entrance to Rosecliff were wide open. Wallace slowly turned the Rolls-Royce into the white-gravelled driveway, giving Beau plenty of time to get an eyeful of his home and its surrounds. As always, everything looked meticulously cared for; the lawns manicured, the rose gardens in healthy bloom, the two wings of the massive H-shaped mansion reaching out to welcome him.

It was nine o’clock and from the row of cars in the parking area for the daily staff, Beau realised nothing had been changed since his grandfather’s death. The life here was flowing on as usual, waiting for him to come and make decisions. It made him doubly conscious of the responsibilities he had inherited.

Many people were employed on this estate, not only those who most concerned him. He suddenly saw the wisdom of the one-year clause in his grandfather’s will. It would probably take that long to sort out what should be done with the place. Beau couldn’t see himself adopting the lavish lifestyle enjoyed by his grandfather, yet it would be a shame to see Rosecliff become less than it was under some other ownership.

Wallace drove around to the east wing which housed the entrance vestibule. He stopped the car directly in front of the great double doors, distinguished from all the other doors by a frame of elaborate wrought-iron grillwork. They were being opened, with meticulous timing, by Sedgewick.

Sure the insidious Nanny Stowe would be standing right behind the butler, Beau didn’t wait for Wallace to do his ceremonial chauffeur stuff. He let himself out of the Rolls and strode straight for the meeting which had become paramount in his mind.

To his somewhat bewildered frustration, it didn’t happen.

She wasn’t there.

Sedgewick, as imposing as ever, his big dark eyes somehow managing to look both doleful and delighted, took his hand in both of his in a fulsome greeting. “Welcome home, sir. Welcome home.”

“Sorry not to have been here before, Sedgewick,” Beau said with feeling, knowing how devastating it must have been for the old butler to lose the master he’d loved and been so proud of serving.

Then Mrs. Featherfield, dabbing the comers of her eyes with her trademark lace handkerchief, her well-cushioned bosom heaving in a rush of emotion. “Thank heaven you’re here at last, Master Beau. It’s a sad, sad time, but it lifts our hearts to see you home again.”

“Dear Feathers...” His boyhood name for her slipped out as he gave her a comforting hug. “I truly believed my grandfather would live to a hundred. I wouldn’t have been gone so long if...”

“I know, dear.” She patted him on the back and eased out of his embrace to address him earnestly. “But you mustn’t fret. As Mr. Vivian would say, yesterday’s gone, and we have to make the most of today because tomorrow’s just around the comer and time does slip by on us.”

He had to smile. “I remember.”

“And I’m sure Nanny Stowe will fill you in on...”

“Ah, yes! Nanny Stowe.” Beau pounced. “Wallace has been telling me about our new addition to the household. Where is she?”

Sedgewick cleared his throat. “A lady of deep sensitivity, Master Beau. Since Mrs. Featherfield and I have considerable longevity of service, Nanny Stowe wanted to give us a few minutes alone with you. However...” He gestured towards the stairhall. “...I expect she will be coming down any moment now.”

“Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Featherfield got all fluttery, urging Beau forward, leading the way under the lofty Palladian arch to where the staircase rose in elegant curves to the second-floor hall. “Nanny Stowe is so looking forward to meeting you.”

No more than he was, Beau thought darkly.

As he stepped into the majestic stairhall, his gaze automatically travelled up the flight of broad steps that gradually narrowed to the first landing. A woman stood poised there, framed by the tall, arched balcony window, the light beaming in behind her seeming to set her hair aflame; glorious red-gold hair that sprang alive from her face, fanning out like a fiery halo with long glittering streamers which rippled down past her shoulders.

Beau was so stunned by this vision, it took him several moments to recollect himself enough to register more than the fabulous hair. She had skin so white it looked translucent, like the most delicate porcelain. Her face was strikingly beautiful, every feature finely balanced to please. Her neck looked almost unnaturally long, yet it, too, seemed utterly right, purposefully proportioned to hold such a face, as well as being the perfect foil for the glorious wealth of her hair.

She moved, jolting his gaze down to her feet to check he wasn’t imagining what he was seeing; feet encased in black shiny shoes with a gold chain across each instep; delicately shaped ankles leading to legs in sheer black stockings; legs that went on forever, mesmerising in their long, sleek femininity.

Beau knew there were sixteen stairs from the landing to the floor and she’d come down half of them before his eyes reached the short skirt of her black dress. A gold chain curved from hipbone to hipbone, dangling over her stomach, just above the apex of her thighs.

The air Beau was breathing started to fizz. Or maybe he wasn’t breathing at all and suffering from lack of oxygen. His chest felt seized up and his heart was drumming like a bongo on carnival night.

He dragged his gaze up past an impossibly small waist. A wild phrase leapt into his dazed brain...breasts like pomegranites...lush and ripe and delectable. Then he knew he was getting light-headed because his blood was all rushing down to his groin and very shortly he was going to be in big trouble.

Get back to the pure loveliness of her face, some shred of sanity shrieked. As his thigh muscles tightened to contain the hot prickling of desire, he watched the fascinating rise of a flush creep up the pearly white skin of her throat and its subsequent spread to her exotically slanted cheekbones. Then he was looking into her eyes, eyes as blue as the waters of the Caribbean, dazzling in their blueness.

“Nanny Stowe, sir,” Sedgewick announced, as though he were presenting the queen.

Not even the identification jolted Beau out of his enthralment. She was stepping towards him, no longer on the staircase, and he realised she was almost as tall as he was. If he reached out and pulled her against him their bodies would be right for each other, fitting together without any manoeuvring. The thought sent another shot of excitement down to the area Beau was struggling to control.

“Please accept my deepest sympathy, Mr. Prescott.”

Her soft, sexy voice caressed his spine into a sensual shiver.

“Your grandfather’s death was a grievous shock to all of us. I’m sure it was very much so to you.”

He belatedly noticed her hand extended to him. He grasped it, seeing its slim whiteness disappear, enfolded by his own darkly tanned hand, her fingers fluttering slightly against the strength of his. He wrenched his gaze up to hers again, fighting the fascination of the seemingly fragile extension of her femininity within his grip.

He had to think, had to speak. This woman, unbelievably, was Nanny Stowe. Sedgewick had said so. Therefore she had to be, however incredible it was.

“Wallace told me how well you arranged the funeral,” Beau heard himself say in a reasonably normal voice. “I could not have done better for my grandfather. Thank you.”

She nodded towards Sedgewick and Mrs. Featherfield. “Everyone helped.”

“Yes.” Beau forced himself to acknowledge them. “It was a grand effort and I appreciate it. Very much.”

They nodded, gratified.

Nanny Stowe spoke on, her sympathy subtly shifting to eloquent appeal. “I hope you don’t think it...well, unseemly...but I felt you might like to share the paying of last respects to your grandfather, so I arranged for the funeral service to be videotaped. The cassette is in the library, should you want to play it through sometime.”

“It was a kind thought. Thank you again.”

Beau was happily drowning in the glorious blue of her eyes, sucked right in by their seductive softness and going down for the third time. He was barely conscious of the replies he made, words dribbling out of his mouth when called for. When she fell silent he didn’t really notice. Her eyes were locked on to his and he could have stood there, getting in deeper and deeper but for Sedgewick interrupting.

“We have refreshments waiting for you in the informal dining room, sir.”

Her hand twitched in his, making Beau realise he was still hanging on to it. Reluctantly he let it go. Her skin was like warm silk as it slid away from his. “Yes. I could do with some coffee, Sedgewick,” he answered, obviously needing something to snap him out of this entrancement. Perhaps jet lag had caught up with him. Even moving from where he was didn’t occur to him.

Sedgewick orchestrated action. “Nanny Stowe, if you’d like to lead the way...”

She took a deep breath as though she, too, was feeling a lack of oxygen. “Perhaps you’d like to freshen up first, Mr. Prescott.”

Did he look as though he’d been run over by a truck? He smiled to dispel any questions about his mental and physical state, preferring to be the only one knowing how shaken he was. “No, I’m fine. Please lead on.”

He was happy to stay behind her, watching her walk. Her fabulous hair reached almost to her waist, its gleaming ripples shifting with each step she took. It was so alive, Beau fancied there was an electric current running through it, throwing off showers of sparks that were infiltrating him. Something had to account for the weird pins and needles attacking every part of his body.

Though the jaunty roll of her very cute bottom below her impossibly tiny waist might be causing the itchy feeling in his hands. He kept them rigidly at his sides to stop them from reaching out. This woman would have to be the most stunningly gorgeous, sexiest creature he’d ever seen in his life.

And she was Nanny Stowe?

A sharply unsettling question darted through the fog in Beau’s brain.

What had his grandfather been doing with her?

Two years she’d been under this roof and his grandfather, according to Wallace, had definitely not fallen into his second childhood. The more Beau thought about the situation, and all he’d heard and seen so far, it became disturbingly clear that Wallace, Sedgewick and Mrs. Featherfield viewed Nanny Stowe as mistress of the house.

And she was playing hostess to him right now!

The bottom suddenly fell out of the excitement she’d stirred in him. Beau went cold all over. It made horribly perfect sense. His grandfather had always enjoyed having a pretty woman on his arm. On both arms. But having found this one, why bother with any other? She had star quality on a megascale and his grandfather would have adored parading her everywhere. And probably adored her, as well! He’d loved owning beautiful things.

Beau’s stomach started contracting, working up a nauseous feeling. Refreshments were certainly in order. He obviously needed food as well as coffee.

When they reached the informal dining room, his suspicion was further confirmed by the way she moved automatically to the foot of the table and Sedgewick held her chair for her. Clearly it was her place and taken for granted, even though his grandfather was no longer here.

Then Mr. Polly arrived on the scene, carrying a basket of freshly cut, dark red roses. His weather-beaten face was cracked into a benevolent smile. “I’m so sorry I missed you at the front doors, sir. Good to have you home.”

Beau shook the offered hand. “Thank you, Mr. Polly. The gardens look as superb as ever.”

“I keep at it, sir. I brought this basket up. Thought Nanny Stowe might like to put these roses in your room, sir.” He turned to her. “They’re the best of the Mr. Lincolns, Nanny Stowe. Lovely fragrance.”

She blushed.

Beau was once again distracted by the fascinating flow of colour lighting up her pale skin.

Mrs. Featherfield swooped. “I’ll take the basket, Mr. Polly. Let’s go out to the kitchen and put the roses in water. Nanny Stowe will see to them later. She’s having coffee with Master Beau right now.”

Yes...they all considered Nanny Stowe a cut above themselves, Beau thought, watching Mr. Polly being swept away. Arranging roses in a vase for a guest’s room was the kind of genteel occupation suited to the mistress of the house. Except he wasn’t a guest. Which probably accounted for her embarrassment. She knew, even if the others didn’t yet appreciate it, his arrival changed the status quo.

Sedgewick proceeded to serve them with coffee and a selection of freshly baked croissants. “If you’d like something more substantial, sir, Jeffrey, the cook, is standing by.”

“No, I did have breakfast on the plane, Sedgewick. This is more than enough, thank you.”