The Man She Should Have Married Read online

  LOUISE FULLER was once a tomboy who hated pink and always wanted to be the Prince—not the Princess! Now she enjoys creating heroines who aren’t pretty push-overs but strong, believable women. Before writing for Mills & Boon she studied literature and philosophy at university, and then worked as a reporter on her local newspaper. She lives in Tunbridge Wells with her impossibly handsome husband Patrick and their six children.

  Also by Louise Fuller

  Revenge at the Altar

  Demanding His Secret Son

  Proof of Their One-Night Passion

  Craving His Forbidden Innocent

  The Rules of His Baby Bargain

  Passion in Paradise collection

  Consequences of a Hot Havana Night

  The Sicilian Marriage Pact collection

  The Terms of the Sicilian’s Marriage

  Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

  The Man She Should Have Married

  Louise Fuller

  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  ISBN: 978-0-008-91363-2

  THE MAN SHE SHOULD HAVE MARRIED

  © 2021 Louise Fuller

  Published in Great Britain 2021

  by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

  All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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  To Lori. I miss you. x

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Booklist

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Note to Readers

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Extract

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER ONE

  SMOOTHING HER LONG, dark blond hair away from her face, Nia Elgin took a deep breath and followed Stephen, the butler, through the wood-panelled hallway of her family home, Lamington Hall.

  Except the beautiful Georgian manor house wasn’t her home right now.

  For the next year at least, she would be living in the gardener’s cottage along the drive.

  And Lamington was being rented out to Tom and Diane Drummond, an American couple who were taking a sabbatical in Scotland to research Tom’s ancestral roots.

  This evening was her first visit to the house since the Drummonds had moved in a week ago, and it felt strange walking past the family portraits and suits of armour as a visitor.

  But that wasn’t the reason her heart was in her mouth.

  As Stephen’s fingers rested on the door handle, she took another breath, forcing herself to stay calm, trying to prepare for what lay on the other side of the door.

  Not what, but who.

  Her heart lurched.

  Farlan Wilder.

  Even now, she could still picture the first time they’d met.

  He had been twenty-two, three years older than her, with eyes the exact same green as summer bracken and a smile that had made Morse code messages of excitement beat through her body.

  It had been love at first sight, at first touch, at first everything—swift and as certain as a swallow returning home from its wintering grounds in spring.

  And he had loved her right back, just like the heroes in her favourite books.

  That year, the summer of their love, time had slowed, days had lengthened and the warm, lazy heat had spilled through September, nudging into the first few days of October.

  Six months and two days after they’d met Farlan had proposed. She’d accepted, but they’d decided to go travelling first.

  Her breath burned her chest.

  And then, just as swiftly, it had been over.

  Ended by her.

  And, just like the swallows, he had upped and left the cool, inhospitable shores of Scotland for a new life in another country.

  She shivered.

  The fact that he was back in Scotland at all made her want to reach past Stephen and clutch the door handle for balance.

  But the fact that he was here, at Lamington, was the cruellest cut of all.

  Her stomach dipped with a desperate, panicky plunge, just as it had been doing ever since Tom and Diane had invited her to join them for Burns Night supper and she had stupidly agreed to join them.

  Would she mind awfully if there was one extra for dinner? Tom had asked, and of course she had said no without thinking.

  ‘It’s a big deal for us, him coming. He wasn’t even supposed to be getting here until next week,’ Tom said slowly. ‘You see, he hates Burns Night.’

  She hadn’t known who ‘he’ was then, and—incredibly—she hadn’t cared.

  Tom had shaken his head, as though not able to believe what he was saying. ‘Something to do with a woman, I think. But I told him, you can’t hate Burns Night, my boy, not if you’re a Scotsman.’

  The look of outrage on his face had made her burst out laughing. ‘So why did he change his mind?’ she’d asked.

  He’d grinned. ‘I played my trump card.’

  ‘And what was that?’

  ‘You.’ Tom had grinned again. ‘Changed his mind real quick when I told him Lady Antonia Elgin was going to be here. Apparently, you and he crossed paths once a few years ago. Must have made quite an impression on him.’ He’d winked. ‘I’ve gotta say I was surprised. I’ve never known anything or anyone change Farlan’s mind before, and that’s a fact.’

  He had carried on talking, but she hadn’t been able to hear what he was saying. Her heartbeat had swallowed up his words.

  Inside her head, her thoughts had started to unravel.

  It must be a coincidence.

  It couldn’t be Farlan—not her Farlan.

  But apparently it was.

  She glanced at Stephen’s back.

  Her stomach knotted. If only she could just turn and run away, hide in the bothy on the estate, where she had always gone as a child to escape her parents’ incessant demands.

  Or, better still, if she could just rewind, smile apologetically to the Drummonds and say, How kind, but unfortunately I have other plans.

  But she could neither change her character nor turn back time, so she was just going to have to get through it.

  Stephen opened the door, and as she followed him through her heart stopped and for a few agonising half-seconds she scanned the room.

  But it was only Tom and Diane, turning to her and smiling.

  She forced herself to walk forward as Tom held out his arms in welcome.

  ‘Good evening, Lady Antonia—or should I say fáilte?’

  She smiled. Whatever her feelings about seeing Farlan again, Tom and Diane must not be made aware of them. Not when they clearly knew nothing about their past relationship.

  But what about Farlan?

  How was he going to react?

  It was a question that had been playing on a loop inside her head. And she was still no closer to answering it.

  ‘Farlan will be down in a minute,’ Diane said, her face softening. ‘He only arrived in Scotland at lunchtime.’

  ‘Got his own private jet.’ Tom grinned. ‘And then he fl ew himself down in a helicopter. Landed right out back.’

  She kept smiling somehow. ‘Really? That’s amazing.’

  Tom handed her a glass of champagne. ‘To a Burns Night to remember. Slàinte mhath.’

  She raised her glass mechanically, then took a deep drink.

  Part of her couldn’t believe this was happening. She’d have sworn this house was the last place on earth Farlan would ever want to visit again. And she knew that because he’d told her.

  Her heart felt like a crushing weight in her chest as she remembered that last terrible stilted telephone conversation.

  Except the term ‘conversation’ implied an exchange of ideas and views, and she had been the only one doing the talking, trying to apologise, to explain, pleading with him to understand.

  He hadn’t spoken until right at the end, when he’d told her that she was a fraud, a coward and a snob, and that she was less than nothing to him now.

  His silent anger had hurt; the ice in his voice had hurt more.

  But not as much as the one-note, accusatory disconnection tone when he’d hung up on her.

  With an effort, she dragged her mind back into the present. ‘Slàinte mhath,’ she repeated.

  Tom grinned. ‘I can’t tell you how happy it makes me, Lady Antonia, to finally say those words in the land of my forefathers and in your beautiful home.’

  ‘It’s your beautiful home tonight,’ Nia protested. ‘And please call me Nia. Being called Lady Antonia makes me feel like I’m about to open a fête.’

  He roared with laughter. ‘Nia it is, then.’ He glanced at her glass. ‘Now, let me top you up—we’ve got some celebrating to do.’

  Panic was prickling beneath her ribs.

  She didn’t feel like celebrating.

  But she was a guest, and she could almost hear her mother’s smooth, polished voice telling her that a guest should always be ‘pleasant and accommodating.’ Tilting her glass, she let Tom refill it with champagne, his undisguised happiness making her smile properly.

  ‘Tom, you look magnificent. You know, being an Elgin, I shouldn’t really admit this, but the Drummond tartan has always been one of my favourites.’

  It was true. The red and green weave was so gutsy and vibrant, so defiantly and unapologetically proud of its clan roots.

  In contrast, the Elgin tartan of brown and cream seemed inhibited—timid, almost.

  But perhaps, like dogs and their owners, a tartan reflected the character of the person wearing it. Farlan would certainly think so, she thought dully.

  Obviously pleased, Tom gave a mock bow. ‘It is a fine tartan, and it looks particularly attractive on my beautiful wife.’

  Tom pulled Diane closer, planting a kiss on her lips as he did so.

  Such easy, open displays of affection were rare in this house. In fact, Nia couldn’t remember the last time anyone had held her close or kissed her.

  She felt her face start to tingle.

  That was a lie.

  She could remember exactly when she had been held, and how she had been kissed. More importantly, she could remember who had been doing the holding and the kissing.

  Only she couldn’t think about that now.

  It would hurt too much to have the past and the present in the same headspace, and so, pushing the memory back into the darkest, most remote corner of her brain, she said quickly, ‘I agree. You look amazing, Diane.’

  Diane laughed. ‘I do feel rather regal.’ Her face softened. ‘But you, my dear, are quite, quite lovely.’

  Glancing down at her sleek one-shouldered black dress, Nia felt a blush creep up over her skin.

  Compliments were also in scarce supply in her daily life.

  She knew that she was a good boss, and her staff liked her, but it was her job to offer praise and encouragement, not theirs.

  And although her parents loved her, they both had that tendency common in the spoiled and wealthy to expect perfection and focus on the tiniest of flaws.

  Without any siblings to divert their focus, being Lady Antonia Elgin was both a privilege and a burden. It had been lovely growing up surrounded by Old Masters, and being able to ride across the estate on her pony, but there were so many expectations and responsibilities to shoulder.

  She felt her throat tighten. It was only after she’d met Farlan that it had involved making sacrifices too. He was the one person who had made her feel she was special, and she had let him go. Actually, she had pushed him away.

  The glass felt suddenly slippery in her hand, and she tightened her grip. ‘Thank you, I haven’t got dressed up in a while so it’s a real treat.’

  Basically, her social life consisted of an occasional lunch with girlfriends and those events in the social calendar that were absolutely unavoidable.

  ‘Well, it was worth the wait,’ Diane said gently. ‘And what a beautiful brooch.’ She stared admiringly at the striking thistle-shaped diamond and amethyst brooch that was holding Nia’s sash in place. ‘Is it a family heirloom?’

  Nia nodded. It was one of the few pieces she hadn’t been forced to sell.

  ‘It was my great-grandmother’s. My mother gave it to me on my eighteenth birthday.’

  Once upon a time her beauty had pleased her mother. Now, though, her delicate features and soft brown eyes seemed mostly to remind the Countess of Brechin of her daughter’s failure to find a suitable husband.

  Diane sighed. ‘It’s perfect. You’re perfect—’ She glanced over Nia’s shoulder, her eyes lighting up. ‘Don’t you think so, Farlan?’

  Nia felt her whole body turn to stone. The familiar details of the drawing room spun around her as if she were on a fairground ride.

  Earlier she had wanted the evening to be over as quickly as possible. Now she wanted the floor to open and swallow her whole.

  Frozen to the spot, she watched Farlan Wilder walk across the room, her pulse slamming in her throat.

  It was seven years since he had left Scotland. Seven years of doubt and loneliness. And regret.

  She had never expected to see him again.

  But now he was back, and how things had changed.

  When they’d met, outside a pub at the Edinburgh Festival, she had been out with friends, enjoying a gap year before taking up a place at Oxford to study history.

  Seeing him that first time had made her shake inside. He’d been cool, cocky, outrageously flirty and heart-stoppingly beautiful. An art school dropout and wannabe filmmaker with nothing to his name. No money, no family and no belongings. Just raw, untried talent, an unshakable self-belief and plans and promises aplenty.

  Her throat tightened. Plans that had worked out just as he had promised.

  Not only was he a bona fide film director now, he had already won multiple awards, and his latest movie had been the blockbuster of last summer.

  And it showed, she thought, in the casual confidence of his walk.

  The cockiness of youth had shifted into an unmistakable authority that came along with crossing an ocean in economy class and returning on a private jet.

  She watched, her smile pasted to her face, as he grabbed a tulip-shaped glass of champagne and kissed Diane on the cheek.

  ‘She certainly is quite something,’ he said coolly.

  He shifted his weight and, expecting him to lean forward and kiss her too, she braced herself. But instead he held out his hand, the dull metal of his expensive Swiss watch glinting in the firelight.

  At the touch of his fingers his eyes met hers and a burst of quicksilver darted through her veins.

  She had thought about this moment so many times—dreamed about it, conjured up almost this exact same scenario.

  She would turn to face him, and he would be angry, but not with the ice-cold fury of that last conversation.

  In her imagination, his anger was hot and spilling over with the passion of so many wasted years apart so that within seconds they were both crying and he was pulling her close and she was kissing him—

  As she stared at him, for a few half-seconds she actually thought she might still be asleep and it was all just a dream.

  But then he lifted his chin and, gazing into his narrowed green eyes, she knew with breath-crushing certainty both that she was awake and that nothing had changed.