of Folly Lake Manor some twenty years previously.
Coming to Tippermere to talk to Lottie was admirable, Todd told himself, as he hauled ineffectually on the reins. However, riding heroically to her rescue might not be such a good idea, particularly as his one and only experience in a saddle had involved a donkey and a beach.
‘Christ almighty, are you trying to bleeding kill me?’ Spotting the very large and very solid-looking ornate angel, which stood guard on the edge of the water feature, Todd grimaced and wondered if he had time to bail out. Wings spread like scimitars, she smiled smugly at him and he knew he was seconds away from a grisly death by decapitation or a good dunking. He shut his eyes.
The horse swerved alarmingly, nearly unseating him, the sharp point of an angel wing tugged at his left shoulder and as the smell of freshly mown grass hit his nostrils he realised two things: he was alive and they’d changed course. With a relieved whoop and a grin Todd dared to look again.
As dinner-plate-sized hooves sent clods of earth in all directions, distant chatter floated across the air to them and the cob’s large ears flickered. For a second his pace slowed and his rider shifted into a more secure position on his broad back. Then hearing familiar voices, and anticipating mints and carrots, Merlin stretched his neck and picking up speed again he thundered across the immaculate lawns that stretched before the imposing house, his mane and tail flying out behind him.
Todd ducked to avoid being garrotted by the colourful bunting that marked the entrance to a cordoned-off area and then realised he was being carried down the red carpet towards bride and groom at a completely inappropriate speed. ‘Struth! Where are the anchors on this thing?’
It was the last thing that came out of his Aussie mouth before the horse took matters into his own hands and ground to a halt, expertly veering left at the last minute towards an attractive and to what he no doubt suspected was an edible flower arrangement.
Force of momentum kept Todd on his original trajectory and he would have landed in the Very Reverend Waterson’s lap if a quick-thinking Rory hadn’t dragged the shocked minister out of harm’s way.
Tranquil was the word most often used to describe the village of Tippermere, and Folly Lake Manor was one of its most serene corners. Usually. And today’s wedding, despite the celebrity status of the groom, had been planned as a quiet, family affair.
The assembled wedding guests, gathered on the lawns in front of a large marquee, watched open-mouthed as Todd rolled like an expert and got to his feet, brushing himself down as he went.
He straightened, six foot of muscle in jeans and open-necked shirt, topped by a shock of sun-bleached hair and a mud-spattered face and flashed his best grin at his shocked audience before spinning round to locate the man he’d been heading for.
‘Mate.’ He tipped a hand in the direction of his hat, which he’d actually lost a good few hundreds yard back along the way, then looked past the speechless vicar to the bemused bride and groom.
‘Hell,’ he took a step closer, ‘if you’ll pardon the language, Rev, but I never thought you wanted a bloody father figure, Lottie.’
Todd stared hard at the slightly tubby figure, who had been having his cravat straightened by a flustered Lottie, and shook his head. He’d decided quite rashly that it was his job to save her from whatever kind of matrimonial harmony she thought she was heading for, but it had occurred to him on the way over that he might have made a mistake (although once the horse had started to gallop, changing his mind hadn’t been an option). Standing here now, seeing her husband-to-be, he just knew he was doing the right thing. Whatever the man had to offer, Lottie deserved better. And younger. And preferably with more hair. ‘No way, Lots. Come on, hold your horses! You can’t be serious about marrying a guy like him?’ He raised his eyebrows and looked at the girl he’d shared a summer of love and lust with, then glanced back at the man beside her. ‘No offence, mate, but I bloody object, or whatever it is you’re supposed to say.’
Charlotte ‘Lottie’ Brinkley let go of the silk cravat, which she’d been clutching a little too firmly.
‘I can’t be serious? Father figure?’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘He IS my bloody father, you great…’ Oaf? Moron? Most unwelcome uninvited guest in the universe?
Of all the people that could have turned up at the wedding, the one person who had not been on the horizon (in an actual or metaphorical sense), as far as Lottie was concerned, was Todd. Her ex. As in very ex. As in the very last person she ever expected, or wanted, to see again. Todd was supposed to be riding the waves on the other side of the world, which was just fine by her. ‘And it’s you who should be holding your horse.’ She nodded in the direction of Merlin, who, sensing freedom, was heading straight for the refreshment tent. ‘Horses are not like surf boards you know. You can’t just dump them.’
Todd ignored the instruction, not quite realising the trail of destruction the large horse could cause when he set his mind to it. ‘Father? Isn’t there a law against that?’
‘Object to what? What bloody law? Who the—’ Billy Brinkley, Olympic-medal-winning show jumper, and the ‘bloody father’, raised an eyebrow and looked at the tall, blond man who had just spectacularly interrupted his wedding.
He’d been about to add a particularly strong swear word, but out of the corner of his eye had seen the vicar, who was turning a whiter shade of pale, and toned it down. ‘Hell’ didn’t seem an appropriate word either, in the circumstances.
‘I’m not marrying him, you idiot.’ Lottie, tried to resist the smile that was tugging at her insides, but she knew any minute now she’d lose the battle.
‘So who the hell are you marrying?’ Todd looked puzzled. Which made it even funnier.
‘Do you know this Australian chap, Charlotte darling? I must say I can understand now why you haven’t rushed to marry Rory.’ Lottie groaned and covered her face with her hands as Lady Elizabeth Stanthorpe’s imperious tone carried clearly over the by-now murmuring guests. Explaining this to her father was one thing, but to her aristocratic grandmother? ‘I can imagine he’s very impressive without his clothes on. Reminds me of a gardener we once had.’
A chuckle spread through the guests like a Mexican wave.
‘I couldn’t give a monkeys what he looks like without clothes on. We’re supposed to be holding a bloody wedding ceremony. Mine! If he’s not got an invite he can shove off.’ Billy, determined to regain control, but used to the chaos that seemed to follow his daughter around, folded his arms and stared at Lottie. ‘Well, has he?’
Lottie didn’t hear. Oh God, if Todd had to reappear in her life, why did he have to choose right now? Right now was her father’s wedding day and everybody in Tippermere was there. And all of their family. And, of course, Rory Steel, top eventer – the man who warmed her bed and her heart. And who, after rescuing the vicar from Merlin’s hooves, had stood by quietly watching.
This morning, as she’d pinned up the bunting and straightened the chairs in the early- morning sunshine, she’d actually known for the first time that everything would work out fine. Mick, farrier and friend, had been right; when she’d returned to Tippermere her feet had brought her back to where her heart was. Here, with Rory, with her family, friends and the wonderful estate that one day would be her responsibility. She loved it and she finally knew with all her heart where she belonged. And she knew she could do this; inherit Tipping House and make her family proud of her.
She knew that she could never, ever be like her autocratic, to-the-manor-born, gran, and she was fairly sure she would never live up to the promise of her elegant mother, Alexa. But she would do it her way, and do the very best she could for the place that she truly loved.
Lottie had long ago concluded that she had inherited the happy-go-lucky side of her mother, but her looks and organisational abilities were all down to her father’s side of the family. Not that most of the residents of Tippermere would have agreed with her disparaging view. Lottie may not have been the whirlwind force of nature her mother, Alexa, had been, but she