The Right Side of Mr Wrong
Jane Linfoot
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
Contents
I write fun, flirty fiction with feisty heroines and a bit of an edge. Writing romance is cool because I get to wear pretty shoes instead of wellies. I live in a mountain kingdom in Derbyshire, where my family and pets are kind enough to ignore the domestic chaos. Happily, we’re in walking distance of a supermarket. I love hearts, flowers, happy endings, all things vintage, most things French. When I’m not on Facebook and can’t find an excuse for shopping, I’ll be walking or gardening. On days when I want to be really scared, I ride a tandem.
For M and D <3
Brando Marshall catapulted out of the lift, and cursed that he was late for his midday summons to Bryony’s flat. He rapped on her door, and braced himself for whatever was coming. Only one thing was certain – with baby sister Bryony, there was no such thing as a free lunch.
‘Brando!’ Tall, blonde, beautiful and air kissing, Bryony grinned, then grappled him into a hug that squished his breath away. Definitely a bad sign.
‘So. Long time, no see.’ She patted his arm as she released him.
What the hell? She was the one who’d been avoiding him.
‘Not still cross about Country House Crisis are you Brando?’
No, not cross. Incandescent, more like.
They both knew she was the one person in the world he couldn’t refuse, but letting the TV crew into Edgerton Manor to fill a gap in her schedule, was a huge favour she should have respected.
‘There’s a lot to answer for Bry. You said a few shots to show the downside of owning a stately home, and a few business ideas from the presenter.’ Not that he needed business advice, but that was the point of the thing. ‘I play along, then instead of gruesome Gloria coming out with her usual bed and breakfast in the stable block bollocks, she says what I need is a wife, and invites the world to apply for the job! Tell me, what part of that would I not be fuming about?’
The whites of Bryony’s eyes contained more desperation than her coaxing tone. ‘Come through, have some lunch…’
He followed her into the lofty living space, with its spectacular view of the Thames, and she gestured towards the long granite breakfast bar.
One corporate sandwich platter which screamed television company expenses, one showy vase of flowers and he had her rumbled.
‘You hate sandwiches at lunchtime Bry, and you’d never choose orange lilies. What’s going on?’
He watched her face crumple. Damn the way that expression always made him feel responsible.
‘Jeez, what’s he doing here?’ He grimaced as a guy with a camera on his shoulder emerged from behind the giant fridge.
‘Please Brando … ’ her squeak became quietly urgent. ‘We’re making a Country House Crisis follow-up, and I need you to give me one more Lord of the Manor shot. That’s all, it’s not much to ask, but there’s a huge amount at stake for me here.’
No emotional blackmail at all then. He counted to ten under his breath.
Then caved. ‘Okay, dammit! I knew I could smell a waxed jacket!’
Plucking a coat from behind a sofa, she tossed it towards him. ‘Put the Barbour on and come to the table. We’re ready to go, as soon as you are.’
Nice ambush Bryony.
Dragging on the coat, he sidled forwards, aware of the cameraman behind him now.
‘The table’s perfect for this shot, because we’ve had such a huge response … you remember Brando? A wife needed for Edgerton Manor, applications on a postcard.’
Gloria Rutherford trying to bounce him to the altar on national TV would be etched upon Brando’s memory until the end of time. But he wasn’t about to admit it.
Bryony arrived beside him, arms wrapped around a wide box. With one flip, she sent a cascade of postcards whooshing across the table. ‘There were over five hundred entries, you really caught the public imagination – in terms of viewing figures, it’s sensational.’
‘What the … ’ Brando winced as the array of potential brides fanned out in front of him, and made his head swim. ‘This is insane.’
Bryony cut in hastily. ‘No Brando, it’s successful TV, and you have to help. Just choose one!’ The note in her voice slid upwards. ‘And don’t you dare run out on me!’
He’d heard that note before, when they were kids, practically those same words, making his chest twang the same way it did now. That one note of desperation spun him right back to when he was about to walk out and leave her, simply because he couldn’t stand to stay at home any more. He had saved himself, and left her behind, and the guilt still burned fresh, which was why he could never say ‘no’ now, whatever she asked him. Although that didn’t mean it didn’t