Mia tasted whiskey on Thomas’s lips, as he no doubt did on hers, and she found that she didn’t want to stop kissing him. She’d only planned it to be a friendly peck of gratitude, but for some unknown reason she’d remained in position, her lips fastened to his, and he hadn’t pulled away or protested.

She shifted her body closer to his, so their torsos were flush. He still didn’t pull away or protest, so she deepened the kiss, peeking her tongue out to seek entry to his mouth. Thomas let out a groan and opened to her, and now she tasted the whiskey on his tongue, too. They both still held their glasses, so their movements were limited, but Mia slid her free hand around the back of Thomas’s neck, while he wound his around her waist, pinning her in place as their kiss moved from surprising and tentative to needy and sensual.

This is probably a terrible idea. The worst idea you’ve ever had. And that’s saying something.

But despite her internal doubts, she continued to kiss Thomas, and he kissed her right back. It grew increasingly hot and heavy as their tongues twisted and thrust and danced together, and her arousal started to crowd out everything that wasn’t the here and now. Soon, Mia was entirely consumed by Thomas; by his strong arm wrapped around her, by his hot lips moulded to hers, by his heaving chest as he fought for each breath, and by the feel of his soft, thick hair clenched in her fingers.

She’d seen and heard of others in her father’s position who had allowed things on their estates to remain the same, spent the family money willy-nilly, then realised that the estate needed repairs, maintenance… and with no way of paying for it, homes and land fell into disrepair and had to be sold. She knew of some which had been made into luxury apartments, others which were being leased or given to the National Trust to restore and allow the public in to gawp, and others still which had been purchased by nouveau riche individuals who saw the properties and estates as nothing more than something to brag about.

Her father, on the other hand, had viewed the house and estate as his responsibility. Not the type of responsibility which becomes a millstone around a person’s neck, however. Edward Harrington had genuinely adored running the estate. It might have brought him and his small family a considerable income which kept them more than comfortable, but it was also a big provider and supporter of the local community. Many families in the surrounding area benefited from the estate in one way or another, either by working directly for the Harringtons and earning a highly-competitive salary, or by partnerships which were lucrative for everyone involved. Her father had been firm, but fair, and smart. He’d maximised the earning potential of the estate, and as such it had flourished. He’d made wise investments, supported fundraisers and charities, and given generously of both his time and his money—leaving behind an impressive legacy.

And now, if she didn’t marry a suitable partner within twelve months, all of that would be taken from her, and, more importantly, from the local community. For there wasn’t the slightest shadow of doubt in her mind that her cousin, Quinn, would not carry on with her father’s good work. He would greedily take what was bequeathed to him, then proceed to fritter the cash away and let the house and estate become yet another decaying pile, which he would then offload to the highest bidder.

“Over my dead body!” she said, slamming her hands down on the desk. The water glasses wobbled dangerously, but didn’t upset.

Flicking an anxious glance at her, then turning back to the document, he continued, “All of the aforementioned concerning the transfer of assets to Miss Mia Harrington is subject to her marriage. Miss Mia Harrington has one year following the burial of Mr Edward Harrington to wed a suitable partner, one befitting of her status and social class. Only then will she officially inherit. The marriage partner in question must also agree to take the Harrington name, so that any children born from their union will carry the name and continue the Harrington line.

“Should Miss Mia Harrington fail to secure a marriage contract within the stated period, then the eldest male child of Mr Archibald Harrington may inherit. Should this scenario come to pass, Miss Mia Harrington will be required to move out of the family home, resign her role as estate manager, and be awarded a small allowance on which to live.” Mr Lenton stopped then, and Mia wasn’t sure if it was because he was finished, or because he was giving her a moment to allow his words to sink in.

For a moment, she was silent. She relaxed her hold on the Mont Blanc, and it fell from her hand and onto the desk, where it rolled sluggishly along the surface and clinked against the side of her water glass. The sound barely registered as she turned the solicitor’s words—her father’s wishes—over and over in her mind.

The first part had been fine and dandy—she had absolutely no qualms about a good portion of her father’s money going to charity. They were incredibly worthy causes, and besides, even the remainder of what she stood to inherit was more than she knew what to do with. She’d probably end up donating even more of it to charity.

In truth, it wasn’t really about the money. If the will reading had been about discovering her father had actually been penniless, it wouldn’t have mattered. She was no helpless damsel in distress, or simpering heiress in need of her daddy to fund her lifestyle. She was well-educated, ambitious, and smart—she’d figure something out. No—it was the principle of the matter. Her father’s considerable assets were as such because he’d worked for them. Yes, he’d inherited the estate, the main property of which she currently sat inside, and enough money to keep it ticking over, but he’d done more than just keep it ticking over. So much more.

So far, so predictable. No wacky burial site—that was that theory off the table. The solicitor moved on to the distribution of her father’s assets. Mia hadn’t known the precise details, but again, wasn’t surprised to learn considerable amounts of money were to be bequeathed to various charities—including smaller, local ones he had helped out for years, as well as larger, nationwide organisations. She smiled. That was her father—even in his death he’d managed to do some good in the world.

“Now,” Mr Lenton said, looking up at her with an uneasy smile, “this is the part of the document that your father had amended a couple of months ago. This… might come as a shock to you, Miss Harrington, I’m afraid, since it seems your father didn’t, in fact, discuss it with you. As the messenger, I can only apologise.”

Mia gripped her pen tightly and fixed a smile in place, even as her heart fluttered unpleasantly. With her other hand, she picked up her glass of water and downed half of it before saying, “Please, Mr Lenton, do continue.”

The solicitor cleared his throat. “As I’m sure you do already know, Miss Harrington, the remainder of your father’s assets go to you, as his beneficiary. That includes his money, his investment portfolio and, of course, his property and land. You are named as sole executor of the will—which is actually somewhat unusual, but your father remained convinced you could handle the organisation of his affairs on his passing.”

Bobbing her head, Mia said, “And he was correct. I have been working for my father, helping with his various business interests for many years already, and as his illness progressed I actually ended up dealing with it all by myself. Just before he died, he told me he was proud of how I’d dealt with all the responsibility. Proud of me.” She blinked. Why had she divulged that? It was like she was trying to justify her inheritance, for God’s sake!

“He was proud of you, Miss Harrington. Very much so. He told me that himself—and it was quite apparent in the way he spoke of you. Anyway,” he cleared his throat again, seemingly eager to get on with it, “the amendment is less of a change, and more of an added caveat.”

“A caveat?” she squeaked, now gripping the pen so hard that, had it been a cheap plastic thing, rather than a heavy, metal-barrelled Mont Blanc, it would have snapped or cracked. As it was, the hard metal resisted and made her hand ache. Why on earth had her father put a condition on her inheritance? And, more importantly, what the hell was it?

Suddenly, the prospect of a secret sibling was preferable.