It Started With A Kiss

It Started With A Kiss
Mary Lyons

Millionaires prefer blondes! It was certainly the case for Luke Cunningham. The American tycoon had seen Angelica Lonsdale in a crowded street and followed her, mesmerized by her long blonde hair.He would stop at nothing until he had her! But Angelica had more pressing problems than dealing with infatuated millionaires - however gorgeous. To save her family home she needed nothing short of a miracle.Luke Cunningham didn't consider himself hero material, but if the only way he could get Angelica into his bed was by assuming the role of a knight in shining armor… he was quite prepared to dust off his shield! He had an ideal solution to her problem and his - marriage! She'd get to keep her home, he'd get the woman he wanted right where he wanted her! But lust wasn't any basis for matrimony… was it? From the bestselling author of The Yuletide Bride .

Table of Contents

Cover Page (#u50616271-85a5-5899-a6b2-22d2e516b568)

Excerpt (#u3c550e5d-0770-5488-8be7-07cef9630d9d)

About The Author (#u0126196e-e6ea-5899-88a0-dcc3dd89d754)

Title Page (#uf19a57b6-5a32-5aee-a5ce-7b646adf9b33)

Chapter One (#u2a070094-64c0-584b-b8a6-3cc4455d8799)

Chapter Two (#uf06c3425-6a73-56c2-9a2e-249558d775af)

Chapter Three (#u275b1bdf-3759-575c-93ad-a61c1916177b)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

“I’m not out of mydepth!”

“Oh, yes., my dear Angelica, you most certainly are,” Luke Cunningham murmured. “Why else should you be so determined to fight me every inch of the way?”

“You’re quite wrong…this really isn’t a good idea. Lust may be a reason to get married, but it’s not enough!”

Luke shrugged and gave a harsh, sardonic laugh.

“As far as I’m concerned, it will certainly do to be going on with!”

MARY LYONS

was born in Toronto, Canada, moving to live permanently in England when she was six, although she still proudly maintains her Canadian citizenship. Having married and raised four children, her life nowadays is relatively peaceful—unlike her earlier years when she worked as a radio announcer, reviewed books and, for a time, lived in a turbulent area of the Middle East. She still enjoys a bit of excitement, combining romance with action, humor and suspense in her books whenever possible.

It Started With A Kiss

Mary Lyons

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_d596cecd-17c4-5ac4-b2a9-f8fc2c9e5f6c)

‘YES, I’m sorry. Yes, I do realise that I’m giving you very short notice.’

Angelica sighed, brushing a tired hand through her long ash-blonde hair and grimacing at the irritation in the voice on the other end of the telephone.

‘Look, I understand your problems, David,’ she broke in hurriedly. ‘But it’s hardly my fault if the men who’ve been replacing some tiles on the roof completely forgot to put a tarpaulin over a large hole when they left work yesterday. And after that heavy rainstorm last night…well, I’m now looking up at what’s left of my bedroom ceiling; there’s water and chunks of old plaster covering most of the floor, and since about one o’clock this morning Betty and I have been rushing around with buckets and mops, just praying that all the other bedroom ceilings wouldn’t cave in as well!’

‘Yes, I can see—’

‘Most of the carpets and bedding are completely soaked—not to mention all the clothes in my wardrobe, which seems to have taken the brunt of the deluge,’ Angelica continued with a heavy sigh. ‘Goodness knows how we’re going to get everything dried out. Honestly, David, it’s been an absolute nightmare! Even if we keep on working flat out, it’s going to take ages to clear up the mess. On top of which I’m now in the middle of an almighty row with the roofers; one of the trustees, who lives near by, has already been moaning away on the phone, and—’

‘OK, OK,’ David Webster interjected quickly. ‘Although why you want to keep on living in that huge barn of a house, crammed full of dusty old paintings and goodness knows what else, beats me.’

‘Because it’s always been my home—and I love it!’ Angelica retorted, well aware that most of her friends thought she was completely crazy. ‘Oh, come on,’ she pleaded. ‘You know all about the situation I’m in regarding the trust. Right?’

‘I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to sound so unsympathetic,’ he told her gruffly. ‘But it still doesn’t solve my problem. How am I supposed, at a moment’s notice, to find someone to take your place? II can just see all those people milling around outside the Houses of Parliament, and—-’

‘Relax!’ she said quickly. ‘There’s no need to worry. I’ve already phoned Greg, and he’s quite happy to swap his tour for mine. We’ve arranged that he’ll be doing my Historic Westminster walk this morning, while I take over his Famous Square Mile tour through the City later on this afternoon. OK?’

‘Yes… I suppose that’s better than nothing,’ David grumbled. ‘I’m not worried about Greg—he could find his way around London with his eyes shut. But you’ve never done that particular route before. In fact,’ he added with a gloomy sigh, ‘I’bet that what what you know about the London Stock Exchange, for instance, can be written on the back of a small postage stamp!’

‘Don’t worry—I’ll manage,’ Angelica told him firmly, quickly putting down the phone before her boss could think of any more objections.

She was very fond of David Webster, an old friend from her days at university. But why did he always have to be quite so pessimistic? Everyone knew that business life was tough these days. However, his agency, Footsteps in Time, which organised and ran various walking tours of London, appeared to be doing very well. Having been one of his part-time guides for the past two years, Angelica really loved showing foreign visitors and tourists the odd, unusual aspects of London. Especially since much of the city’s ancient past lay hidden behind narrow, twisting streets and alleys— virtually inaccessible by car, but ideal for a leisurely stroll on foot.

Her thoughts were interrupted as her old nanny and present housekeeper, Betty Roberts, bustled into the room. Standing with her arms akimbo, the plump woman glared up at the large hole in the ceiling, and then at the oil paintings which had been so hastily pulled down from the walls, their gilt frames casually piled high on a dry part of the floor, as if ready for a bonfire.

‘Well, this room is a right shambles, and no mistake! Your grandmother was always so proud of this house. She’d surely turn in her grave if she could see this mess,’ Betty muttered angrily.

‘I know,’ Angelica agreed, sighing heavily as she surveyed the chaotic scene. ‘It’s really depressing. There’s so much to clear up that I simply can’t seem to think exactly where to begin.’

“You look tired to death,’ the older woman told her brusquely. ‘Why don’t you pop down to the kitchen and make a nice pot of tea? I reckon that we could both do with a cappa.’

Realising that Betty was right, and that they both needed a break from cleaning up the storm damage, Angelica slowly made her way down the flights of stairs to the kitchen in the basement.

Hardly touched since the house was first built in 1723, the large cavernous kitchen still possessed an ancient black cooking range, which was still in working order—although Betty had long ago badgered Angelica’s grandmother into providing a modern, up-to-date cooker and refrigerator. Together with a tall Welsh dresser, holding row upon row of copper bowls and saucepans, and an enormous scrubbed pine table surrounded by comfortable, high-backed chairs, the old kitchen was a warm and cosy room, which had hardly altered since the days of her great-great-grandfather, Sir Tristram Lonsdale.

A very successful and wealthy artist, Sir Tristram had specialised in painting highly romantic scenes from medieval life, loosely based on ancient legends and fables. After inheriting a large private income, and being knighted by Queen Victoria—a great admirer of his more gloomy paintings—Sir Tristram had begun travelling far and wide across the globe, returning from his many journeys with a re markable assortment of weird and wonderful objects. To these he had added a collection of ancient Greek and Roman remains, which his wife had inherited from her family, the original owners of the house.

Although Angelica wasn’t too keen on some of the paintings, which she thought decidedly depressing, she deeply loved the eccentric house—and its even more eccentric contents. Because, as she frequently explained to visitors when the house was open to the public, the really marvellous thing about Sir Tristram’s legacy was not only that he’d been an uncontrollable collector of just about everything under the sun, but that he had never allowed anything to be thrown away! As a consequence, the large house still contained not only a very valuable collection of Victorian paintings, but practically every room was full to overflowing with an extraordinary assortment of strange objects.

Realising that there ought to be a proper catalogue of all the various items—instead of the original, dusty labels written in Sir Tristram’s spidery handwriting—Angelica had once attempted to compile a list of each room’s contents. But after spending three weeks on the job, she had been dismayed to find that she’d barely scratched the surface—and had abandoned what seemed a hopeless task. Quite apart from trying to describe all the Greek and Roman statues, Peruvian pottery, Egyptian mummies, Chinese ceramics, rough gem stones and various objects in silver and gold, Angelica hadn’t a clue where the collection of shrunken heads came from—Borneo, perhaps?— and she could only hazard a wild guess as to the use of some of those frightening, horrific-looking scientific instruments.

However, quite determined that his collection should be kept intact, Sir Tristram had formed a complicated trust—backed by a very large sum of money—to preserve the house and its contents for the interest of future generations. Unfortunately, almost one hundred years after his death, Sir Tristram Lonsdale’s legacy was providing considerable difficulties for both his trustees and Angelica.