Miles scowled. ‘I’m getting out of here as soon as humanly possible,’ he said. ‘Coming back here . . .’ He trailed off and stared out of the window.
‘The family lawyer is going to read the will after the wake, I hear,’ said Chrissy with a little too much enthusiasm.
‘Really?’ said Grace. ‘I hadn’t heard.’
She caught Miles flashing her a warning look.
‘Sod this,’ he said, draining his glass. ‘I’m going for a ride.’
‘Ooh, that sounds good,’ said Chrissy.
‘On my own,’ he said pointedly and stalked out of the room.
Miles rode the mare hard, her hooves sending clods of earth flying behind them. He followed the line of the river, jumping fences and fallen logs, then pushed her up the hill to the wood right on the edge of the estate, glorious in the bleak colour palette of winter. Having been based in New York for the last two years to oversee the American Globe clubs, he was glad to be back in England.
‘Good girl,’ he said, patting the horse’s neck as he dismounted, tying her to a tree and letting her graze while he lit a cigarette and gazed out on to the vastness of the estate, a carpet of green, grey and heather. All mine, he thought with a twisted smile. Well, maybe if I’d played it differently.
Miles had thought about this day many times, the day his father would pass on. He had imagined he would feel triumphant and elated that he had just succeeded his father to the throne. Even though Robert had disinherited Miles, his father’s death still made him head of the Ashford dynasty. The money would go to Connie, he supposed, but for Miles, Robert’s death meant one thing: freedom. No one ever looked down on a reigning monarch and scoffed, ‘Oh, well his father gave him that title.’ Now the king was dead, Miles could finally escape his long shadow.
But Miles felt no note of victory, just an aching sadness that he had seen so little of his father over the last decade, that Robert had never acknowledged his success, never patted him on the head and said ‘Well done’. Because Miles had never hated Robert Ashford, he had just wanted his recognition. All of his drive, all of his achievements had come from a desire to please his father. In fact now Miles could see that without his father’s ultimatum over Chrissy that Christmas, he would probably have frittered his trust funds away like Piers Jackson and all his other friends in London, earning a low-six-figure salary and living in a semi-detached house in Putney or Fulham.
He threw his cigarette away and snorted at the irony. Of all the things his father had done for him, his rejection had been his greatest gift.
‘Thanks, Pops,’ he said quietly.
He narrowed his gaze and saw another horse approaching from the house. He shook his head. It was just like Chrissy to go against his express wishes. But as the animal drew nearer, he could see that the rider was an expert: Connie Ashford.
‘Mum?’ he said, taking her horse’s reins as she dismounted.‘What are you doing out?’
She pulled off her helmet and swept her ash-blond hair back from her face. She looked strangely calm and controlled.
‘The other option is to stay wallowing in the house. I thought blasting the cobwebs out might help.’
‘Are you OK?’ he asked as he tied her horse up.
‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
Miles smiled. ‘No reason,’ he said.
Connie sat down on a fallen log and Miles joined her.
‘So why are you out here?’ she said after a while. ‘Not another argument with Chrissy?’
Miles looked away. He hated how his mother seemed to be able to tap straight into his moods and thoughts. Some sort of maternal voodoo, he supposed.
‘Do you know how much I hate Sasha Sinclair?’ he whispered.
‘Miles, let it go. It’s not worth it.’
He closed his eyes, then opened them again, sweeping his gaze across the stunning rural vista. ‘Do you think Dad ever came up here and looked at everything he had?’ he said finally.
‘Your father was very proud of you, you know,’ said Connie.
Miles looked at his mother cynically. ‘I think he made it perfectly clear how he felt about me at your birthday party, Mum.’
‘That was a long time ago, darling. A lot of things have changed since then.’
‘You’re not telling me he mellowed in his old age?’