Like the man himself, Claire had seen countless pictures of the McFarland mansion in the tabloids as well as the glossy human interest publications. But no photograph alone could prepare her for that first glimpse of the magnificent brick structure as the limo purred up the meandering, oak-lined drive. It stood like a proud king overlooking the peasants below, never wavering, never blinking, never changing. A royal house for an American prince. Claire shuddered as the house—it felt strange calling such a grand building such an ordinary word—grew closer and closer. She couldn’t imagine living there for the next year. Why the front porch alone was bigger than the entire house she had shared with Nanie.

“Claire?”

Startled, she peeled her nose and forehead from the window and turned to face her husband. Oh, Lord, what had she done?

“Are you ready?”

He was standing, slightly bent at the waist as to see into the limo’s back seat. With a questioning look on his handsome face, he held open the car door for her.

“Y-yes?” Claire stammered, trying for at least a measure of sophistication. She could tell by the look on the driver’s face that she had not succeeded.

“We’re here.”

“Of course,” she replied and resisted the urge to wince at her over-loud statement. “We couldn’t very well be driving down the road with you holding open the door, now could we?” she finished on a breathless wheeze.

Tristan chuckled. “No, I suppose not.”

“Well, then we’re here.” She smacked her hand down on the smooth leather seat.

“Claire?”

“Yes?”

“Would you like to get out of the car now? Or should I have Holmes serve your dinner in the limo?”

Claire felt the blush start at her toes and like a flash work its way up to the ends of her hair. “Oh, no,” she said. “I’m coming.” She slid across the seat to the open door, all the while wondering who Holmes was. She was fairly certain that he wasn’t the chauffeur and with a mansion the size that Tristan owned that left only about a dozen or so servants that he could be. What a comfort. “Dinner at the table will be just fine.”

Tristan offered Claire a hand out of the car. She ignored the sizzle where her skin touched his. And the looming structure that seemed as large as a hotel. And the falling sensation in her belly.

“Whoa.” Tristan tucked her arm through hers as she pulled herself to rights. There must be more to that champagne than she realized. Or maybe it was just nerves.

Together they made their way to the large glossy black, side-by-side doors of the mansion.

“Are you ready for this?” Tristan’s voice was low and near her ear, his warm breath stirring the flyaway strands of her hair.

She looked at the massive front doors, then allowed her gaze to swing to the green, green yard and the winding drive that led to the house. All around her birds chirped and sang, flying from one tree branch to the other in the expensive-looking, perfectly manicured lawn. Riotous flowers bloomed, creating a barrage of color all over the McFarland grounds. Everywhere she looked spring was in bloom. She envied the life bustling around her. The birds, the trees, the flowers, they all knew what to do while she felt…lost.

He patted her hand, the simple gesture somehow bringing her back to herself. It was only for a year.

Then he opened the big doors and led her inside.

Immediately, she felt as if she had stepped into a hotel lobby. A very large lobby in a very expensive hotel. Cream colored marble gleamed under the mellow golden light cast down by a chandelier the size of a bus. The room held enough antiques to fill a museum, all of which had been pushed against the oak paneled walls as if they were being punished.

There was a hushed air about the place and Claire was certain that even angels dared not tread there. Despite a welcoming glow and the warm tones of the room’s decor, the temperature seemed to be set on hanging meat. She couldn’t tell if the frigid air came from the faintly humming air-conditioning unit or the stiff-backed staff.

“Master Tristan.” A tall, livered butler greeted his employer but stared down his nose at Claire as if she were yesterday’s trash returning from the dead.

“Claire.” Tristan pulled her even with him and until that moment she hadn’t realized that she had fallen a step behind. “This is Holmes, the butler.” The regal man gave a small nod.

“Sarah, the downstairs maid. JoAnn, the upstairs maid. And Belinda, the cook. Elizabeth is the housekeeper. Frank takes care of the garden. Trent takes care of the pool…”

They walked side by side down the line of uniformed servants. Did he really expect her to remember all their names? She repeated each one in her head three times, but she was certain by the time they all went back to their duties, she wouldn’t remember anyone’s name, including her own.

Each member murmured a welcome, but Claire could tell that they were sizing her up, wondering how she factored into this marriage and the death of their matriarch.

Then the introductions were over and the staff dispersed, all disappearing in a different direction as they headed off to complete their daily duties.

Claire, Holmes, and Tristan stood in the foyer.

Her husband turned to her, his mouth twisting into a grimace of feigned regret. “Claire, I have some work to finish up in my office. Holmes will help you get settled in.”

What could she do but nod in agreement.

“Very good then.” Holmes nodded. “I’ll show you to your suite.”

With one silent look back at her husband, Claire followed Holmes out the circus-tent-sized foyer and up the Gone-With-The-Wind staircase. They passed several closed doors on the second floor before he came to an abrupt halt, Claire almost slamming into his back.

“This is…your suite.”

Claire didn’t miss the hesitation before the word. The man didn’t need to make it any clearer. He didn’t want her here.

Perhaps he thought she had only married Tristan for his fortune, and Holmes didn’t want her to get her hands on the McFarland money.

Perhaps he thought that as a faithful servant to the McFarlands, he would be entitled to a portion of the inheritance.

Perhaps she had been reading too many Agatha Christie novels.

Tristan had a brother and if anyone else was eligible to share the fortune it would undoubtedly be Devin McFarland.

“Dinner will be served in the dining room promptly at six.” Holmes bowed in farewell and disappeared down the hallway.

Hesitantly, Claire stepped from the gleaming hardwood of the corridor to the feet-sucking plush carpet of the suite. It took her a second to find the light switch, then the room was flooded with smooth, recessed lighting. And she had thought the foyer was large!

Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined that one person could have a room this enormous all to themselves. The room had a not-used feel to it. There was an over-stuffed evergreen couch, a matching loveseat, and a navy blue and green plaid chair and ottoman. The entire set up was complimented by casually placed chambray throw pillows giving the room a dash of country charm. Off in one corner, an over-large bleached oak entertainment center majestically matched the sturdy but elegant coffee table and twin end tables. A large screen TV was mounted above.

Claire tip-toed her way across the room, careful not to disturb the balance of beauty and charm laid out before her. Where was she supposed to sleep?

Maybe the couch made out into a bed. She shook her head. A man as wealthy as Tristan didn’t have to furnish his guest rooms with hide-a-beds like the ordinary people of suburban America.

Perhaps Holmes had a sense of humor after all and this was his idea of a joke. Nah, there was no way the starched butler was born with a funny bone. If he had been, Claire was fairly certain that by now he had had the pesky thing surgically removed.

Hesitating before one of the doors, Claire took a deep breath then reached for the knob. She may be going to live here for the next year, but she still felt as if she were trespassing. Slowly she turned the distressed bronze handle and reached for the light switch.

A bathroom. Matching green rugs, creamy white twin basins and distressed bronze faucet handles. Beautiful.

And a bathroom must mean…

She practically flew across the room and flung open the opposite door. This space was decorated in the same colors of the living area, same sturdy and functional bleached oak furniture. But this time a bigger-than-big bed dominated the decor.

Claire immediately fell in love. The room— suite—was beautiful. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, and it was all hers. She twirled around, laughing and hugging herself. The next year wouldn’t be so bad. She may be living in a mausoleum with a man who— though married to her—acted as if he didn’t know she existed, with a gaggle of servants who weren’t bashful about their disapproval, but she had sanctuary. She had this room.

Finally feeling as if she belonged, Claire ran to the closet and threw open the doors. The storage space was larger than her bedroom at Nanie’s and filled with her clothes as well as a month’s worth of men’s suits, shirts, and ties. There were even a few extra pieces of women’s wear that, although beautiful, didn’t belong to her. When Ian and Tristan had said that she would have everything she would need here, they really meant everything.

With a squeal of glee, she raced to the bathroom and threw open the medicine cabinet. Rows and rows of top of the line toiletries met her gaze. Both male and female. It seemed as if her husband was prepared for visitors of both genders. Her own things had been added to the menagerie.

So much for settling in. It seemed someone had already done that for her.

She shrugged. Surely not having to unpack her own bags was just another perk of being married to a billionaire. But if this was how things were going to go for the next year, then she was going to be mighty spoiled by the time she and Tristan went their separate ways.

Three hours later, Claire sat alone at one end of a cherry dining room table that easily could have accommodated fourteen. Holmes had informed her in his ultra-starched manner that, “Master Tristan” was still working and would be unable to join her.

She had filled her down time between the wedding ceremony and supper sitting on a concrete bench in the McFarland gardens. The mansion’s grounds were nothing short of spectacular, and Claire found a bit of solace resting among the rose bushes and English ivy nestled in the beautiful gardens. So much solace that she was actually starting to feel more like her old self when she had wandered back to the mansion for dinner. Her inner peace was slowly slipping away once again as she faced her lonely meal.

Oh, the food was grand enough. She wasn’t sure exactly what she was eating. Some sort of fancy chicken smothered in a fancy sauce that she was certain had an even fancier name. The disapproving maid hadn’t informed her what was for dinner, and Claire wasn’t about to shame herself any more today by showing the staff her lack of knowledge of fine dining. Like they didn’t already know.

With a sigh, Claire pushed a bite around with the silver fork, then took a sip of wine out of the crystal goblet. She felt more out of place than a fish out of—

“Coffee?”

Startled, Claire whipped her head around to stare blankly at the elegant housekeeper. Leave it to Tristan McFarland to have a housekeeper with such a regal name as Elizabeth. “I’m sorry?”

“Would you like some coffee?”

“No, thank you.” She turned her attention back to her plate, sorry to say that the elegant meal tasted more like day-old hay than fine cuisine.

“Perhaps you would like to retire for the evening?” This came from Holmes, who suddenly appeared at Elizabeth’s elbow. Both servants had matching expressions: boredom mixed with just the right amount of disdain and topped off with a small helping of contempt that Claire was certain was solely for her.

“Yes,” she replied with strong conviction. She tossed down her napkin. It had been a long day, and she would enjoy nothing more than lying down and watching a little bit of television before bed. “I would very much like to…retire for the evening.”

Feeling happy for the first time that day, Claire climbed the stairs to her beautiful room. She slipped out of her wedding dress and into a night shirt she assumed one of the servants had left out for her.

In the second entertainment center in the bedroom, she uncovered the remote control and turned on the television. It seemed the McFarland house streamed all their entertainment. She wasn’t familiar with the process, but she managed to find an old Alfred Hitchcock movie to watch.

With a smile on her lips, she snuggled down into the crisp chambray sheets and hit the play button. Forty minutes later, she drifted off to sleep, wondering how Tristan managed to get the sheets in the guest room to smell like him. Now that was talent.

Tristan closed the office door behind him and expelled a tired sigh. The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed in perfect sequence with the hollow sounds of his footsteps against the marble floor. He didn’t need the antique to tell him it was after midnight. The gritty feeling in his eyes and the knot of tension between his shoulder blades were perfect indications of the late hour.

Who knew that getting married could take so much out of a person?

But it wasn’t the wedding that had worn him thin today, but the Skype board meeting.

He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.

As usual, they were unhappy. This time concerning the designs for the upcoming fall season. He had done a bang-up job waylaying their fears. He had made promises of new designs, perhaps even a new designer, then he’d spent the rest of the afternoon trying to obtain said promises with no solution in sight.

He had the best interest of McFarland at heart. Couldn’t they see that? Why else would he get married? Okay, so he’d done it for McFarland and his inheritance, but they knew how much the company meant to him.

He’d never realized until today how much his aunt had helped him. Oh, he could tell a good design from a bad one, but it was Pat who had the eye for color. It was Pat who could tell what was wrong with the design. What Tristan made up for in business savvy, his aunt made up in sheer design know-how. What he needed—as much as he hated to admit it— was an assistant. Someone who could fill his aunt’s shoes and give him a break where the Board was concerned.

Yeah, right. That’s what he needed, someone else to answer to. Like he hadn’t gotten enough in acquiring a wife.

Tristan let out another long sigh as he climbed the stairs to his suite. He was simply under too much pressure right now. His aunt couldn’t have picked a worst time to kick the bucket and force him to get married. He had enough going on trying to convince the Board that he could run the company without his aunt’s guidance. That he could turn out their usual spectacular spring line. That he could acquire the designs for the fall. He had enough on his plate without adding a wife to the list.

Knowing that she was somewhere in his house doing God-only-knew-what, had bugged him all afternoon. He’d close his eyes and try to concentrate and all he could see were those not-so-medium aqua-colored eyes staring at him after he’d kissed her.

Even though she had spoken less than ten words to him, she had somehow turned his world on its ear.

Quietly, Tristan let himself into his room without turning on the light. There was no need; he had taken this walk many times after working late. He knew where all the furniture was. He waited a couple of seconds until his eyes adjusted to the darkened room.

He slipped out of his shoes and padded toward the door that led to his sleeping quarters. All he wanted right now was a few hours of shut eye. A few hours to forget everything this day had brought, including—and especially—his wife.

Letting his clothes lay where they dropped, he shucked down to his boxers and climbed into his bed.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.    

A MILLION TO ONE

Copyright 2023 by Amy Lillard 

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.    

They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.  

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

previously published as All You Need Is Love copyright 2013 by Amy Lillard

significant changes have been made to the original manuscript resulting in new copyright status