by Kate Hardy
She really didn’t look like the scruffy archaeologist Simon had rejected; she barely recognised the woman in the photograph. So maybe tonight she could be whoever she wanted.
She sent the selfie to her best friend. ‘OK?’
‘More than OK. Utterly perfect,’ was Natalie’s verdict. ‘Have fun!’
A ball wasn’t Holly’s idea of fun, but she duly took a taxi to the venue.
Natalie had been right to choose this dress. It made Holly feel amazing. How long had it been since she’d felt this confident in herself? She hadn’t even felt confident when she’d tried on the wedding dress—which in itself should’ve been a sign that she had been doing the wrong thing. Maybe, she thought, Simon’s defection actually meant she’d had a lucky escape from a marriage that would eventually have made her miserable.
And she wasn’t going to think of her ex any more. She was going to enjoy the evening. She’d listen to good music, eat good food, and soak up the history.
The manor house was utterly gorgeous—built from mellow golden stone in the traditional Elizabethan ‘E’ shape, with pointed gables, ornate chimney stacks and stone mullioned windows. She smiled as she paid the driver and crunched along the gravel path to the front door; Nat was definitely right about her loving the house.
Inside was even better. There was a grand entrance hall and a library with an elaborate plaster ceiling, tall bookcases and oak panelling around huge windows. Better still was the first-floor gallery, which actually stretched the whole length of the house, and just off it was the ballroom where Regency dancing was already taking place. Holly took a few shots for Natalie, knowing her friend would love seeing all the costumes, then went through to the gallery and looked out into the gardens. Below was a perfect knot garden that echoed the design of the ceiling in the library; the framework of box hedge was filled in with lavender, rosemary and marjoram, with strategically placed alliums and roses. On a warm late spring evening like this, it would smell heavenly.
Behind the knot garden were lawns that sloped down to the lake, and she could see a bandstand in the middle with a small boat tied up just behind it. The string quartet was already in place; and hadn’t Natalie suggested that she could just sit outside and listen to the music with a glass of Pimm’s? Better that than being a wallflower in the ballroom, Holly thought, and headed out to listen to the music.
CHAPTER TWO
HARRY SETTLED INTO his chair on the bandstand; he’d checked the set-up beforehand, making sure there were four armless chairs and good overhead lighting for the musicians, and they’d all come across on the lake on the flat-bottomed motor launch. Thankfully it was warm enough to play outside without risking damage to their instruments; and actually he loved the idea of playing in the middle of a lake.
They’d been booked to play for two hours, and between them they’d come up with a mixture of classical music and film tunes that their audience should enjoy. Thankfully none of the others in the quartet was a music snob and they enjoyed playing the crowd-pleasers as much as he did, from Pachelbel to Bach to Mozart.
‘I know we’re already playing “The Swan”,’ Lucy, the quartet’s viola player, said, ‘but, since people have seen us get over here on a boat shaped like a swan, I think we ought to do “Dance of the Little Swans” as well.’
‘Agreed,’ Drew and Stella, the quartet’s violinists, said.
‘Or,’ Harry suggested, ‘a bit of T-Rex. “Ride a White Swan”.’ He plucked a couple of bars to illustrate his point. ‘Or there’s—’
‘None of your experimental stuff tonight,’ Lucy cut in with a grin, clearly having a good idea what he was going to suggest next. ‘We’re only playing music people know well. Traditional stuff.’
‘“Dance of the Little Swans” it is,’ Harry capitulated. ‘Let’s do that first.’ The venue was beautiful and the event tonight made him think of all the things his family could do with Beauchamp Abbey, if his father wasn’t so difficult. Though he shoved the thought away. Tonight wasn’t about Viscount Moran. Harry was just going to enjoy the gorgeous late spring evening, and the joy of playing music he adored in such a fabulous setting.
They began with the Tchaikovsky, and segued into Harry’s arrangement of Fauré’s ‘Sicilienne’ before playing the first of the show tunes. People came to sit at the edge of the lake for a while, then drifted off again to go back for the dancing, while others took a break from the dancing and came to enjoy the quartet.
As the sun slowly went down, the sky turning amazing colours that were reflected in the lake, their audience grew smaller; but Harry noticed one woman in a red dress who seemed to be there for the entire performance. Usually people came to a ball in couples or in groups; he wondered why she was sitting alone. And it distracted him to the point where he nearly missed a note; cross with himself, he refocused and tried not to look at her.
But, despite his best efforts, something about the woman in red drew him. To the point where the only way he could concentrate was to promise himself that, as soon as he was back on dry land, he’d go in search of her and say hello.
* * *
Holly adored the music that the string quartet was playing. There was some really clever adaptation of music from shows and pieces that were usually performed by larger orchestral groups; she really loved Gershwin’s ‘Summertime’, with the focus on the solo cello, and Bach’s ‘Air on a G String’. She could’ve listened to them play all night. Even though the sun had set and it was starting to get chilly, she really didn’t want to go back inside the hall for the dancing.
She sat at the water’s edge until the swan-shaped motor launch brought the quartet back to shore, then decided to go inside for just long enough to take a couple of pictures for Natalie before heading back to her hotel in the centre of Bath. She was about to haul herself to her feet when a man sat down beside her on the bank. ‘Hello.’
He was absolutely gorgeous, with dark hair and midnight-blue eyes; and he was dressed like a Regency buck in white pantaloons, a white linen shirt with a fancy cravat, a cream silk waistcoat and a navy tailcoat. Holly was shocked to find that it was suddenly hard to breathe. She didn’t react to men like this. Ever. She hadn’t even felt like this when she’d met Simon. Oh, for pity’s sake, what was wrong with her? She just about managed to reply with a shy, ‘Hello.’
‘I noticed you sitting here earlier. Would you mind if I joined you?’
Help. When was the last time anyone had chatted her up? Simon, eight years ago—and look how badly that had turned out. Holly was about to make a flimsy excuse to leave, but she could hear her best friend’s voice in her head: The best way to get over someone is to have a mad fling...
She had no intention of doing that, but it wouldn’t kill her to have a conversation with a handsome stranger. Though it would help if she didn’t look at him, because those gorgeous blue eyes took her breath away. ‘Sure.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. Why do you ask?’
‘It’s getting chillier out here, the music has stopped, and there’s dancing inside,’ he said.
‘Dancing isn’t really my thing,’ she admitted.
‘Which rather begs the question why you came to a ball.’ Though he didn’t look snooty. He looked intrigued. Interested. As if he wanted to know more about her.
‘My best friend organised the tickets—except she went down with a tummy bug, and persuaded me to come anyway.’
‘So you’re here alone?’ He grimaced. ‘Sorry. That sounded a bit creepy, which really wasn’t my intention.’
‘It’s fine.’ Though she appreciated the fact he was sensitive. ‘I was about to call a taxi back to my hotel.’
‘Have you eaten tonight?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she admitted.
‘Neither have I. Come and have something at the buffet with me, and I’ll give you a lift back into the city afterwa
rds,’ he invited. ‘As long as you don’t mind sitting in the front of the car with me—I’m afraid my cello takes up the entire back seat.’
Then Holly realised who he was. ‘You were playing in the bandstand earlier.’
He inclined his head. ‘The ball was organised by a close friend of Lucy, our viola player, so we agreed to play here tonight. Actually, it was fun—I haven’t played in the middle of a lake before, and it’s definitely the first time I’ve gone anywhere by swan.’
‘I really enjoyed the music,’ she said, and then was cross with herself for sounding so star-struck and gauche.
He smiled. ‘I rather hoped that was why you were sitting there all evening.’
He’d noticed that? Then again, there weren’t many women here wearing dresses the same colour as hers. Most were wearing cream or navy. ‘Natalie, my best friend, said she thought I’d end up out here listening to the music rather than dancing.’ She shivered, suddenly aware of the cold.
He noticed, because he shrugged off his tailcoat and placed it around her shoulders.
‘Thank you. That’s very gallant—and quite befitting a Regency gentleman,’ she said.
‘I’m Harry,’ he said, holding his hand out to shake hers. ‘Nice to meet you.’
‘Holly. Often as prickly as my name,’ she said. And how weird it was that her skin tingled when she took his hand to shake it. She’d never experienced that before either.
He grinned. ‘I must remember that when I get accused of being overly pushy. Harry by name, harry by nature.’
Maybe it was a warning; but she instinctively liked him and he didn’t strike her as being the difficult type. Then again, her intuition had been way off beam with Simon. Could she trust her intuition any more? On the other hand, he was a stranger. She could be whoever she wanted tonight: the woman in a red dress who stood out from the crowd.
Her confidence back, she pushed her doubts aside and walked back to the house with him. ‘The music was so wonderful, I assume you’ve played together for some time.’
‘Professionally, for about six years,’ he said. ‘We went to the same college and all hit it off, so it made sense to work together afterwards.’
‘Six years? Are you quite well known, then?’ The awkwardness came back. ‘I apologise for not recognising you.’
‘I’m not quite on the same level as Jacqueline du Pré or Steven Isserlis,’ he said with a smile.
Meaning that he was actually rather well known but was modest about it, Holly thought. She liked the way he was so matter-of-fact.
‘I don’t actually care whether people recognise me or not, as long I get to play. The music is what really matters,’ he said.
‘Do what you love and love what you do,’ she mused. ‘My grandfather was fond of saying that.’
‘Your grandfather was a wise man,’ he said.
‘Very,’ she agreed.
She gave the tailcoat back to Harry as soon as they reached the house, then went in to the buffet with him. They watched the dancers while they ate.
‘Are you sure I can’t tempt you?’ he asked, gesturing to the dance floor.
‘I’m very sure,’ she said with a smile, ‘unless you’re seriously good at Regency dancing and can teach me all the steps in about three seconds flat.’
‘Or we could do the alternative—there’s another room for those who enjoy dressing up in all the Regency finery but would rather stick to more modern dancing. One dance, and then I’ll take you back to your hotel?’ he suggested.
The sensible thing would be to say no, and get the taxi.
But something in his blue, blue eyes drew her.
‘One dance,’ Holly said. ‘Though you’ll still need to show me the steps.’
Simon had never really been into dancing, so she’d never actually learned how to do ballroom dancing—just the slightly awkward shuffle that most students did at discos and formal balls. She’d always thought that she had two left feet. But dancing with Harry the cellist was something else entirely. Especially because the next dance was a waltz, and Harry dipped and swayed and spun her, guiding her movements so she felt as if she was gliding on air, not putting a single foot wrong.
He swept her off her feet to the point where one dance led to two, then three.
And when the music changed from a formal ballroom dance to a soft, slow dance, Harry drew her closer and she found her arms were wrapped around him. They were so close together that she could feel his heart beating, strong and slightly fast—just like her own.
Dancing cheek to cheek.
So this was what it felt like.
Not the awkward and slightly embarrassing shuffle of her student years, but something that made her feel breathless and dizzy. The feeling increased as she realised that Harry had moved his head so that his lips were just touching the corner of her mouth. All she had to do was to move her head a tiny fraction and his lips would be against hers.
Could she?
Should she?
Her heart rate kicked up a notch as she shifted a tiny, tiny fraction. Suddenly the music and everything else around her vanished: all she was aware of was Harry, and the way he made her feel. Her lips touched his, and his arms tightened round her. He brushed his mouth against hers, almost as if asking permission, and then she kissed him lightly in response. And then they were really kissing, clinging to each other as if they were drowning.
When was the last time she’d been kissed like this, making her feel as if she were burning up from the inside out? She couldn’t remember. All she could focus on was the feeling, right here, right now.
He broke the kiss and his gaze held hers. ‘Shall we get out of here?’
Holly was shocked to realise that she’d completely blanked out her surroundings. She’d just let a total stranger sweep her off her feet and kiss her stupid in the middle of a crowded ballroom. This wasn’t what she did. She was sensible Holly Weston, usually found in a lecture theatre or in a trench somewhere, wearing jeans and a sensible long-sleeved shirt and a hat to protect her from the sun and insects. The woman wearing a red Regency dress, dancing in a ballroom, felt like a completely different person.
Out of here, he’d suggested. She nodded, and he took her hand and led her out of the hall. They stopped to collect his cello, and Holly thought that her common sense was starting to come back—but then they got to his car and he kissed her again, and her common sense vanished once more at the speed of light.
He drove them back to Bath. Then, as they reached the outskirts of the city, he said, ‘I can drop you at your hotel now. Or perhaps you’d like to come back to where I’m staying and have a drink with me?’
Holly opened her mouth, intending to tell him that dropping her by the train station was just fine, thank you—but her libido had clearly overpowered her common sense, because she found herself saying, ‘I’d love to come back for a drink. Thank you.’
Was she crazy?
She didn’t know this man at all.
OK, so he played the cello beautifully—but he was still a stranger, and they hadn’t even swapped surnames. This was real life, where you didn’t go off with someone you didn’t know, no matter how amazing his kisses were or how brilliantly he played the cello. What on earth was she doing?
Then he pulled up outside a sweeping Georgian terrace, a building she recognised as one of Bath’s landmarks.
‘You’re staying here?’ She blinked in surprise. ‘Are you telling me you own a flat in this building?’
‘No, I’m borrowing it. It belongs to an old friend. Ferdy lives in London, but he spends most of his weekends here. As he’s not here this particular weekend, he lent me the key to his pied-à-terre,’ Harry said with a smile.
Clearly Harry the cellist was very well connected. She hadn’t registered it before that moment, but his car was an expensive saloon. Top of th
e range. And a flat in this building would be eye-wateringly expensive for a main home, let alone a second. So either Harry was a lot more famous than he admitted to being, or he came from a really wealthy background. In both cases, she didn’t measure up.
Par for the course.
She really ought to make an excuse and go back to her hotel. Except it would be rude, given that she’d already accepted his invitation. And he’d been so nice. And, actually, she wanted to spend more time with him.
‘Come in,’ he said, and retrieved his cello from the back of the car.
Once he’d unlocked the front door, he ushered her inside and tapped in the code to switch off the alarm.
‘This is amazing,’ she said, taking in the plasterwork on the ceiling, the deep cream-coloured walls and the elaborate doorframes. ‘The perfect Georgian flat.’ And how appropriate that both she and Harry were dressed in Georgian finery.
‘Let me give you the grand tour,’ Harry said. ‘This is the sitting room.’
It had a high ceiling with a very elegant chandelier; the walls were painted a deep mustard colour and there were floor-to-ceiling sash windows dressed with dark blue velvet curtains, complementing the deep mustard velvet sofas. The black-leaded fireplace had deep blue tiles and a white marble surround, and the stripped wood floor had a rug in the centre in tones of blue and mustard. The whole thing felt distinctly Georgian; even the paintings looked appropriate to the era, with large portraits of women and children in Georgian clothing.
‘Are they family portraits?’ she asked.
‘Probably. Knowing Ferdy, he most likely borrowed them from his gran,’ Harry said.
She and Harry were from very different worlds; in hers, there might be a few photographs of great-great-grandparents if you were lucky, but actual painted portraits? She’d never met anyone like that.
He took off his jacket and laid it across the back of one of the sofas, then set his cello case down safely on the floor before ushering her to the next doorway. ‘I think you can work this one out for yourself,’ he said, gesturing to the kitchen-diner. Like the sitting room, the room had a stripped wooden floor, though the walls here were painted duck-egg blue. There were white painted cabinets, which she assumed also hid the fridge and freezer, and a discreet state-of-the-art cooker. At one end of the room there was a table with six chairs and a dresser with antique china plates, cups and saucers on display. More of his friend’s family heirlooms? she wondered.
