The Englishwoman Trilogy: Box set of: Englishwoman in Paris, Englishwoman in Scotland, Englishwoman in Manhattan

by Jenny O'Brien

  She’d woken up early and, wrapping herself in a thin dressing gown, raced downstairs to put the kettle on the hotplate before heading back for a quick shower. Everything was quick; it had to be if the list of tasks she had to undertake was to be completed. The first one, of course, was collecting the eggs, something she did with a sense of nervousness. She must have gone back to check the little gold plated sliding bolt five times just to make sure before picking up the wicker basket and heading back to an already stewed mug of tea.

  She’d have loved to have abandoned her day, a day which would see her pinned to the kitchen like something from a nineteenth century workhouse. She’d love to rest her arms on the moss covered wall by the castle’s stone pillared entrance and just bide awhile, her eyes seaward towards the islands beyond. Islands she wanted to see before she had to leave. But she didn’t. This dinner party had to be perfect down to the last glass, polished fork, immaculate table linen and floral centrepiece. It had to be perfect, not for Lady Brayely and certainly not for Tor. It had to be perfect for her, just her, because it might very well be the last dinner party she had sole control over.

  Before she knew it, the clock had ticked its wearisome way full circle round to 6 pm. The bread rolls were in the oven just as the scallops were resting in a covered glass bowl on the table. The rhubarb crumble was in the larder and the trout all ready to pop in the Aga when the time was right. Cooking and baking was all about timing, something she’d learnt the hard way in France, the happiest of months up until that last day.

  Monsieur De Gerai had been a hard task master but then she hadn’t expected anything less. She hadn’t expected to fall in love with both the city and its people either. She’d felt independent and free for the very first time, free from all the boundaries an aristocratic upbringing brought. Her parents were happy, more than happy she was both out of their way and safely under the thumb of someone they both knew and respected. She’d have stayed if her life hadn’t turned out to be an illusion. She’d have stayed forever, instead of running away. Yes, she’d learnt a lot during her stay in France, and most of it not about the art of cooking.

  Time was now on fast forward and she needed five minutes, just five minutes to wash her face and change into one of the white blouses and plain skirts she’d bought in Harrods. She marshalled Mr Todd to keep an eye on everything while she went to check on the table in the dining room, ignoring his look of manly horror with a gentle laugh. She wanted to tweak the trailing flower arrangement she’d made from bits and pieces from the garden she’d gathered earlier. There’d been few flowers to speak of but she’d managed well enough with ivy, fern fronds and strands of heather. But now she wanted to check that everything was just so.

  Running into the room she skittered to a halt at the sight of Tor, standing in front of the fireplace while he fiddled with his tie.

  ‘Bloody stupid thing. Of all the contraptions known to man I just don’t get the bloody bow tie. If I’d known she’d insist I wouldn’t have agreed to attend.’

  She must have moved because suddenly he wasn’t staring into the mirror but swivelling around to face her, a rueful grin on his face.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t know…’

  ‘Please don’t apologise. I know all about men and their relationship with the ‘bloody bow tie’, she said with a smile. ‘I’ve brothers who could never manage either. They were always nagging me to help.’

  ‘Well, come on then.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Come on where?’

  ‘Help me sort it out.’ He must have caught her frown because he was in front of her, his hand dangling the offending article from the very tip of his fingers, his gaze roaming over her face, her lips, her neck before finally meeting her eyes with a sheepish grin.

  ‘Please, Miss Smith, would you do me the kindness of helping me with this blasted thing?’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’

  ‘The name is Tor.’ He faced her, the tie now dangling around his neck.

  ‘And mine is Tansy,’ she replied, reaching her hands up.

  ‘Ah yes, Tansy one of the most dangerous of…’

  ‘I’d be very careful if I were you,’ she said, pulling none too gently on both ends before starting to fold. ‘It would help if you could bend your knees or something,’ she added, standing on tiptoe as she tried to pull the satin fabric into shape.

  ‘Ha, I’ll just bet you’d love me to go on bended knees…’ he said with a chuckle but he crouched down all the same before adding, ‘This is really kind of you.’

  ‘I’m not being kind.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said, I’m not being kind. As lord of the manor and the son of my employer I’m just doing what I’m told,’ she said, finally tweaking the tie in place. ‘There, you’re all done,’ she added, turning towards the table and moving a fork a centimetre to the left before shifting her hand towards the floral centrepiece.

  She felt his presence a second before she felt his hands mould themselves over her shoulders, forcing her to turn around and face him. One hand moved, circling and then lifting her chin so that she was forced to meet his eyes. It was meet his eyes or close them and there was no way she’d close them, not now. Not with him. Not ever.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think I’m done, Tansy. In fact, I’m far from done. As the hired help is being so accommodating I can think of a raft of other things you can help me with…’ he said, lowering his head a whisper away from her lips, his breath stroking her skin like a caress.

  And suddenly she wanted him. She wanted him more than she’d wanted anything in her life. She wanted the weight of his lips on hers delving, devouring, consuming and not just his lips as his hand shifted from her shoulder to curl around the base of her neck. Yet how could that be? How could she want him, she puzzled, trying and failing to concentrate on her breathing as his fingers left the safe confines of her skin to pile drive through her hair? How could she hate him, all of him, and yet want him with a desperate passion that defied all sense? He was her worst nightmare, wasn't he? He was the sort of man that was prepared to get himself married to someone he’d never met all because she had the right parentage. And he wouldn’t be faithful, her mother had been completely wrong on that score. He wouldn’t be faithful if his current behaviour was anything to go by. At the first sight of anything in a skirt he’d be off trying to play parlour games with the maid or, God forbid, the nanny if they ever went on to have children.

  Her heart skipped a beat even as her hands bunched into tight fists. No, she couldn’t allow herself to like someone like him, someone that tried it on at the first opportunity. She hated him. She hated all men like him and she should know as a sudden picture of Monsieur de Gerai appeared before her eyelids. Monsieur de Gerai, the man her father had entrusted with her wellbeing. Oh, she knew all about positions of trust and the way men broke them as soon as their wives were out of the way. She hated him, even as his lips shifted that final distance and smoothed themselves over her flesh with a soft grunt.

  Her eyes flickered closed despite themselves, her long lashes splaying out over pale cheeks even as her heart twisted under her ribs. His lips, gentle at first wavered as if they too were finding their way but soon the gentleness faded as the pressure increased and she was lost. His tongue, probing, insistent, firm, finally breaching all her defences and her legs would have buckled if he hadn’t shifted his arm from her head to her waist. Her hands, unfurled pressing against the hard muscle of his chest, his warmth permeating through her fingertips as wave after wave of emotion assaulted her.

  There was joy, helplessness, fear even before anger took over and, with anger came the strength to resist, to push away. ‘How dare he’ was her final thought as she dragged herself off him with some herculean effort, well-hidden underneath her size eight build.

  Bending over, her hands on her knees she stared up at him, her chest heaving underneath the confines of her t-shirt. She didn’t care about anything other than the need to get away but, first,
he was going to get a piece of her mind.

  ‘If you put even one finger on me ever again I’m going to report you for molestation. What the hell gives you the right to touch me anyway?’ she railed, her eyes flashing silver shards of grey behind her lenses, her hands now on her hips. ‘What, you behave like this with all the cooks, is that it? Is that why your mother has difficulty in getting anyone to work for her, because of her son’s wandering hands?’

  He laughed. She couldn’t believe that he actually threw his head back and laughed,

  ‘I’m sorry; it’s just that… if you saw the last couple of cooks, ninety if a day, you’d understand…’

  ‘I wasn't expecting you to take it as a joke. There’s nothing to laugh about here. Absolutely nothing.’ Her eyes devoured him, unshed tears glistening on the end of her lashes proof of her anger if the bright red slashes across her cheeks and heaving chest weren’t enough of a sign. ‘Your mother is expecting dinner to be served shortly. What should I tell her when she complains it’s late, that her son couldn’t keep his hands to himself?’

  ‘Hey, that’s not fair…’

  But she didn’t listen. She couldn’t listen because if she did, she might just be tempted to run back into his arms and claim what was, after all, rightly hers. Instead she hurried towards the door only to pause at the sound of his footsteps stopping inches behind her.

  She focussed all her attention on the wood, the moulded panelling in shades of mahogany ingrained with the mark of time over its mottled surface. She felt his breath again on her neck and a shiver ran across her skin. A shiver of anticipation, of fear – she didn’t know but he must have seen it because suddenly he was stumbling back to the other side of the room. His voice when he finally managed to speak was barely a hoarse whisper dragged up from some unknown place deep inside.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry. I apologise, alright. I thought that you, that we…’ He stuttered to a halt. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you.’

  She finally turned, her gaze hovering over him with the best imitation of disdain she could come up with as she forced her eyes to shift up and down his body with a curl of her lip that her mother would have been proud of.

  She’d learnt a lot from her mother as a child, most of it of little importance and most of it stuff she would never do but the art of putting someone in their place once learnt could never be forgotten. She’d never done it before, she’d never had either the need or the nerve but, as an experiment, it worked a treat. She watched the colour flush across his cheeks as he dropped his own eyes from hers to stare at the floor.

  Her work here was done. Turning on her heel she catapulted up the stairs with the devil at her back, unaware he’d moved to the doorway to watch her every step.

  She’d have been worried then if she’d seen his expression change. The stain of embarrassment faded only to be replaced by puzzlement and then a smile. If she’d seen him strolling across to the drinks tray and pouring a large whisky with a cheerful whistle she wouldn’t have bothered to change into her cutesy black skirt and lawn blouse. Instead she’d have flung what she could into her case and escaped into the night.

  Chapter Seven

  The whisky didn’t help, but then dinner parties weren’t really his thing. Sitting at the opposite end of the table to his mother, he wished himself elsewhere. Anywhere would do but preferably not anywhere near the new cook until he could think through that little scene in the peace and quiet of his own drawing room. Steepling his fingers, his elbows resting on the snowy white linen, he’d just had the best scallops of his life and yet all he could think about was the woman slaving over a hot stove while she delivered food with the precision of a Michelin ranked restaurant. He should really be throwing out the odd comment to the vicar’s wife on his left but she was in the middle of explaining the details for the forthcoming fete, a staple summer feature not least because the funds raised were already earmarked for the new church roof.

  Shifting his eyes to the right was the wrong thing to do because his mother had, in her wisdom, plonked Cassandra McKay on his other side.

  It wasn't that he didn’t like her. He was ambivalent if anything. Oh, she was alright to look at if voluptuous brunettes with acres of creamy white cleavage were your thing. But he’d always been of the opinion less was more in these social gatherings and, if truth be known, he didn’t know where to look. He had a pretty good idea where she wanted him to look. He had a pretty good idea she’d be more than happy if he didn’t just look, the way her hand seemed to touch his knee and beyond with a degree of familiarity well outside their previous history. But simply put, he wasn't interested. He’d never been interested. He would never forget the way she’d used to ignore him and, in a small community like Oban, she’d gone out of her way to have nothing to do with him. It was only since his father had died and he’d become Lord Brayely that he’d started bumping into her. Funny that!

  ‘Would you like a top up, Cassandra?’ he asked, lifting the wine bottle and shaking it.

  ‘Only a smidgeon. We’re walking down the hill later and I don’t want to fall in a ditch now, do I? Although,’ her lips pouting, ‘I’m sure you could find an inchy winchy piece of bed for me in this little ole castle. I’m not really equipped for the walk in these heels,’ she added, lifting up her red skirt to reveal six inch stilettoes.

  ‘I think not. I’m sure Todd will be happy to give you and your parents a lift at the end of the evening.’

  Cassandra laughed, a tinkling sound that went right through him. He’d been prepared to forget the cleavage more suitable for page three than a sedate provincial dinner party but that was until he’d heard the laugh. He’d forgotten until that moment just how irritating it was. He’d forgotten until that moment just how irritating she was, irritating and persistent as he felt her hand flutter to his knee again and up along his thigh.

  ‘A lot can happen between then and now.’ Her hand inching its way onwards and upwards. ‘My, what big thighs you’ve got, Lord Brayely.’

  ‘And not just big thighs,’ he muttered, clamping his hand back over hers and removing it before tilting his head in the other direction. ‘Mrs Houston, how was your trip to The Med?’

  ‘Oh, absolutely delightful, Tor. We moored in Villefranche-sur-Mer, so much more refined than St Tropez, don’t you know, and the beaches… Long sandy stretches for as far as the eye can see. Of course, we did pop into Nice and Cannes once or twice for the shops but we’re getting a little past it for all that nightlife.’

  ‘Surely not?’

  He repeated the expected drivel he’d been brought up to quote at length all the while watching as Mr Todd carried in a large dish of trout and then vegetables.

  As he’d expected, it was cooked to perfection; the lightly toasted almonds just glistening through on top. He was glad of the respite from having to field Cassandra’s red tipped claws from his nether regions, both of her hands now busily slicing through her full plate reminiscent of a builder tucking into a fry-up. What with starting off a conversation with the Marshalls on wine it was dessert before he finally built up the courage to renew their conversation.

  ‘I couldn’t possibly eat this; rhubarb at a dinner party, so stodgy and so bad for the figure,’ she added, pulling her dress down over ample hips to the detriment of any last vestiges of decency where her chest was concerned. He’d already overheard Mrs Pounder, the vicar’s wife, gently remonstrating with her husband twice on where he should and shouldn’t focus his gaze.

  ‘Some cheese and biscuits then, Cassandra,’ he asked, flicking a look in the ever watchful Todd’s direction. ‘Do try some of these oat cakes; the new cook is a marvel.’

  ‘She certainly is. Wherever did you get her?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask my mother that, I don’t involve myself with the intricacies of staff employment.’

  ‘That’s why you need a woman to guide you. You can’t expect your mother to do it, not at her age.’ There was that laugh again and, had she just insulted
his mother by calling her old?

  Looking at the clock on the mantelpiece, he couldn’t believe it was only 9.30 but at least he’d be able to get rid of her for a while. Old rules died hard in these parts and it was still customary practice for the men to have their coffee and port served at the table while the women had theirs in the drawing room…

  ‘Well, my boy, that was a delicious meal, probably one of the best I’ve ever tasted, although don’t be telling Agnes,’ the vicar said on a smile as Todd went to top up his glass of port. ‘I hear you have a new cook. A good cook is worth their weight in gold, I can tell you.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Will she be popping up or…?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so. She’s probably exhausted. This is her first dinner party and she‘s only been here a few days.’ It was a long established custom at Brayely Castle to summon the cook at the end of the meal but, with the taste of her lips still fresh on his mouth, she was the very last person he wanted to see.

  ‘Perhaps on Sunday then?’ His eyebrows shot up. ‘I take it she will be attending church?’

  ‘I can’t really say.’ He wandered over to the fireplace on the pretext of adding a log to the glowing embers.

  Would she even be here tomorrow? The way she’d reacted to what was, after all, only a kiss was a little extreme to say the least and it wasn't as if he’d lunged at her. Oh, he knew that’s how she’d decided to play it; all that bluff about being assaulted by the lord of the manor. He’d never assaulted anyone in his life, certainly not a woman. That was all a smoke screen to disguise the fact she’d been an equal partner in the kiss. Okay, so he’d initiated it but she’d kissed him back with equal measure. He hadn’t expected that, not from a woman like her.