The First Time We Met: The Oxford Blue Series #1

by Croft, Pippa

  ‘Jesus Christ!’

  The screech of brakes cuts through me. In front of us, a Porsche 911 has stopped in the road, inches from the grille of the Range Rover.

  ‘If he thinks I’m backing up, he’s mistaken. There’s a farm gate behind him. He can pull into that.’ Alexander revs the engine, forcing the enemy Porsche to reverse back along the twisting lane. The driver flinches first, tucks in against the metal gate and the Range Rover flashes past, the scrape of twigs on our paintwork setting my teeth on edge.

  ‘Idiot!’ Alexander seethes as we roar off again. Closing my eyes, I say a silent prayer that we get to Falconbury before I throw up.

  Ten minutes later, he swerves the Range Rover between two pillars topped by what I think are griffins. It’s hard to tell in the afternoon gloom and rain, and the griffins are so weathered by age, who knows … then the headlamps sweep briefly over a sign that reads FALCONBURY HOUSE.

  I sigh with relief that the journey is over and hope both Alexander and I can relax a little now we’re finally here. I’ve tried not to give Professor Rafe’s comments any credence, suspecting that they were another way of manipulating and undermining me – this time without touching me. Yet I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t wonder if there was a tiny grain of truth in them, or have thought something similar myself once or twice.

  The gates may have announced our arrival at Falconbury, but the driveway from gates to house seems to go on for ever. I’m sure I catch a glimpse of eyes glinting under the trees as we drive along. Maybe it’s a fox, I think, and say a silent prayer that it won’t be chased all over the countryside on Saturday. The drive rolls on and on until the trees stop and meadowland opens up in front of us, with dark shapes dotted across the fields.

  ‘Are those deer?’

  Alexander keeps his eyes on the road. ‘Yes, there have been deer on the Falconbury estate for eight hundred years.’

  Eight hundred? By any standards, that’s impressive. I realize now that I could have Googled the place and wonder why I haven’t. Partly because it seems a vulgar thing to do, and in the past week my mind has been focused on the weekend itself, but now I wish I’d prepared better.

  Too late.

  Just in time I bite back an ‘OMG’ as we drive round a bend.

  Immy wasn’t joking when she said that Rashleigh Hall was small in comparison to Falconbury. We sweep on to the forecourt and Alexander brakes hard, bringing the car to a halt in a spray of gravel.

  While he climbs out and opens the tailgate, I slump back in my seat, taking it all in. Through the rain-spattered window, Falconbury looms above me. It’s hard not to find the place a little forbidding on a foul December afternoon like this, but the sheer grandeur of it eclipses everything else.

  It’s far bigger than Rashleigh Hall and completely the opposite in character. Rashleigh was built in creamy stone, all neoclassical elegance. Falconbury is full-on gothic revival, channelling dark medievalism with turrets and gargoyles. I’m guessing it dates back to the mid-nineteenth century, but Alexander said there had been a deer park here for eight hundred years so I assume there were earlier buildings on the site. With the rain lashing the facade, I almost want to laugh at the gloomy splendour of the place.

  The tailgate whispers down and Alexander appears at the door. ‘Let’s get inside, shall we?’ His voice is still gruff but a little softer now and I wonder if he’s regretting his earlier loss of temper. ‘Please, let me give you a hand, and mind the puddles.’

  A guy hurries towards us and as he gets close up I almost do a double-take. I’m sure he’s wearing some kind of butler’s uniform.

  ‘Good evening, sir. What a dreadful night.’

  ‘Hello, Robert, and yes, it could be better.’

  Alexander shakes hands with him and breaks out the same warm smile he used on the elderly salsa dancer who tried to help me when I fell after my run. The same smile he uses to me, when he’s not glowering or brooding.

  ‘Please, let me take those, sir.’ Robert nods at the bags on the gravel.

  ‘I can manage, but I’m sure Miss Cusack would be glad of the help.’

  ‘No really, I’m OK.’

  Politely ignoring me, Robert picks up two of my bags, while Alexander carries the other two and his leather holdall. I brush the rain from my face as we hurry under the porte-cochère with its gabled tower and oriel windows.

  The door is open and a petite blonde woman, who I guess is in her early fifties, beams as we reach her.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir. How was your journey?’

  ‘Not too bad, Helen. I hope you’re well?’ He kisses her on the cheek.

  ‘Very, sir, and it’s wonderful to have you home.’ The warmth in her voice tells me Helen means what she says. I’m guessing she’s known Alexander a long time, maybe since he was a baby, which means she must have been here while he’s been serving in the army – and while his mother was alive.

  His smile is tight and I can tell he’s a little embarrassed too. ‘How are the grandchildren?’ he asks as I hang back, unsure what to do or say.

  Her eyes shine with pride. ‘Very lively and growing up far too quickly.’

  ‘Good.’ I feel his hand slip over mine and my heart rate picks up. It’s possibly the first sign of real warmth I’ve had from him for a few days. ‘Helen, this is Lauren Cusack.’

  ‘Good to meet you, Helen.’ I hold out my hand.

  ‘You too, miss.’

  She takes it briefly, but I’m not sure I did the correct thing. ‘Please, call me Lauren,’ I say, more in hope than expectation.

  ‘Whatever you wish.’ Helen’s smile is polite, but I can see the discomfit beneath.

  ‘I’ll have your bags taken up to your room, sir,’ says Robert. ‘We thought Miss Cusack might prefer the larger room above the porch.’

  My antennae twitch. I have my own room, so I’m not sharing with Alexander. I should have realized, but I’m still taken aback, yet he nods as if it’s all expected and perfect. ‘Thank you. Is my sister home yet?’

  ‘Lady Emma is staying on at school for the end-of-term party, I believe.’

  ‘And my father?’

  ‘Lord Falconbury has been in town today, but he should be home soon. He asked if you and Miss Cusack would be joining him in the sitting room for drinks before dinner?’

  I hide my disappointment; I’d have loved to have met Emma, and sense she might be some kind of ally.

  ‘Of course we will.’

  ‘Do you want to go to your room now, sir, or shall I have some tea served in the sitting room?’

  ‘We’ll go up.’

  Helen smiles at me. ‘I expect Miss Cusack would like some tea sent up?’

  ‘I’d appreciate that.’

  ‘Can we take your coats?’ Gratefully, I hand my damp pea-coat to Helen while Robert takes Alexander’s Barbour. Another guy, not in uniform but in a shirt and tie, is already carrying some of our luggage up the red-carpeted oak staircase to the first floor.

  Suddenly a dark shape shoots out of a door to the side of the stairs and a volley of deafening barks drowns out everything.

  ‘Benny!’

  A black Labrador hurtles along the hall, his claws clattering on the polished floor, and launches himself at Alexander like a guided missile.

  His face lights up. ‘Hello, boy! I wondered where you’d got to. Have you missed me?’

  Benny’s answer is to leap up at Alexander and lick his face. He laughs and strokes the dog’s ears. ‘OK, OK, settle down, boy.’

  Ignoring him, Benny weaves his way round my legs, almost knocking me over.

  ‘Down!’

  At his master’s command, Benny drops to the floor, panting hard and gazing up at me as if he’d like to lick me to death. I crouch down, stroking his silky ears.

  ‘He’s adorable! I didn’t know you had a dog.’

  ‘I’ve had him since I was at university, but I don’t get to see him often enough, do I, boy?’

  Benny rolls
over so I can tickle his belly, his tongue lolling to one side in happiness.

  ‘Ignore him. He’ll do anything for attention.’ Alexander crouches down beside me, scratching the dog’s belly.

  ‘Buddy used to do that,’ I say, and suddenly there’s a huge lump in my throat. Oh shit.

  I renew my efforts to tickle Benny into submission.

  ‘Buddy?’ he asks.

  ‘He was a schnauzer – we had to have him put to sleep while I was at Brown. We used to take him with us for summers on the Cape. I loved him.’ My throat is scratchy with emotion. It must be the end of term, Thanksgiving and this weekend getting on top of me.

  Alexander either hasn’t noticed the moisture on my cheeks or is pretending not to. ‘He sounds like a fine dog. I’m sure you miss him, like I do this rogue when I’m away.’

  I straighten up, managing to hold it together.

  Benny twists back to his tummy, eyes fixed adoringly on Alexander.

  ‘I promise I’ll take you out for a walk later,’ he says, then holds out his hand for me to go ahead of him. ‘Shall we go up?’

  The walk up the staircase serves to reinforce my impression of the scale and opulence of Falconbury. The walls are panelled in oak, with a lofty, carved arched ceiling. We pass dozens of portraits of people I assume to be Falconbury ancestors. As we reach the first floor I stop, unsure whether to turn left or right down the landings on either side of the staircase.

  ‘We’re in the West Wing, at the end.’ Alexander points to the left.

  Halfway along the corridor, two women about my age bustle in and out of rooms. Both of them smile at us briefly and say, ‘Good evening,’ and Alexander responds with a nod, but they’re clearly not part of the Hunts’ inner circle of loyal retainers. That’s six staff already and we haven’t even reached our room.

  I don’t know why it surprises me so much that the Hunts have staff. My mother has help with the cleaning and hires in caterers if she throws a big party. Logically, it’s obvious that an estate this huge has to be managed and run, but there’s an air about these people that you don’t see in employees. I can only describe it as deference – and, in the case of Robert and Helen’s response to Alexander’s arrival, I have to admit there’s genuine warmth and affection too.

  ‘This is it.’

  He opens the door for me and stands back so I can go in first.

  ‘Wow.’ My coolness deserts me as I walk inside.

  My bags stand at the foot of a four-poster bed, with brocade hangings and a canopy that seems as if it touches the ceiling. Immediately, I picture us making love on the silk bed throw and my anxieties about this weekend melt away temporarily.

  Then I focus on the rest of the room. Opposite the bed is a huge window with leaded panes and stained-glass coats of arms. The walls are panelled to half-height, with antique red wallpaper above and an elaborately carved cornice. It’s a Gothic dream – or nightmare, depending on your point of view. The wardrobe, dressing table and drawers are huge pieces, polished to perfection. A stunning arrangement of fresh roses stands in the centre of a table in the window, their delicate scent perfuming the room.

  ‘Alexander, I had no idea.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘This house, the staff, the estate. It’s on a different scale to anything I expected.’

  ‘It’s not my house,’ he says, crossing to the window. ‘It’s my father’s.’

  Joining him, I peer out into the darkness, which stretches on and on, uninterrupted by any lights that might signify neighbouring properties. The moon peeps out briefly, revealing the shadowy figures of deer at the edge of the woods. Suddenly I feel very small and insignificant.

  There’s a knock at the door. Alexander opens it and Helen comes in with a huge tray of tea and cookies. She sets the tray down on the table. ‘I’ve made a pot of Darjeeling and one of Earl Grey because I wasn’t sure which you preferred, Miss Cusack. There’s milk and lemon.’

  ‘Thank you, and also for the flowers. They’re beautiful.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure, but don’t thank me. Alexander asked for them to be waiting in your room. Is there anything else you need?’

  ‘No, everything’s great.’ Apart from not sharing a room, that is.

  Helen smiles, obviously waiting to be dismissed by Alexander. The subtleties of dealing with the staff are so nuanced that I don’t think I’ll ever get to grips with them.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Alexander.

  After Helen has gone, I take another look through the window, still unable to quite believe that Alexander spent his childhood in this place; it feels so little like a ‘real’ home in some respects. The rain is lighter now and there are headlights wavering along the road that leads through the parkland.

  His hand is on my shoulder and I turn. ‘The flowers were a lovely gesture. Thank you.’

  ‘I’m glad you like them. I wanted you to feel welcome … Will they do?’ he adds, almost anxiously.

  ‘They’re perfect and this suite is magnificent, but I still wish we were sharing a room.’

  He sighs. ‘So do I, but it’s traditional for unmarried couples at Falconbury to have separate rooms. I know that’s incredibly old-fashioned, but it’s simpler to leave things as they are rather than have a battle over it. If I’d insisted to Helen that we share, my father might have made life hard for her.’

  ‘I’d hate for that to happen. Robert and Helen seem like lovely people. I guess they’ve worked here a long time.’

  ‘They’ve been here since I was born. Robert started out as an assistant to the old butler and Helen worked in one of the estate offices. She’s a housekeeper and staff supervisor now.’

  ‘And now he’s the butler?’

  The word is so at odds with the modern world, though I know that they’re popular with some of the Asian and Middle Eastern dignitaries we’ve met back in Washington.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’m not really sure that Helen likes calling me Lauren, but I’d feel a lot more comfortable if she did. Robert too.’

  He holds me. ‘I may be able to persuade Helen to use your first name, but Robert won’t have it. I’m afraid you’re going to find some of the things we do here archaic.’ He shakes his head. ‘My father’s determined to cling on to the past.’

  ‘Stop worrying, it’s been great so far.’

  Voices and the slamming of doors draw our attention to the forecourt below the window. A Bentley has drawn up, the same one that whisked us to Le Manoir and the ballet.

  Alexander presses his lips together and it doesn’t take Sherlock to guess that the middle-aged man stepping down from the rear is his father. A large black umbrella is held over his head by Robert and his face is obscured from view.

  Alexander says nothing and pulls me away from the window and sharply to him. His mouth comes down on mine, hard and insistent. When he’s finished kissing me, he tugs the front of my wrap dress away from my cleavage, exposing my breast. The flick of his tongue over my nipple draws a whimper of pleasure from me and I let my eyes drift shut to savour the warmth and wetness of his mouth suckling my swollen nipple.

  ‘I know we have to be ready to go down at seven, but that still gives us plenty of time to christen the bed,’ I whisper.

  He lifts his head from my breast and runs the edge of his thumbnail idly over my exposed nipple, like it’s a juicy plaything to him. ‘There’s nothing I’d like more …’ he sighs, then his tone hardens. ‘But I have some things to do before everyone starts arriving for dinner. I’ll be back well before seven, but can you manage on your own until then?’

  I try to keep the disappointment from my voice. He may want to talk to his father before the other guests arrive. ‘Of course. I’ll have a bath and get ready.’

  He brushes his lips over mine. ‘Good. Relax and enjoy yourself. I’ll be back soon.’

  Relax, he said. Easier said than done.

  In the end, I have to rush to be ready. He said the dress code is ‘smart
casual’ – the worst dress code ever invented because ten to one you jump the wrong side of the smart or casual. I’ve spent far too long wondering what to wear and after changing three times, I decide the studded Twiggy dress is a little de trop for tonight’s ‘informal dinner’ and go for the Donna Karan I wore for the Wyckham welcome dinner. It’s a favourite piece of mine and I need all the confidence I can get tonight. Teamed with a pair of nude slingback heeled pumps from my go-to brand, Kate Spade, I think I’ll do. I’ve left my hair down in what I hope is a Kirsten Dunst-chic-but-natural way, and kept my make-up low-key. I’m also wearing the Cartier necklace, of course.

  As well as dressing, I’ve been busy online. In fact, I only switch off my phone when I hear the bedroom door open. I wouldn’t want Alexander to know I’ve been Googling Falconbury to find out a little of its history. There’s no official website because the place isn’t open to the public, which tells me the Hunts must be able to afford to run it from other sources of income without resorting to such vulgar practices. After that, I checked the Debrett’s website in the hope I won’t make faux pas tonight.

  From that I found out that, as heir to Falconbury, Alexander himself has a courtesy title, as Immy mentioned. He is, in fact, Earl of Sledmere, which it’s very tempting to tease him about – but maybe not tonight.

  I’ve been checking my watch every few minutes and as it passes the eleven, my door opens and he marches in with a muttered ‘Sorry’.

  I’m glad I erred on the side of smart because when Alexander arrives he looks molten in an immaculate dark navy suit and pale blue Oxford shirt. He hasn’t bothered with a tie, leaving the top button of his shirt undone, giving a glimpse of his tanned chest with its crisp dark hair. His hair is still a little damp and if we weren’t in so much of a rush I’d like to take off his suit and try out the four-poster right now. But there’s no chance because from somewhere far below, a bell rings out, followed by hurrying footsteps and shrill laughter.