by Jessica Hart
‘It’ll be good experience if you want to improve that CV,’ he pointed out with an unfair smile.
‘True,’ said Miranda, resisting it like mad.
Rafe got to his feet. ‘Well, the first thing is to find somewhere to have the ball, so let’s go and see the ballroom at Knighton Park, and take it from there.’
Knighton Park wasn’t quite the monstrosity that Rafe had described, but it was certainly enormous. It was a vast, rambling Victorian house built in the Gothic style, complete with turrets, battlements, and an imposing gatehouse. Its walls were half smothered in ivy, and what the house lacked in beauty it made up for in size, with two massive wings flanking the central façade.
‘Gosh,’ said Miranda as the car crunched to a halt on the thick gravel. She was used to grand houses, but this one was something special.
Rafe laughed. ‘It’s an acquired taste, I know, but I’m fond of it.’
‘Will you live here once you’re married?’
He rested his hands on the steering wheel and looked at the house. ‘I hadn’t thought about it, to be honest,’ he said slowly. ‘I suppose it depends on my grandmother and how she gets on with my bride. She can be a bit…intimidating, but her bark is usually worse than her bite.’
A posse of little dogs jumped up, yapping, as a smiling housekeeper showed them into a sunny sitting room overlooking the gardens at the back of the house. Muttering under his breath, Rafe stepped through them to greet his grandmother, who was rising from her chair, while Miranda stooped to say hello to the dogs.
When she extricated herself from their greetings, Elvira Knighton had turned from her grandson and was watching her with keen eyes. She was stooped with rheumy eyes and gnarled hands that glittered with diamonds, but Miranda could see from her bone structure that she had once been a great beauty.
‘Miranda is here on a special assignment,’ Rafe explained when he had introduced them. ‘I’ve decided that you’re right, and that it’s time I got married.’
Elvira’s brows shot up as she turned to look at Miranda once more.
‘Not me,’ Miranda said hastily, holding up both hands. ‘I’m just the hired help!’
‘I’m planning a ball, Elvira,’ said Rafe, and explained his plan to his grandmother, who listened carefully. When he had finished, she looked at Miranda.
‘Hmmph,’ was all she said.
‘Have we got time to look at the ballroom before lunch?’ asked Rafe.
‘Yes, yes, off you go.’ She waved him away as if irritated. ‘Don’t be late back, though.’
‘She likes you,’ Rafe said to Miranda as he led her to the ballroom.
‘How on earth can you tell that?’
‘She was watching you while you were talking to all those yappy little dogs.’
‘They’re not yappy. They were just being friendly.’
‘That’s what she says.’
Rafe stopped and threw open some double doors. ‘This is the ballroom. What do you think?’
Slowly, Miranda stepped inside.
Stretching almost the entire length of one wing, the ballroom was lined all along one side with full-length windows opening onto a terrace, and from there steps led in their turn onto a sweep of lawn. The walls were painted cream, the floor was polished. Dust motes danced in the sunlight striping through the long windows and dulled the sparkle of the chandeliers.
The whole room echoed with the ghosts of balls past, and Miranda narrowed her eyes, almost able to see the couples twirling around the floor, hear the beat of the music and the swish of silk dresses, smell the perfume adrift on the air, and feel the frisson of bodies moving together, palms touching.
‘It’s perfect,’ she said.
Rafe let out a long breath. He hadn’t realised how much he had been hoping that she would like it.
‘We’ll need a band,’ he said.
Miranda nodded, still caught up in the atmosphere. ‘It would be lovely to have a traditional ball, with an orchestra. It’s a pity nobody knows how to waltz any more,’ she said.
‘I know how to waltz,’ Rafe objected.
‘You do?’
‘Of course. Don’t you?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I’ve never learnt how to dance.’
‘I’ll show you,’ said Rafe, taking her hand before she had time to protest, and swinging her into the middle of the floor.
‘Oh, no-’ Miranda broke off breathless as he pulled her back towards him, smiling, and caught her by the waist to draw her against him. ‘I didn’t mean…’
He ignored her attempts to protest. ‘You’ll probably find this difficult,’ he said conversationally. ‘It means following me. For once you’re not going to be the one that takes responsibility and decides what to do.’
‘Now, look,’ she began, but the rest of her protest died on her lips. She was too flustered by his warm hand around hers, by the nearness of his body, the feel of his hand pressing against the small of her back, holding her close.
‘Relax,’ Rafe instructed. ‘You’re too tense.’
Of course she was tense! How could she not be tense when her heart was thudding and her nerves were fizzing and her whole body was thrumming with his nearness?
Rafe could feel her slender and rigid in his arms. She refused to meet his eyes. It wasn’t fair to tease her, but she smelt fresh and clean, and when he looked down he could see the arch of her brows drawn together in a disapproving line and the sweep of her lowered lashes. Her bottom lip was caught between her teeth, and something tightened inside him at the sight.
Humming off key, he swept Miranda around the dusty floor. ‘You don’t need to think,’ he assured her. ‘Just follow my steps.’
It was so ridiculous that after a moment Miranda started to laugh. It was ridiculous and yet somehow magical and exhilarating too as he twirled her round and round the dusty floor. Once she stopped trying to work it out for herself and simply gave herself up to him, letting him move her, it was much easier.
She was breathless and still laughing by the time Rafe spun her in a final circle and let her go, retaining a firm grasp of her hand so that he could bow low.
‘There,’ he said, not sounding at all breathless. ‘That wasn’t so hard, was it?’
Their eyes met for a moment and Miranda felt her heart flip alarmingly.
‘This isn’t getting the ball organised,’ she said, trying to sound severe but instead she could hear that her voice was high and tight.
‘Just getting in the mood,’ said Rafe, thrown by an unexpected clench of desire. She had felt surprisingly right in his arms, warm and slender, and when she laughed up at him something tightened around his heart.
‘You were getting the hang of it,’ he said. ‘Imagine what you could do if there was music! You’ll have to keep a dance for me at the ball.’
‘I won’t be dancing,’ said Miranda, pulling her hand away at last and stepping back. ‘I’ll be working, remember? And you’ll be on the lookout for a bride.’
Rafe had forgotten that for a moment. She was right.
‘So I will,’ he said.
There was a tiny pause.
‘Well,’ he said a little too heartily. ‘Let’s go and ask Elvira if we can borrow her ballroom.’
They had lunch sitting round one end of a vast dining table, with portraits of Rafe’s ancestors staring ponderously down at them.
‘I don’t normally eat here,’ Elvira explained, ‘but it’s important to keep up standards when I have guests.’
‘I’m hardly a guest,’ said Rafe humorously.
‘Miranda is.’ His grandmother inspected her with a disconcertingly sharp gaze as she unfolded her napkin. ‘Fairchild? Any relation to the department store Fairchilds?’
‘Yes, except there are no stores any longer, I’m afraid.’
‘I remember your father, in that case. A charming boy, but not much grit.’ Elvira’s eyes narrowed in an effort of memory. ‘Didn’t he marry one of the Tatton girls? There
were about four of them, all beauties, but one of them was a bolter, as I recall.’
Miranda’s smile didn’t falter. ‘My mother,’ she said, and Rafe winced for her. ‘She ran off with a racehorse trainer when I was twelve.’
Anyone else would have been embarrassed by the faux pas, but not his grandmother. Not a whit discomposed, Elvira studied Miranda’s face thoughtfully. ‘You don’t look much like either of your parents from what I can remember.’
‘No, I’m afraid not. My sisters are both very beautiful, though.’
‘Probably a good thing. You’ve got character instead.’ Elvira turned to her grandson. ‘Why don’t you marry Miranda?’
‘Elvira!’ Rafe threw Miranda an apologetic look. ‘Miranda’s here as my assistant, not a girlfriend!’
‘You said you wanted to get married, didn’t you?’
‘Well, yes, but-’
‘What’s the point of going to all the expense and effort of a ball if you’ve got a perfectly nice girl right in front of you?’
Miranda was quite enjoying seeing Rafe put on the spot by his forceful grandmother, but she could see a muscle working in Rafe’s jaw and decided it was time she intervened.
‘It’s nice of you to think of me,’ she said politely, ‘but I don’t want to marry Rafe.’
‘Why not?’ Elvira looked positively affronted. ‘He’s clean, and healthy, and not such an idiot as he looks! Plenty of money, too. He’d be a good catch for you.’
In spite of himself, Rafe grinned. ‘Elvira, stop, you’re making me blush!’ he said. ‘You’ll turn my head with all these compliments.’
Miranda bit back a smile. ‘I’m sure he’ll make someone an excellent husband, but it won’t be me. I’ve got other plans.’
‘Is there someone else?’
‘No,’ she admitted. ‘But I don’t want to live in London. I’m saving up to restore an old cottage by the sea. I’m going to live there and set up my own business and be as self-sufficient as I can. I can’t imagine it would be the sort of life that would suit Rafe at all.’
‘I’m sorry about my grandmother,’ said Rafe as they left after lunch. ‘She can be a bit direct!’
‘I didn’t mind,’ said Miranda, clicking her seat belt into place. ‘I liked her.’
There was silence for a moment. Rafe put the car into gear and set off down the long avenue of mature trees. He was frowning slightly.
‘Was it true what you said?’
She looked at him in surprise. ‘What about?’
‘About there not being anyone else?’
‘Oh, that.’ She settled back into her seat. ‘Of course. How long do you think “anyone else” lasts once they’ve set eyes on my sister? I used to get asked out a lot, but any prospective boyfriends usually just wanted to meet Octavia, or Belinda until she was married. I gave up accepting invitations in the end.’
‘You mean you’ve never had a serious boyfriend?’
‘Well, there was Keith. I met him when I went to university. Predictably, I reacted against my upbringing and chose someone I knew my father would disapprove of. Keith was a socialist and took his politics very seriously.’
Miranda’s reminiscent smile was crooked. ‘I was absolutely sure he’d be immune to Belinda, who was the ultimate It girl then. Octavia was still at school then, fortunately, but Keith took one look at Belinda, and that was it. I vowed to never take anyone home after that, but I had to give up my course and join the firm anyway the next year, so that was that.’
Rafe made a face. ‘So you’ve given up on men?’
‘No, I’m just facing reality. I’m not the kind of girl men lose their heads over. It would be nice to think that one day I’d meet someone who didn’t care what I looked like, but in the meantime I’ve got other things,’ she said resolutely. ‘I’ve got my dream.’
‘Doing up that old cottage?’ Rafe didn’t sound impressed.
‘It’s all I want at the moment. Why do you think I’m temping, and spending my evenings passing round plates of canapés? I hate it in London,’ said Miranda more passionately than he had heard her before. ‘I can’t breathe there, and it’s got too many bad memories. I can’t wait to leave it behind!’
At the end of the avenue, they passed the lodge and went through the imposing gates Rafe’s great-grandfather had built to show the world that he had arrived. Rafe waited for a tractor to pass and then turned onto the narrow country road.
‘If you hate London that much, why don’t you just move out now?’
Miranda sighed. ‘Because I’m too practical. I inherited the cottage from my godmother, but it’s in poor condition. I don’t mind living rough but I’ll have to get the basics done, and that will cost a bit. I can earn more in London than I could elsewhere, and as long as I can live cheaply with Rosie I can save my earnings as a waitress. If nothing else, I’d need some money to live on until I can get a business up and running.’
‘What kind of business?’
Miranda looked away. ‘I don’t know,’ she admitted, shamefaced. ‘It’s all too far in the future to imagine very clearly. I don’t want to think about how long it’s going to be before I can afford to even think about moving out of London, so I’m just holding onto the idea of it at the moment. I hardly ever get down there as it is. Whitestones is surprisingly isolated, and you need a car to get there. I can’t afford to hire one at the moment.’
‘Then we’d better go now,’ said Rafe as they came up to the main road. ‘Which way?’
‘It’s miles from here!’ Miranda protested, although the thought of seeing Whitestones again tugged yearningly at her.
‘It can’t be that far. We said we’d go to sea,’ he pointed out. ‘It’s only half past two. It’s too early to go back, but too late to do anything useful with the day if we do. Besides, I’d like to see this place of yours.’
‘Well, if you’re sure…’ Succumbing to temptation, Miranda leant forward and pointed right. ‘That way.’
The closer they got to the coast, the higher her spirits rose. She hadn’t been to Whitestones since Rosie had driven her down for one bitterly cold day just after Christmas and she was excited to see the cottage again.
Rafe pretended concern as she directed him down twisting country lanes. ‘Where exactly are we going, Miranda? I feel as if I’m about to drive off the edge of the earth!’
‘I told you it was isolated.’
Isolated it certainly was. Miranda showed him where to pull over in a rough patch of grass next to a gate. If he parked right up against the hedge, another car could get by if necessary…although Rafe couldn’t imagine why anyone else would be there.
He stretched and looked around him as he got out of the car. ‘Where’s the cottage?’
‘Over there.’ Miranda pointed across a field. ‘We have to walk from here.’
She led the way through the gate and cut across the field. Rafe followed gingerly. The sun was shining today but it had been a wet spring and the field was still muddy. Before he was halfway across, the bottoms of his jeans were spattered with mud and his beautifully shined shoes were unrecognisable.
Miranda’s court shoes were faring even worse. ‘Oh, dear, I suppose we’re not very suitably dressed,’ she said, looking down at her prim office suit and then at Rafe, who pretended to look stern.
‘It had better be worth it!’ he said, but she could see the telltale tug at the corner of his mouth, and she smiled back, suddenly sure.
‘It will be,’ she promised.
CHAPTER FIVE
A CROSS a stream on a rickety bridge, up a path through some trees and finally they were there. Whitestones was a long, low, sturdy cottage with a glassed-in verandah overlooking the sea, and a cluster of outbuildings at the back. It had a wonderful situation, nestled into a slight hollow for shelter, but opening out to the glittering expanse of the English Channel.
Oh, yes, the setting was spectacular, but Rafe was aghast when Miranda showed him round the house. She had retr
ieved a key from its hiding place and opened the door with apparent pride. Inside, it was damp and dingy and dusty and dilapidated. Its paint was peeling, its plaster cracked. There was no phone, no heating, no water and no mains electricity.
‘Dulcie, my godmother, managed with a generator, and used to pump water by hand,’ Miranda explained.
‘I hope you’re not planning to do the same?’
‘I will until I can afford to do something about it. Dulcie lived here on her own until she was sixty. If she could do it, I can.’
‘But, Miranda…’ Rafe began to protest, until he remembered that it wasn’t any of his business.
‘It needs some work, I know.’ Miranda opened the verandah door so they could sit on the steps leading down to the garden. She could see that Rafe was appalled, and tried to look at the cottage through his eyes. It wasn’t in a good state. A house needed to be lived in and cared for, but what could she do?
‘I wish you could have seen it when Dulcie was here,’ she told him. ‘I suppose it was always a bit shabby, but it was warm and clean and it always seemed to be full of sunshine.’
Her expression softened with memory as she rested her elbows on her knees and propped her chin on her curled fists. ‘I used to love coming to stay with her. I’m always surprised my parents chose her as my godmother. She wasn’t anything like them. She was at school with my mother, I think, but they couldn’t have been more different. I don’t think my mother ever came here, in fact, but if she did she would have hated it.
‘Belinda and Octavia did. They thought it was boring, and that Dulcie was eccentric, so I used to come on my own, and that was fine by me. I never felt as if I fitted in with my own family,’ Miranda went on, ‘but I felt right at home here with Dulcie. She never cared what I looked like. She never criticised me because I wasn’t dressed properly or hadn’t spent hours fiddling with my hair. She never expected me to pick up after her or make sure she got somewhere on time. She just expected me to be myself.’
Her voice cracked, just a little, and when Rafe glanced at her he saw that her lips were pressed together in a tight line.
