by Jessica Hart
‘You’re lucky to have had that kind of model,’ said Miranda, unable to keep the wistfulness from her voice this time.
‘Maybe.’ Rafe sounded unconvinced. ‘From the outside, it always looks perfect. When my parents were together in a room you felt as if it was an effort for them to notice anyone else, even their own child. I always felt incidental to their marriage.’
‘I’m sure they must have loved you,’ Miranda said a little awkwardly.
‘Oh, sure,’ he said with a careless shrug. ‘It wasn’t as if I was neglected, or badly treated. Far from it. But I always knew that I wasn’t necessary to them, not the way they were necessary to each other. It didn’t seem to matter whether I was good or bad…so of course I was bad most of the time. Classic bid for attention, I’m afraid.’
He gave a short laugh that Miranda guessed was meant to be self-mocking, but which hinted instead at a small boy’s bafflement and hurt at finding himself excluded from the intense relationship his parents shared.
‘My father was shattered when my mother died,’ Rafe went on. ‘He never recovered from it. He withdrew into himself, became a workaholic, and, selfishly, I resented him for it. It’s only recently that I’ve begun to wonder whether the reason he refused to give me any responsibility was because he was afraid to let go of anything to do with the company. Perhaps he thought that the moment he stopped working so hard he would have to face the emptiness of his life, and remember that without my mother he had nothing.’
‘He had you.’
Rafe shook his head. ‘I wasn’t her. I was only fifteen and away at school. I never really had a chance to build a proper relationship with him. If they had been less bound up in each other, her death might have meant that we grew closer. As it was, I couldn’t offer him any comfort.’
And his father had offered him none either. Miranda’s heart twisted to realise how unhappy the wild, reckless boy Rafe had been.
By tacit consent, they had drifted to a halt once more and stood side by side, facing out to sea while the waves swooshed and swirled over their feet.
‘If you don’t want the fairy tale, what kind of marriage are you looking for?’ she asked him after a moment.
Rafe didn’t answer immediately. ‘I’m not looking for an incredible love affair,’ he said at last. ‘I think if I was going to fall in love, I would have done it by now. I’m thirty-five, and I’ve known a lot of women. I’ve liked them and desired them, but I haven’t needed them, and they haven’t needed me either.’
‘So who are you looking for at this ball when all these supposedly serious women turn up?’
Rafe was disconcerted to find that he couldn’t think with her clear green eyes on him. How could he imagine his perfect bride when she was standing right there beside him? When he tried to picture the woman he would want to marry, all he got was Miranda’s image, which was no help at all.
He had to be practical, after all. A wife who was determined to hide herself away in a place like this was obviously unsuitable. He needed someone who could be part of his life in London.
‘Someone I like being with,’ he decided in the end, conscious that it sounded a bit lame. ‘Someone intelligent and cultured, with her own career and her own interests. I’d expect her to be sophisticated, I think, and capable of entertaining for me. And attractive,’ he added honestly. ‘Someone I could come to love without necessarily feeling a grand passion. The kind of relationship my parents had isn’t healthy. If I have kids, I want them to feel part of things, not as if they’re intruding.’
‘Well, it shouldn’t be too hard to find someone like that,’ said Miranda, determinedly brisk. ‘It’s a lot easier if you’re not looking for true love.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ said Rafe, but suddenly it didn’t seem as easy as it had before.
‘I’d better get on with organising this ball, then.’ Miranda produced a bright smile. ‘Summer would be the best time. Everyone will be away in August, but we could try for mid or late July. What do you think?’
‘The sooner the better as far as I’m concerned,’ he said. ‘It’s May already, though. Do you think that’ll be long enough for you to organise it?’
‘It’ll be tight,’ she acknowledged, pulling her hair determinedly back into its ponytail. ‘I’ll just have to get on with it.’ She glanced at Rafe as by unspoken consent they turned to make their way back down the beach to where he had left his shoes and socks. ‘We’d better not have any more days like this for a while.’
Rafe watched her tie her hair back with a stupid pang of regret. He remembered how it had felt against his fingers, how the light had warmed it to dark honey, and made it gleam with gold. How Miranda had looked with the sea breeze tangling it around her face, her eyes dazzled by sun.
Why was he thinking about that? Rafe caught himself up. Really, it was high time he found himself a suitable bride, he decided. He wanted someone serious and serene and lovely, not prickly and impatient the way Miranda was. She wasn’t beautiful. She wasn’t.
And even if she had been perfect in every way, which she clearly wasn’t, she was holding out for the fairy tale. For someone so practical, she was absurdly romantic, he thought. She seemed the last person to believe in true love.
Rafe scowled down at the sand. He couldn’t imagine who Miranda would fall in love with. Obviously it would have to be someone insanely tidy, yet with no fashion sense, who didn’t mind being slobbered over by dogs or walking across a sea of mud to live miles from anywhere without a single convenience.
No, she was right. There was no point in any more days like this. They were looking for completely different things. He needed to concentrate on finding someone suitable to settle down with, not on how Miranda looked walking straight-backed and slender beside him on the sand.
Rafe turned the car between the gates and into the welcome shade of the chestnut trees lining the avenue. It was a beautiful day, just as it had been when he first came here with Miranda. The ball had been just an idea then. It was hard to believe that it was happening tonight, and that tomorrow it would be over.
Miranda had been at Knighton Park for the past week, keeping an eagle eye on the preparations and making sure that Elvira didn’t have to deal with anything. He had had an email from her only that morning, reminding him to bring a present for his grandmother and to pick up the place cards, which had been sent back to the printer because they weren’t exactly as she had ordered.
She had signed it simply ‘Miranda’. No, ‘love, M’, no ‘x’ after her name. There were no exclamation marks or funny faces made with punctuation marks in Miranda’s messages, which were unfailingly clear and crisp. Rafe knew that he ought to be grateful that she was so efficient and practical, but he couldn’t help wishing sometimes that she would give some indication that he was more to her than just a boss.
He felt as if they had become unlikely friends over the past ten weeks, but it was hard to know exactly what Miranda herself thought. She had certainly done an incredible job of organising the ball in record time. Rafe had often seen her working late at her desk, and he’d fallen into the habit of stopping by to have a chat at the end of the day and see how plans were progressing.
He liked the cool detachment with which she viewed him, and the way she remained determinedly unimpressed by his looks or charm. He liked the humour in her clear green eyes, the irony that feathered her voice, the snippy comments that made him laugh. Miranda never tried to impress or flatter him, quite the opposite in fact. There was no danger of suffering from an inflated ego when she was around, he would grumble, but secretly he enjoyed being able to relax and be himself in a way he never seemed to be able to do with anyone else.
As the pace of the preparations had become more frantic Rafe had insisted that they spend every free lunchtime walking in Green Park.
‘You can’t waste the entire summer sitting in an office,’ he told her when he discovered her working through her lunch hour one day. ‘It’s bad for
you.’
‘I haven’t got time to go to the park,’ objected Miranda.
Rafe tsk-tsked. ‘You’re just using work as an excuse. You know what I think the problem is? You’re afraid!’
‘Afraid?’ she scoffed. ‘Afraid of what?’
‘Of enjoying yourself. I don’t think you know how to relax and enjoy something simple like a walk in the sun,’ he said provocatively.
‘I’m perfectly capable of relaxing. I just don’t have time with you interrupting every five minutes,’ Miranda complained, but in the end she gave in and let Rafe bully her into getting up and going with him.
‘Come on, stop grumbling, and if you’re very good I’ll buy you an ice cream,’ he said with one of his slanting smiles.
The park quickly became part of their routine and Rafe found himself looking forward to it every day. He was disappointed if he had a lunchtime meeting and couldn’t walk along the paths beside Miranda, straight-backed and composed and tart-tongued.
She would soften immediately when she saw a dog, though, and Rafe enjoyed watching the way her face lit up with a smile as she bent to greet them.
‘That’s torn it,’ he would pretend to complain whenever he spotted a dog approaching, and he would roll his eyes exaggeratedly. ‘Now we’ll be here for half an hour while you make friends with yet another mutt!’
He always ended up talking to the owners while Miranda fussed over the dog, and he would watch her out of the corner of his eye, wishing that she would be that uninhibitedly affectionate with him. It had come to something when he was jealous of a dog!
‘I don’t know what you see in them,’ he would grumble when the dog was eventually dragged away by its owner. ‘They’re such messy creatures. Look, you’ve got hairs all over your skirt.’
Miranda rolled her eyes as she brushed casually at her skirt. ‘Honestly, I don’t know how you can go on so much about me being repressed when you’re so finicky.’
‘I am not finicky!’
‘Yes, you are. Look at the fuss you make about a few little hairs.’
‘I don’t like looking messy,’ said Rafe a little defensively.
‘Perhaps we should add fussy about their appearance to your list of attributes for an ideal bride,’ Miranda suggested. ‘Oh, I’ve got a good idea! Why don’t I cull the invitation list? We should only invite obsessive compulsives on the grooming front and then you’d be bound to find a soul mate!’
‘At least they would all care about their appearance, which is more than you do!’ Rafe eyed her morosely. She persisted in wearing those dull grey skirts with a prim little top and sensible shoes, as if she had never heard of colour. She never wore make-up, never let her hair swing free, never made the slightest effort at all, in fact.
‘Why do you always tie your hair back like that?’ he grumbled.
‘Because it’s practical.’
‘It would be prettier if you let it hang loose.’
‘I don’t do pretty,’ said Miranda, unruffled. ‘I leave that to my sisters.’
CHAPTER SIX
I T WAS true, of course. Miranda wasn’t pretty, but the more Rafe looked at her, the more he noticed the fineness of her skin, the subtleness of her colouring, the clear, cool lines of her that plucked at a chord deep inside him, vibrating through him and making him itch with the longing to peel those awful clothes off her, to run his fingers through her hair and explore her, unlock her, with his mouth and his hands. Making him imagine what it would be like to warm her and excite her and drive her to a pitch of passion where she would lose her primness and reveal the warm, vibrant woman he was convinced lurked beneath her deliberately dull façade.
But of course he couldn’t do that. Miranda had made it very clear that she wasn’t interested in him. And he wasn’t interested in her, Rafe told himself. Not really.
He reminded himself of his plan. It had made such good sense when he first thought about getting married, and it still did make sense. All he needed was to find the right woman, and then he wouldn’t feel this restless and edgy and dissatisfied. He wouldn’t be distracted by fantasies about a plain, prim girl who preferred dogs to men and had a totally impractical plan to live in the middle of nowhere without the most basic of amenities.
It would be such a relief to find the right woman and settle down. She would steady him and help him focus. Everyone would take him seriously. He would be serious.
Rafe couldn’t wait.
All he had to do was find her. Until the ball, there was no point in giving up an active social life. You never knew who you were going to meet. So Rafe went to dinner parties and cocktail parties and champagne receptions and fund raising events. He went to Wimbledon and Ascot and the Henley regatta. He went everywhere he was invited in the hope of encountering his perfect woman.
He was at a gallery opening one evening when he spotted an attractive blonde studying one of the paintings with an intense expression. Rafe’s hopes rose. She was very stylishly dressed, and looked just his type.
Her name was Rachel, he discovered when he introduced himself, and they talked about the picture for a while. Close up, she was even more attractive. Could Rachel be the one he was waiting for? She was beautiful, intelligent, sophisticated. She was perfect.
So why could he feel boredom stealing over him?
What was wrong with him? Rafe wondered in frustration, redoubling his efforts to be charming. Rachel was exactly the kind of woman he was looking for.
She blossomed visibly under his attention, and he willed himself to be captivated, concentrating hard on her face until he saw her wave somebody away with a dismissive hand. The gesture caught his attention more than what she was saying and he turned, only to find himself staring straight into Miranda’s clear green eyes.
Jolted, even jarred, by the sight of her, Rafe couldn’t tear his gaze away. Unmasked tonight, she was demurely dressed in black. Her hair was neatly tied back and her face as bare as ever, and he felt the by now familiar spurt of irritation that she made so little effort to make the most of herself.
‘Would you like a canapé?’ she asked him, deadpan, but her eyes gleamed with irony.
Rachel shook her head, evidently cross at having her têteà-tête with Rafe interrupted, but he pretended to inspect the tray Miranda held.
‘What are these?’ he asked, pointing.
‘Chicken satay,’ said Miranda.
‘Are they good?’
‘Everything’s good,’ she said.
Rachel was clearly baffled by the attention Rafe was paying a mere waitress, and looked at Miranda with incomprehension.
‘No, thank you,’ she said with emphasis when Miranda offered her tray once more.
Miranda took the hint and moved off.
Rafe was unaware that he was looking after her until Rachel put her hand on his arm to reclaim his attention.
‘They will try and shove food down your throat at these events,’ she complained.
Rafe didn’t answer. He tried to concentrate on the conversation, but part of him was acutely aware of Miranda moving round the room with her tray, slender and unobtrusive in black.
It was amazing how nobody else seemed to notice her. Their eyes might pass incuriously over her, but they didn’t see her at all. Rafe marvelled that no one registered how fine her features were, how clear her gaze. They had no idea how prickly and stubborn she could be, obviously.
They had no idea how a smile lit up her face, how light she felt in his arms. They didn’t know that her hair was like silk and smelt like a summer afternoon, or how sharp and funny she could be.
It gave Rafe a strange thrill of possession to realise that he was the only person in the room to know those things about Miranda. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her circulating with her tray and remembered her dancing in the dusty ballroom, bending down to greet every passing dog in the park. He remembered her tsk of impatience as she rubbed a mark off his sleeve, the way she rolled her eyes at him, or sat primly behi
nd her desk.
And then he remembered how she had looked in that cat suit, and promptly wished he hadn’t. It was criminal the way she kept those lovely legs hidden away. The way she kept that hair scraped back from her face.
All at once Rafe had an image of Miranda at the beach, her hair blowing gold and honey around her face, and he drew a sharp breath.
‘Rafe? Are you OK?’
‘Er, yes, fine,’ he said, realising belatedly that he hadn’t been listening to a word Rachel had been saying. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.’
This was no way to go about finding a wife.
But tonight would be different, Rafe resolved as the car crunched to a halt outside Knighton Park. He was bound to meet someone special tonight, and his search would be over at last.
Miranda would spend a few days sorting things out in the aftermath of the ball, and then she would move on to a new assignment. She wouldn’t be in the office to distract him any more. There would be no more walks in the park, no more sessions with his feet propped on her desk, no more crisp emails without even the hint of an ‘x’ at the end.
He was being ridiculous, Rafe admonished himself, shutting the car door behind him with unnecessary emphasis. They had been planning this ball for ten weeks now. Tonight he would meet an array of intelligent, successful, interesting women, and with any luck would find that special one with whom he could settle down and spend the rest of his life.
What more did he want?
Miranda walked through the ballroom, clipboard in hand. Everything was ready.
The room had been cleaned until everything gleamed, and it looked wonderful. The floor was polished, the chandeliers glittered, and the glass sparkled. There were dramatic flower arrangements strategically placed around the room and the long windows stood open onto the terrace. Even the weather had obliged with perfect, soft summer days that had left the gardens looking at their best.
A huge marquee had been set up on the lawn beneath the terrace, and even now the round tables were being laid for the dinner. Rosie had been thrilled to take on the catering, but it was a big job, and she was frantically at work in the kitchens while worrying about whether the new waiters and waitresses drafted in would turn up on time.
