by Jessica Hart
‘I wish you could do it,’ she grumbled to Miranda. ‘I know I can trust you.’
But Miranda had decided that she would have to be available in case of last minute crises. Any number of things might go wrong at the last minute, she thought, obsessively checking her list. She would lurk in the background and be ready to deal with any of them.
She had been at Knighton Park all week, overseeing the cleaning and the deliveries and the erection of the marquee and all the other myriad preparations that needed to be made. Although it had been hectic, it had been one of the happiest weeks she had spent since staying at Whitestones with Dulcie. She had struck up a real friendship with Elvira Knighton, whose sharp tongue and cackle reminded her often of her beloved godmother. They played Scrabble together in the evenings, and every afternoon Miranda walked Elvira’s dogs and felt herself relax away from London’s noise and crowds. She even caught herself wishing that the ball weren’t happening. She didn’t want anyone else coming to spoil her peace.
But coming they were. The ball had sold out quickly, although Miranda did wonder how many of those who were coming would have done so if they had had any inkling of Rafe’s real purpose in inviting them to take a table. But she had made sure the invitations were cleverly designed and had targeted them carefully, and she was gratified that her strategy seemed to have worked. Rafe should be pleased with the range of guests who were coming tonight, from a sprinkling of starry celebrities to the most earnest of development workers. If nothing else, it should be an interesting mix.
Once word had got out that it was by Rafe’s invitation only, the Knighton Park ball had become the hottest ticket in town, and Belinda was still sulking because Miranda and Octavia would be there and not her.
‘Charles would have bought a table,’ she had complained. ‘Why didn’t you ask us?’
Miranda didn’t want to say that Belinda and Charles hardly fell into the category of the kind of people Rafe wanted to meet, so she murmured something evasive about limited numbers.
‘Then how did Octavia get an invite?’
‘She’s been working on the ball.’
Belinda snorted. ‘Octavia? Octavia never worked in her life!’ Which was pretty good coming from Belinda.
Once she’d heard about the ball, of course, Octavia had been wild to come, and had badgered Miranda relentlessly to get her a ticket.
‘Just one dance with Rafe,’ she had pleaded. ‘That’s all I need.’
Miranda could have told her sister that Rafe was looking to share his fortune with a very different kind of woman, but in the end she had agreed on the condition that she helped out with organising the ball. Whatever else Octavia was, she had a real sense of style, and some of her suggestions had been very useful. Miranda had been hoping that her sister would get used to the idea of a job, as she had explained to her ex-boss Simon when asking if she could draft in Octavia in some capacity.
Simon had agreed to give Octavia a temporary position, but Miranda’s plan to introduce her little sister to a working life could not be said to have been an unqualified success. Octavia had certainly declared her willingness to advise on stylistic issues, but this hadn’t translated into turning up at the office at agreed times, or staying any longer than it suited her.
‘I had to have highlights done,’ she explained artlessly when Miranda tackled her. She tossed back the blonde hair in question. ‘Anyway, I was bored. Simon just sits there and looks disapproving. Doesn’t he ever smile?’
‘He’s busy.’
‘Well, it wouldn’t hurt him to lighten up a bit, would it?’
It was a pity Simon had to be the one man in the world resistant to Octavia’s beauty, Miranda reflected. He was just what she needed. He was kind and steady and reliable, but strong enough not to put up with any of her sister’s nonsense. He would make a wonderful husband.
Unlike Rafe, for instance, whose life out of the office still seemed to be given over to amusement as far as Miranda could make out. Every week he was in the celebrity magazines, photographed at one social event or another. If he was trying to make people believe that he was a serious person now, he was going about it in a very strange way.
The trouble was, he just wasn’t serious. He had one of those faces that always looked as if they were about to break into a smile, and his eyes danced with humour even when he was at his most straight-faced.
No man ought to have that much charm at his disposal, Miranda often thought. It was positively wicked. But there was something about his presence that put a fizz in the air and a tingle in the blood, that made her senses sharpen and laughter bubble in her throat, although she tried never to show it.
Miranda would rather stick pins in her eyes than admit it, but she had missed Rafe this week. The truth was that she had got used to seeing him every day, lounging with feet up on her desk, or forcing her to spend her lunch hour in the park. She missed his glinting smile. She missed his teasing. She missed arguing with him and eating ice cream with him and laughing with him. She even missed the finickity way he brushed dog hairs from his trousers.
She wasn’t a fool. Miranda knew how little it would take for her to fall in love with him, and whenever she found herself slipping that way she would make herself take a long, hard look in the mirror.
You’re plain, you’re dull, you’re efficient, she told herself bitterly. How likely is it that Britain’s most eligible bachelor would fall for you?
Not likely at all.
In fact, it was hard to think of anything less likely to happen.
That way Rafe had of making you feel you were the only person in the world he really wanted to be with was just part of his charm. Miranda had seen him at social events when she was a waitress, having exactly the same effect on any number of gorgeously stylish and beautiful women, all of whom would fit perfectly into his life.
Unlike her.
No, Miranda had no intention of making a fool of herself. Rafe might have mocked her as a romantic, but in his case she couldn’t afford not to be realistic. She was keeping a very careful guard on her heart.
This was just a job, she reminded herself endlessly. She was here to organise the ball, and when it was over she would find another job and that would be that. Rafe would marry someone serious and suitable and she…she would keep thinking about Whitestones.
Somewhere in the distance Miranda could hear Elvira’s dogs break into a frenzy of barking. Was that Rafe arriving already? In spite of her sternest resolutions, Miranda’s heart began to pound at the thought and, furious with herself, she drew a deep, steadying breath.
It didn’t matter if Rafe was here or not. She had a job to do.
And that was what she would do.
Taking a firm grip of herself, Miranda marched briskly out onto the terrace and then down the steps to see how they were getting on in the marquee. She could put the seating plans up.
The entrance to the marquee was pulled right back to let in the air, but it still smelt of hot tent and flowers inside. The tables looked wonderful and Miranda walked round them, checking each last detail, pleased with the result of all her planning. There was a subdued murmur of voices in the catering area, but it didn’t sound as if there was any crisis, so she decided to leave Rosie to it.
A discreet board had been set up near the entrance, and she was pinning up the seating plan when Rafe found her.
‘So this is where you are! I’ve been looking all over for you.’
Immediately, what little air there was in the marquee evaporated. Miranda felt as if a fist had closed around her heart. Furious to find that her hands were shaking slightly, she pinned up the last plan and turned to face him.
‘Hello.’
Her voice was quite steady, which was surprising when she felt heady with the intensified scents around her, the smell of the canvas mingling with the cut grass outside. Or maybe it was just Rafe’s presence, the smile in his eyes and the crease in his cheeks and those impossibly white teeth, that was
making her dizzy. Or the fierce joy that had speared through her at the sound of his voice.
‘Hello,’ he returned, and then seemed to run out of anything to say.
There was a pause, which stretched into an uncomfortable silence. Miranda knew she should make a cool comment, but the tension in the air was making her heart thump, and her mind was blank of anything other than the terrifying awareness of Rafe, so that all she could do was stand there dumbly and stare back into the dark blue eyes where the usual glinting smile had been replaced by a disconcerted expression that must have matched her own.
It felt as if they stood staring at each other for ages, but when Miranda thought about it sensibly afterwards, she realised it could only have been a few seconds before Rafe looked away and broke the silence.
‘What are you doing?’
‘The seating plan.’
To Miranda’s dismay, Rafe moved over to stand right next to her and study the board.
‘We agreed all this last week,’ she reminded him, edging away as unobtrusively as possible.
‘I’ve forgotten,’ said Rafe. ‘Where am I sitting, again?’
So then she had to move back to point his place out to him. ‘I’ve put you between a human rights lawyer and a consultant for the World Bank,’ she told him.
‘Hmm.’ Rafe looked at the names of the two women Miranda had decided made the most likely partners for him. She had done exactly what he had asked her to. So why did he feel so disgruntled about it? ‘And where are you?’
‘I’m not eating.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’m not a guest,’ she said, wondering why she needed to state the obvious. ‘I’m working.’
‘There’s no rule that says you can’t eat while you’re working, is there?’
‘I need to be on hand to keep an eye on things,’ Miranda told him, recovering her balance somewhat. ‘Something’s bound to go wrong at the last minute.’
‘You’re going to come and dance, though, aren’t you?’
‘I won’t know anyone.’
‘You’ll know me.’
‘You’ll be busy getting to know all these women I’ve invited for you to meet,’ she pointed out as crisply as she could. ‘Besides, I haven’t got anything to wear. I’ll stay behind the scenes.’
On the surface she seemed steady enough, Miranda hoped, but she could feel the precariousness of her control. All Rafe had to do was take a step nearer, or smile at her, or touch her, and it would shatter completely. She was desperate to get away and compose herself.
From somewhere she produced a brilliant smile. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve still got a lot to do.’
She hurried away and for the rest of the afternoon kept herself too busy to think about how pathetically she had reacted to Rafe’s appearance. At half past six, she calculated that she just had time for a shower before flinging on a black shirt and a clean pair of black trousers. Quickly drying her hair, she brushed it back and secured it with a scrunchie. There, now she was perfectly dressed to fade into the background, Miranda thought with satisfaction. She looked neat and businesslike and unobtrusive, just the way she liked it.
Before heading down to check that all was under control in the marquee, she made her way along to Elvira’s sitting room. Rafe had tried to persuade his grandmother to go to the ball, but she had laughed and told him not to be so silly.
‘The last thing you want is an old lady like me there,’ she said trenchantly. ‘Besides I’m too old for all that. I won’t hear anything on this side of the house, so I’ll go to bed early and hear all about it in the morning.’
Miranda put her head round the sitting room door. ‘Is there anything you need before we start?’ Much to her relief, Rafe wasn’t there.
‘Come in and let me have a look at you,’ his grandmother ordered, but her face changed as Miranda advanced into the room.
‘What on earth are you wearing?’ she demanded.
Miranda looked down at herself. ‘Er…black.’
‘You can’t go to a ball dressed like that!’
‘I’m not going to a ball,’ said Miranda. ‘I’m strictly backstage tonight.’
‘You most certainly are not! Go and put on a dress.’
‘I haven’t got anything with me,’ she tried to explain, and Elvira heaved herself out of her chair with a dramatic sigh.
‘You’re about as stubborn as that grandson of mine. Come with me.’
Ignoring Miranda’s protests that she had things to do, Elvira led the way to a dressing room with a whole wall of wardrobes. She flung open the doors and began rifling through the now-vintage designer dresses that had been carefully hung in covers.
‘You’re about the size I was when I was young, and I’ve never thrown anything away. I wonder if…’ She pulled out a hanger and peered at the outfit. ‘Maybe.’ Flinging it at Miranda, she carried on, tossing the occasional outfit into Miranda’s hapless arms until at last she drew a satisfied breath.
‘This is the one,’ she said. ‘Put all those down and try this on.’
‘B-but I can’t wear your dress,’ Miranda stammered, but Elvira refused to listen.
‘Put it on,’ she ordered.
Helplessly, Miranda found herself stripping down to her pants and stepping into the dress. A strapless sheath, it was exquisitely cut, with a row of tiny covered buttons that Elvira did up with surprisingly deft fingers, all the way down to the small of her back. It fit snugly under the bust with a ribbon effect, and then curved over her hips and down in a tulip shape before finishing in a stylish fishtail.
‘Much better,’ said Elvira with satisfaction. ‘That’s the perfect colour for you.’
In spite of her awkwardness, Miranda couldn’t resist smoothing down the shot silk. ‘It’s a lovely green.’
‘That’s not just green. It’s greengage. I had it made specially for me in London just after I got married. What a summer that was!’ Elvira’s keen eyes softened reminiscently before she recollected herself. ‘Of course, I wore long gloves with it, but you won’t want those on a hot night like this.’
‘Elvira, it’s terribly generous of you, but I really can’t wear this,’ Miranda tried again, wondering how on earth she would ever get those buttons undone. An image of Rafe slowly unbuttoning her with long, warm fingers flashed into her mind, and her breath stumbled at the thought before she pushed it firmly away.
‘You’ll hurt me very much if you refuse,’ said Elvira, who, as Rafe had once pointed out, was not above emotional blackmail when it suited her. ‘Of course, if you’d rather not…’ she went on, assuming the air of a decrepit and tearful old lady that had Miranda stammering an acceptance even though she knew perfectly well that Elvira was putting it on.
‘That’s agreed, then,’ said Elvira, miraculously restored to vigour. ‘I suppose it’s too much to hope that you’d have the same size shoes. You certainly can’t wear those,’ she added, wincing at the sight of Miranda’s sensible flatties.
She looked through what seemed like racks and racks of shoes and eventually selected a pair of elegantly strappy sandals. ‘You might be able to get away with these.’
Surrendering to a force greater than herself, Miranda tried them on. ‘They’re a bit tight,’ she said, making a face as she wriggled her toes.
‘They’ll do fine,’ said Elvira. ‘You must be prepared to suffer for beauty. Now, all you need is to do something about your hair and put on some lipstick. In my day I wouldn’t have dreamed of going out in the evening without so much as a dab of make-up. You girls don’t have standards any more.’
Miranda was desperate by now to get downstairs and make sure everything was ready. She would find some lipstick if she had a moment, but there were more important things to do first.
She bent to kiss Elvira’s cheek. ‘Thank you,’ she said, touched by Rafe’s grandmother’s generosity even while she wondered how on earth she was going to get through the evening feeling half-naked. She even foun
d herself thinking fondly of the catsuit. It might have clung in an embarrassingly revealing way, but at least she hadn’t had all this flesh on display then. She would have to try and find a cardigan or a pashmina or something to cover her bare back and shoulders.
‘Off you go,’ said Elvira briskly. ‘And don’t hide yourself away all evening!’
Determined to do just that, Miranda hurried down the magnificent staircase, only to find herself face to face with Octavia in the hall.
‘Are you here already?’ she asked, surprised. ‘I thought you were coming down with Cassandra and the Fox-Smythes?’
Very faint colour touched her sister’s lovely cheeks. ‘Simon offered me a lift,’ she said a little too airily, ‘so I thought I might as well come with him and-’ Octavia broke off, as if noticing Miranda’s appearance for the first time. ‘You look fantastic!’ she said in surprise. ‘Where did you get that fabulous dress?’ she added enviously.
‘Rafe’s grandmother insisted I wear it.’ Miranda fiddled fretfully with the plunging neckline. ‘I can’t hurt her feelings by taking it off, but I feel half-naked!’
‘That’s because you’ve got no make-up on.’
‘Don’t you start! I haven’t got time for make-up. I’ve got to check that Rosie is OK.’
‘Rosie’s fine,’ said Octavia and took her sister firmly by the arm. ‘The last thing she needs is you fussing around. You’re not ruining that dress by going out with nothing on your face.’
Miranda rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’
But Octavia was serious, and not taking no for an answer. She bore Miranda off to her bedroom and opened her bag. ‘Now sit still,’ she ordered.
Miranda hardly recognised herself when Octavia had finished. She stared at her reflection in something like shock. Was that really her, with her hair swinging shining to her bare shoulders? With those eyes, the ones she had always thought of as ditchwater dull, now cunningly emphasised so that they looked huge and brilliantly green? With that mouth, outlined in a colour that Octavia informed her, apparently quite seriously, was called Passionate Encounter. It made her look warm and sophisticated and really quite sexy, all at the same time.
