by Anna Premoli
I might be completely out of it thanks to the lateness of the hour, and my ability to protest might be limited, but that doesn't mean I'll forgive him for this brilliant idea of sharing the room. Although, in fact, there's actually room for a couple of families in here!
“And I thought you were going to offer to sleep there,” teases Ian.
“You thought wrong,” I say quietly. “The pictures in the paper are all your fault, ergo the couch is yours.”
“Oh well,” he sighs, “it means I'll take a blanket from the wardrobe. Although making a person of my calibre sleep on the sofa is really low.”
I stop in the middle of the room trying to decide how and where to unpack. “Do you really think I care at all?” I ask him.
Ian doesn't even reply, just chuckles.
I sit on the bed and open my suitcase. “Where can I put my stuff?”
Ian opens the wardrobe and shows me a drawer. “This is free if you've got folded things to put away. You can hang the rest here.”
“I've only got one long dress” I re-assure him.
“No problem, there's plenty of room. I don't keep much stuff here now, because I don't come very often. My base is in London nowadays. I try to set foot here as rarely as possible.”
A remark that is too interesting not to follow up. “Why?” I ask, trying not to show my curiosity. “Because if I come here too often, I end up arguing with my parents and my grandfather. So I try and avoid it.”
I'm speechless. “Really?” Oops, that slipped out.
Ian laughs at my expression. “Yes, my dear – you're not the only one with a talent for making me lose my patience. In fact, my whole family is thoroughly dedicated to it. Mine is an extremely difficult life.”
“I can imagine… Even Chinese miners slaving away with no legal protection would agree that you have it tough, I'm sure.” I'd like to know more, but it's midnight and I'm starting to feel very, very tired. He, too, looks as though he needs a good night's sleep. “How about saving this discussion for tomorrow and going to sleep?” I propose shortly thereafter, as I put the last of my things in the wardrobe.
“For once, you've had a good idea,” he agrees, yawning.
“I only have good ideas” I retort.
“I'll pretend I didn't hear that. You can use the bathroom first,” and he invites me to go ahead, pointing to the door across the room.
I grab my pyjamas, a very plain two-piece, and head for the bathroom. I brush my teeth and get changed quickly. When I get back into the bedroom, Ian has already changed: he's wearing check pyjama bottoms with a plain white T-shirt. There's no earthly reason why he should look so damn sexy in them! And yet he does…
“No lace?” he asks when he sees me come out.
“Do I look like a girl who wears lace?” I ask him.
Ian seems to reflect and then shrugs. “No, you don't, actually. But one can always hope,” he says, with a chuckle.
“Be serious” I say, not at all impressed with his attempt at humour.
I make for the bed and slip underneath the covers. They're really soft, no doubt about it. I think I'll sleep well tonight, despite the awkward presence of Ian, who will be on a sofa at a safe distance, though.
The little lord comes out of the bathroom and turns off the lights. “Good night” he says from somewhere far away in the darkness.
“Good night” I say, and a minute later I fall into the arms of Morpheus.
Chapter 14
“I don't want to be a pain, but it's almost ten, Jenny,” I hear a voice telling me.
Strange. I'm in a soft bed that's not mine and a male voice is telling me to wake up. But I don't want to, I'm perfectly cosy right here where I am.
“Come on, Jenny, there won't be anything left to eat if you don't get up.”
That same annoying voice – a voice that isn't completely unknown to me, but that I can't associate with my usual awakening.
I open one eyelid with great effort and then the other. There's too much light, I can't focus.
I blink again and then finally the mist begins to clear. There's a face in front of me, the face of a black haired man with deep blue eyes. I've seen those eyes many times before… Oh God, Ian!
And in the blink of an eye I realise where I am, but mostly the reason why I've woken up in the castle of Revington.
“Don't you feel ok?” asks Ian, looking almost worried at my bewildered expression.
I rub my eyes. “Not really. What time did you say it was?” I ask in a deep, sleepy voice.
“It's ten o'clock” he says, looking at me suspiciously. I must look pretty dishevelled.
“What!?” I ask in shock. And I'm wide awake in no time at all. “It can't be ten! I've never slept until ten in my life.”
“Well, it's ten anyway,” says Ian, folding his arms across his chest and observing the scene before him.
I don't dare imagine what I must look like right now: eyes puffy with sleep, scruffy hair, no make-up. Why hasn't Ian run away screaming yet? I swear, I wouldn't be offended if he had – to be honest I'd have found it perfectly reasonable.
“I don't know whether I should feel offended or amused,” he admits, as he moves away from me.
“Why?” I grumble in the same deep voice, sitting up in the bed.
“Women usually do their best to look good for me, especially if it's morning and they're in my bed,” he smirks, staring insistently at the low neckline of my pyjamas.
Classic: I've only been awake for a minute and he's already annoyed me. Not to mention that I shouldn't be provoked on an empty stomach. “This is my bed for the weekend, let's be clear about that. And I don't care about how I look before I've even got out from under the sheets.”
“Are you always this grumpy in the mornings?” he asks innocently.
I give him a very dirty look and he laughs but keeps staring at me.
“Don't get me wrong, it's a pleasant change. Not to mention that you look much more like a little girl with no make-up on.”
Do men really think that these are compliments?
“Can you move so I can get up?” I ask him angrily.
He budges over as little as he can to allow me to get out of bed and rush to the bathroom.
“I'll be downstairs, in the dining room!” I hear him shout shortly after I've locked myself inside the bathroom.
Thank God, finally a moment of peace! How horrible to start the morning like this: I look like something out of a horror film and he is immaculate – not a hair out of place and all dressed up.
How the hell did I manage to sleep so deeply knowing that I was in his bed? A little voice tells me that maybe it was precisely because it was his bed, but I quickly push this vexing thought aside.
I brush my teeth and get dressed quickly, opting for a smart looking pair of comfortable black trousers and a blue sweater with wide collar. Finally, I comb my hair, leaving it loose and still a bit messy from sleep and I put on more make-up than usual. Who's the little girl now?
Once out of the room, the first problem presents itself: I don't know where to go. I decide to go down the stairs we walked up last night and then set off in search of food.
Fortunately, I find James at the foot of the stairs together with a very elegant lady who is greeting some newly arrived guests.
“Good morning, Miss Percy,” James greets me formally.
“Good morning. Oh, please – just call me Jenny,” I say, cordially.
On hearing us speak, the lady turns around immediately. “James, can you introduce us?” she asks, as though we were not able to do it by ourselves. These people must have mistaken this castle for the Royal Palace.
“Of course. Lady St John, this is Jennifer Percy, who arrived yesterday evening with your son. Miss Jennifer, this is Lady St John.”
Ah, that explains everything.
Ian's mother is a tall, slim, elegant woman with gleaming auburn hair and green eyes. Her posture is perfect, her skin still that of a you
ng girl, and the jewels she's wearing must be worth a small fortune. Let's say she's the type of woman who doesn't go unnoticed.
The look she gives me is suspicious at first, then curious. I imagine I'm not exactly what she expected.
“Nice to meet you,” she says, holding out her hand to me. But it is unclear whether she really means it.
I shake her hand, and I do it firmly. I'm not easily intimidated. The lady realises this right away and is smiling at me now with a little more conviction.
“I was looking for the dining room,” I explain to both, intending to escape the embarrassment as soon as possible. It's not that the company isn't pleasant, but, you know, it could be better.
“My son should have shown you around,” says Lady St John with irritation.
“Oh, he was going to,” I feel compelled to point out, but then I almost want to bite my tongue, because defending Ian in front of his mother isn't really one of my duties. “I'm the one who's late this morning.”
She looks at me like someone who knows what's what. “I'll come with you and show you the house.” As she says it, she leads me to the entrance of the first room.
“I don't wish to sound impertinent, Jennifer, but what do you do?” There she goes with the questions. Not a bad start to the morning – an interrogation on an empty stomach. Now that's a challenge.
“No problem,” I tell her with a smile, because I am very good at these little games. “I'm a lawyer. A tax lawyer.”
Ian's mother freezes and looks at me again, as though she had only just noticed me.
“Really?” she asks, sounding puzzled.
“Yes. At least that's what was written on my degree the last time I checked it,” I say with a forced laugh.
Which apparently hits the target because Lady St John laughs too, and it is the same laugh as her son. “I'm sorry, but you know… Ian's friends are usually—” and she stops.
I decide to be generous and save her the embarrassment. “A bit showier?” I suggest.
“Oh, yes,” she agrees with relief. “And I dare say a little superficial.”
“I suppose, though, that going from models to PR people is a step forward, isn't it?”
Ok, maybe I've gone too far.
Instead, Ian's mother seems to find it hilarious, because she laughs sincerely. I guess that rarely happens to these people.
“How long have you known my son?” she asks, because I've obviously given myself away now.
I'd better tell the hard truth. “Since the day he was hired at our bank, so seven long years.”
“You're a colleague then?” she asks in surprise.
“Exactly,” I confirm. I think I've already said too much. And who knows what else she'd get out of me if Ian didn't arrived at that moment.
“You've already made friends?” he asks, seeing us laugh. He has a curious look, as though he is genuinely surprised.
“Of course, dear,” confirms his mother. “Your colleague is a very amusing woman. ”
It's clear that she is also thinking about something else, because I've just come down from Ian's room, but it would be rude to imply too much before breakfast.
“Only when she wants to be,” says her son. “She usually doesn't.”
What is that supposed to mean? “I am with those who deserve it,” I add.
Ian turns serious. “I should have imagined you two would get along. You have very similar personalities.”
It's not really clear whether it is a compliment or not. I'm inclined to the second hypothesis.
His mother doesn't seem bothered by the insinuation, though. In fact, her smile doesn't waver.
“Anyway, we are not here to socialise,” Ian points out, “we're here for business. Beverly is one of our clients and wanted to use the occasion of the hunt to discuss some things with us.”
Ian's mother turns in my direction. “Lord Beverly? I am so sorry, dear.”
“No problem, really,” I assure her.
“But I imagine you're used to moving in this society. Perhaps your family is like this too—”
Of course, the interrogation goes on: now its time for my family tree.
“Not really. Actually, I couldn't think of anything more different. Although all families are alike in their own way – apart from the castles and hunting.” Bullseye. Ian's mother turns slightly pale, but recovers in time to say goodbye to us before she goes to meet a lady who has just arrived.
“You don't pull your punches,” Ian teases me, finally pointing to the dining room, where all sorts of good things are laid out on the table. I pour hot coffee into a cup that must be at least two hundred years old and eat scrambled eggs and toast.
“Since I hadn't received any instructions, I limited myself to the truth. So far no one has asked about the nature of my relationship with you, but I imagine that they will soon. Ian, honestly, it wasn't a brilliant idea to bring me here.”
He looks at me sceptically. “You're totally wrong. I could barely get rid of Katie and her mother half an hour ago. Your presence in my room was very helpful then.”
The coffee is excellent, so I pour a second cup.
“Why don't you marry her?” I ask him point-blank, looking at him.
“Are you kidding? You've even met her.”
“That's exactly why I'm saying it, because I have met her: you're both full of yourselves, proud of your blue blood and convinced that you're superior to everyone else. That seems to me to be a good foundation for a marriage.”
Ian isn't too happy with my portrait of him and shifts nervously on his chair.
“What makes you think I'm so class conscious?” he asks, a little annoyed.
I'm chewing my buttered toast while he stares at me with an intensity that I don't like at all.
“Let's talk about this at a more appropriate time, if you don't mind. I hate having my breakfast interrupted.”
Ian shrugs. “As you wish.”
“And where's the rest of the family?” I ask curiously.
“My father is away on business and my grandfather is out checking the horses for tomorrow's hunt. I'll introduce him to you to the dance tonight. But I warn you, he is very old school—”
That's a warning that sounds like a threat.
“I know how to behave, you know,” I tell him, without the slightest hint of anxiety at his veiled insinuation.
Ian raises an eyebrow doubtfully.
“Really,” I tell him. He sighs resignedly. He seems to be going to add something when Elizabeth Beverly and Katie walk into the room. The perfect couple.
Once again, Elizabeth is more naked than dressed, but at least she seems sincere when she smiles on seeing us.
“Hello, Ian, good morning, Jennifer!” she says, and I reciprocate.
Katie instead is a wax sculpture – or better, an ice statue. Saying that she's unhappy to see me would be putting it very mildly. Her face is so hostile that I'm almost worried for her. Anger ages you, you know.
She's wearing a dress that would be much more suited to a cocktail party than breakfast, but if she thinks it's fashionable…
Anyway, if she wants to ignore me, I might very well do the same.
“Hello, Elizabeth,” says Ian, who then smiles at Katie. I forgot – they've already seen each other at breakfast.
For a while, no one dares to say anything. Ian is watching us, Katie is staring at me without lowering her gaze, and Elizabeth looks as if she'd like to run away. I'm chewing very slowly, taking all the time I need. If this blonde thinks she can intimidate me, she can think again.
In an apparently random gesture, she sits down and places her hand on Ian's leg, and he gives me a look that confirms he's picked up on her intentions.
“I'm done with breakfast” I say quietly. “We can go back to our room if you want.”
Ian's eyes sparkle with amusement, while Katie looks like she's going to be sick. I swear, she's so disagreeable and arrogant that I am trying to think of a way to prolong her ag
ony. Not to mention that I've changed my mind: no one deserves a wife like that, not even Ian.
“Sure, let's go.” He gets up and holds out his hand to me, and I grab it unceremoniously.
We say goodbye to the girls and head to our room. As we walk, I remember that my hand is still firmly holding Ian's and I try to break free, but he doesn't let me.
“They could see us, just bear it for another moment.”
His sentence is so sensible that I can find no objection – I, the empress of objections!
When at last we get into the room my hand is burning, and once free of his grasp, I remain surprised by the effect. I'm a grown woman of thirty-three who doesn't generally get worked up over simple physical contact. And yet, while he was holding my hand, it seemed far from simple.
*
This will be an interesting evening, as long as I survive it, which given how the day has gone is not a foregone conclusion. Ian and I seized the opportunity to work on Beverly and now we've agreed to meet up in the middle of next week in our office, to settle things once and for all. Katie has disappeared, but I guess she's locked herself in her room to get ready for tonight’s gala. Basically, she's going for broke, and wants to be at the top of her game.
The castle is full of people, even though not many of them are young. Here, they are all somehow friends of the Duke of Revington, as the average age confirms.
I, instead, had little time to devote to preparing for the evening, so I've had to settle for a quick shower. But I've used the moisturiser that Vera forced me to bring and put on a dress – as usual it's one of Laura's, and, I must admit, it has a certain something: it's black, because I am a black dress type of woman, long, low-cut in the front and with a scooped back. I've combed my hair up into a bun that, miraculously, actually looks pretty good (I'm not kidding myself, it was pure chance), while my make-up is unusually intense and the lipstick bright red.
So, in other words, this isn't me. The girl looking back at me from the mirror doesn't resemble me at all.
Ian must be thinking the same thing, because when I come out of the bathroom, he is utterly bewildered. He wears a tuxedo that fits him like a glove and as I look at him I can't help wondering if he's real.
