A Proper Cuppa Tea

by K. G. MacGregor

  “Not if you don’t wish to be bothered. Oliver and I are prepared to accept complete responsibility. In other words, you’d be under no obligation to provide any sort of parental support.”

  “It’s not about what you and Oliver will do.” In her mind’s eye she saw herself at eight years old, boarding a plane for England to be raised by a grandfather she hardly knew. How could she forget that her own mum had bowed to pressure from Calvin and torn her from her home and family? “It’s what I’ll do. I don’t know if I’m even capable of abdicating responsibility for my own child—but at the same time I can’t say for certain that I won’t. Before I agree to this, I have to work it out in my head. I need to know what I expect of myself.”

  As she was talking, Lark scooted her chair closer and draped an arm around her shoulder.

  Channing was mortified to realize she was crying. Accepting Kenny’s handkerchief, she tried to laugh it off. “Obviously I’m allergic to something in this room. Next I’ll be sneezing.”

  Lark stood and offered a hand. “On that note…”

  She let Lark wrap up the social pleasantries, drifting into the hallway where she paused at a mirror to check her red, swollen face. Kenny’s emotional plea had broken the dam on her tears, but it was the memory of being sent away that had brought them so close to the surface.

  “Are you all right?” Lark looped an arm through hers and steered her toward the stairs.

  “Fine. For a moment there I remembered what it felt like when my own mother sent me off to live with someone else.”

  “You don’t have it in you to do something like that, Channing. It’s like Kenny pretending he’s living on the edge. You talk a good game about being cold and vicious but that’s all it is—talk. You could never be deliberately cruel.”

  “I’d like to think you’re right.” Though she’d had little regard for Payton’s family… “Mmm.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Not fifteen minutes ago there was a foot crawling up the inside of my trousers and I couldn’t wait to get out of that restaurant so I could have my way with you. Now I can’t decide which I need most—three more glasses of wine or a therapist who can help me pretend I wasn’t actually born until I was nineteen years old.”

  “Or we could pretend we walked out of the restaurant fifteen minutes ago, Lady Hughes.”

  That would be her first choice…but sex-as-distraction was as fundamentally contrived as makeup sex. Lark deserved better. Leave it to Kenny to throw cold water on her libido two nights in a row.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Foregoing the enormous breakfast buffet aboard the Britannica, Channing and Lark had a lie-in, waking just in time to meet the guys and drive off at the dock in Harwich. Only moments into the trip, they raised an incessant grumble until Oliver relented with a stop for tea and croissants.

  Once they were fed, the ride back to Horningsea was quite pleasant. Sunny for a change, and light traffic. Best of all, Channing thought, was holding hands with Lark in the backseat. It was her clearest statement yet to her friends that Lark meant something to her—and they could sod off with opinions to the contrary.

  By half-ten they made it back to Penderworth, where Lark’s hatchback sat alone in the drive.

  “Channing, where’s your car?” Kenny asked.

  “Bury St Edmunds, probably. The Brownings go to church there every Sunday. They won’t be home for hours.” It amused her to think of the old Mercedes as hers, seeing as how she’d driven it fewer than five times in the dozen years since Poppa had purchased it. If Cecil were willing to take it on, she’d sign it over to him when they left.

  “That’s a forty-minute drive. They’re C of E, right? What’s wrong with St Peters?”

  “They’ve always gone to Bury’s. Maisie’s brother and his wife live there, and they do a big family lunch on Sunday. They’ve an adult son who’s developmentally challenged. I’ve met him…he’s very sweet. Turns out that’s always been their retirement plan, which I only learned the other day. They’re keen to move into her brother’s guest cottage and help take care of Stephen. I think they’d go tomorrow if I sold the manor.”

  Oliver walked with Lark to her car so she could stow her small suitcase, while Kenny carried Channing’s into the house. “Channing, about the other night…I’m truly sorry for being a fucking knob. I apologized to Lark again this morning while you were getting tea.”

  “I appreciate that. She’s bloody decent, you know.”

  “Of course she is. I just wish she didn’t live in Boston. That’s me being selfish.”

  It was nice he realized that. She didn’t need his badgering over what was already a difficult decision. “This wild idea of yours, the baby business…you do know that isn’t going to happen, right? Don’t go making any crazy assumptions to the contrary.”

  “I promise not to assume anything if you’ll promise to give it even a tiny speck of serious consideration. Try it on for real, imagine you said yes. Then honestly think about how it feels. Ollie and I both love you to bits.”

  “At least that part is mutual.” They shared a hug as Lark came in. “By the way, your property inspector friend is coming by on Tuesday. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  When Kenny left, Lark took his place in Channing’s arms. “Looks like everyone’s abandoned you, Lady Hughes. Would you like some company?”

  “What do you think? I’ve been trying to get you to myself for three days. I almost woke you up in the middle of the night to ask if you’d like to play doctor.”

  Lark rolled her eyes and laughed. “Like I’ve never heard that one before.” She twined her fingers through Channing’s hair and urged her into a kiss. Lips…lips…tongue…lips. Each time Channing thought it would erupt into hungry passion, Lark withdrew to tease her.

  This she hadn’t expected, Lark taking the lead—though she’d said after their kiss two nights ago that the next move was up to Lark. It was having a weakening effect on her knees. She’d forgotten how good it felt to be handled by a purposeful woman who was sure of what she wanted.

  “I seem to remember somebody has a big…fancy…bed.” Lark punctuated each word with a kiss.

  Channing found herself back on her heels against the wall with Lark straddling her thighs. As a hot mouth devoured her neck, she felt a hand climbing beneath her shirt to brush against the satin of her bra.

  “Upstairs, Lady Hughes…or I’m going to have you right here.”

  * * *

  It was a girl’s bed, antique white with a brushed brass canopy. Pale blue sheers were gathered at the bottom bedposts and tied with velvet sashes. Lark couldn’t help the urge to loosen them, letting the sheers waft from the summer breeze.

  Channing returned to her from opening the windows. “So we can listen for the car,” she explained. “But I’m not expecting them until two at the earliest.”

  “Good, then I won’t have to compete for your attention.”

  “I hardly think it would be a contest.”

  Under Channing’s watchful eye, Lark boldly stepped out of her jeans and tossed her sweater aside, leaving just her bra and panties. She’d always been satisfied with her body, even if it could have used more exercise. The look on Channing’s face said that didn’t matter at all.

  Lark followed her to the bed, which was fitted with old-fashioned floral sheets she guessed had been softened by a thousand washes. Beginning with the drawstring on Channing’s summer slacks, she initiated the ritual undressing.

  Channing stepped out of the crumpled cotton and stood perfectly still while Lark released the buttons of her shirt. Underneath, a satin bra pushed her breasts together. A soft moan escaped her as she ran her tongue along the cleavage. Their nearly bare bodies touched.

  She could sense Channing’s waver as she fought her instinct to dominate. A part of her wanted to surrender and let her take control. Channing had always conveyed authority. This time though, the hesitation felt deliberate…as if she wanted to feel La
rk’s desire.

  With her knee angled between soft thighs, she urged Channing backward onto the bed. At the same time she slid her hand inside the bikini briefs and clutched a fleshy hip. Still kissing, still climbing, she twisted them free and dropped them behind her.

  Channing instantly opened her legs and pulled her into a warm, wet vise.

  Feeling her bra leave her shoulders, she pushed off her panties as well and groped Channing’s back for a clasp that would free the last layer of satin between them. Luscious breasts begged for her mouth.

  “God, I love that,” Channing whispered, her chest heaving upward. Her hands held Lark in place as she shivered with obvious delight.

  Kneading, nipping, devouring. Anchored on one knee, Lark slid her center along a silky-smooth thigh that rose in a taut cord of muscle with each of Channing’s thrusts. Her hand slithered lower…through the brush of damp curls…and into a velvety slickness.

  Channing’s heel dug into the back of her thigh. Jarring, lurching in a fierce rhythm of want.

  Lark hovered above her, close enough to share breath as she stroked the slippery cleft. Searching, studying, memorizing. She never wanted to forget the wide eyes and open mouth as her fingers plunged inside.

  As their breath quickened, so did her touch…until Channing arched her back, drew a deep breath and squeezed her eyes tightly shut.

  That’s it, come for me.

  Channing heeded the unspoken command, twisting and writhing as spasms pulsed from her core. Her next breath was a wail of unguarded pleasure.

  * * *

  “I deeply regret that we didn’t do this sooner, Dr. Latimer.” Channing propped herself on one elbow so she could watch the trail of her fingertips as they traced the contours of Lark’s nude form. “On the other hand, it creates a sense of urgency about catching up.”

  “Think we can do it all in one day?” They’d spent the last two hours exploring what Lark had termed their “intersecting interests.”

  “Perhaps, but probably not this day. I have to figure out how I’m going to explain you to the Brownings.”

  “Surely I’m not your first sleepover.”

  “No, that distinction belongs to Alice Markham, my first crush from boarding school. Now on her second husband, I think.”

  “Is it possible Cecil and Maisie already know? About you, that is. Not you and me.”

  “I’ve no idea really, but I think not. I hadn’t told Poppa. He was a traditional sort, Maggie Thatcher’s advisor, for bloody’s sake. Some of the opinions he expressed led me to believe such news would have been unwelcome, so I never brought it up. It hardly mattered once I moved to Boston. But I’d worked it out that I’d tell him about Payton. I wanted him to know that I loved someone, and that I was loved in return.”

  The subject triggered an unwelcome thought of a scene she’d imagined only a few months ago—Cecil’s surprised reaction when she asked him to deliver Payton’s bags to her room. The Brownings might have worried quietly about their age difference, but upon seeing Channing’s happiness, they’d have been glad she had someone important in her life now that Poppa was gone. At least that had been her dream.

  She’d hardly had time to reimagine how she’d tell them about Lark. Perhaps it wasn’t necessary. They could move to Bury’s blissfully unaware. Channing would send cards, drop in for an occasional visit…there was no reason to risk their reaction, especially if she and Lark both returned to Boston.

  “I don’t have any expectations,” Lark said. “You can hide me in the wardrobe if you like.”

  “An excellent suggestion, Doctor.”

  The sound of crunching gravel alerted them to a car in the driveway.

  “That’s odd…if that’s the Brownings, they’re home much earlier than usual.” She sneaked toward the window to peek out. Indeed, they’d returned immediately after the church service instead of staying for lunch with the family. “I hope nothing’s wrong. We probably should get dressed.”

  Lark rolled out of bed and quickly gathered her clothes. “I can shinny down the drainpipe if you like.”

  “That would be fun to watch actually, but it shouldn’t be necessary. Sunday is their day off unless I make special arrangements. They’ll probably spend the whole afternoon in their cottage.”

  No sooner had she spoken than the sound of footsteps echoed up the stairwell, followed by Cecil’s gravelly voice. “Miss Channing?”

  The bedroom door was standing open—he’d be at the landing before she could cross the room and close it. At least Lark was mostly dressed, though she was conspicuously barefoot and her hair was askew.

  “Bollocks!” She kicked her undergarments under the bed and shimmied into her drawstring pants. In desperation, she grabbed the first pullover she could find from the drawer, a wool sweater that was far too warm for the day.

  His voice grew louder as he topped the stairs and started toward the bedroom. “Miss Channing, I thought you’d like your luggage. We hurried home because Maisie couldn’t remember if she’d turned off the kettle. Turns out she had, but it’s always best to—” He stopped in the doorway, his smile fading as he looked past her into the room.

  “Thank you, Cecil.”

  “I…” His eyes went to the floor and his face reddened. “Sorry.”

  As he retreated, she turned to take in what he had seen. The unmade bed, her shirt and two sets of shoes on the floor. And Lark leaning all too casually against the bedpost. “Bloody hell.”

  “It could have been a lot worse.”

  That was very true. Cecil could imagine what they’d been doing, but at least he hadn’t seen them doing it.

  “Given a multitude of choices, that was not how I’d have chosen to reveal myself. I can’t begin to guess whose embarrassment is greater. If only I’d brought my bloody bag upstairs.”

  “We were otherwise occupied.” Lark worked her feet into her shoes, not bothering with the laces. “Let it percolate a day or two. Maybe you’ll both end up laughing about it.”

  Somehow she doubted it. Before they could ever get to laughing, they’d have to get past awkward and humiliated. And possibly upset.

  Lark ignored her gloominess and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I don’t have a fancy canopy bed, Lady Hughes, but I’ve got a whole flat to myself. How about you meet me there when I get off work tomorrow?”

  Channing managed a smile. “That’s what matters, isn’t it? All this other…it’s a lot less important than how I feel about you.”

  “And how I feel about you.”

  She followed Lark downstairs and waved from the front door as she got into her car.

  Cecil chose that moment to fetch something from the car, then stood almost defiantly watching Lark exit through the gate, as though he’d chased her off himself. Then he turned toward Channing, his glower an unmistakable message of contempt.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The narrow glass cutout in her office door allowed Lark to observe foot traffic in the hallway. Since the start of her conference call with the Gipson team, Niya had walked by four times. Maybe she wanted to apologize. Lark wasn’t in the mood to get jumped on again.

  She’d followed up on Shane’s confirmation that he’d delivered the trial samples that precipitated the cardiac emergencies for all three subjects. Interviews with the clinical staffs at Shire and Addenbrooke hospitals confirmed his report that he’d dropped off sealed boxes without checking the contents.

  While Flexxene project manager Mike Dobbins summarized where they stood, Lark’s phone buzzed with a text from Channing. Good news at work?

  Finally caught a breast. Naughty autocorrect. Break.

  Breast works too.

  As if reading over her shoulder, Dobbins said verbatim, “Please tell me there’s good news from the hospitals. Were you able to confirm that all the treatment packets were delivered intact?”

  “Protocols checked out. I spoke with four different nurses who signed off at least once on various deliveries of the pa
ckets. Every single one said Wendi Doolan was always meticulous about verifying the seal on each packet, but apparently she’s the only one who ever does that. Everyone else—whether it’s a delivery for Gipson, Pfizer, anybody—handles it like Shane did. They drop off the sealed box, get a signature and leave it for the staff to open.”

  Left unsaid was how much better she felt knowing Shane hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary. If anyone had, arguably it was Wendi, who was guilty only of being too conscientious. It was hard to fault her for that.

  What r u wearing?

  Lark covered her mouth to smother her laugh.

  “It’s looking more and more like this was just a phenomenal coincidence,” Dobbins said. “Three random, unrelated events affecting our study subjects. And nothing anywhere points to Flexxene being the cause. I see no reason we can’t get this trial back into the field right now. Even with the hiatus, the results would be favorable for us.”

  Kirsten Cooke also seemed less skeptical than she’d been last week. “I tend to agree with Mike, though to be on the safe side I think we should wait for the final round of blood panels. The lab should have them within a day or two.”

  Blood panels were a regular part of subject monitoring, done to measure the drug’s metabolites. When the three study subjects showed up in urgent care with cardiac arrhythmia, the hospital checked for enzymes that would have indicated a heart attack. Gipson had asked for additional samples for its own laboratory tests.

  White coat, she tapped out, picturing Channing at the desk in her grandfather’s study.

  Dobbins concurred. “I’ll forward those results to the group when I get them. Dr. Latimer, how many of our subjects are still onboard?”

  “Twenty of twenty-seven so far. Of the seven who declined, two of them were anxious about the newspaper article. The other five were upset over being assigned to the placebo group, but I’ll talk to them again if we get the go-ahead.” Study participants, even those who hadn’t received the drug, were promised the chance to participate in the Phase III trial, during which they were guaranteed to receive the drug.