His grin was cocky and boyish and endearing, and she could easily see how they might indeed love him. It wouldn’t be hard at all, she thought wistfully, and felt sorry for Charlotte all over again.
They went in through the back door, into the family kitchen where they’d had breakfast with the dogs, and found breakfast cleared away and the team of cooks in full swing preparing lunch for the house guests; they greeted him with smiles and told him to help himself, so Andrew swiped a few slices of asparagus and mushroom quiche still warm from the oven, a bowl of salad and a handful of crusty rolls, put them in a basket with a bottle of spring water and some plastic cups and a bunch of grapes and some cheese, and they headed off in the car. She took her borrowed boots and jacket, and they drove to the edge of a wood, parked the car and walked to the folly.
‘Oh, it’s beautiful! The walls are all painted!’ she exclaimed, her eyes wide as she stepped inside and stared around.
He saw the moment she registered the content, the soft colour that swept her cheeks, the muffled laugh through fingers pressed lightly against her lips. ‘I understand now why she thought it was lewd and uncivilised, but really they’re lovely,’ she said, turning to him with a smile, and he smiled back, watching her as she looked again at the paintings of naked lovers frolicking in the woods; her eyes were entranced, and he was pleased he’d brought her here—pleased he’d had the idea of the picnic and that she hadn’t wanted to do all the tedious and organised things that the others would be doing. This way he had her to himself, but the downside was they were alone in a room designed for lovers, a room filled with images that heated his imagination and made his thoughts run riot.
Thoughts filled with images of him and Libby.
And that was worrying. It wasn’t supposed to be like this; she was there for show, not for him to sneak away with alone and have more fun than he’d had in years, frolicking in the folly surrounded by nymphs in gauzy gowns flitting through the fading scenery. The memory of her this morning with the sun streaming through her fine cotton nightdress hit him in the solar plexus, and his breath jammed in his throat.
‘It’ll be warmer outside,’ he said, suddenly desperate to get away from the paintings, so they went back out into the sunshine and sat down on the steps, looking out over a bend in the river in the distance, and they ate the picnic slowly, savouring the view, somehow not needing to talk. So refreshing, he thought, to sit with her and not have to fill the silence.
A squirrel came up to them, head tilted slightly on one side, and she threw it a tiny crumb of quiche.
‘Feeding the wildlife?’ he murmured, and the squirrel grabbed it and fled, darting up a tree and disappearing.
‘It’s probably got young,’ she said.
‘Probably. Are you all done?’
‘Mmm. That was lovely, thank you. Much nicer than being polite to poor little Charlotte. So what now?’
‘I can show you the bits we didn’t get to this morning, if you like?’
‘Sounds good.’
‘Let’s go, then,’ he said, packing up the things and getting to his feet. They walked and drove and walked again, and despite everything he’d said about the place, she could see that he loved it.
It was in his blood, in his bones. How could he not love it? And yet he was right, it was an awesome responsibility, and as he talked about it, about how they were merely caretakers for the future generations, about the struggle to make ends meet, the difficulties of opening the house and gardens to the public, the rules and regulations, the health and safety implications, she could see how it could be a love-hate relationship.
‘It must be a nightmare opening to the public,’ she mused as they stood and looked at the house across the wide expanse of the park. ‘I can’t imagine anything more stressful than having people wandering through my home touching everything. Do you use all the rooms and have to clear them up the night before?’
He laughed softly and shook his head. ‘No. The ones we open are the big rooms that we don’t use that much, and now Will’s in the east wing and I don’t live here any more it’s much easier. Visitors don’t have access to all the house, by any means, and the walkways are all roped off to corral them a bit, but there’s always the odd one who tries to escape from the guides. There’s a bedroom Queen Victoria stayed in and the old nursery, and the drawing room and dining room we used last night, and of course the ballroom, which you’ll see later. That’s gorgeous. And the old Victorian kitchen. That’s next to the family kitchen and it’s lovely, but it’s never used. It’s just a museum piece now, like one of the bathrooms and some of the other bits like part of the stable block and the old coach house, but it’s all pretty strung out so they feel they’ve seen more than they have, really.’
Another kitchen? That made three—four if she counted Will and Sally’s. ‘Don’t you ever get lost?’ she asked, slightly dazed, but he just smiled and shook his head.
‘No. I grew up here, don’t forget, and Will and I had the run of the place.’
‘I bet you were a nightmare.’
‘Who, me? No way,’ he said, eyes alight with mischief, and she could just imagine him as an eight-year-old, all skinned knees and sparkling eyes and wicked little grin, ricocheting from one scrape to another.
And just the thought was enough to make her heart ache. If she was lucky, then one day she might have a son, a little boy like Andrew must have been—but that all depended on which way the dice had fallen, and until she knew…
She shivered as the wind picked up and the temperature dropped, and he realised he’d rambled on and kept her out in the wind for ages. ‘I’m sorry, you’re cold—have you seen enough?’ he asked, and she nodded, so they headed back towards the car. She snuggled down inside the jacket and turned the collar up, and he looked at the glow in her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes, and felt a surge of regret that this wasn’t a real relationship, that they were in his room together under false pretences and that once they returned to Audley tomorrow it would all come to an end and they’d go back to normal, him the overworked, harassed consultant, her the overworked but always cheerful ward sister.
Hell, it was going to be hard to do that. He’d forgotten what they were supposed to be doing, had let himself get carried away by the moment and spent the day having fun with her—good, clean, healthy fun, free of ties and responsibilities and obligations, and it had been wonderful.
He wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her, to fold her against his chest and hold her tight, just stand there with her in his arms while time stood still and the world moved on without them. But he couldn’t. He had responsibilities that day, and he’d shirked them long enough. The ball was taken care of, but he had a duty to the other guests, and his mother was probably going to hang him out to dry if he didn’t get back there soon.
Either that or she’d be planning the wedding.
He unlocked the car, opened the door for her and as she slid in and reached for the seat belt their eyes met and she smiled.
‘Thank you, Andrew. I’ve had the best day,’ she said, and he just couldn’t help himself. He leant in and kissed her—the lightest, slightest brush of his lips against hers, but his heart kicked hard against his ribs and blood surged through him.
He stepped back and shut the door a little more firmly than was necessary, went round and slid behind the wheel and drove home in silence, regret for what could never be wedged like a ball in his throat.
If the dinner party had been a glittering occasion, the ball that night promised to be a firework display. The place had been a hive of activity from dawn onwards, and the pace had only picked up as the day went on. Now, though, was the lull before the storm. The cars and vans were gone or parked out of sight, the stage was set, and she felt a tingle of excitement. She’d never been to a white-tie ball before, and she was assailed by doubts about Amy’s dress.
Oh, well, nothing she could do about it now. It was all she had with her and it would have to do.
Andrew changed first. He disappeared into his dressing room and emerged in trousers and a shirt hanging open down the front. The wing collar was attached, but the stiffly starched front was meant to close with studs. The studs he had in his hand.
‘Can you put these in for me? This shirt is an instrument of torture and I just can’t do it. There’s a pocket here you can put your hand in to make it easier to reach,’ he demonstrated, and so she found herself nose to nose with his warm, solid, muscular chest, breathing in the scent of cologne and soap and, underlying it all, the drugging, masculine scent of his body.
Following his instructions, she put the first stud through from the back and her fingers brushed against the soft scatter of dark hair, sending heat coursing through her.
Darn it, how could he do this to her? She was almost whimpering by the time she’d fastened the last one, her fingers against the shirt front picking up the steady, even beat of his heart, the warmth of his body, the solidity, while the subtle spicy tones of his aftershave curled around her nostrils and teased her.
Andrew was struggling, too, the feel of her fingers tormenting him unbearably. ‘All done,’ she said at last, and he thanked her, stepping back the moment her hands fell away, and wheeled round and disappeared to assemble the rest of his elaborate and formal dress.
He wondered if she had any idea of the effect she had on him. Watching her, her soft, full bottom lip caught between her even white teeth, feeling her slender fingers brush against his chest, inhaling the scent of apples that drifted from her hair—it had been enough to kill him. And he was going to have to dance with her tonight. It would be expected, by her, by his mother, and most particularly by all the women who’d like to be in her place.
Maybe she’d hate dancing and they could sit it out, he thought, clutching at straws, but he had a feeling Libby didn’t hate anything. She wasn’t a wild party girl by any means, but she’d enjoyed herself last night, mixed easily with his friends and family, and he just knew she’d want to dance. Not that he didn’t want to. Rather the opposite, but he just didn’t trust himself to hold her in his arms without disgracing himself.
By the time he emerged in the long black tailcoat and white waistcoat over the satin-stripe trousers, his white bow-tie finally tied to his satisfaction, he’d managed to get himself back under control to a certain extent. ‘Right, are you OK to get ready on your own or will you need help with anything?’ he asked, hoping she’d say she could cope, and to his relief she nodded.
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Right. I’m going to help Will. He doesn’t stand a prayer of getting into this lot on his own, and Sally will be up to her eyes. She’s organising the ball. Come down and find us—if you go down the back stairs by the kitchen, then turn left, you’ll see the door to their wing in front of you. Just bang on the door and come in when you’re done.’
Libby nodded, and he went out and shut the door, pausing for a moment to suck in a deep breath before striding along the corridor and down to the communicating door.
He rapped sharply and went in, to find his brother upstairs in the bedroom struggling to attach the starched shirt collar.
‘Here, let me,’ he said, taking over. ‘They’re an utter pain in the butt. I just got Libby to dress me. Damn Mum and her grand ideas.’
Will laughed and relinquished the task, lounging against the wall and watching thoughtfully. ‘So—had a good day with Libby?’
‘Lovely,’ he said tightly, trying not to think about it. ‘Right, put this on and let’s try and do the front studs,’ he said, holding out the shirt, and Will shrugged into it and stood while he struggled with the fastenings. ‘Cock-eyed, antiquated arrangement,’ he grumbled, then stood back. ‘Bow-tie?’
‘I can do that. Have a drink—there’s a nice malt in the kitchen.’
‘No. I might have to shoot off.’
‘You can’t!’
‘There’s a boy in PICU—’
‘When isn’t there? Ring and find out how he’s doing. Then you can relax.’
‘Never that straightforward, though, is it?’ he murmured, keying in the number and checking on his little patient.
‘Well?’
‘He’s stable. No change—which is good. I’m hopeful.’
‘Excellent. So get yourself a drink and tell me all about Libby while I do this blasted tie up.’
CHAPTER FOUR
SHE stared at herself in the mirror.
It was a fabulous dress, she had to agree with Amy, but the cleavage worried her and she was concerned about the formality of the occasion. Was flesh allowed? Because there was plenty of it.
She groaned and gave the top another little tug. If only Andrew was here and she could show it to him before she walked through the house and made an utter fool of herself, but of course he wasn’t, and he wasn’t going to be, so she shrugged, draped the oyster pink pashmina around her shoulders and flipped the end back over her left shoulder so it covered her chest, and then studied her reflection again.
Better. More—well, less, really. She wriggled into the shoes, turned sideways for one last check for VPL, then took a deep breath and opened the door, to find Andrew on the other side, his hand poised to knock.
‘Ah—you’re ready,’ he said, his eyes scanning her. ‘I was just coming to check you were OK.’
‘Yes—well, I think so. Will I do? Formal enough?’
He opened his mouth, shut it as if he’d thought better of whatever he was going to say and nodded. ‘Perfect,’ he said, but she wasn’t convinced. What had he been going to say?
‘Is there a subtext—like, no flesh showing or anything?’ she asked, still unsure because of course he couldn’t see the neckline with the pashmina in the way, but he just gave a slightly strained laugh and shook his head.
‘No, flesh is fine. I’ve just seen Charlie in the hall, with a dress slit up virtually to the waist, so unless there really isn’t a front to that dress under the shawl thing, I don’t think you’ve got a problem. You’ll have to go a long way to show more than her.’
She felt her shoulders drop with relief, and the pashmina slid down and his eyes tracked its path, stopping at her cleavage, and they both froze.
She swallowed hard. ‘Still think it’s all right?’ she asked, her nerves on edge for some reason, and after an endless moment he reached for the pashmina and tucked it back over her left shoulder again with gentle fingers.
‘On second thoughts, perhaps a little decorum. I don’t want my father having a heart attack,’ he said gruffly, and then offered her his arm. ‘Shall we?’
Damn. She’d known it was too much. Oh, well, it was too late now, but at least she could keep the dress covered. They reached the hall, and Sally came quickly over to them. ‘Libby—I’ve got a corsage for you,’ she said, handing her a delicate creamy-white orchid spray, and then she smiled brightly and hurried off.
‘I could pin the pashmina with it,’ she suggested, and he nodded, looking relieved.
‘Good idea. Here, let me.’ And he pinned it in place, giving her a fleeting, enigmatic smile, then tucked her hand back in his arm and led her into the fray.
‘Oh, my goodness, there are so many people,’ she murmured, and he squeezed her hand.
‘Don’t worry, I won’t abandon you,’ he promised, and he didn’t. He kept her close all evening, and she was astonished to discover that she was seated next to him at the top table.
If she was supposed to be some kind of deflector for the single girls, she couldn’t have been given a more high-profile position, she realised, feeling Charlotte’s eyes on her, and she felt the most appalling fraud. The cutlery conundrum came back to haunt her, and if she’d thought that last night’s dinner was formal, this was even more so.
But she coped, somehow, managing the endless selection of knives and forks and spoons by following Andrew’s lead, making polite conversation to his uncle on her other side and hoping that she wouldn’t knock over her wine glass or drop
something down the pashmina so she had to take it off and reveal all.
But she got through the meal without a disaster, and then his father tapped a glass and stood up.
‘Friends, family, may I have your attention? As you all know, we’re here to celebrate Jane’s birthday, and I just wanted to say a very few words in praise of a woman who’s been a remarkable wife and companion to me for nearly thirty-five years—forty, if you count the time I spent chasing after her before she let me catch her,’ he said to a ripple of laughter. ‘And I’d be lying if I said she didn’t look a day older than on her twenty-first birthday, but she’s certainly no less beautiful, at least to me, and I would just like to thank her, in front of you all, for the many years of happiness she’s brought me, for the laughter and tears, the companionship, the challenge, and most particularly for the precious gift of our two sons. I know they would like a chance to thank her publicly for all she’s done, so if you could bear with us—Andrew? Would you like to start?’
He’d known it was coming, but he’d managed to ignore it, so preoccupied by the earlier glimpse of Libby’s cleavage that his brain had been all but wiped clean. He got to his feet and smiled at everyone, then looked up the table to his mother, ignoring the hastily scribbled notes in his pocket and deciding to wing it. This was his mother, after all. If he couldn’t tell her what he thought of her without notes, it was a pretty poor thing.
‘You had no idea what you started thirty-four years ago, did you, Mum?’ he teased. ‘Well, let me tell you. You made me curious. You made me want to know the answers, to persevere until I got them, to change the way it was if I didn’t like what I learned, and to live with what I couldn’t change. You taught me never to give up, never to give in, never to walk away from anything except a fight. You taught me the difference between right and wrong, the difference between pride and arrogance. You taught me to walk, to ride, to swim, to laugh at myself and not others, to read all sorts of fascinating and amazing things—and to love. You taught me not only to work, but also to play, the value of family, the importance of caring.
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