Pondering these thoughts, she climbed a few more steps and gazed appreciatively at more of the landscapes. It was all so magnificent, elegant and opulent. She thought of her cheaply framed floral prints hanging on the walls of her own house and smiled. Not that she’d swap them. The gold framed oils she was admiring just wouldn’t look right in her place.
‘You like the paintings?’ a male voice suddenly broke into her thoughts.
Carys looked up but was quite unable to make out the face of her questioner who was silhouetted against a huge window on the landing.
‘Some of them,’ she said.
‘These ones are better,’ the dark man said.
Carys hesitated. It sounded like the worst of chat-up lines but, as Louise was still occupied with Martin and she had nobody else to talk to, she walked up a few more steps.
‘Which ones?’ she asked. ‘I don’t want to see any more dead birds.’
‘Well, they’re dead birds of a kind,’ the gentleman said, nodding to the portraits which Carys had spied from the bottom of the stairs.
Her eyes adjusted and, before she took in the portraits, she saw that the dark man was dark indeed: he had dark hair which was thick and short and eyes which Carys couldn’t quite make out. Were they a particularly dark shade of brown or were they actually black? But it was his smile which demanded her attention. There was a sweetness in it as if he held a secret: a ripe, juicy secret which he was about to impart, and Carys felt herself smiling back at him.
‘Charlotte,’ he said.
Carys raised her eyebrows. ‘I’ve never met a man called Charlotte before.’
His smile broadened and he nodded towards the painting. Carys turned and saw a pale beauty staring out of a gaudy gold frame. The eyes were bewitchingly bright in her pale face and she wore a silver dress which was low cut, exposing acres of luminous skin. Her hair was fair and had been swept away from her face with just a few tendrils curling over her left shoulder.
‘She’s beautiful,’ Carys said.
‘Lady Charlotte de Montfort,’ the gentleman said.
Carys nodded. She was none the wiser for the information.
‘She had two husbands, nine children and an uncountable number of lovers.’
Carys grinned. ‘Good for her.’
‘And him-’ the gentleman began, pointing to a portrait of a handsome man adjacent to Lady Charlotte, ‘was Lord Nicholas de Montfort, her husband.’
‘You seem to know these people,’ Carys pointed out.
The gentleman shrugged. ‘You could say I have an interest in them.’
Carys nodded. ‘I’m afraid I’ve never really had much time for the aristocracy. I mean, they’re a bit of a waste of space, don’t you think?’
The gentleman smiled. ‘You think this house is a waste of space?’
Carys’s eyes widened. ‘Oh no! I didn’t say that. This house is beautiful.’
‘But who do you think built it?’
‘Probably somebody who once leant the king of England a sovereign.’
The gentleman gave another smile that seemed very knowing. ‘I take it you don’t agree with the monarchy either?’
‘Let’s face it,’ Carys said, ‘they’re all rather outdated and useless. I think the French had the right idea - off with their heads!’ she laughed, and then she wondered why she’d said it. She wasn’t usually so opinionated at parties and she’d surprised herself with the strength of her feelings. Perhaps it was the wine speaking.
‘I see,’ the gentleman said, good-humouredly.
Carys bit her lip. ‘All I’m saying is that titles are outdated. They don’t really provide a use today, do they?’
The gentleman shrugged. ‘I imagine you could get a table at a restaurant in a hurry, or a free upgrade on a plane.’
‘That’s outrageous! How could anyone behave like that?’
‘People do.’
‘But they shouldn’t.’
‘I agree.’
There was a moment’s pause. Carys looked down into her glass of wine, aware of the gentleman’s eyes upon her.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked in a low voice.
‘Carys.’
‘Carys?’
She looked up and smiled. She was used to the baffled response her name always caused. ‘Like Paris but with a C instead of a P and a Y instead of an I.’
‘C instead of a P and a Y instead of an I,’ he repeated.
‘That’s right.’
‘That’s pretty.’
She felt herself blushing which was ridiculous. She wasn’t the sort of woman to fall prey to blushes. She cleared her throat, determined to take charge of the situation.
‘So,’ she began, ‘are you going to tell me-’
‘Carys!’ a voice shouted up from the foot of the stairs. Louise’s voice. ‘Where are you?’
Carys gave an apologetic half-smile to the gentleman whose name she’d probably never know now.
‘Carys, come on. I want to introduce you to someone,’ Louise said, her voice childlike with insistence.
‘I’ve got to go,’ she said, pausing for a moment. What did she think would happen? Did she think he’d beg her to stay? Did she even want to? He was still smiling at her: that knowing smile that was warm and unnerving at the same time.
And then she felt Louise’s hand clasping her arm. ‘There you are. Oh,’ she said, suddenly seeing the gentleman, ‘hello.’
‘Hello,’ the gentleman replied.
‘Come on, then,’ Carys said, giving Louise her full attention at last. ‘Who’s this person you want to introduce me to?’
They went downstairs, their dainty summer shoes tapping musically on each beautiful white step. Once in the hallway, Carys was ushered over to Martin and introduced to one of his friends. His face filled with uncontainable excitement as soon as he saw her approaching him but the feeling wasn’t reciprocated. Carys forgot his name as soon as it was told to her but managed to make polite conversation despite the fact that she knew Louise was trying to match-make her, and the fact that her mind was still on the mysterious gentleman at the top of the stairs.
As Martin’s friend told her about his favourite garden centre for bargain bulbs for spring colour, Carys found her gaze wondering to the top of the stairs but the gentleman had gone. She scanned the groups of people in the hallway and in the main room off the hall but couldn’t see him.
‘They can be extremely difficult to grow, of course,’ Martin’s friend was telling her, ‘and it’s best if you dig the bulbs up each year to stop rot.’
Carys nodded, feeling that her brain was rotting with his topic of conversation. Where was the gentleman? Had he made an early departure? She might never find out who he was.
‘You can’t beat a decent tulip for a spot of colour, of course…’
She’d never been smiled at before like that. She’d felt it in her very stomach.
‘My mother used to have the most glorious auriculas you’ve ever seen.’
His eyes too. They’d looked at her in a way she’d never been looked at before.
‘Most people believe they’re native to Britain but they’re not,’ Martin continued, completely absorbed in a world of bulbs, buds and blooms.
Carys swallowed the last of her wine and then had a thought. ‘I need another drink,’ she said with a smile.
‘Oh, allow me,’ Martin’s friend said, taking her class and disappearing across the room.
Carys looked around. Where on earth was Louise? It wasn’t bad enough that she was probably getting back together with Martin but Carys would never forgive her for dragging her away from the gentleman at the top of the stairs to listen to Martin’s friend going on about mulching and fertilizers.
She pushed by a group of people in the middle of a grand living room and spotted Louise standing in front of one of the enormous windows that had made them whistle when they’d first arrived. Sure enough, she was in deep conversation with Martin, her smile bright and eager
, and her fingers running coquettishly through her hair.
‘There you are,’ Carys called, deciding she was going to break this meeting up as quickly as Louise had broken hers.
‘Carys! Where’s Martin’s friend?’ Louise, it appeared, had also forgotten his name.
‘I’ve sent him away to get me a drink,’ she said with great meaning.
‘Oh,’ Louise said.
Carys glared at Martin.
‘Good to see you again, Karen,’ he said.
‘Carys,’ she corrected, noticing Louise wince at his mistake.
He cleared his throat but didn’t apologise. ‘I’ll, er, see you later, Louise,’ he stuttered, before disappearing through the crowd.
Louise sighed. ‘I don’t suppose he will.’
‘Good,’ Carys said. ‘I’m not having you getting back together with him.’
‘We were just talking,’ Louise insisted. ‘There’s nobody else here to talk to,’ she said, scanning the room. ‘They’re all in their own little groups. Look!’
It was then that Carys saw him. He was stood on the other side of the living room talking to a beautiful red-head.
‘Who’s that man in the corner?’ she asked Louise casually.
‘Where?’
‘By the table.’
‘The one with his fingers in the nut bowl?’
‘No,’ Carys sighed in exasperation.
‘Oh! You mean the man you were talking to on the landing?’ Louise said, spotting the dark-haired gentleman. ‘Fancy not knowing who he is. He’s probably the most famous man here. He’s certainly the only one other than Martin that I’ve actually heard of.’
‘Well, who is he?’
‘Richard Bretton, Marquess of Amberley. Heir to the Duke of Cuthland.’
‘No!’
‘Yes. His father’s Henry Bretton, the eleventh Duke, no less. He’s the one who’s always banging on about bringing back the House of Lords.’
Carys knew, instantly, whom she meant. Henry Bretton was something of a local celebrity in Cuthland. If he wasn’t on local television, he was on the radio, busting a blood vessel at how England was Going to the dogs.
‘Fancy you talking to a marquess and not knowing it.’
Carys rolled her eyes. It was just like Louise to get all star-struck.
‘What’s so special about being a marquess?’ she said but she could feel herself blushing from head to toe with shame as she remembered everything she’d said. She’d said she was a sympathiser of the French Revolution, for goodness’ sake!
‘Tell me he’s not related to the de Montforts.’
Louise’s forehead puckered into a frown as she mentally trawled through the many society pages of the many glossy magazines she’d ever flicked through. ‘de Montfort, let me see-’
Carys’s heart hammered.
‘Yes. I do believe that’s his mother’s maiden name. Something de Montfort. Some sort of society belle, if I remember correctly. One of those masculine turned feminine names. Georgina or Willamina or something.’
‘Oh God!’
‘I know, awful names. Francesca!’ Louise suddenly shouted. That’s it. Francesca de Montfort.’
‘Great,’ Carys sighed. Now it turned out that she’d unwittingly suggested his ancestors should have been beheaded.
‘You like him!’ Louise chimed.
Carys tutted. ‘I never said that. But he was a little more interesting than Martin’s friend.’
‘What were you two talking about, anyway?’
‘I don’t know. He was going on about auriculas or something.’
‘No, not Martin’s friend. I mean the handsome Marquess of Amberley. He is handsome, isn’t he?’
Carys nodded. He certainly was. Movie star looks were rare in Cuthland.
‘You know his wife left him?’ Louise continued. ‘Stark raving mad, they say. Amanda. I remember reading somewhere that she swore Amberley Court was haunted and packed her bags one day and just left - demanding a divorce.’
‘Really?’ Carys looked across the room at Richard with new eyes. ‘He’s a single?’
Louise nodded. ‘And a single marquess in possession of a large fortune must be in want of a wife,’ Louise giggled.
Carys play-punched her and then, just as she looked across the room at Richard, he looked up and caught her gaze. And smiled.
‘Wow!’ Louise said in an excited whisper. ‘Why don’t you go over? He’s smiling right at you.’
‘We’re leaving.’
‘What? Well at least say goodbye, then,’ Louise pleaded.
‘What’s the point? I made a complete fool of myself in front of him and I’m not going to see him again.’
‘I think you might,’ Louise smiled.
Carys looked up. He was walking towards them.
‘I think I’ll just go and get myself another drink,’ Louise said.
‘Louise - no-’
But it was too late. Louise had gone and Richard, Marquess of Amberley, heir to the dukedom of Cuthland, was standing before her.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, extending a hand towards Carys. ‘I should have introduced myself properly before.’
‘Yes, you should have,’ Carys agreed.
‘Richard-’
‘Marquess of Amberley,’ Carys finished.
‘You know?’
‘I do now,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t before.’
‘And would that have made a difference?’
Carys’s eyes widened. ‘Of course. I wouldn’t have been so rude.’
‘You mean, you’d have lied to me?’
‘No!’
‘Just not told me what you were really thinking?’ he asked. ‘Don’t worry,’ he assured her, noticing her frown. ‘I wasn’t offended.’
‘I’m sorry. I really shouldn’t have said those things - not in front of anyone. I don’t know what came over me.’
He smiled at her. ‘I think a lot of people are of your opinion.’
There was an awkward pause when neither knew what to say next.
‘I was thinking of getting out of here,’ Richard said at last. ‘Get a spot of dinner somewhere. Maybe at Venezia. What do you think? It would be my very great pleasure if you would accompany me.’
‘Oh,’ Carys said, rather taken aback. ‘It’s getting a bit late, isn’t it?’ she added, knowing that Venezia was one of the most popular restaurants in Carminster.
‘You’re worried about not having a reservation,’ he said as a statement rather than a fact. ‘I can always explain who I am.’
‘You wouldn’t!’ Carys said in undisguised horror.
He smiled at her, his eyes full of warmth and laughter. ‘For you, I believe I’d do anything.’
***
Download Three Graces here.
About the Author
Victoria Connelly was brought up in Norfolk and studied English literature at Worcester University before becoming a teacher in North Yorkshire. After getting married in a medieval castle in the Yorkshire Dales and living in London for eleven years, she moved to rural Suffolk where she lives with her artist husband and a mad Springer spaniel and ex-battery hens.
Her first novel, Flights of Angels, was published in Germany and made into a film. Victoria and her husband flew out to Berlin to see it being filmed and got to be extras in it.
Five of her novels have been Kindle bestsellers.
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She’s also on Facebook and Twitter @VictoriaDarcy
www.victoriaconnelly.com
Other Books by Victoria Connelly
A Weekend with Mr Darcy (Austen Addicts 1)
The Perfect Hero (Austen Addicts 2) Published in the US as Dreaming of Mr Darcy
Mr Darcy Forever (Austen Addicts 3)
Christmas With Mr Darcy (Austen Addicts 4)
Wish You Were Here
The Runaway Actress
Molly’s Millions
/> Flights of Angels
Unmasking Elena Montella
Three Graces
It's Magic (A compilation volume: Flights of Angels, Unmasking Elena Montella and Three Graces)
One Perfect Week and Other Stories
The Retreat and Other Stories
Postcard from Venice and Other Stories
Escape to Mulberry Cottage (non-fiction)
Secret Pyramid (children’s adventure)
Happy Birthday, Mr Darcy Page 10
