The Captain and the Cricketer

by Catherine Curzon

  “No need to be precious, Fitz.” He’d seen George’s face fall before he spoke, though, betraying something. “I did live here for a long time, you know. I’m not one of your loathed London incomers!”

  Tabitha reached across the table to touch Henry’s hand.

  “There you are, Mr. All Creatures Great and Small—George is an insider. And—it is so adorable how protective you are of the village. It’d make—”

  Maybe he was being silly. Overreacting. Maybe it was just lingering embarrassment from having been caught out by a stranger.

  “Great telly? Well, I’m glad my sincerity is useful for something.”

  “There, that’s the spirit! And people love that, you know. Noble, upstanding member of the community.” Tabitha beamed at him and Henry found his resistance melting like butter left out in the sun. Yet George was still looking at him with that unreadable expression, as though he had left a sentence unfinished, as though they had argued.

  We haven’t argued, have we?

  Chapter Thirteen

  “George!” Steph air-kissed him first on one cheek, then the other. “Darling! Thanks so much for coming. I thought you’d say no, what with it being short notice, but I came from London with all these macarons, and I thought—I bet an urbanite like George is dying for a macaron, it’s not like you can get them anywhere around here, is it?”

  She led her special guest out onto the patio, where a table was set for afternoon tea.

  For two.

  “Lil Dalrymple took Jez for the afternoon, or I would have had to ask if you allow horses in your back garden.” George lifted his sunglasses a little and peered out across the ornamental grounds, which were made considerably more ornamental now that they contained a TV personality in cargo shorts and a very billowy shirt indeed. “But I don’t turn down cake as a rule.”

  Steph raked her gaze up and down George’s body, making no secret of her admiration. “Really—and yet you have an amazing figure like that? How do you do it? Lots of exercise, I bet!”

  Strenuous, hopefully sweaty. Steph fanned her hand before her face and indicated a chair for him at the cast-iron table.

  “You’re great for a chap’s ego, Steph!” George took the seat she offered and nodded toward the still waters of the enormous pool, a mosaic of Steph and Ed in the tiles at the bottom. “I swim a lot, run a bit. Then eat too much and have to do it all again.”

  “Bet you’ve got fantastic stamina!”

  As this was phase one of the seduction, Steph was wearing the first of her outfits. A neat white blouse, tied at the waist, unbuttoned just enough for a quantity of bronzed cleavage to show. A full skirt in pastel pink. White lace espadrilles. It wasn’t raunchy but wasn’t quite demure—it had just the right amount of sexually frustrated trophy wife about it for her plans.

  “Yeah, I do all right.” He nodded. “You have to in my line of work, all the climbing and riding and whatnot.”

  Riding. Steph touched her fingertips to her neck and slowly met George’s eyes.

  “Yes…yes. All those rugged things you get up to.”

  “When I’m not eating macarons with the wife of a millionaire.” He leaned forward and dropped his voice. “Where is Ed, by the way?”

  “Canary Wharf—meeting with some banking person. Very boring stuff, of course! Won’t be back until, oh, at least eight.”

  George glanced at his watch. It was a big, impressive-looking thing with an array of dials fastened onto a thick strap of deep blue and red. She’d seen something he’d done in which that watch strap had played a part, something military. Ed liked the tanks, but Steph was rather more interested in the scenes of the host hiking in the desert, sweating manfully.

  “You must get bored when he’s away,” her companion said.

  “A woman has ways of entertaining herself.” She held a plate out toward George, pulling her shoulders together just enough to give her cleavage a boost. “Cream meringue?”

  He took one, looking out at the pool and grounds once more. Three peacocks wandered past as though on cue, though their brightest feathers remained hidden. Typical.

  “It’s so lovely having you back in the village, Georgie—sorry, Captain George! Like the old days! Well—almost. I do hope you won’t be a stranger. Don’t vanish off for another fifteen years, will you?”

  “I’ve been back two dozen times and you were always off somewhere being busy.” George laughed and pushed his sunglasses up into his dark hair. His green eyes danced with mirth, meeting hers. “Either caravanning with Fitz or in Monte Carlo with Ed or just out buying all these gorgeous togs of yours. You’re a hard girl to get hold of.”

  “I rather think Henry timed those dreadful caravan holidays to coincide with your visits.” Steph batted her eyelashes as if fighting back the tears of a martyr. “You cannot imagine how much I suffered with those chemical toilets, and the rain—oh, God, the rain! And he could’ve afforded the French Riviera. Hasn’t a clue about how to show a girl a good time.”

  “Old Fitz is a good bloke!” He took a bite of the meringue, merriment still showing in his gaze. “He’d have had the sun shine if he could, Steph, I reckon.”

  “You didn’t go out with him, George. You have no idea what I endured. And the things he used to say about you—oh, it was awful! If you were on the television, he’d fly into a temper. He absolutely refused to watch it, bellowed at his father when he bought him one of your books for Christmas—he might appear to be all nicey-nicey Mr. Tweedy Squire, but he doesn’t deserve your friendship, George. Oh, that he does not.”

  “He’s not a fan then?”

  Steph shook her head. “Not at all. Why, has he told you that he is?”

  “Each to their own, I wouldn’t ask.” George smiled again and slid his glasses down to hide his eyes. “You can’t win ’em all, Steph.”

  And Henry won’t win against Ed.

  She smiled her broadest smile, her head tipped to one side. George mirrored the gesture, teasing her, just as they would do to each other in childhood. Then he asked, “How old’s your little monster now, anyway? Is it a school day?”

  “The nanny deals with all that sort of thing.” Steph nodded. “I just don’t have the time to look after Sapphire. I’m sure you can imagine—I have so much to do. Pilates, nails, lunch here, lunch there, meetings with this lot of ladies, meetings with the other. Hairdresser once a fortnight—that’s very important. Riding when I can, of course—keeps me supple, firms my thighs.”

  “Mine too!” George laughed, slapping the palm of his hand against one of his thighs and leaving it there, lingering against the annoyingly too-long-for-Steph shorts. “But come on, old girl, you’re too busy for TV, you should’ve said—I was way too pushy with you and Ed!”

  “Oh, no, I can make time, move a few lunches back until filming is over. That sort of thing. Easy-peasy! Would hate to let you down now that we’ve committed to you, Captain George. Wouldn’t want to fall out of your good favor.”

  Steph crept her hand over the table and snared George’s beneath it.

  “So old Fitz hates me, eh?” George lowered his head and peered over the dark-lensed Wayfarers. When he spoke again, his voice was a low murmur. “Do he and Ed not get on either?”

  “He doesn’t get on with anybody in the village. I really stuck my neck out being his girlfriend for so long. He lurks about in that creepy old house of his like he’s in Beauty and the Beast, except he’ll never turn into a handsome prince. He’ll always be a curmudgeonly old git—and to think I gave him the best years of my life!”

  Steph stretched the last word out as long as she could, until it evolved into a wail of despair and agony that echoed around the garden. If she blinked just a little more, she would eke out a tear. Until—triumph!—there it was! An Oscar for Stephanie Belcher, tragic heroine.

  “Hey, come on!” George turned his hand and caught her fingers in his own. “Don’t let him get to you now, you’ve got Ed and little Sapphire to think about!�
��

  “I know—I know! I cling onto that. I do.” She gave George her best sweetly suffering smile, just as the lion’s head fountain came to life and spat into the swimming pool. “I’m so glad I married Ed. Really. Even if sometimes I do get…” She had half-turned away from George, and threw a coy looked at him over her shoulder. “Terribly lonely.”

  “It’s a big old house for just you, Saph and the nanny,” George commiserated. “And if you get the old Fitzwalter pile, you’ll be rattling round even more. Stay put, Steph, I might even pop over and use your pool if you’ll let me.”

  Captain George Standish-Brookes, in my pool, nearly naked? Steph’s anonymous letters to Points of View had not been in vain if the man was willing to turn up at her own home and strip off.

  “Of course! Feel free!”

  She hadn’t quite prepared for this. Her silver, high-leg bikini was upstairs in the bedroom.

  Do I have time to hop in with him, or—no, that was phase two.

  “I’ll slip off these shoes and dangle my feet in, Georgie, if you don’t mind?”

  “Right now?” He sounded surprised but looked toward the water with a torn expression. “You invited me over for afternoon tea, I can’t take liberties with you, Steph, it wouldn’t be right.”

  “Why not? All this beautiful sunshine, I feel rather hot myself. Go on, have a dip!”

  “Fitz did chase me away from his lake last time I stripped off without asking.” She could see he was weakening, a combination of her womanly charms and the cool waters proving irresistible. “I’ll finish my meringue, then I might treat myself to a quick splash about, if you really don’t mind.”

  “Unlike Henry, I don’t mind people having fun. Eat up and swim and just do whatever you like.”

  “So”—he took another bite of the meringue—“go on, tell me about this house deal. What’s the real craic?”

  Steph bit carefully into her macaron to avoid smudging her coral lip gloss. She took her time chewing as she built up to another mournful gaze.

  “We need the house, George. How else can I explain it to you? It’s a matter of pride to my husband, that his ancestors have been conned out of their birthright.” She took the gold locket from around her neck and opened it to show George the photograph of the blonde-haired little girl it contained. “It should by rights be Sapphire’s one day—think of her! The good name of Belcher has been done a great injustice by what can only be described as a swindling.”

  “This lawyer must be costing you chaps a packet, though, just to prove a point?”

  “It’s not a point, George! This is about integrity, family pride! They have no price. And, of course, Henry wouldn’t know integrity if it hit him right in the middle of his pudgy face.”

  “It is a point, Steph, and life’s too short to squabble over some drunken wager two hundred years ago.” George pushed back his seat and stood. He put his sunglasses down on the table and looked to the pool. This was the moment, Steph realized. Here, in her garden, Captain George Standish-Brookes was going to strip.

  How far, though?

  Everything?

  “Believe me, life’s for laughing, swimming and loving. It’s not for lawyering.”

  Steph sniffed. He’d forgotten to list golfing. Which was probably just as well. He doesn’t have a clue, does he? This was going to be so easy, and she would even enjoy doing it.

  “Sure you don’t mind?” His hands were at the shirt, about to discard it. “You’re being a jolly good sport, Steph.”

  “I don’t mind at all.” She fixed her eyes on him as she untied the ribbons on her shoes. The pedicure had cost enough—he was a lucky man to get a view of her bare feet.

  She went over to the pool and posed on the side, like a clothed version of the Little Mermaid in Copenhagen, and swung one foot into the cool water, splashing her hand to and fro. A little bit of water dampening her blouse was all to the good.

  Like the practiced seductress that she was, Steph glanced back over her shoulder as George drew the shirt up over his head and dropped it onto the chair. And there it was, that famous body, still tan from his round-the-world trip, toned in a way that Ed had never been. And it was in her garden.

  Steph pouted her lips just enough. “Did you bring trunks, Captain? What will people say if they find you splashing about nude in my pool?”

  “Don’t worry, Steph, I’ll spare you that.” George laughed, walking toward her through the sunlight. “I’ll be keeping my shorts on!”

  Bugger.

  “That’s fine, George…you go ahead.”

  At least there was the chest to gaze at. And phase two—that was when those pesky shorts would drop. Steph would make sure of it.

  “You’re a happily married girl, I have to behave!” He walked around the pool and executed a perfect dive into the deep end, the waves lapping out to swish gently against her bare feet as the thrice-winner of Rear of the Year did a length of the pool and surfaced right beside her. George threw his head back and slicked his hands over his hair. Then he rested his forearms on the edge of the pool and told her, “This is much more fun than lawyering, eh?”

  “Absolutely!”

  Steph stroked her hand down her neck and undid a button on her blouse. George was watching and she threw back her head and laughed.

  There were many ways to keep a man happy—Steph was well aware of that. Sometimes it might require her to disrobe, but other times she need only lend him her pool.

  “Swimming, laughing and loving,” George reminded her. “And two out of three ain’t bad in one afternoon!”

  He disappeared beneath the surface again, his arms before him as he cut a sleek, smooth arrow down the length of the pool. Steph watched, for the first time wondering if there might be a life beyond Ed. George couldn’t be as rich, of course, but he was far from being poor either. And physically, he was far more impressive than the waste of space who shared her bed.

  She was very much looking forward to phase two. Just imagine—there’d be the money from the manor as well as Old Hall and the golf course. The prenup was more than favorable—it had already come in handy when she had found out about Ed and that girl he was shagging. ‘Remember the prenup’ and a mimed squeeze of a small pair of testicles had been enough to remind Ed where his loyalties should lie.

  Steph had everything to play for.

  “I need a pool,” George exclaimed as he surfaced again. “But I don’t think Ma’d be happy with my looking-after-the-cottage skills if I dug up the garden for a pool—and where would Jez hang out if I did that?”

  Steph lowered her lashes, swirling the water with her hand. “You can use our pool whenever you like, Georgie.”

  “You’re a good pal, Steph.” He caught her fingers as they skimmed the water and dotted a kiss to the back of her hand. “So, if a chap was making a show about Longley P, what should he be sure not to miss? Apart from the lady of the mansion, of course?”

  “Well…the boring old fart at the manor, but there’s no point bothering him about being in it, because he’ll only chase you out of his garden again. Erm…the cricket club, I suppose? Ed’s stables, of course. The tea shop. The grave in the churchyard of that fool who died fighting a duel. The remains of the castle—are they worth including? It is just a pile of earth with lots of trees all over it, though. But it would give you the chance to dress up as a knight, perhaps. Mrs. Dalrymple—now, she knows all the old stories. Her mother took in evacuees, and there were the land girls, and a German plane crashed into the side of the hill over there. You could re-enact that! But of course, the real heart of the village now is the stables here, and Ed and I. You could call us Mr. and Mrs. Longley Parva, really.”

  Steph gave George’s hand a squeeze. “Although Ed is so infrequently here, so in all honesty, the village is basically me.”

  “So you must be involved with this 1940s evening I’ve seen posters for? For the village hall fund?” George released Steph’s hand. “We’re going to be getting som
e footage of that. I might be putting in an appearance!”

  Steph blinked, bashfully modest. “Oh, yes, I have been involved somewhat. Getting the bunting ready, making greengage jam—which some people do actually like—sourcing the music, helping with the catering arrangements…”

  But of course, she wasn’t about to tell George that it was Ed’s PA who had ordered the bunting online, sourced a specialist 1940s DJ and hired a catering company. That said, the greengage jam really was going to emerge from the Old Hall kitchen, but, as with the jam that should have won at the fête, Sapphire’s nanny had made it.

  “I’ve got a wonderful dress as well, George. I’m getting my hair done at a salon in London especially. Your cameras will love it!”

  “Save a dance for me?”

  “Of course, George, I shall leave my dance card clear for you.”

  And the producer would see how good they looked in each other’s arms. She’d get most of the screen time, she knew it. They’d jet off to America and Randy Cheese would love George and how he worked the media. Steph and George were the perfect pair—a power couple from a sleepy little village who could take over the world.

  He glanced at his watch again and Steph smiled, thinking it rather sweet how keen he was to spend his time with her. And the pool had never looked better than it did right now.

  “Shall I crack open a bottle, George, if you’re staying for more than tea?”

  “I need to be back for Jez in about forty-five minutes.” He looked at his watch once more. “But I could probably have a glass of something if you fancy it? I could get used to the millionaire lifestyle!”

  That bloody horse.

  “Forty-five minutes? There’s time for a quick glass, isn’t there?”

  “At least one!”

  How many glasses would it take for him to forget she was a married woman? She gave George a fleeting glance of cleavage as she got to her feet. He smiled—the plan was definitely working.