“I’ve missed you too,” she said as he stepped back. Lady Chatsworth smoothed her blazer then looked at Geoffrey’s face. “What is this?” she asked as she cupped both her hands on his cheeks and pulled his whiskers. “I suppose it’s all the rage in America.”
“It’s called a beard, and yes, it’s all the rage in the States.” He took her hands off of his face, remembering how he loved their softness when he was a little boy and she’d held his hand.
“I’m sure it is,” she answered with slight amusement before tilting her head and turning serious. “But you’ll have to shave it now that you’re back in England.”
Geoffrey stared back, his mouth twitching with the words he wanted to say but held back.
“Of course, that can wait.” Her face broke into a smile, and she patted his cheek. “Are you hungry?”
“Famished. Food on the plane was terrible.”
“Really?” She wrapped her arm around his and led him toward the dining room. “I’ve always enjoyed the meals on British Air. They’re certainly not Michelin-star worthy, but they’re tolerable.”
“Apparently, they don’t serve the same food in coach.” Geoffrey knew this before he’d given up his seat, but he doubted his mother did. Her family could trace their roots back to the court of Henry VIII. Being a member of the aristocracy was so much a part of her DNA that the word “middle-class” wasn’t part of her lexicon. She may have prided herself for supporting some of the same charities the Princess of Wales had, but the reality of the very large gap between people at the lowest and highest rungs of society was beyond her reach.
“I’ll have Gertrude make something for you, then you can tell me how you ended up in coach.” She gave his arm a comforting squeeze. “First, tell me about Los Angeles. I wish you would have let us come to your show.”
“If you and Dad had shown up, too many people would have put two and two together and realized I’m G.” Even though he doubted her sincerity—particularly about going anywhere with his father—he appreciated her support for his artwork, although he suspected she didn’t find it as interesting as she pretended. “It would have been a waste of time anyway. I’m sure you’ve seen the reviews.” He glanced down to see her reaction, holding his breath.
She looked straight ahead as they walked, gathering her thoughts. “Well, fortunately, you’re not one of those starving artists who’s trying to make his art a career. You get to have it as a hobby.”
He let out his breath slowly and silently, his chest falling. She thought she was being supportive even when she fell very short. “That is a comfort to me,” Geoffrey said cynically.
His mother turned to search his face for a sign that he was being sarcastic, but he composed his emotions and gave her his practiced everything-is-first-rate smile.
“You’ll never believe who I sat next to on the plane,” he said as they entered the dining room.
“I couldn’t possibly guess.” Lady Chatsworth picked up a bell from the buffet and rang it.
“Alice Donnelly.” Geoffrey pulled out a dining room chair and sank into it, exhaustion washing over him as soon as he was seated. A smile tugged at his lips as he thought about Alice.
“In first class? They must pay academics quite well in America.” She turned toward the maid who’d come in the room. “Sarah, will you please ask Gertrude to make Geoffrey some sausage and an egg?”
“Remember, I sat in coach, not in first class.” He rubbed his eyes. They were dry and sticky, and what he really wanted was dinner that included a big burger from Shake Shack, not a breakfast of sausage and eggs. He was still on LA time.
“Oh yes. You were going to explain. Why in heaven’s name would you do that?” His mother straightened the flowers in the vase near him. “I know you’re intent on making your own way in the world, but for goodness sake, there’s no need to torture yourself.” She combed his hair back with her fingers like she used to do when he was a child. “You need a haircut.”
“It’s a long story, and I’m fine with my hair the way it is.” He pushed her hand away, and she dropped it slowly to her side. He saw the same pained look he’d seen at the start of each school year when he’d left for Eton.
But her characteristic smile soon returned as she pulled out the chair next to him. “Tell me about her. Is Miss Donnelly the right person for us?”
“We didn’t talk much. She was too focused on getting her presentation ready.” He didn’t mention the part where Alice had fallen asleep and slowly slid across her seat until she’d landed on his shoulder. His hand went to the spot on his t-shirt where she’d drooled, dry now but still evident. He smiled, imagining her face when she saw him again.
“Presentation?” His mother’s eyebrows drifted up. “I thought we were just doing a short interview.”
“Well, if her presentation is any indication, she’ll put her whole heart into this job.” At least he hoped so. She had been his first pick out of all the resumes they’d received, even before he’d met her on the plane.
“It’s your decision.” His mother patted his hand. “I trust you with this. It was your idea, and it’s a good one.”
She left her hand on his—something she never did—which gave him the courage to ask his next question. “What about Dad? Does he trust me?”
His mother squeezed his hand. “It’s not his decision. It’s my family’s collection.”
He pulled his mouth into a tight smile, attempting not to care. Why he’d expected real approval from either of his parents was a good question. If anything, history had taught him to expect pandering to his “little art hobby.” His mother telling him anything was his decision was pandering at its finest. They both knew she’d have a say in every decision about the museum.
Gertrude offered him an excuse to focus on something besides his parents as she entered the room with his breakfast. He stood as she set the plate, which included a pastry with his eggs and sausage, in front of him and wrapped her in a hug much tighter than the one he’d given Mum, mostly because he could tease her in a way he couldn’t his mother.
“So, you’ve finally come home, have ya?” she said, pressing him close and smelling of equal parts onion and peppermint. The familiarity of those smells and her arms took away the disappointment he’d felt seconds before.
“Hello, Gertrude. Good to see you.” He stepped back. “You look well.”
“These old bones are telling me otherwise.” Gertrude sighed deeply and Geoffrey stifled a smile. She’d been on the verge of dying for as long as Geoffrey had known her—which was his entire life. “How long will you be staying?”
“Not sure yet.” Geoffrey glanced at his mother.
“I hope you’ll stay at least a few days.” Lady Chatsworth straightened in her chair and placed her hands carefully in her lap, not quite looking the old cook in the eye. “Gertrude is making a special dinner to celebrate your return.”
“Lady Chatsworth suggested steak and kidney pie, and I made strawberry trifle for your pudding.” She nodded her head in deference to his mother. “Is that still your favorite?”
“You know I’ll love anything you make.”
Gertrude blushed at his words and left while his mother rolled her eyes.
“She spoils you. Always has.” Lady Chatsworth picked at a piece of invisible lint on her skirt. “Giving you biscuits between meals and pastries for breakfast. You’re lucky you didn’t end up as big as a house.”
“I know, Mother.” He patted her hand. There was no reason to try and reassure her that he loved her more than he did the old cook. She knew that. It’s the fact he’d always had an easier time talking to Gertrude that bothered her.
Geoffrey stood and stretched, stifling a yawn. “I’m going to get cleaned up, maybe catch a few winks before Alice arrives.” He kissed the top of his mother’s head, then grabbed the pastry. “I’m assuming you want me in my old room while I’m here?”
His mother nodded and brushed the crumbs from his pastry
off her skirt.
* * * * *
Geoffrey lay on his old bed staring at the ceiling instead of sleeping. He wondered how Alice would react when she saw him and realized they’d already met. Perhaps he should have told her who he was, but it was no use worrying about that now. If she couldn’t find the humor in it, then she likely wasn’t the right person for the job.
But he hoped she was. And not just because of her stellar resume. Something about her had captivated him, and he couldn’t get her eyes or her face out of his head.
After a fruitless hour of trying to sleep rather than think about Alice, Geoffrey got up, showered and shaved. Then he went to the kitchen and asked Gertrude to trim his hair. Although he usually paid a hairstylist, Gertrude had done it when he was a boy, and when he eyed her finished product, he considered cutting costs by having her do it on a more regular basis, even if it meant returning to Binchley Hall every six weeks instead of every six months.
“There’s my handsome boy,” his mother said as he entered the east drawing room. “It’s so nice to see your face again.”
She’d barely said the words before Thomas showed Alice, who’d arrived suitably early for tea, into the room.
He rose from his seat as she entered, but his mother was the first to greet her.
“Miss Donnelly.” Mother stretched out her hand and clasped Alice’s. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard wonderful things from my son.”
At this, Geoffrey held out his hand, and Alice met his eyes. A cloud of confusion crossed her face as she shook his hand. She didn’t recognize him.
“It’s lovely to see you again,” he said.
Her mouth fell open as color rushed to her cheeks. She glanced at his mother who said, “Geoffrey mentioned you two met on his flight home.”
Alice turned back to him, her cheeks growing even darker. “I didn’t realize who you were.”
“Geoffrey!” his mother snapped. “You didn’t tell her who you were?”
A smile spilled across his face. “Where would the fun be in that?”
Alice narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips before breaking into her own smile. “To be fair, Lady Chatsworth,” she said, “I didn’t give him much of a chance. I was very focused on my presentation.”
“He’s very cheeky. There’s no excuse for that behavior.” Lady Chatsworth took Alice by the elbow and led her to a settee, sending a glare to Geoffrey that only just hid a smile.
“Alice did her dissertation on Hildegard of Bingen, Mother,” Geoffrey said as he sat in the seat near them.
“Did you?” His mother didn’t hide her admiration. “She’s a favorite of mine.”
That’s all Geoffrey had to say to send the two of them off on an hour-long conversation that he only added to when absolutely necessary. His mother would ultimately be the one to make the decision about who would be the curator of her family’s collection. He was in charge in name only. Which was perfectly fine with him. Mother was much more interested in handling business details than he was.
After they’d finished their tea, Geoffrey cleared his throat and stood. “Shall we see this presentation I only got a peek at on the plane?” He held out his hand, and Alice put her own in his. As he helped her from her seat, he focused on the spot of blue on her pointer finger. It could only be oil paint.
That speck of paint told a story, and he wanted to hear it.
“Why don’t we show Alice the collection first?” his mother said, much to Geoffrey’s surprise. They’d agreed that the applicants would only see the collection after he or she had been hired. But he wasn’t going to argue with his mother. Evidently, they were of the same mind about who should be hired.
“I think that’s an excellent idea.” Geoffrey let go of Alice’s hand.
“Really?” Alice asked breathlessly, making no move in the direction Lady Chatsworth indicated they should go.
“I don’t see any reason not to,” Lady Chatsworth answered.
Alice put a hand to her heart. “I would love that.”
Geoffrey studied her. The Grey Collection had always been a part of his life, and he loved it. But Alice, who’d never even seen it, already seemed to have a reverence for it that reminded him why it was so important that the collection be made public. His mother’s family had kept it private because of an elitist belief that only a certain caliber of people would appreciate the artwork. His mother had long ago let go of that kind of thinking but had not let go of her protectiveness of the treasures. It was only their financial situation that had finally convinced her to make the medieval paintings public.
“The pieces will be showcased on the main floor once we open the house to tourists.” Lady Chatsworth coughed over the word “tourists.” She’d never understood why people would be interested in looking through somebody else’s home, no matter how historic it might be, and she’d scoffed at her friends when they’d decided to open their homes.
The only thing that would have been worse for her was to sell the estate, which had become their only other option.
“From what I’ve seen, there’s a lot of light down here,” Alice said as they walked to the door. “We’ll need spaces without direct sunlight.”
“Yes, I expect we’ll have to make some alterations to the house. We’ve already started speaking with architects.”
Geoffrey walked behind his mother and Alice listening to them, sensing the comfort each felt with the other. He was grateful he’d followed his instinct and put her at the top of their interviewee list, despite her being American. She would do an excellent job implementing his family’s vision for their art collection.
But if he were honest with himself, it wasn’t just her professional qualifications that had him excited about spending the next few months working with her. No woman had piqued his interest the way she had since . . .
Well, since forever.
Not even the woman he was supposed to be engaged to.
Chapter Four
Alice walked from the drawing room into Binchley Hall’s portico in a state of semi-shock, and not just because she was actually going to see the Grey collection. She was touring it with the Lord Geoffrey Grey-Chatsworth. When the interview had been scheduled with Lord and Lady Chatsworth, Alice had assumed she was meeting with Geoffrey’s parents, not the man whose face had graced more than one tabloid Alice had flipped through in the check-out line at Target. All of the email communication she’d had had been with Lady Chatsworth.
If she’d been paying more attention on her flight, she probably would have recognized Geoffrey, or Geoff—Lord Grey—despite his shaggy beard and the hat that covered his overgrown hair. But she’d been too focused on her presentation, and now she had to live with the embarrassment she’d caused herself.
Alice held back a laugh and shook her head slightly as she replayed the moment when she’d shut him down. What would her mom say when she told her one of England’s most eligible bachelors had flirted with her and she’d ignored him?
And what would her mom say when Alice told her she’d fallen asleep on his shoulder? An actual earl’s shoulder. (Or was he a baron? Alice couldn’t remember; she only knew she’d actually drooled on a man millions of women drooled over.)
Not her finest moment.
But she had saved herself in front of Lady Chatsworth—with her son’s help, of course—by pretending nothing else had happened beyond her ignoring Geoffrey in order to work on her presentation.
Lord Grey.
She had to remember that.
“Lord Grey,” she said as they walked up a flight of stairs past walls covered with William Morris wallpaper. “Do you have a favorite piece?” She wanted to run her hand over the silk paper with its velvet embossed fleur-de-lis, but the wallpaper was as antique—and as valuable—as some of the other artwork in the estate.
“Please, call me Geoff.” He’d been trailing behind her and Lady Chatsworth, but at her question, he stepped next to her. “I do have some favorites
that I think might work as the centerpieces of the collection.”
“I can’t wait to see them. You obviously have a good eye.” Alice didn’t know how much longer she could keep up her facade of coolness. If her toes weren’t pinching in the terrible heels she’d worn, she would have thought she was in a dream. It was too unbelievable that she was about to see the Grey collection. She’d spent half of her life fantasizing about this moment, but her dreams had never included seeing the collection with Lady Chatsworth and her startlingly handsome son.
They reached the top of the stairs that opened into a long hallway lined with portraits and landscapes. Alice should have had an idea of the extent of Binchley Hall’s artwork, if not from her own studies then from the drawing room where she’d spent the last hour, but she was still overwhelmed as she gazed down the hall. She could have spent the entire afternoon—no, days—examining each painting. Unfortunately, Geoffrey and his mother weren’t stopping. She tried to keep up while still taking in as much of the artwork as possible.
“The medieval collection is in the chapel.” Geoffrey slowed to let Alice catch up. “I didn’t realize you’d be so interested in more modern pieces.”
“Mod—?” Her eyes darted to him, and she saw he was joking. The portraits weren’t modern in the strictest sense of the word, but they were definitely more modern than medieval art. She let out a laugh and stopped at a full-length portrait of a woman in a gauzy, empire-waisted dress.
“This one is beautiful. The artist really captured the warmth of her eyes. It almost looks like a Jacques-Louis David.” It couldn’t be though. How could the Grey family possibly have paintings by one of the greatest French artists of all time hanging in their hallway? Granted, it was a very nice hallway, but Alice couldn’t imagine that kind of generational wealth.
“It’s an Ingres. He was a protégé of David’s.”
Alice wasn’t a connoisseur of Ingres’s work, but she knew the painting was likely worth tens of thousands of dollars. Maybe hundreds of thousands. “Who was she?” She lifted a hand toward the portrait of the woman whose dress looked real enough to touch.
Gambling on a Gentleman: A Sweet Romantic Comedy (ABCs of Love) Page 3
