by Kate Hewitt
His friend Jace, who worked for the man, had told him he wasn’t so bad after all, but Owen had yet to be convinced, and he had every bit of reason to be as suspicious of the landed class as Jace once had, before Henry had married Alice James and, according to some, softened a bit.
All this flashed through his mind as he kept his smile wide and waited for Little Miss Prim to speak. Her lips pursed as she stayed where she was, in front of the bar, her bag clutched to her chest as if she thought he might snatch it off her. “You sound as if you don’t like him,” she observed.
How had she sussed that one out? Owen shrugged one shoulder. “I like everybody, as long as they pay their tab. But Lord Stokeley doesn’t come in here much, so I don’t know whether he’s good for a pint or not.”
Her lips pursed even further, drawn up like the strings of a purse. “Of course he is.”
Owen gave another grin. “If you say so, Miss…?”
“David. Emily David.”
“Right then, Emily. Do you want to take a seat and tell me what this is all about?” He nodded towards a stool, which she looked at with that now-familiar slight lip curl of distaste. Admittedly, it wasn’t the cleanest place to park a bum, but it should do well enough.
“All right.” She perched on the absolute edge of the stool, looking as if she could topple off at any moment and deeply uncomfortable besides. Goodness, but she was more than a bit of a ballerina.
“So?” Owen arched an eyebrow, waiting, curious now. What could Henry Trent possibly want with him?
“Willoughby Holidays will be holding a fundraiser up at the manor in late June,” Emily began. “And as CEO, Henry Trent, along with his wife, Alice, would like all the independent businesses of Wychwood-on-Lea to take part.”
“Would they?” Something in his tone must have alerted Emily, because she frowned.
“It’s their hope, not a command,” she said a bit sharply, and Owen merely shrugged. He hadn’t said it was either. “I have the details here…” She reached for her bag again, fumbling a bit, because she seemed to have some aversion to placing it on the bar. Owen just kept watching and waiting, a smile playing with his lips. He realised he was rather enjoying her discomfort. “Here are all the details.” She pushed several paper-clipped sheets across the bar. “The current plan is that Willoughby Holidays will provide a tent and tables for serving, but you’ll have to bring anything else you might need… We’re asking for businesses to give fifty per cent of their profits to the charity, if possible, but there will be no charge for attending.”
“Sounds fair enough, I suppose.” Owen glanced down at the sheets but didn’t pick them up. “All the businesses in Wychwood… Does that include The Three Pennies?”
“We’re hoping so, although I haven’t spoken to them yet.”
“Because I have to tell you, that’s more of Henry’s crowd than The Drowned Sailor. But you’ve probably realised that.”
Emily frowned as her eyes, a clear blue grey fringed with luxuriant lashes and expertly made up, scanned his face. “As I said, Henry and Alice are most hopeful that everyone will take part. The fundraiser is meant to be inclusive.”
“Very kind of them I’m sure.” He meant to sound genial, but he thought a touch of acid had seeped in. Emily drew her slender shoulders back in something like affront.
“I do think it would be a very good opportunity for a place like this—”
Owen let out a crack of laughter that made her blink. “A place like this?”
“A pub,” she stated quickly, but Owen knew she hadn’t meant that, just as he knew The Drowned Sailor was more than a little run-down, the only food on offer peanuts and pork scratchings, the most expensive wine coming in at eight ninety-nine a bottle. But that was how he liked it. Wychwood-on-Lea already had one gastro pub with its craft ales and vegan meals. It didn’t need another, and he wouldn’t change this place for the world—or for Willoughby Manor.
“Right,” he said easily, refolding his arms as he leaned back against the counter. “A pub.” Unwittingly this prissy woman had prodded a hornet’s nest inside him, and he didn’t like the feeling. Wasn’t used to it. All his old hurts and biases had been buried a long time ago.
They’d had to be, considering he lived in the privileged Cotswolds, in a village that most likely had more millionaires per square mile than Mayfair. Yet for some contrary reason, Emily David—with her sexy, slender figure and her prim and prissy ways—had given that buried bit of him an uncomfortable poke. “I’ll consider it, certainly.”
“Thank you.” She looked as if she wanted to say more, but then decided not to.
Owen leaned forward, planting his elbows again on the old, scarred wood of the bar as Emily David stood her ground, if only just. “Have you asked the other businesses?”
She blinked. Bit her lip. Looked away. So that was a no, then.
“I intend to,” she said at last. “And I expect they will all agree. It’s for a good cause, after all.”
“Is it?” He leaned a little closer, so he was able to breathe in the scent of her understated perfume. Something light and floral. “Because, you know,” he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial thrum, “you haven’t actually said.”
Emily didn’t reply as a blush tinted her cheeks. She looked like she wanted to take a step back but she didn’t. Was he flirting? Maybe. Owen liked to flirt, in a deliberately harmless way. It never went anywhere, because he never let it, and everyone in the village knew that and took him—and his flirting—for what they were worth, which was basically nothing. But Emily didn’t know him, and she looked as if she didn’t know what to do with his flirting, or the way he dropped his gaze to her mouth, lush and pink, and then up again. Her eyes widened and a pulse fluttered in her throat.
“Willoughby Holidays,” she said, with a nod towards the papers he’d left on the bar. “As I said before. I…I thought you would have heard of it…?”
“Nope.” Although that wasn’t quite true. He’d heard that the Trents were forming some sort of charitable foundation, but he didn’t pay attention to the goings-on up at the manor. Never had.
“It’s a charity for children in care, to give them a holiday at Willoughby Manor, an opportunity to experience country living and home cooking and…well…” She was starting to look flustered. “Henry and Alice Trent started it six months ago.”
“Did they?”
“Yes, they’re hoping to have their first holidays offered this summer. I thought it was common knowledge in the village.”
“Not to me.” He straightened with a shrug. “You’re not from here, are you?”
“No.”
“London?”
“Yes, but I moved to Wychwood-on-Lea recently.”
“When?”
She bit her lip again, a movement Owen suspected was thoughtlessly instinctive and yet also, he couldn’t help but notice, inherently sexy. “Four days ago.”
“Ah.” He nodded knowingly, and she frowned, delicately arched eyebrows drawn together, mouth pursed in an adorable pout. She really was beautiful—but in a china doll way, perfect and untouchable. Fragile too, perhaps, although maybe just prim.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
He shrugged expansively. “The village doesn’t revolve around Willoughby Manor anymore, although maybe there are those who think it does, like Lord Stokeley. We’re happy to help, of course, but we don’t come running at the crook of the earl’s finger.”
“He isn’t…” Emily stopped and shook her head. “I’m afraid I’ve given a wrong impression of Henry—”
“Actually, I don’t think you have.”
She frowned. “Do you even know him?”
He let out a crack of laughter that had her drawing back, startled. “No, Miss Prim, I don’t. And I don’t particularly want to, if I’m honest. But don’t you worry. The Drowned Sailor will be serving up pints at this precious fundraiser of yours. I wouldn’t miss it for the world, even if it puts H
enry Trent’s nose out of joint.”
“My name is David, not Prim,” Emily said, and Owen couldn’t tell from her tone if she was annoyed by the moniker or she was simply correcting him.
“David. Right. I’ll remember that. So what do you think of Wychwood-on-Lea, Miss David?”
She straightened, narrow shoulders stiffening. “To be honest? I haven’t had the best introduction.”
He laughed again, a booming sound that clearly put her on edge. “True enough. Tell you what. The next time you come in here, you’ll get a drink on the house. As a welcome. Although I can’t promise champagne.”
“Who said I drank champagne?” Her eyes narrowed as she gave him a quelling look. “Or that I’ll come in here again?”
Owen just laughed, because he liked getting her back up, and it was all too easy. Still looking discomfited and huffy, Emily slid her bag back on her shoulder.
“I look forward to hearing from you in due course,” she said stiffly, and then she was gone, her heels clicking sharply across the slate floor.
As the door closed smartly behind her, Owen smiled and shook his head. He wondered if he’d ever see Emily David darken the door of his pub again, and he realised, despite her prim and prissy ways, he hoped he would.
She amused him, and she also got under his skin. There was no reason, he knew, to have Emily David irritate him more than any other well-heeled Londoner who swanned into Wychwood, and there were plenty with their highlighted hair, Hunter boots, and huge black Range Rovers. Or the men—red faced, Rolexed wrists, too much tweed and swagger.
It was the nature of the place, only an hour from London, yet with the countryside on its doorstep. People came here to play at happy families, country kitchens. They had no idea what life was really like, and normally Owen didn’t let it bother him.
But for some reason, Emily David did, and that was both interesting and a bit alarming. Why let this slip of a woman get under his skin? Was it because she was attractive, or was it that hint of something beneath her perfect polish—a hint of vulnerability, even?
Although really anything like that should send him running for the hills. Owen didn’t get involved with people who needed fixing, because heaven knew he couldn’t help them. He reached for the papers that remained on the bar and tossed them next to the till. He’d thought enough about Emily David for one day.
*
As the door closed behind her, Emily released a pent-up breath of agitation. That had not gone as she’d hoped. She’d been aiming for an orderly, efficient business meeting—a relaying of information, an enthusiastic agreement. Hadn’t Alice and Henry assured her that people in this blasted village were friendly?
That man—Owen Jones, according to Henry’s helpful list—hadn’t been friendly. He hadn’t been unfriendly, either. He’d been…well, Emily didn’t know what he’d been. Aggravating. Disconcerting. Impossible.
On the surface he’d seemed friendly enough, giving wide smiles and unsettlingly loud laughs, as if everything, her included, amused him. And yet underneath, Emily had sensed something else, something dark and resentful, and it had unnerved her.
Although this whole process unnerved her—trawling along the high street, introducing herself, being friendly. She would have so much rather just sent an email. A phone call, even. But Henry had been insistent. “Face-to-face contact, Emily!” he’d reminded her again this morning. “That’s what’s needed here.”
He’d given her a kindly smile, as if he knew exactly how difficult this would be for her, and that was at least in part why he was asking. Having Henry Trent interested and involved in her life was not something Emily wanted or needed. And yet here she was.
She’d chosen to walk into The Drowned Sailor first because it was at the end of the lane from Willoughby Manor as she’d walked into the village. She’d surveyed the village green with its play area and pagoda, and the high street meandering steeply up a hill with an assortment of businesses on either side, and she’d decided to start here. Now she wished she hadn’t.
Surely she could have found someone a bit friendlier, some little old lady running a craft shop who would be delighted to take part, or even better, someone who was busy and efficient and simply took the paperwork with a nod and a smile?
Instead she’d got Owen Jones with his laughing looks and strange undercurrent of animosity, and it had been a forceful and rather unpleasant reminder that she didn’t do this sort of thing, and she certainly wasn’t good at it.
When he’d called her Miss Prim she’d thought, for an instant, that he’d simply got her name wrong. He must think her a complete idiot, among other things. Not that she cared, although the churning in her stomach said otherwise.
A chill wind blew down the street, making her shiver. Even though it was almost April, it didn’t feel like spring this morning. The fragile blue skies of a few days ago had turned to pewter, and the syrupy sunlight was nowhere to be seen. Violet storm clouds blanketed the horizons, and the clusters of daffodils lining the village green looked as if they were huddling together for warmth.
Emily hitched her bag higher on her shoulder and belted her coat before she started up the high street. She could do this. She had to. And surely no one would be as unsettling and difficult as the man she’d just met.
The last two days, working at Willoughby Manor, had actually been quite enjoyable. Emily had finished organising the office, so it was clean and spare and just how she’d liked it. With Henry’s approval, she’d ordered some office furniture—a desk and chair, a conference table and set of chairs. With the filing cabinets he’d already ordered, the room would be complete.
It had been fun to organise the office the way she wanted to, keeping everything clean and neat, and her daily eleven o’clock break with Alice, while still a bit awkward and uncomfortable at times, was also pleasant. Andromeda insisted on staying in Emily’s lap, and thanks to a container of hand sanitiser and a lint brush, she didn’t mind quite so much. In fact, she enjoyed it. Mostly, as long as she didn’t think about the germs.
Henry was out and about most days, meeting donors, and so Emily had the office to herself, which she also liked. She’d spent half a day filing—bliss—and then another afternoon organising Henry’s calendar with different-coloured fonts. Also bliss. Everything organised and tidy and in its place, just as she liked and needed it.
She’d also rung hoping to talk to her mum again, but there had been no answer. And although the anxiety about that could take over if she let it, like a mist creeping over her mind, Emily did her best to keep it at bay. There was nothing she could do about her mum. She knew that, she’d understood it for a long time, and yet it was so hard not to try, just as she’d been doing since she was seven. Better, she knew, to focus her energies on colour coding the foundation’s files.
Lunch both days had been a sandwich at her desk while gazing out at the beautiful gardens, enjoying the quiet that had alarmed her at the start, as well as the neatly pruned efficiency of the topiary garden—all perfect angles and trimmed edges. Now that was a garden concept she could get behind.
All in all, not a bad start, until she’d met Owen Jones. Now she felt completely off-kilter, and half of her—all right, more than half—wanted to scuttle back to Willoughby Close and panic clean—her usual way of dealing with anxiety—even as she acknowledged she needed to keep going. Better to get it all over with in one go, even if it made her grit her teeth.
The wind continued to blow as Emily made her way up the street, past several postcard-perfect cottages of golden Cotswold stone, the trim done in the grey green that seemed de rigueur in this part of the country. Interspersed with the cottages were the local businesses: quaint buildings with bow windows and cute, hand-painted signs.
Steeling herself, Emily stepped into the first one on the left—a boutique pet shop that offered, of all things, a doggy bakery, as well as grooming services and, heaven help her, pet massages.
“Hello?” she called and
an elegant, silver-haired woman stepped from the back of the shop, perfectly arced eyebrows raised in query.
“May I help?”
This time Emily was able to go through her patter clearly, and the woman listened with interest, thank heavens. She took the paperwork Emily offered with thanks, assuring her that Wychwood Waggy Tails would take part in the fundraiser, and promising a full array of dog biscuits, birthday cakes, and other canine treats. As she left, Emily breathed a sigh of relief at having one successful outing—and then kept going.
Fortunately, every shop owner she talked to was far friendlier and less alarming than Owen Jones. There was Verity Bryant, a young woman with long, dark hair, a hippy vibe, and a cheerful manner who ran a rather funky knitting shop with lots of colourful wool and psychedelic patterns; Eric Woodley, a dapper-looking gentleman in his forties whose pride and joy was his vintage clothing store, with a selection of 1950s Chanel that Emily duly admired; Joss Thornton, a former carpenter who ran a high-end toy shop where everything was either wooden, organic, or both, and very expensive; and Scarlett Day, who was in charge of a high-end charity shop that specialised in evening gowns, wedding dresses, and hats worthy of Ascot.
Everyone seemed delighted to take part, and rhapsodised about Henry and Alice and their fairy-tale romance. Owen Jones of The Drowned Sailor seemed to be a blessed anomaly.
Halfway up the street Emily saw Tea on the Lea, a cute teashop, and decided to duck in for a few moments’ warmth and a cup of tea before asking the owner about participating in the fundraiser. She’d had more chitchat that morning than she usually had in a week or even in a month, and she needed some quiet.
A cluster of tiny, berry-like bells rang merrily on the door as Emily entered the warmth of the shop, and then she came to the counter to browse the offerings of freshly baked muffins.