The Englishwoman Trilogy: Box set of: Englishwoman in Paris, Englishwoman in Scotland, Englishwoman in Manhattan

by Jenny O'Brien

  “Well I should go…”

  “Pascal,” she said, her voice causing him to pause, her words making him turn back. “I’m making myself a coffee, would you like one?”

  “If you’re sure?” He raised his eyebrow, one hand now holding the chain. “I can fix this while the kettle’s boiling.”

  “And I’d like to go out for dinner with you, if you’d still like to?”

  “It would be my pleasure.” He knelt on the floor pulling a small screw driver from his back pocket only to pause.

  “And Sarah?”

  She paused on the way to the kitchen.

  “29, 500 Euro’s and 45.”

  “What?”

  “My age, bank balance and shoe size.”

  “So about my parents,” she said, adjusting the skirt of her dress over her knees before pleating the rich silver silk between restless fingers.

  “Ah yes, your parents.” She watched as he lowered the handbrake. “When I invited you out for dinner, I didn’t quite realise I’d be inviting your parents along too. It’s an old English custom I take it?”

  Playing for time, her eyes lingered on where his hand rested on the gear stick. She was still getting over the shock of seeing him turn up in a suit, not to mention a red E Type Jaguar. He’d been hot in cut-off denims but now he was positively smoking in grey pinstripe and a snowy white shirt with coordinating black and white striped tie.

  She’d hazard a guess at Saville Row for the suit and Jermyn Street for the shirt only because they had that little touch of something that set them apart. The way the jacket embraced his shoulders without a wrinkle, emphasising their breadth. But there was no way she could ask him where he got his clothes from. Hired? Borrowed? Stolen? It was best not to ask. When she’d admired the car, he’d smiled and told her his Lotus was in for a service. Mmm.

  “Not quite. While my parents are old-fashioned, they’re not that old-fashioned.”

  “Why then?” his tone dry, presumably with a head full of the thousand reasons for her parents chaperoning her on this their first date with not a hope of any of them being near the truth. It was good of him to go along with her idea for dinner. He’d probably planned a quiet tête-à-tête in one of the little street café’s along the river and not the magical mystery tour she’d taken him on. Despite being dressed to impress, she was still unsure what his reaction would be when the ‘little hotel her parents were staying in’ turned out to be the Ritz.

  With a sigh, she decided to tell him the truth. They were ships that passed in the night and there was nothing he’d be able to do with the information now her parents would be there.

  “It’s my birthday soon.”

  “When, ma chérie?”

  She smiled at the endearment. Being on the edge of “The Luvvies Set” herself, she knew it meant nothing, but it felt good to be cherished all the same, even if it was only transitory, so much nicer than being called darling, or a cabbage come to that.

  “Oh, that’s not really relevant. The only relevant part is, if I’m not engaged by my birthday I’ll miss out on inheriting quite a tidy sum from my late aunt.”

  He remained silent. Negotiating the traffic around the Arc de Triomphe even at this time of the evening was always difficult. But she was glad of the silence, her hand reaching up to fiddle with a loose curl over her ear.

  “She was quite a character, Aunt Popsy; an irascible old dear but with a heart of gold. She left me everything but only on the proviso that I’m engaged to the man of my dreams by my twenty-third birthday and if not, it will all go to the Battersea Dog’s Home.”

  “This er Battersea..?”

  “Battersea Dog’s Home. It’s a world famous animal rescue shelter.”

  “D’accord, and you haven’t met the man you want to marry, is that where I come in?”

  Her hand fluttered on his arm before resuming its place on her lap. “I’m not getting married Pascal and I don’t really care what happens to the money but…” She paused, her head now turned to look at the light sparkling out from what looked like a thousand candelabras brandishing the side of the hotel.

  “But you don’t want to upset your parents?” His hand reached out and rested on her knee. “I’ve had parents, I know how it works.”

  No you don’t. You have no idea how it works.

  But she let it go. He’d find out soon enough, and she’d be lucky if he stayed for the sweet.

  She had to give him his due, he hardly missed a step at the sight of both her father and Rupert standing up from the table. The only sign he gave at the unwelcome extra man was a slight squeeze on her elbow as he propelled her towards them. Her mother didn’t stand but then she never would, entrenched as she was in the social etiquette of a bygone era.

  “Hello darling, vintage Dior, how clever of you,” her eyes scanning the knee length sheath of a dress with interest.

  “Hello Mother. Not really. The roads in Paris are heaving with the most adorable second-hand clothes shops,” she said, reaching up to kiss her father’s cheek before nodding to Rupert.

  “Pre-loved darling, not second-hand; second-hand is so…”

  “Common?” She glanced across the table. “You didn’t say that Rupert would be joining us, Mother?” She added, struggling to keep her voice calm, but ice creeping in all the same.

  “He had to pop over on business and as the plane takes four..,” her eyes shifting to Pascal. “Introduce your friend, darling,” a slight censure in her tone.

  “Oh, of course.” Turning, the smile froze on her lips as she realised she had no idea of his name, or indeed anything about him and he bloody well knew it, his eyes twinkling back. There was only one way to play it and that was fib. After all, she wasn’t going out with him again. Her heart dropped at the thought.

  “Pascal, I’d like to present my parents, The Earl and Countess Cosgrave, and Rupert Reynolds-Smythe. Mum, dad, Rupert, this is Pascal…”

  “de Sauvarin, Pascal de Sauvarin.” He interrupted smoothly, “It’s an honour to meet you both.” His English as faultless as his smile.

  “Sauvarin?” Her father interrupted, his eyes questioning. “Any relation to the Marquis de Sauvarin?”

  “Only distant, I’m afraid.”

  “Old money that, very old,” he added, narrowing his gaze in Rupert’s direction. “I met him, let me see..,” his hands steepled together on the white linen. “It must have been twenty years ago. The family residence was a pile outside Versailles with more turrets than sense.”

  “A very distant connection.” He replied, placing his hand protectively along the back of Sarah’s chair.

  Rupert turned a sharp eye across the table. “It’s very good of you to have escorted Lady Sarah for the evening; I hate to think of her in Paris all alone.”

  “She’s not alone,” he drawled, his hand curling around her neck in the most intimate of caresses. “Lady Sarah has me.”

  “Really?” His gaze flickering between them before settling on her. “You never mentioned it?”

  He’d found her hand and, raising it up above the table pressed a kiss on to the soft skin before resting their entwined fingers on the table. “Does she have to mention it, er, Rupert?”

  Sarah’s head flew from side to side at the jibe even as she felt the warmth of his hand generate little shivers of anticipation up her arm.

  Oh God, they’ll come to fisticuffs soon.

  Her father wouldn’t intervene now he had the wine menu to peruse whilst her mother was no use. She’d spent the last ten minutes trying to work out if the woman at the next table was wearing real pearls. She could have told her without having to turn her head. No one wore fake jewels at the Ritz.

  Sighing with relief at the sight of the head waiter arriving with their menus, she reclaimed her hand before starting a rambling conversation about the benefits of lobster over steak when she didn’t care a fig for either. In truth, she’d lost her appetite when Rupert and his flabby flushed face stood up to greet he
r. She knew what her mother was up to but couldn’t she come up with something better than a fifty-three-year old divorcé with a drink problem?

  She hadn’t been lying when she’d said she didn’t care about the money. The thought of all those millions freaked her out. She’d won a scholarship for her year at the Sorbonne and that, added to the allowance her parents gave her for keeping out of their hair allowed her to be independent, something she wouldn’t give up with a struggle. Marriage to Rupert would mean exchanging her freedom for a prison; a gilded one with all the trappings of wealth, but a prison all the same.

  “Chérie?” The weight of his arm interrupted her thoughts and, glancing away from Rupert, she threw him a little smile.

  “I’m fine; it’s just I have a headache coming on.” She pulled a brief smile at her mother’s questioning stare. “Perhaps the lady in the restroom will have some paracetamol?”

  “I’ll come with you, darling.” Her mother rose to her feet, closely followed by all the men, including Pascal. “We’ll leave you to your business talk.” She tittered, linking arms with her daughter.

  They’d scarcely left the table when her mother started on her.

  “Well, if I’d known you were going to arrive with THAT on your arm, I’d have left poor old Rupert at home. Clever you.”

  “Shush Mother, they’ll hear you!” Sarah replied, twisting her head briefly to find both her father and Rupert leaning across the table with serious intent.

  “No they won’t. They’ll be busy interrogating that handsome hunk of yours. You know your father won’t give his permission for you to marry just anyone!”

  “I didn’t think I’d need it.”

  “Now darling, you know we’re only trying to protect your best interests don’t you? After that Paul person, we can’t be too careful,” she added, tipping her handbag out in search of lip gloss.

  Paul had been the one fly in her ointment on the road to independence. She should have guessed the way he’d latched on to her that there had to be an ulterior motive. There was nothing about her to attract the instant attention of the best looking man on campus apart from the news of an heiress on site. He’d wined and dined her, and would have managed to do a lot more if she hadn’t overheard him bragging about his soon to be paid off student loan.

  “Paul was a very long time ago, Mother. I can scarcely remember what he looked like,” she replied and realised the truth in her words. She’d thought herself in love, so much in love that she’d nearly considered ignoring the fact he was only after her money, and now he was nothing; just some petty little teenage crush.

  “Your father knew all about him,” her mother murmured, adding a thin rim of eyeliner to her lower lids.

  “What?”

  “Mmm and give him a day or two and he’ll know all about this Pascal de Sauvarin of yours.”

  “Now hold on a minute…”

  “Darling, when you’re a mother you’ll understand.” She patted her shoulder with a smile. “Good looks and a fantastic body aren’t everything.” She gave herself one final look in the mirror before adding. “Although I must admit I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  “Had what in me?” Sarah was hastily swallowing the couple of paracetamol the attendant had found.

  “Finding such a perfect specimen, and what lovely manners for such a young man, obviously public school, and that tie…”

  “His tie, what’s wrong with his tie?”

  “It’s so ‘Oxbridge’ darling. I think Magdalen but ask your father, he knows about these things.”

  “Oh really.” Her voice weak, even as she wondered if that’s why his English was so good – too good. “We haven’t discussed universities…”

  “No of course you haven’t,” she said, the titter back. “What’s he like in bed?”

  “Mother!”

  Looking at her father in deep conversation with Pascal, she felt a sudden urge to be back in her pocket-handkerchief of an apartment with distant views over the Seine. Her headache was now pounding with a relentless determination and, if she didn’t leave straight away, she’d scream. There were so many questions, too many questions; unanswerable questions she knew her father and now Pascal would be adept at evading.

  Who was this Pascal she’d consented to spend the evening with? His manners came straight out of Downton Abbey and she was certain now his suit wasn’t some off the peg piece of tat. Either he was a consummate actor, or born with a whopping silver spoon in his mouth and for the life of her she couldn’t work out which.

  Stumbling to her feet, she almost laughed at the sight of all three men following her like string puppets. She’d come with Pascal and she’d leave with him, that was the rule but she didn’t have to speak to him more than that.

  “I’m sorry for breaking up the party but my headache…” Her eyes throwing out a silent appeal to her mother who, for once in her life, didn’t let her down.

  “Oh poor Sarah,” tipping her head towards Pascal. “She used to get the most frightful headaches as a child. You need to tuck her up in bed with the blinds down and she’ll be as right as rain in the morning.” Turning back, she added, “I’ll phone you first thing tomorrow, darling.”

  She tried to leave him outside but he was having none of it. He took the key from her fingers and, opening the door, gently pushed her through before heading for the bedroom and turning down the duvet all the time muttering to himself.

  “This is becoming a habit.”

  “What?”

  I said this is becoming a habit, me helping you into bed.” He was lifting her dressing gown off the hook behind the door so missed the look on her face. “I take it you sleep in the nude?”

  “Excuse me!”

  “Well you weren’t wearing…”

  “That’s my business.” She snatched the dressing gown from his hands, her face the colour of an overripe tomato.

  “I’m not sure where the belt is though?” he said, scanning the floor.

  “I couldn’t get the knot undone…”

  “Ah yes, now I remember.” He smiled, his face a picture of innocence. “I er seem to remember having some difficulty in getting it to stay closed.” He made his way towards her. “I’ll be off then, unless you want me to tuck you in?”

  “There’s little chance of that. This really is a thumper,” her hand to her brow.

  “Poor Sarah.” He frowned down at her. “Would you like me to stay?’ He added, lifting his head to look at the sofa. “Perhaps you shouldn’t be alone? That was a nasty crack you gave yourself…”

  “I’m fine, Pascal. I’m used to looking after myself.” She managed a small smile. “Thank you for…”

  “Thank you for pretending to be my boyfriend, was that what you were going to say, Lady Sarah? Thank you for not reaching across the table and punching Rupert’s lights out for the way he assumed you were his property? It was my pleasure, but next time no surprises, huh?”

  “Hold on a minute…”

  “No, you hold on a minute, Sarah.” His voice harsh, but the hands that reached out and cradled her face were soft, so soft as he smoothed the pads of his thumbs across her cheeks. “I played your little game and without you telling me any of the rules beforehand, now it’s my turn.”

  “Your turn?” She repeated.

  “Don’t be scared little one,” his hands now moving to caress the back of her neck. “Whilst I’d love to join you for what’s left of the night I’ll wait until I’m asked.” His hands paused, his eyes wavering between her mouth and her eyes as if he was trying to make his mind up about something before finally pushing her backwards through the door. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  Chapter Three

  11th May. A day’s shopping to look forward to and today I’m looking for something sexy. The grey had been fine but with the neck up to my chin and sleeves down to my wrist I looked like a throwback from the last century, or should that be the century before?

  Sarah loved Saturday mor
nings in Paris most of all. She loved the joy of being able to wake up late, just as she loved the joy of being able to languish for as long as she liked under the warmth of her duvet; only sneaking out of bed when her body screamed for coffee and croissants.

  Sliding her feet to the floor she slipped her arms into her robe before tying a loose knot with the scarf she’d improvised instead of the belt she’d thrust to the bottom of the bin. Padding into the kitchen she flicked on the kettle before wandering over to her tiny balcony.

  With her elbows on the wrought-iron railings, she ignored the now quiet building opposite. Instead, she craned her neck for that distant view of the river and the gentle flow of tugs and pleasure cruisers before turning her attention to the building site. She was annoyed at the way her gaze automatically pulled in that direction, for in truth there was little to see except bare scaffolding rods and a pile of grey bricks. But she continued to stare, her imagination filling in enough gaps to keep her attention pinned all day if necessary.

  It was only the click of the kettle that drew her attention back to the task in hand, but within minutes she found herself back outside, all her thoughts on one thing.

  She didn’t get him and that annoyed her. She didn’t get him and she didn’t understand why that worried her. She was off men for good, wasn’t that the promise she’d made herself after Paul? If it hadn’t been for sneaking up behind him in the canteen with every intention of surprising him, she wouldn’t have heard him bragging about how he’d snared an heiress. She’d never let on she’d heard, instead she deleted him from her phone, her Facebook account, her life as if he’d never existed. He’d been hurt at first; hurt closely followed by aggressive. But when he finally realised he’d lost he’d done the worst thing possible.

  Finding out the man you loved was only after one thing was bad enough but to have her supposed sex life splattered all over the tabloids was difficult to stomach. She was used to all the media attention just as she was used to keeping a close tab on her private life. But since then, apart from Cara, she’d kept her own council and stayed out of the limelight unless it was dinner with her parents.