“As long as I do what you say, is that it? Sounds very much like a prison doesn’t it?”
“Would a gaoler provide you with this, hmm?” He took a box out of his pocket and, flicking open the top, revealed a huge solitaire diamond nestling against the blue velvet interior. Grabbing her hand before she had the foresight to hide it on her lap, he clumsily slid it in place.
“There, you’re mine now.” He threw her a salacious smile as he dragged her hand to his lips just in time for the first of many camera flashes to explode in her face.
“You had it all planned didn’t you,” the words ripping across the table without a care for who was listening. “The ring. The opera to soften me up. The best table in the Savoy and then what; calling in a few favours from some media friends? So, which newspaper am I going to grace the front cover of tomorrow then?”
Her pupils finally adjusted to see the swell of photographers envelop the table like rats even as the head waiter started shooing them out of the restaurant with a well-manicured hand.
“All of them, my dear. Now let’s get back to enjoying our meal shall we? The Savoy isn’t the place for histrionics now is it?” he added, pouring out a large glass of champagne and pushing it in her direction. “I’ve arranged an appointment with your solicitor for tomorrow, just so we can get a pre-nup organised.”
“Well, cancel it.” She shoved the champagne away, instead picking up the glass of sparkling water the waiter had kindly provided.
“I think not.”
“I saw Mr Pidgeon today, as a matter of fact.” She saw him glance at her sharply. “That’s surprised you, hasn’t it? Yes, I decided to reacquaint myself with Aunt Popsy’s will.” She watched him relax slightly.
“Oh, there’s no need to worry your pretty, little head about such financial matters, darling.”
“Oh, darling, but I think there is, after all Aunt Popsy was only trying to protect me from fortune hunters,” she said, tucking a stray curl back in place. “Why so quiet Rupert, cat got your tongue?”
“Now listen here,” he replied, trying and failing not to raise his voice, much to the interest of the couple sitting at the next table.
“No, it’s your turn to do the listening. I said I’d marry you. You didn’t really give me any choice but, as per the wording of the will, I don’t get my inheritance until I’ve had my birthday. You, my dear husband-to-be are not legally entitled to a penny until after the wedding,” her voice almost a whisper as she smiled sweetly at the buxom battle-axe next door. If she leant any closer she’d offer her a seat. “After this evening, I don’t want to have anything to do with you until my birthday party, which I suppose I’ll have to invite you to. If you so much as ask about me, the deal is off.”
Back once more in the car, all was silent, too silent. Rupert was a sharp cookie, he wouldn’t have been able to crawl himself out of the gutter if he wasn’t. He’d worked his way up that proverbial ladder and now intended to use both her name and her fortune to reach the top rung, something beyond the wildest dreams of a lowly butcher’s son from Coventry. She felt his gaze on her chest, her legs, her lips as she tugged her wrap further across her shoulders, her eyes snagging those of the fatherly man driving them home.
“You think you’re so clever don’t you? Not so clever considering you’re all alone. I think I’ll just take a down payment…” His hand moving to his belt.
She leant forward and knocked on the little glass partition separating them from the driver before he could stop her, her face deathly pale.
“There’s a Tesco’s Express up ahead if you wouldn’t mind stopping for a minute please.”
“Right you are, Miss,” he replied, turning left at the next roundabout before pulling up outside.
“If this is some kind of trick?” He looked her in the eye before smiling, his hand now reaching for the door handle. “It’s all right, my dear. I’ll go. Can’t have you traipsing around Tesco’s like that. What do you need, sweets, chocolate, flowers?”
“A box of Tampax, regular.” She lifted her purse, rooting around for the twenty she’d slipped in the side pocket in case of emergencies.
“Oh, for God’s sake!” he exploded, catching the smarmy expression on the driver’s face before slamming his door shut.
“If you think I’m going to... Just get out, but if you’re not back in five minutes, I’ll send him looking for you,” his hand waving in the direction of the man up front.
The next morning came around far too quickly. Of course she hadn’t been able to sleep a wink after he’d dropped her outside like a bag of dirty washing. If it hadn’t been for the sympathetic arm of the chauffeur helping her up the steps, she wasn’t sure if she’d have made it.
She would have laughed at the supercilious look on Rupert’s rude brattish face, but she was in no mood for laughter. If something didn’t happen pretty soon she’d be married to him. She’d already managed, through no fault of her own to be conned into a public announcement of her troth. There was no way he was going to let her get away now all that lolly was staring him in the face. Come July she’d be an heiress, and he’d be desperate to slide a wedding ring beside the ice cube currently weighing her finger down.
The first thing she did on reaching the sanctuary of her room was remove the ring and place it in the bottom of her jewellery box, her eyes lingering on the ruby she’d had to move to her other hand. She’d promised never to remove it and, whatever happened, it was a promise she intended to keep.
Grabbing the pregnancy kit from her bag, she stared at the instructions before heading into the bathroom. She didn’t need any blue line to confirm what she already knew in her heart. They should have used a condom. But it was too late now, far too late, her eyes focussing through an outline of tears at the two horizontal lines filling the little round window.
She was twenty-two and up the duff with another man’s child. It could be worse but at the minute she couldn’t quite see how.
She must have fallen asleep as dawn eased its amber glow over the horizon because the next thing she knew there was a soft knock on the door as Beverley came in with a cuppa.
“I wouldn’t have woken you, but it’s almost ten o’clock and Miss Cara has been on the phone since seven,” she said, arranging the cup and saucer just so on the bedside table before continuing. “You’re to check your emails, but I’ve a nice bit of breakfast ready.”
“I’m not really hungry.”
“What, I can’t tempt you with even a little toast and some of me homemade marmalade?” she wheedled.
“Well, just a couple of slices.” She smiled before reaching across the bed to where she’d thrown her iPad last night.
Minimising all the pages on pregnancy, she clicked open her email account and was hit in the face by photo after photo of Pascal.
Cara’s email didn’t say much, but it didn’t have to. The images spoke only the truth. She wouldn’t have believed her words, but photos? The glossy full sized images of him in various poses by his building and then less formal ones of him snapped on the arm of a string of different dolly birds. Paris had finally taken Pascal de Sauvarin to their hearts and was parading him across all the tabloids and TV stations like a lump of prize meat. Up until that moment she’d had some thought of whisking herself back to France. He had a right to know about the baby, his baby but now… now she didn’t know what to do.
The phone piercing through her thoughts was a welcome interruption.
“At last, where have you been?”
“And good morning to you too, Cara,” her voice holding a laugh. “The Hopper’s must have diverted my line; I didn’t get in till quite late. So what’s up in lovely Paris?” Her eyes roaming across Pascal’s face, a face she knew better than her own.
“Oh, same old. You got the articles I sent you? That Pascal of yours has caused a media frenzy over here, let me tell you. He’s well on his way to making his first million. There’s even talk of him meeting with the President…”
“Oh really,” her eyes filling with tears as they lingered on his face. He didn’t need her now. He didn’t need her money, and he certainly didn’t need to be stranded with a baby. She’d lost him. Had she ever had him? The echo of a smile shimmered and then faded. He was hers but only for one night. Now he belonged to France, and she belonged to Rupert.
“I always knew he’d make it. I’m very happy for him,” she said, switching off the iPad and flinging it across the bed. “I hope you’ll be able to come to my birthday party, not that I’ve arranged much but there’s bound to be cake.”
“Sweetie, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” There was a pause. “You are sure you’re doing the right thing marrying Rupert? The last time we spoke you called him a toad.”
“Cara, I don’t love him or anything but it’s for the best really…”
“But I thought you and your builder had something special; you know, like me and Aaron…?”
“No, that was only sex,” her heart ripping in two as soon as the lie left her lips. As much as she loved her friend, she couldn’t let her interfere in her life.
Saying goodbye, she placed her cup back on its saucer with a little chink, before letting her head flop back against the pillow, any thoughts of a romantic reunion shattering around her. Her eyes closed on the world, a world she’d suddenly grown to hate, loath, despise even, or was it just the people that inhabited it; people apart from the likes of Cara and the Hoppers, and her parents.
Her parents weren’t too bad, just misguided as to what was best for their only child. If she’d been a boy or even a horse, they’d have been different but she wasn’t. She didn’t fit any mould they’d been used to and therefore they’d left her to her own devices to be more or less brought up by the servants. With a sigh of regret she curled up on her side, her arms cradling her belly and let the tears take over.
Chapter Ten
1st June. I’m brave, brave or stupid to be running after a girl that’s now engaged to someone else; probably both! I know she doesn’t love him, but will my love be enough? We’ve had such a short time together, seconds; seconds to last a lifetime.
Despite Sarah telling him what to expect, he felt totally unprepared for his first sighting of Cosgrave Manor. In his mind’s eye, he’d thought it to be an English version of Chateau Sauvarin but any similarity to his humble abode ended at the enormous wrought-iron gates. The drive was almost a mile long and obviously maintained to a high standard. It didn’t matter that it was now run as a National Heritage site, all that mattered as he stared up at the massive grey frontage was just how much she was out of his league. His family home, despite the turret follies was piddling in comparison. No, there was no comparison.
Slinging his rucksack across one shoulder he waited for the remains of the coach party to exit before dawdling along at the back. He must be the youngest taking the tour, the youngest by about forty years but it was the only way he could think of getting to see her. It would have been so much easier to have hired a car at the airport but then what? He couldn’t just turn up unannounced for afternoon tea, not after what had happened. She’d told him not to visit, his face grim as he remembered those weren’t exactly her words. But never seeing her again just wasn’t an option, at least not for him. He had no idea what he’d find, but he had a pretty good idea, his eyes falling again on one of the many newspapers scattered across the coach’s blue flock seats.
Game, Sax and Match for Lady Sarah seemed to sum it up nicely. She’d announced her engagement to that dunderhead only this morning. So the reason for his visit didn’t even exist anymore unless he could persuade her to marry him instead, and that wasn’t likely to happen any time soon.
Stepping on the smooth weed free path, he stooped to pick up a cardigan before handing it to the grey-haired woman ahead who’d just dropped it. He couldn’t compete with all this, but that wasn’t going to stop him from trying.
The last couple of weeks had proved to him that building state of the art apartments wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. He had no desire to spend even one more second than he had to away from her and that included attending all the interviews that seemed to descend out of nowhere. In desperation, he’d promoted Rexi to media director and escaped back to the gatehouse to pack a bag and drop Minou off at the local cattery before catching the next plane to London.
Politely refusing an invitation to accompany the group of three elderly ladies ahead on the tour he tried to slip away, only to be stopped by an over-zealous hand on his sleeve.
“No, not that way sir; the visit starts over here by the stables.”
He allowed himself to be led back to the queue only to retrace his steps as soon as the tour guide’s back was turned. He wasn’t interested in the stables, or indeed horses at the moment and he could do without hearing just how far an orphaned architect was out of their league, and a French one at that. It would take him a long time to forget that jibe of Rupert’s about where he’d parked his baguette.
Entering the hall he threw a quick look at the old whiskered gentleman staring down at him and he felt the first strand of sympathy for her. His eyes snagged on the rancid green wallpaper interspersed with similar paintings of what must be long dead relatives. It was worse than living in a mausoleum and he hadn’t even started on the moth eaten stag’s head nailed above what looked to be an authentic marble fireplace. He could see why she’d escaped; first to university and then to the Sorbonne. He wondered how she’d borne it for so long. From what he’d seen of her parents they would have been absent at best. At least he’d had loving parents and then his uncle to watch out for him, but she’d had no one.
Throwing a swift look across his shoulder, he unhooked the red rope and headed towards the door ahead marked private.
“Can I help you, Sir?”
The formal tone stopped him his tracks. Turning, he found himself staring into the questioning gaze of what looked to be a business man decked out in a tailored grey suit and matching plain grey tie, both in stark relief to the starchiness of both his shirt and his tone.
“I came to see Lady Sarah.”
“She didn’t inform me she was expecting guests,” their eyes locking.
“Er, no. She’s not expecting me. It’s a ...”
“Surprise?” he added, the slight softening of his tone turning it from Antarctic to only Artic.
“Yes, that’s right,” he said, allowing his breath to seep through his teeth.
God, this was worse than the Spanish Inquisition, and just who was this man; her guard, another suitor?
He noted the sudden twinkling eyes and something clicked in his memory-bank about a butler, a butler with a rather unusual name or he’d have had no chance of remembering.
“If you could tell her Pascal de Sauvarin is here to see her, Mr Hopper is it?”
The smile broadened at the use of his name. “If you could follow me sir, I’ll see if Lady Sarah is available, and it’s just Hopper. I take it you met her in…?”
“Paris, yes.”
“Exactly, sir.” Pushing open the door to the drawing room he gestured him ahead before pulling on an old fashioned tapestry rope by the fireplace.
He watched the door open to reveal a tall slim woman dressed in a simple grey shift dress with matching pumps and kindly blue eyes.
“Beverley, Monsieur de Sauvarin would like some tea while he awaits Lady Sarah.”
“Well he’s in for a long wait, she’s still asleep,” her eyes taking their time to meander across his face. “You just settle yourself there while I give her a shake, there’s a pile of papers on the table.”
“I’ve read them!”
“I’m sure you have.” She smiled at him, a little more than kindness in her expression, “I’ll make you a bit of toast too. She hates eating alone.”
She looked tired.
That was his first thought. She looked tired and worried, or should that be wary, or both? His hand scrubbed across his chin as he took
in her towel dried hair left to run loose down her back, almost to her waist. How he wanted to run his hands through her hair and across her face and shoulders, smoothing all that tension. That was his second thought and one he quickly squashed as he watched her cross the room to kiss him on both cheeks.
Her lips, barely touching his skin, left a mark all the same, a mark akin to burning, but he left his hands by his side. His touch wouldn’t be welcome. This was a very different Sarah to the one he’d cradled against his breast as she’d slept beside him. This was a stranger.
“Come and join me,” her voice hostess soft, her hand indicating the laden plates Beverley and Hopper were arranging on the intimate table in the corner. “It will only upset them if we don’t at least try everything,” she added, taking a triangle of toast from the rack and smearing it with butter.
He laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “This, this is so English, Sarah.” His hands spread wide. “I never imagined you living like this with servants answering your every whim.”
“The Hoppers are not servants,” she interjected, placing her untouched toast back on her plate and meeting his eyes for the first time. “They’re my friends.”
He ignored her interruption. “Here was I thinking you’d be all alone, that you’d even be pleased to see me a little and you’re just some posh girl being fussed over like a spoilt…”
“Shut up!” Pushing herself back from the table and heading for the fireplace, her arms folded across her chest. “What right have you to speak to me like that? If you’ve come here to insult me, I’ll ring my servant to escort you off the premises.”
“I thought I had every right, but obviously not.”
Raking his hands through his hair he realised what a mess he was making of everything. It wasn’t meant to be like this. She was meant to run into his arms while she told him how much she adored him, wasn’t she? But looking at the obstinate set of her chin, the glare of her gaze, the stiffness of her back, there was more likelihood of her standing on the table and dancing the Can Can than there was of her smiling at him. He eyed her warily, his mind struggling to think of something to say to make it all better. He was out of words. He was out of thoughts. He was out of ideas. For inspiration, he shifted his eyes around the room only to rest them on the pile of newspapers waiting in a neat folded pile on the sofa-table.
The Englishwoman Trilogy: Box set of: Englishwoman in Paris, Englishwoman in Scotland, Englishwoman in Manhattan Page 13