by Sk Quinn
When I tuck Bertie into bed, I wonder if I should tell him I’m going out.
I decide best not. He’ll be fast asleep soon – no point worrying him over nothing. And I’ll be back way before he wakes up.
Bertie still looks all sad and glassy eyed. But there’s colour in his cheeks from a day outdoors.
‘Did you like watching the men fish?’ I ask.
He doesn’t reply.
‘I heard you ate something,’ I say. ‘A few biscuits. I’m really glad about that.’
Still no reply.
‘Well,’ I say, pulling the duvet over him. ‘I’ll read you a bedtime story. Okay?’
Bertie doesn’t say anything. But I see his lips twitch. Just a little bit.
After the story I close Bertie’s door carefully and creep away, back to Patrick’s bedroom. Correction. Mine and Patrick’s bedroom. How weird does that sound? I’m actually living here. In Patrick’s castle.
I find Patrick sitting on the bed, pulling on black socks. He’s dressed in a James Bond tuxedo, totally fitted and cut in all the right places.
‘You look very handsome,’ I smile.
‘And you are beautiful,’ says Patrick.
‘I’m not even dressed yet.’
‘Even better.’
‘Patrick!’
‘I’ve been thinking,’ says Patrick, doing up his shirt cuffs. ‘Now you’ve brought home half of Taylor and Cursy, you’ll need somewhere to put it all.’
‘I thought I’d be sharing your wardrobe,’ I say, grinning. ‘You might have to shift some of your guns out of the way.’
‘Not necessary. You’ll have the whole wardrobe to yourself.’
‘What?’
‘Here.’ Patrick leads me to his walk-in wardrobe.
It’s now light and bright and full of rails, mirrors and shoe racks. And all the clothes Hugo and I bought earlier.
Wow. There really are a lot of clothes. Rails and rails. I didn’t realise they’d take up so much space.
‘Where’s all your army gear? And the guns?’
‘I had a bit of a clear out,’ says Patrick. ‘It was time my guns went to a proper gun store anyway. Much as I like having them nearby.’
‘Wow,’ I breathe. ‘This is … amazing. It’s amazing, Patrick. When did you do this?’
‘Rab built it this afternoon. He’s a dab hand at carpentry. When he isn’t hitting people.’
I laugh.
‘Well, tell him thank you from me. Truly. It’s lovely. But what about your clothes?’
‘They’re here,’ says Patrick, opening a small antique wardrobe with silver handles.
I see a few suits in there and some army jumpers and trousers.
‘Really? That’s all you need?’
‘That’s all I need,’ says Patrick. ‘I store most of my clothes at base camp, anyway.’
‘Patrick, this is so lovely. It makes me feel … I don’t know. Like I live here.’
‘You do live here.’
‘I know, but sometimes it’s hard to feel like I do. I mean – I came from a canal boat in Camden, remember?’
‘I remember. And I love your boat.’
‘I like it here better.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it. Now Lady Mansfield. What are you going to wear to dinner?’
I pick a burgundy-red evening dress from the rail. It pulls in at the waist and has a sweetheart neckline and fitted skirt.
‘And gloves too,’ I say, picking up a pair of long, white-silk gloves. ‘And those boots.’ I nod at the cut-out leather boots hanging on the shoe rack.
Patrick sweeps my hair around my neck and kisses my bare skin.
I shiver.
‘Let me help you get undressed,’ he murmurs.
‘Ok-ay,’ I say. ‘As long as you help me get dressed again too.’
‘I can’t make any promises.’
Patrick pulls my jumper over my head and throws it on the floor. Then he pulls down my jeans and panties and picks me up, wrapping my legs around him.
He walks me to the mirror and presses my naked back against it.
It’s cold.
‘Oh!’ I gasp.
‘You won’t be cold for long.’
I can see Patrick’s back in the other mirror, all black suit and broad shoulders.
‘Will you take your clothes off too?’ I ask. ‘I want to see you. In the mirror.’
‘What the lady wants …’
Patrick sets me down so my feet find the soft carpet. Then he strips off his clothes and throws them on top of mine.
He’s rock hard, of course.
When he picks me up again, I feel the hardness and length of him at the top of my thighs.
He slides inside me, little by little, until he’s pinning me to the mirror.
I see his tanned, muscular backside in the other mirror. And slowly, he begins to move.
God!
I love seeing him in the mirror. The way his backside moves back and forth …
I feel him and watch him as he moves slowly, in out in out.
I cling to him, watching his gorgeous muscular body moving slowly in rhythm with mine.
Suddenly he stops and lowers me to the ground.
‘Get on your knees,’ he growls. ‘I want to see you too.’
I turn around so my knees sink into the soft carpet. Then I feel Patrick enter me again – hard and fast this time, smacking against my backside.
He grabs my hips and pushes himself in further, letting out a long groan as he watches me in the mirror.
I see myself too, eyes all sultry and wanton, hair all over the place. And I see Patrick behind me, moaning, pounding away.
He moves strong fingers between my legs and starts to rub. Gently at first. Then with more pressure.
Oh. Oh!
That feels so good.
I can feel myself clenching around him and watch as he hammers into me – his face serious, jaw firm, eyes forceful. A hunter who’s caught his prey.
A few more slams and I can’t hold back any longer. I scream out that I’m coming. And I do. It seems to go on forever.
I hear Patrick come too in a big roar, and see his face in the mirror – exposed suddenly, vulnerable. It’s beautiful.
As my orgasm softens and fades away, Patrick runs his hand up and down my back.
‘Do we still have to go for dinner?’ I ask. ‘Maybe we could just stay in the bedroom all night instead.’
Patrick laughs. ‘Usually I wouldn’t argue with that suggestion. But we have reservations at the restaurant of a very good friend. And he’s eager to see the lady I want to marry. I don’t want to let him down.’
‘Okay,’ I smile. ‘We’d better get dressed.’
13
We have a female chauffeur for the evening – a large, friendly lady called Minnie, with white hair and a thick Scottish accent.
I learn that she’s Patrick’s favourite chauffeur.
‘Well Mr Mansfield,’ I tease, as we drive into the city. ‘A female chauffeur. And here was me thinking you were a sexist caveman.’
‘Only where you’re concerned,’ says Patrick.
I roll my eyes. ‘So it’s okay for women to be equal. As long as they’re not women you care about.’
‘That’s pretty much the size of it.’
‘You must be worried,’ I say. ‘About Anise.’
‘That’s one word for it.’
Anise has stayed in her bedroom since we brought her back from Regan Thornburn’s barn.
She has food sent up and reads books. But she won’t talk to anyone. I think we’re hoping that if we wait long enough, she’ll snap out of it. But she hasn’t yet.
I squeeze Patrick’s hand. ‘I’m so sorry Patrick.’
‘What for?’ he asks.
‘For Anise … that she’s so lost.’
‘Maybe she always was,’ says Patrick, looking out the car window at the bright lights of Edinburgh. ‘I just didn’t see it. I should have done. But I didn’t.’
The restaurant is called Fiennes, and it’s on the top floor of a brown-brick building. It has a roof of spires and slate.
In my dark red evening dress, gloves and high boots I sort of glide into the restaurant on Patrick’s arm.
‘You look stunning,’ he whispers. ‘Absolutely stunning.’
All the diners turn to stare when we arrive. A few smile. Others look me over with curiosity. But it’s not unfriendly.
We’re shown a table right by the panoramic window, and the views over the city are just amazing.
I catch a glimpse of us in the window – Lord and Lady Mansfield at dinner – and feel like I’m looking at someone else.
Is that really me, all dressed up and on the arm of this handsome, god-like man?
I’ve swept my hair up with some silver butterfly slides we bought at Taylor and Cursy. And dabbed on a light bit of makeup – just a little to brighten my face. But it’s the dress that really shines. It’s so well designed and fits like a glove.
I feel like a princess.
Gerard Fiennes, the restaurant owner, comes to our table personally to give us our menus.
He’s a tall, suited man with salt-and-pepper hair and a firm, square jaw.
‘Patrick!’ He slaps Patrick’s back. ‘You finally made it.’
‘Just like I promised,’ says Patrick.
‘Eight years ago!’ Gerard laughs.
‘I don’t remember putting a time limit on the promise,’ says Patrick, smiling.
‘And this is the lovely lady who’s finally enticed you out of the woodlands?’ Gerard says.
‘Yes she is,’ says Patrick. ‘Gerard. Meet my fiancée, Seraphina Harper.’
‘You really are getting married then?’
‘As soon as humanly possible,’ says Patrick. ‘Bearing in mind, of course, that the wedding needs to be planned. I don’t want to give Seraphina chance to get away.’
Gerard laughs. ‘And by wedding, I’m guessing you’ll be arranging something akin to the Queen’s coronation?’
‘Bigger,’ says Patrick.
I feel myself shrink into the chunky wood chair.
Bigger than the Queen’s Coronation?
‘Well,’ says Gerard, shaking my hand. ‘I’m honoured to meet you, Seraphina. But you look so familiar. I’m sure I’ve met you before – at Paris Fashion Week, was it?’
‘I … don’t think so. I’ve never been to Paris.’
‘Never been to Paris!’ Gerard explodes. ‘Come now. A sophisticated young lady like yourself? Surely you must have been.’
‘I mean I’d love to go,’ I stammer, feeling odd that he used the word ‘sophisticated’ to describe me. ‘But … I suppose I’ve never … I mean, I’m not really well travelled.’
‘Patrick must take you,’ says Gerard. ‘I have a restaurant and a hotel there. You’ll be my guests of honour.’
I blush. ‘Thank you.’
Gerard winks at Patrick. ‘I’ll leave you two lovebirds to your meal. Patrick – let’s go shooting sometime. Okay?’
‘Sure.’ Patrick gives him a gruff nod, then takes my hands.
When Gerard is some way across the restaurant, Patrick says: ‘What’s the matter?’
I laugh. ‘I can’t hide anything from you, can I?’
‘Nope.’
‘I just … that thing you said about the wedding. Being bigger than the Queen’s Coronation. It freaked me out a little bit.’
‘Why? I thought all women wanted a big wedding?’
‘I’m not all women.’
‘I know that.’
‘And … it’s just not me, Patrick. A great big expensive wedding.’
‘You have no idea, do you?’ says Patrick, looking deep into my eyes.
‘No idea?’
‘How special you are.’
‘Maybe I’m special to you. But all the people who live around here … I’m not special to them.’
‘But you will be,’ says Patrick.
‘I’m just not sure …’
Patrick clasps my hands tight. ‘You should be sure. You deserve the biggest and best wedding there is. And that’s exactly what you’re going to have.’
I bite my lip. ‘Shall we order?’
‘Stop trying to change the subject.’
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Fine. I’m nervous. Okay? What if I don’t fit into this big, expensive world of yours? What if I don’t know how to dress or talk. I—’
Patrick lets out a big, loud laugh. ‘You’re doing a pretty good job so far.’
I pick up the menu and frown at it.
‘It’s all seasonal food,’ says Patrick. ‘Organic. Reared or grown within 10 miles of the restaurant.’
‘That sounds nice.’
‘Hey.’ Patrick gently pushes the menu down. ‘It’ll be okay. You’ll see. Try not to worry. Would you like me to order for you?’
‘Are you actually asking me something for once?’ I say. ‘Instead of telling me?’
‘Looks that way,’ says Patrick.
‘Actually I’d love you to order for me,’ I say, scanning the menu. ‘I don’t know what anything is.’
‘I’m glad you said that,’ says Patrick, slapping his own menu closed. ‘Because I’ve already decided what you’re having.’
I shake my head. ‘And there I was, thinking you weren’t such a caveman after all …’
Patrick beckons a waiter and orders us lobster bisque with fresh bread, herb crusted lamb with grilled radicchio and lemon meringue soufflés for dessert.
Complemented with a glass of champagne to start, and then red wine followed by a white dessert wine.
‘What’s a bisque?’ I ask Patrick.
‘Soup.’
‘How do you know words like that?’
Patrick shrugs. ‘It’s what I grew up with. All the best restaurants. Everything money could buy. But money is no route to happiness, I can promise you that.’
‘It sure does help, though.’
‘Does it?’ says Patrick, finding my legs under the table and lifting my feet onto his lap. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure. Nice boots.’
‘I’m glad you like them. You were saying?’
‘That money doesn’t buy you happiness. You and your sister – from what you tell me, you’ve never had much money. And yet it sounds like the two of you were happy.’
‘We were happy, but stressed too,’ I say. ‘Always worrying. Never sure where the next meal was coming from. I’d prefer to have money any day.’
‘But then you might end up with a father like mine,’ says Patrick.
‘Or a cousin,’ I say, thinking of Zara.
‘Oh, come now,’ says Patrick, slapping his hand against the leather of my boot. ‘Zara’s not all bad. She cares about Anise.’
‘And you,’ I say, frowning.
‘I think she knows that ship has sailed.’
‘Well she doesn’t act that way.’
‘You don’t want to make her a bridesmaid for our wedding then?’ says Patrick.
‘Very funny. I don’t even want her there at our wedding.’
Patrick’s smile fades. ‘She’s my family, Seraphina. She has to be there on the wedding day. No question. In fact—’
‘No way,’ I say, snatching my boots from his lap. ‘No way is she going to be at our wedding.’
‘Tradition says she has to be there,’ says Patrick, glancing up as a waiter puts a steaming pot of red soup in front of me. ‘It’s not a matter for discussion.’
‘No it’s not,’ I say, as the waiter places soup in front of Patrick, then sets a basket of fresh bread on the table. ‘She’s not coming, and that’s the end of it.’
‘Seraphina, the Mansfield family does things a certain way—’
‘And this is our wedding day! How would you feel if I invited my ex-boyfriend?’
Patrick’s jaw goes tight. ‘That’s not the same thing at all.’
‘Of course it is!’
‘Zara was never my gir
lfriend.’
‘But you slept with her.’
‘So?’
‘So that means I don’t want her at our wedding!’
‘You’re being unreasonable.’
‘No. You’re being unreasonable.’
‘We’ll talk about this later.’
‘There’s nothing to talk about, Patrick.’
‘Try your mussels.’
I glare at him. ‘Now you’re trying to change the subject.’
‘Yes. Yes I am. There’s no point discussing this now. We’ll talk later. Try your mussels.’
I glance down at the bowl of reddish pink soup. It really does smell delicious. Like cream and garlic and all sorts of nice things.
‘So this is a bisque, is it?’ I say, relenting. He’s right – this isn’t the place to talk about Zara. I refuse to let her ruin our evening. ‘How is it different to soup, exactly? Why the fancy name?’
Patrick’s eyes flicker with humour. ‘A bisque is a soup made with shellfish.’
‘Oh.’ I take a mouthful. ‘It’s nice.’
‘You might find it easier to eat if you use this spoon,’ says Patrick softly, handing me a deep, round spoon.
I realise I’m using a dessert spoon.
I blush as I take the soup spoon from him.
‘Don’t be embarrassed,’ says Patrick.
‘Easy for you to say. You’ve been brought up with this stuff. For me, it’s going to take some getting used to.’
‘But you will get used to it,’ says Patrick. ‘I promise.’
Mmm. I’m not so sure.
14
By the time dessert arrives, I’m feeling a little more relaxed.
The champagne and red wine certainly help.
As we’re eating our soufflés, the waiter pours us a chilled, white wine that’s thick like honey.
‘What’s this?’ I ask.
‘Dessert wine. Try it. It’s delicious.’
‘Why’s it so thick?’ I ask.
‘Because it’s strong,’ says Patrick.
‘Oh.’ I take a sip. ‘It’s delicious.’
Patrick pulls my boots back into his lap. ‘We’re not going to have any more silly quarrels tonight, are we?’
‘I hope not.’
He begins stroking my calves, running his strong fingers up and down the boot leather.
‘Stop it,’ I say, raising an eyebrow at him.
Patrick slides his hands around my ankles.