The First Time We Met: The Oxford Blue Series #1

by Croft, Pippa

  Then I see Valentina again. Does the woman never give up? I can’t help staring as she hangs on to Alexander’s arm. He’s laughing with a group of hunting friends, and may not even have noticed. Then – Jesus! – she curls her fingers round his behind again. Pangs of jealousy stab me and I curse myself because this is clearly what she wants – maybe she knows I’m watching. Valentina lets out a shriek of laughter that draws attention from the people around her and then she throws her arms round Alexander’s neck and kisses him full on the lips.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  I knock back the rest of my wine savagely. Why doesn’t Alexander move away from her? Why does he simply stand there while she hangs on to him like a limpet? Does she know I can see them? Is that what she wants? Now she’s stroking his bicep like he’s some kind of furry pet.

  The band strikes up some folksy tune with a fast tempo and there’s a buzz of recognition from around me. Seems like everyone’s well past the stage where they don’t care about making a fool of themselves.

  ‘Oh, let’s have another dance!’ I say. ‘What about another reel?’

  There’s a brief look of total confusion on Angus’s face, then he laughs. ‘Well, this is hardly reeling music, but why not?’

  ‘Come on!’ Grabbing his hand, I haul him back on to the dance floor, aware that Alexander has torn his attention from Valentina and is now watching me with a look of incredulity on his face that I believe is described over here as ‘gobsmacked’.

  In seconds, his face is a blur because Angus is whirling me around the ballroom. We bump into someone, but there’s no time for apologies because we’re off again, hands crossed, skipping down the middle of the floor.

  When the music stops, I can hardly speak. Angus leads me from the floor, and I flop down at a table. I scan the room for Alexander, expecting to find him watching me, but he’s nowhere to be seen – and neither is Valentina. A kick of panic hits low in my stomach, making me feel faintly nauseous.

  ‘I need a drink. What can I get you?’ Angus asks.

  ‘More champagne, of course – or, better still, a bottle?’

  He laughs. ‘I can ask, but I’m not drinking tonight. I’m on call.’

  ‘On call? Oh, yes, I’d forgotten. That’s tough.’

  ‘Just the way it is, but don’t let me stop you … Are you sure you don’t want to share this drink with Alexander?’

  ‘I don’t know where he is. Maybe playing poker? Sliding down the stair banisters?’

  Angus laughs. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  Another dance tune strikes up and I tap my foot against the floor, waiting for Angus to return. There are now so many people at the bar that I can’t see him, but what I do notice is Alexander, drink in hand, talking to Rupert. He doesn’t look at me, and is intent on what Rupert is saying.

  Two more dances later, there is still no sign of Angus.

  ‘Hello. You must be Lauren.’ A blond, almost white-haired, guy stands opposite me, holding a bottle of champagne in one hand and two glasses in the other. I think he was one of the people baiting Rupert after the hunt, which puts him up a notch in my estimation.

  ‘Here’s your champagne,’ he says.

  ‘I thought Angus was going to get me one … but I’m not sure where he is.’

  ‘He had an urgent phone call from the hospital and sent me over with this.’ He puts the bottle and glasses on the table and takes the seat next to me. ‘I’m Henry Favell, by the way. I’ve been waiting to be introduced all night and, frankly, I didn’t think Alexander was going to let you out of his sight, but I see he’s been distracted.’

  He turns slightly to Alexander, who is now intent on something Rupert is saying.

  ‘Has he? I hadn’t really noticed. How do you know Alexander?’

  ‘I was in his house at Eton.’

  I raise my eyebrows. ‘Really? I bet you know all of his bad habits. Why don’t you tell me about them?’

  While he pours me a glass of fizz, he laughs. ‘I don’t think we’ve got that long, and who wants to waste time talking about Alexander when I could hear all about the most stunning girl in the room.’

  As if he heard his name mentioned, which is impossible, Alexander has turned towards us and is making his way over. I angle myself towards Henry. ‘Flattery will get you everywhere.’

  ‘Hopefully …’ he says.

  ‘He’s a nice guy, Angus …’ I say, feeling Alexander’s eyes burning into my back.

  ‘He is. But me, I’m a different matter.’

  I rest my chin on my hand. ‘Uh-huh?’

  ‘And if you’re seeing Alexander, I suppose nice guys aren’t really your thing.’

  I raise my voice a notch. ‘Bastards appear to be.’

  ‘Then I think I can help. Do you want to dance?’

  ‘Love to.’

  Henry takes my hand and leads me to the dance floor past the astonished figure of Alexander, who must have heard our conversation. Good, I wanted him to. As Henry’s hands settle on my waist, the band plays some cheesy eighties ballad, but I hardly care. There’s no mistaking now that I have Alexander’s undivided attention. He’s standing at the side of the dance floor, rigid with fury – and his aren’t the only eyes intent on me. General Hunt, Valentina, Aunt Celia and assorted other stiff-assed relatives are all staring at Henry and me as we shuffle around the floor.

  I half expect Alexander to march in and haul me off the dance floor like he did at Rashleigh Hall, but he doesn’t. Not that I’d go with him. He can go to hell.

  When the music stops, my head seems to take a little while to catch up with my feet.

  ‘Whoa …’ Henry steadies me and keeps hold of my arm. ‘Do you think you should get some fresh air? Why don’t I take you outside?’

  I glance at him and then to Alexander, whose face is a mask of suppressed fury.

  ‘No, really. I’d rather go upstairs.’

  ‘So would I.’

  Then it registers what he’s said and how close he’s leaning in to me. I shake off his arm. ‘Thanks for the drink, but I’m going to bed. On my own.’

  Still a little light-headed from the booze and from throwing myself round the floor, I march past Alexander and towards the ballroom doors.

  ‘Lauren, wait.’

  Oh shit. Henry has followed me. ‘I’m just going to the bathroom to wash my face,’ I say. ‘Why don’t you wait out on the terrace for me?’

  With a leer, he heads for the doorway – while I dash in the opposite direction, past the cloakroom door and out towards the orangery at the other end of the house. From my tour earlier, I know it’s been a long time since the place was heated. Now it’s just a summer room and the chilly atmosphere hits me the moment I walk into the moonlit interior.

  I walk to the glass French doors, looking over the side of the house towards the gardens. The cool air has helped my dizziness, but I know I’ve had far too much to drink as a wave of nausea hits my stomach. I sit on one of the white ornate benches and put my head in my hands.

  ‘Lauren!’

  I take my hands away from my face and Alexander glares down at me. He has no jacket on now and the two ends of his bow tie hang down his collar.

  ‘Good evening, Alexander. How nice to see you again.’

  ‘Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Enjoying myself. What about you?’

  ‘Is that what you call being all over Angus and Henry Favell?’

  I sputter with laughter. ‘I’m surprised you noticed, as you’ve spent the evening surgically attached to Valentina.’

  ‘Don’t talk bollocks.’

  ‘You were touching her butt, if I recall.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Didn’t you even notice you were doing it?’

  ‘No, I didn’t – unlike you, who knew exactly what you were doing when you jumped on Angus and then let Henry Favell stare down your cleavage.’

  ‘I was only being nice to your friends – was
n’t that what you wanted?’ I sneer. ‘And you were otherwise engaged with Valentina, or maybe that’s the wrong choice of words.’

  ‘Everyone noticed you flirting with Favell – they couldn’t fail. Do you realize what a fool you’ve just made of yourself?’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Was this some plan to get my attention?’ This is too close to the truth for comfort, but I’m so mad at him for calling me a fool that there’s no way I’m going to back down.

  I laugh in his face. ‘Don’t kid yourself. Look, this is pointless. I’m going up to my room.’ I get up but he bars my way.

  ‘I should have known better after what happened while I was away.’

  His words stop me dead. ‘What?’

  ‘That evening I got back from Helmand. I know you’d been out celebrating with the all-American hero.’

  Turning, I see the flicker of frustration in his eyes as he realizes the secret he just let slip, but he carries on as if nothing happened. ‘Rupert saw you and Scott cosying up in the Turf.’

  Rupert? I didn’t see him at the pub but he, the snake, must have seen me and probably exaggerated what he saw by a factor of ten. I lift my chin. ‘Not that it’s any of his business, I did go for a drink with Scott before you got back. So what? It didn’t mean anything.’

  ‘Then why did you lie to me about going out with some friends?’

  ‘Scott is a friend. And you said you’d phone me when you were on your way home. You didn’t and I felt like getting out of college. I’m not going to sit and wait around for you to call me, Alexander.’

  ‘I never asked you to,’ he snaps back, then his voice quietens. ‘I knew something like this would happen if you came to Falconbury.’

  ‘Something like what?’

  ‘Us. The rows. This place always brings out the fucking worst in people.’

  ‘Maybe it brings out who you really are. Who we both really are.’

  ‘And who do you think I “really am”?’ He brackets his fingers around the last words. ‘Go on, Lauren. I’d love to hear.’

  ‘OK, then. Let’s start with Troubled, Guilty, Defensive, Emotionally Stultified.’ I count off the fingers of my hand. ‘Shall I go on?’

  He folds his arms, his voice mocking. ‘Please do. I’d hate to stop you now you’ve started.’

  I realize I’ve backed him into a corner and made him angrier than ever, so I soften my voice, trembling a little now. ‘I just think … that this weekend has shown how far apart we really are.’

  ‘Then why don’t you go and find someone who’s closer to your ideal?’

  My heart thumps away. ‘Alexander …’

  ‘Breakfast’s at eight thirty,’ he says coldly. ‘I expect I’ll see you there.’

  Can it rain any harder? Could I get any wetter? Will the sun ever show its face or has it finally abandoned this soggy, gloomy country with its repressed and class-obsessed citizens for good? With a shiver that shakes me to my bones, I retreat a little deeper inside the little stone shelter opposite the gates to Falconbury House and clap my hands together. Water droplets fly off my gloves into the dank air and my head throbs. With three bags to carry, I couldn’t use my umbrella and every inch of me that wasn’t covered by the Barbour is sodden.

  It’s still better than the cab arriving at the magnificent door of Falconbury.

  And way better than another confrontation with Alexander.

  I didn’t sleep after we parted in the orangery last night. How could I? I lay awake for the rest of the night until I made my decision: that no matter how much I want Alexander, it’s never going to work for us and that the differences between us are fundamental.

  So, I looked up the name of a twenty-four-hour cab company from my phone and asked them to pick me up from outside the gates of Falconbury at first light. I’d rather they met me at the end of the drive, even if I had to walk up there in the gloomy dawn, because I didn’t want the cab pulling up outside the house and the staff answering the door. I think one of the early shift did spot me as I crept downstairs and across the hall, hoping that Robert or Helen wouldn't catch me. It was like escaping Alcatraz, and just as wet.

  The walk to the end of the driveway was maybe no more than a mile but felt like five as I lugged my bags through the driving rain. A front from the Atlantic – from home – must have gathered overnight and I know it’s crazy, but it seems as if even the weather is telling me I’m doing the right thing, because all night I’ve been afraid that in fitting in with Alexander’s world, socially – emotionally – I have become someone different to who I am. I don’t do that for anyone. Period.

  Wiping my watch face on my sleeve, I pray the cab is on time; almost immediately the rumble of a diesel engine makes my pulse beat a little faster. Briefly, my heart is in my mouth in case it’s the Range Rover with Alexander, darkly sexy, begging me to stay, wearing me down as he has before and changing my mind about leaving.

  I don’t want the drama – my mind is made up – and to my relief my cab stops and the driver gets out to help me load my bags into the trunk. He pulls away from Falconbury and I stare out of the window at the retreating gates, thankful now that my rain-spattered face hides the tears streaming down it.

  It’s nearly nine on a Sunday morning and apart from the chaplain I saw scuttling through the showers in the front quad, Wyckham is as quiet as the grave. Most of the undergraduates were picked up by their parents yesterday, although I know Immy wanted to stay on for a week or so with Skandar. She’s probably in bed with him now, sleeping it off after a night, or maybe shagging him, which is why I haven’t dared phone her. I mean, who would phone someone on a Sunday morning at this hour?

  I put my ear to Immy’s door, but I can’t hear anything. Immy, where the hell are you?

  It’s no good. I’ll have to wait until I hear her surface … but she may not be in there at all; she’s probably at Skandar’s house and, anyway, what could she do if I do call her?

  No one can help me except myself and my mind is already made up.

  So why am I sitting here contemplating the remote possibility that I might want to keep my relationship with Alexander Hunt going?

  I turn the key in my lock and walk inside, almost treading on an envelope that someone has slid under the door. Immediately, I recognize Immy’s handwriting and open it up to find a Christmas card.

  Sorry I missed saying goodbye. Have had to rush home because George is in hospital. He’s had his appendix out, poor thing (!) and is doing OK now but I really want to see him and my parents need me. Hope you had a fabulous time at Falconbury. Have texted you but guess you are far too busy having fun to reply. Call me when you get back, am dying to hear all the gossip & have a good journey home. Can’t wait to see you next term – Skype me if you get chance.

  Hugs, Immy xxx

  PS Happy Holidays!

  Maybe I can call her from the airport or perhaps I should wait until I get home; she has enough to worry about right now. And I have things I need to do too. The airline customer line crackles into life and I take a deep breath. ‘Hello. I’d like to make an amendment to my flight.’

  Though I was supposed to be flying back tomorrow evening I checked out the schedule and found there’s a flight leaving tonight with a space in Business Class. I’ll get a car to Heathrow and I’ll be in plenty of time to check in. Yes, I know it’s crazy. Yes, I know it will cost a fortune, but I’ve got my own money and don’t care any more. The sooner I get out of here the better, and now I can be in Washington for breakfast.

  Ten minutes later, it’s all rebooked. Another call and I’ve arranged a cab to come pick me up this afternoon, leaving me hours to kill – hours in which Alexander may or may not turn up on my doorstep. I drag a suitcase from the closet and start tossing in pants and sweaters, and sweep a couple of dresses off the rail and throw them in on top. The lid closes on a crumpled melee of designer clothes that would make my mother weep if she were here to see them.

  As I han
g my ballgown back in the closet, it smells of perfume and faintly of cigar smoke. I’m reminded of the time last night when I took Alexander’s arm and we walked down to the ballroom and of how happy I was. Although it’s only been a couple of hours since I crept out of Falconbury, it seems like an age. I imagine Rupert, Valentina and the other house guests crawling down to breakfast, if they make it. Is Alexander with them, wondering why I haven’t surfaced? Or is he, even now, knocking on my bedroom door, bursting in, finding me gone …

  By the time I’ve finished packing and sorting out my room, it’s nearly eleven. The printer churns out my new flight ticket while I stare at my phone, lying dead on a draft of my essay. My fingers itch to turn it on and find out if there’ll be texts from Alexander or frantic messages demanding to know where I am.

  There’s no way I want to waste my time and energy confronting him so I may as well get out of here. The rain has stopped so I button the funnel neck of my coat, pull on my gloves and lock my room. The sky is a dirty white with grey clouds chasing across it and the damp clings to my face. It may be Sunday, but the streets of Oxford are bursting with students, tourists and Christmas shoppers. No one gives me a second glance and that’s exactly what I want. The Bodleian, the Radcliffe Camera, All Souls’ College – I walk past them all, and they remind me why I came four thousand miles to this esoteric world, of why I stood up for all I want and hope for my future. It definitely wasn’t to fall so hard for a man like Alexander Hunt.

  Over the other side of the High, I push through the iron turnstile and out into the meadow that leads to Christ Church Meadow and the river. The open fields provide no shelter from the wind that’s cutting through the city and the river is granite coloured. Tiny wavelets ripple the surface, giving the scullers and Eights a hard time. I come to a halt near the boathouses, hugging my body in the bitter air.