Twenty
My heart pounded against my ribcage.
Upstairs at Glenlovatt, I leaned out the guest bedroom window to see the manor house’s façade looking spectacular underneath the scarlet July sunset. The stone and glass was highlighted by strategically placed torchlights that snaked the length of the gravelly drive. They licked the warm air, their flames of burnt orange like twisting exotic dancers. Stationed below on the manor steps were two impressive figures dressed in matching navy livery, ready to proffer flutes of pale gold champagne from solid silver trays.
I took a nervous gulp of the sweetly scented evening air before ducking back inside to put the finishing touches on my up-do.
The day had been a whirlwind of securing last-minute arrangements, but once Morven and I realised that we could do no more, we’d dashed upstairs to get ready. Gordon had insisted we make use of two of the manor’s guest bedrooms, complete with ensuite showers. Although the plumbing made intermittent groaning noises like it was suffering from chronic indigestion, the hot needles of water were so soothing, I could have lingered in the shower for longer.
The room itself was dominated by a gorgeous carved oak four-poster bed, its pillows and bedding matching the long, fluted drapes’ deep gold fabric. What with my sumptuous gown spread out across the bed, I felt as though I’d travelled back in time.
Once we were ready, Morven and I met on the landing and made our way down to the entrance to greet the guests. Standing just inside the doors, I caught sight of my reflection in one of Glenlovatt’s magnificent windows. Morven had suggested we go to a fancy-dress boutique in Edinburgh owned by one of her mum’s friends, and I was so glad we had, despite the cost of my outfit triggering a nervous twitch in my left eye. The sky blue satin overlayered with white lace made me think of crashing ocean waves, its frothing white bands travelling down to the floor. The material lapped to my elbows, where it was caught on each arm by a small ribbon. I’d piled my curls haphazardly on my head and secured them with a blue orchid decoration. On my feet was a pair of ice white Cinderella-style slippers. Clutching the blue scalloped purse that Morven had loaned me from her vast collection, I raised my chin in an attempt to look more confident.
I flashed a nervous smile at Morven. She had chosen a pale gold silk dress with solid panels of lemon. Her sleeves were also to the elbow but very discreetly gathered in, and she’d tied her hair to one side with gold ribbon. Buttercup yellow ballet shoes adorned her feet. She really did look like a princess.
Lights dazzled outwards from the great hall, beckoning in the eager first arrivals. Everybody from local journalists to members of the Fairview Business Consortium filed in on a sea of laughter and chatter. They had all made an effort, decked out in robes, gowns, tailcoats and sophisticated hats. Swathes of opulent satin and silk rustled around me, the shades of the costumes reminding me of the manor’s heavenly flower garden, with passionate reds, golden yellows and mint greens. The men were wearing everything from tricorn hats and braided jackets to flowing overcoats and frilly shirts. It was an impressive spectacle, watching the liveried waiters guiding them into the dining room.
Morven’s flirt radar seemed to have gone into overdrive for a tall man in brown riding boots, who was lingering beside her.
‘I might catch you for a dance later,’ he smiled, displaying a rather cute dimple in his left cheek.
Morven plucked a fan from her lemon silk purse. ‘I wish you would,’ she said coquettishly, batting her lashes across the top of it.
When he’d gone, I shook my head in disbelief. ‘Where did you get the fan from? And what about Jake?’
‘This old thing?’ she asked, giving the floral fan a waft. ‘It used to belong to my grandmother. And as for Jake, well, just because you’re on a diet doesn’t mean you can’t admire a cream cake, does it?’
The great hall, and its chequered floor, was now a sea of guests, their jewelled colours dancing before my eyes. From the great hall, the dining room ran down on the right and along the length of the house in a column of spectacular colour and noise. We headed over, following the sound of the band, sending soaring notes of mandolin, kettle drum, harp and piano up into the cherub-fringed ceiling. A number of couples were already dancing, swinging each other gently round. The musicians, in their matching green velvet jackets and knee breeches, transitioned into an upbeat baroque piece to encourage more dancers.
With a wave, Morven sashayed off to join the man in riding boots. I stood and watched them from just inside the dining room doorway, gratefully accepting a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. I needed something to do with my hands. Then I exchanged a few words with some of the passing waiting staff, encouraged by their politeness and efficiency—everything seemed to be going to plan.
As I surveyed the guests, I noticed one of the musicians, the tall blond guy strumming the mandolin, was looking over in my direction. I buried my gaze in my champagne flute before sneaking another look. Yep. He was definitely checking me out. A slow, lazy smile slid across his face.
Suddenly, Gordon appeared beside me, resplendent in a midnight blue tailcoat and dark fitted trousers.
‘Good evening,’ he smiled, running a finger around the collar of his frilled shirt. ‘You look simply stunning.’
I grinned with appreciation. ‘And you look very dashing.’
Gordon rolled his eyes. ‘This bloody shirt is itching like mad, but needs must.’ He clasped his hands behind his back in a regal pose. ‘I think this shindig is going very well so far, don’t you?’
‘It certainly seems to be,’ I agreed, savouring the chorus of laughter, music and chatter. ‘I just hope everyone has a great time.’
At that moment, Morven swept back over, linking her arm in mine. ‘Lars, look around, everyone’s having ball.’ She chuckled at her terrible pun.
Gordon nodded, ‘And most of it is thanks to you two.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ I blushed, clutching my champagne flute a little tighter than I needed to.
Morven batted her eyelashes. ‘Thank you, Gordon. I’ll certainly take it even if Lara won’t.’
Honestly. She was shameless at times.
Gordon patted my arm. ‘Hugo would be very proud of you.’ He thanked a waiter who handed him a glass of champagne and faced me, his lightly tanned face tinged with regret. ‘I just wish you had been able to meet Lydia. You are alike in many ways.’ With a mischievous grin, he added, ‘She was one hell of a slavedriver too.’
I gasped in mock disbelief and was about to reply when my attention, along with that of most of the other women nearby, was drawn to a tall figure striding into the room. He was wearing a long black cloak, riding boots, a white open-necked shirt and a tricorn hat. A black Zorro-style mask concealed his features, and his broad shoulders and long legs were rocking the outfit for all it was worth.
I gave my dress a quick smooth, wondering who this specimen was, when Gordon took a step forwards.
‘Vaughan!’ he shouted jovially beside me. ‘Over here!’
My mouth flopped open, not an attractive look on anyone, as Vaughan turned towards us, parting the clouds of dresses and swinging tailcoats.
‘Hi, Dad,’ he said, but his eyes behind the mask were on my face. ‘Hello, Lara.’ He took in my outfit, from my hair to the tumbling folds of satin and lace at my feet. His jaw, normally hard and uncompromising, seemed softer, with a shadow of a smile. ‘You look amazing.’
Hang on. Was that a compliment? Surely not.
I bit back my surprise. ‘Thank you. I like your outfit,’ I croaked.
Great. Now I sounded like I had a throat infection.
‘Thanks,’ he said, giving his cape a brisk flick. ‘A friend of Dad’s works for a TV production company. She can magically lay her hands on this sort of thing.’
I wish you’d lay your hands on me. I took a nervous gulp of champagne. Get a grip on yourself, woman! Remember why you’re here.
‘Well,’ Gordon declared, ‘I t
hink I’ll leave you young things to it and go and mingle.’
Morven coughed discreetly into her champagne flute. ‘I think I’ll join you.’
I turned to her with a pleading look but she just grinned and gave me a small wave as she took Gordon’s arm and waltzed into the crowd.
I quickly looked sideways at Vaughan, his angular jaw stippled with the faintest hint of dark stubble. He slowly peeled his highwayman mask away from his face and slid it into his pocket. It was one of the sexiest things I’d ever seen.
Stop it.
‘Are you alright?’
‘Yes, yes, fine, thank you.’
He gestured towards the guests. ‘You’ve done a great job.’
I played with the lace on my dress. ‘Thank you. I did have a lot of help from Morven.’
Vaughan shook his head slightly. ‘You really should learn to take a compliment.’
Words tumbled out of my mouth that I couldn’t retrieve. ‘Can you blame me? Compliments don’t seem to come very naturally to you.’
Vaughan grinned, displaying white, even teeth. ‘I guess I deserved that.’
I had never seen him smile like that before. It lit up his whole face.
Turning slightly to my left to escape his penetrating stare, my eyes fell on a small wooden sculpture on top of a nearby cabinet. Modern in style, it was of a naked couple embracing, the woman’s head thrown back in joy, wavy hair spilling down her back, and a man holding her. The lines were simple but beautifully expressive. I was surprised I’d never noticed it before.
‘Are you interested in art?’ Vaughan asked, following my gaze.
I was so entranced by the figures I almost forgot he was there and an automatic defensiveness sprang back into me. ‘Why, is a baker not supposed to appreciate art?’
Vaughan raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘Don’t be so prickly. I never said that.’
An awkward silence settled between us.
‘What do you like?’ he asked suddenly. ‘Art wise, I mean?’
I gave a small shrug. ‘Anything that catches my eye, really.’
Vaughan gestured to the embracing couple I had just been admiring. ‘I made that when I was sixteen.’
‘You did? It’s wonderful,’ I breathed, taking another lingering glance at the lines and planes of the two lovers.
‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘I’ve always been good with my hands.’
A dry cough lunged out of my throat. Was he doing this deliberately? I disguised my scarlet face by pretending to search in my bag for a tissue.
‘What do you know about sculpture?’ he asked.
‘Not very much, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh, don’t apologise,’ he insisted. ‘I know nothing about baking.’ He moved a little closer. The cut of his jaw was striking. ‘Two of my favourite sculptures are the Riace bronzes. Have you ever seen them?’
I cleared my throat, irritated that his closeness was having such an effect on me. ‘I don’t think so. What are they like?’ I asked, trying to sound casual.
‘They’re ancient bronze figures of two naked Greek warriors. Very little is known about them, as they were found in the sea off the southern Italian coast, near the town of Riace,’ he continued, ‘but the sinewy details of their bodies and the character their faces hold are mesmerising.’ His icy blue eyes sparkled as he went on. ‘They really do epitomise beauty and strength.’ His gaze flickered over me with an intensity that made me avert mine for a few seconds. ‘Whether it’s eroticism or jealousy, the art of sculpture captures it all.’
‘What about modern art?’ I asked, changing the subject from the human form to safer ground.
‘My tastes are pretty eclectic, to be honest,’ he confessed. ‘I’m quite an admirer of Jeff Koons. Have you heard of him?’ Vaughan continued when I shook my head. ‘He tends to use things like inflatable figures and children’s toys in his work.’ He pulled his phone from the pocket of his tight jodhpurs and tapped on the screen. ‘Look at this one,’ he said, handing his phone to me. ‘His stainless-steel Popeye figure is something else.’
For a split second there was skin-to-skin contact; it was like a small electric shock. Vaughan didn’t seem to flinch and I smiled down at the screen, which showed a highly polished Popeye flexing his glossy muscles. ‘I love how he’s captured the facial expression,’ I said.
‘What, this?’
When I looked up from the phone, Vaughan was pulling a ridiculous expression, tilting his chin upwards and pulling his mouth tightly closed.
‘If the wind changes, you’ll stay like that,’ I laughed.
He feigned a hurt look. ‘I would have thought it was an improvement.’
I issued a small smile. You’re not getting any more out of me, I decided silently. The last thing I wanted was to join his queue of fawning females, even though I was starting to see why there was one. He could be pretty charming when he wasn’t being a creep.
‘So what about you?’ I asked. ‘What kind of art do you work on yourself?’
His eyes glinted as he spoke. ‘Well, I do enjoy dabbling in the contemporary side of things but classical sculpture is really my thing. Marble and clay, mainly. For me, moulding faces and figures out of my imagination is what it’s all about.’
A shrill sound burst through the bubble from behind us.
‘There you are!’ brayed a woman in a blaze of orange satin. Her bleached blonde hair draped over her caramel shoulders in a plait.
Vaughan’s mouth slid into a tight line. ‘Petra,’ he mumbled, ‘I didn’t know this was your kind of thing.’
She clamped a jewelled hand onto Vaughan’s arm. ‘Anywhere where you are is my kind of thing.’
Oh, please.
Her arched eyebrows knitted as she turned to me with a toothy smile. ‘Who’s this?’
I plastered my own, less extravagant smile on. ‘I’m Lara McDonald.’
‘Oooh, the tea lady!’ she trilled, sending a sideways glance up at Vaughan.
‘Lara isn’t the tea lady,’ he corrected sharply. ‘She’s the owner of Thistles, our new tea room at Glenlovatt.’
A glazed expression was already forming on her tight features. ‘Well, seeing as Vaughan isn’t going to introduce me, I’ll just have to do it myself.’ She thrust out a jewelled hand tipped with lilac nails. ‘I’m Petra Montgomery-Carlton,’ she said, squeezing my hand slightly more firmly than seemed necessary. ‘Vaughan’s fiancée.’
Twenty-one
The rich scent of venison tartlets and mini beef Wellingtons whirling past on silver platters suddenly made me feel nauseated.
Vaughan was engaged. To this blonde woman with the endless name. Okay, so what?
‘Congratulations,’ I blurted.
He took a faltering step towards me. ‘Lara . . .’
I jumped in. ‘If you’ll both excuse me, I’ve got so much to do.’
I turned and pushed through braided shoulders and spools of lace, elaborate powdered wigs and trailing cloaks. The opening of the tea room on Monday was looming and I needed to concentrate on Thistles. That was my focus.
‘Lara?’
Outside in the great hall, Travis was studying me with a look of concern. ‘Are you alright?’
‘Yes. Yes, thank you. I’m fine.’
He wasn’t convinced. ‘If I may . . . It isn’t something to do with the young laird is it?’
I sensed my skin flush red. ‘No, it’s—’
Behind me, came an eruption of uncontrollable giggles.
It was Morven, accompanied again by the guy in the riding boots. Beside him hovered the flirty blond musician. Morven’s green eyes were shining with mischief and I noticed she was rather breathless from more dancing exertions.
‘Come on, you,’ she trilled, catching me by the wrist. ‘Let’s get you on the floor.’
‘No, Morvs. I really should go and check on things with the caterers. I’m not sure when they bringing out the food . . .’
Morven shook her head. ‘Oh n
o you don’t. It’s time for Lara to shake her thang.’
My protestations were in vain. Morven’s fingers remained tightly around mine until we were positioned among the other guests on the dance floor. The band tapped their instruments, thumped their feet three times and then the whirling strains of a Scottish reel struck up. Other guests twirled beside us, linking arms and swinging each other round. The colours of their gowns and tailcoats melted against one another as they moved. The musician grinned at me, spinning me backwards and forwards, until Morven and I came face to face again.
‘Has he upset you?’ she whispered in my ear.
I twirled the hem of my dress. ‘Has who upset me?’
Morven rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t give me that.’
We linked arms and as I turned around, I came face to face again with the attentive musician. ‘I’m Mark,’ he smiled.
‘I’m Lara.’
‘Yes, Morven told me.’
Mark took my hands in his and as he swung me gently, my lacy skirts swishing back and forth, I spotted Vaughan staring from among the crowd. Petra was clawing at his arm. The music swelled as it rose to a crescendo, causing the delirious dancing to end in a riot of laughter. We all loudly applauded and the band basked in the appreciation. I spent the rest of the evening politely evading Mark’s attention and making every effort to forget Petra’s triumphant words echoing in my head.
The rest of the weekend evaporated in a haze of disappointment, anticipation and a feeling of utter stupidity. Why was I knocked for six by the news Vaughan was engaged? He was a stubborn and grumpy sod, and we had been nothing but disagreeable to each other to date. Petra was obviously a rich society girl. They were made for each other. I owed it to Hugo and to Gordon to concentrate on Thistles and nothing else. Whatever my funny turn over Vaughan had been, it was over.
On Sunday afternoon, I headed into Thistles to check everything was perfect. I entered through the patio doors, where the hazy sunshine was creeping through, creating artistic triangular shapes on the wooden floor. We’d placed a couple of tables outside, which would hopefully entice customers to visit us via the garden entrance, as well as making their way through the great hall.
A Room at the Manor Page 11