by Various
That decision eases my stress level only to be replaced by another. What do you wear to a weekend party at an earl’s country estate? I flip through my meager wardrobe. All I have are business clothes and exactly one dressy dress. Well, there’s one person I can call. During lunch, I phone Brianna to get the 411.
“Not to worry, darling,” she says. “Mummy won’t expect you to bring your riding habit with you.”
Riding habit? I don’t own a car, much less a horse.
“During the day, casual outfits work fine—slacks, shirts, blazers, that kind of thing. We do dress for dinner every night, though.” I’m tempted to ask if they walk around naked the rest of the time, but I refrain.
“So I’ll need a fancy dress for Friday and Saturday nights?”
“Yes. That black number you wore at Gabriel’s flat will work fine for one night. Do you have another one?”
“No.”
“I’d lend you something but—”
She doesn’t have to say it. She’s tall and slender. I’m short and curvy and slender and I have never shaken hands. I need to go shopping. I groan. This is an expense I didn’t anticipate.
“Oh, and some of the rooms are bloody freezing. So bring something warm to wear.”
That afternoon, CeCe and I are in the private office space assigned to the Smith Cannon team going over documents to send back home.
“Well?”
“I’m pregnant.”
She walks around the desk and hugs me. “If there’s anything I can do, I’m there for you. You know that. Right?”
Hard to believe, but we’ve become fast friends in the last three weeks or so. “Yes, I know. Thanks, CeCe.”
“So what are you going to do?” She asks, shuffling papers.
“Do?” What is she talking about?
She stops what she’s doing and fixes her warm chocolate gaze on me. “You having the baby?”
She doesn’t beat around the bush, does she? “Yes.” Of this much I’m sure. I could never have an abortion, no matter how inconvenient the pregnancy.
“Good. You taking care of yourself?”
“The doctor gave me some pre-natal vitamins and a whole bunch of pamphlets.”
She looks me up and down. “You’ve gained weight. Maybe not baby weight, but weight nonetheless. Somebody’s bound to notice sooner or later. I can give you pointers on disguising the bump.”
“I don’t have a bump.” I protest.
“You will. Three kids, remember? You need new clothes. Bond Street is only a couple of blocks away. And Selfridge’s department store will have anything you need.”
“I do need a dress for the weekend.”
She claps her well-manicured hands, nails painted in fire engine red. “Ooh, shopping. I’ll go with you if you want.”
“It’ll have to be tonight after work.”
“No problem. Girls’ night out. Can’t wait.” She almost makes it sound like fun.
And it does turn out to be fun. After the afternoon session ends, we hit Bond Street with a vengeance. CeCe proves invaluable in choosing clothes. Loose peasant blouses which still manage to look business-like, slacks with elastic waists, tunic dresses. An empire waist fancy dress for the weekend in the country. Thank God for my American Express.
While I’m trying on an outfit, my cell buzzes. Gabriel.
“Where are you?” His tone churns with dark emotion.
I bristle. “You keeping tabs on me?”
For a second, there’s only dead silence from his end. “You weren’t feeling well last night, so I came by to check on you. When you didn’t answer, I became concerned.” His voice softens, warms. “I was worried about you.”
Oh, geesh. Here he is anxious about me, and I’m yelling at him. “I’m fine, Gabriel. Went shopping with CeCe. I need an evening dress to wear this weekend.”
“So you’re feeling better?”
“Yes. Much.”
“Brilliant.” The relief in his voice is so palpable I can feel it. “After you’re done, have dinner with me.”
I clutch my phone. Right now, I need space and time to figure things out. “Better not.”
“Why?” It wouldn’t be Storm if he didn’t ask that question.
I debate how to explain things without sharing the real reason and hit on the one he’ll understand. “I need to research an issue for Mr. Carrey, and write a legal memorandum after that. I can’t do either if I’m with you.”
“Come to me after you’re done. I don’t care how late it is.” The raw need in his voice sets off a craving in me. Desire pounds through my veins. More than anything I want to say yes. But right now I need to think things through and figure out the best way to tell him I’m pregnant with his baby.
“I can’t. Please don’t make this harder than it has to be. We’ll see each other this weekend.” I offer by way of an olive branch.
“Define see.” His voice throbs with emotion.
He’s not going to accept my decision unless I give him something. “Whatever you want it to mean.”
A hiss. “I have a large vocabulary.” His tone’s gone deliciously dark and sensual.
“I know you do.”
“’Til this weekend then. Oh, and Elizabeth?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t wear any underwear. I’ll just rip it off you.” Click.
Bastard. My hands shake so badly I have trouble returning my cell to my purse.
A knock sounds on my dressing room door. “How we doing in there? Need any help?”
CeCe. God bless her and her interfering ways.
“No, thanks. Be right out.” As I slip into the empire waistline gown, I vow to tell him about the baby this weekend. And then we’ll see how much he wants me still.
Chapter 25
Gabriel
FRIDAY AFTERNOON, the Countess and I welcome the Smith Cannon team at Winterleagh Castle. Even to my jaundiced eye, my mother appears much younger than her age in black trousers and a sand-colored one button jacket. Her dark-hair rests at the base of her neck, although rest is a misnomer. She’s beaten the entire mass into a chignon, with not a single curl in sight. Not that one would dare escape. Her back’s ramrod straight. Of course it is. That spine has not bent once her entire life.
Although she greets Thomas Carrey with effusive charm, she dismisses Elizabeth and the rest of the Smith Cannon contingent with a single glance. Good. She’s not aware of Elizabeth’s importance to me.
I warmly greet our guests, shaking hands all around while I direct our servants to stash their luggage in bed chambers named for jewels—the emerald room for Elizabeth, ruby, pearl, diamond, amethyst, and turquoise for the other members of her team. While we stroll through the great hall, I provide a running commentary about Winterleagh. “The original structure was a motte and bailey, erected in 1067 by Eduard of Stormhurst. He was awarded a barony for his valiant service to William the Conqueror during the battle of Hastings. Sadly, that construction, made out of wood, proved fatal during a particularly bloody battle when the castle was burned to the ground.” I pause for dramatic effect. “Everyone inside perished.”
Predictably, the women, including Elizabeth, shiver and the men’s eyes light up.
“Subsequent structures suffered similar fates until the fourteenth century when the fifth baron erected a concentric castle. Although that original building has been renovated several times, the style remains to this day.”
“Why did he choose that type of architecture?” Thomas Carrey asks.
“To make it impregnable. With its inner and outer walls and towers on each side, it stood up to many a siege.”
“But couldn’t the attackers simply wait things out? I mean, sooner or later, the castle folks would run out of food.” Mrs. Collins asks.
“You’ve exposed one of the weaknesses of these types of castles. How very clever of you.” I sketch her a small bow.
She flashes a bright smile. Glad I made her happy, even if only in a small way.
“But the fifth baron chose an excellent location for the new structure. He built it next to the sea where it could be supplied by sailing ships. He also built tunnels which could be used to provision the inhabitants, or as a means to escape.”
“Smart ancestor.” Mrs. Collins says.
Along the way, I point out one of our claims to fame, a tapestry depicting a hunt and featuring one of our most illustrious kings. “This hanging was woven by Lady Stormhurst and her ladies-in-waiting to commemorate King Henry VIII’s visit to the castle in 1540. He was so taken by his warm reception, he bestowed a viscountcy on the good baron.”
A very unladylike snort issues from Elizabeth, but she covers it up with a cough. “Sorry, allergies.”
“How much acreage surrounds the castle?” Thomas Carrey asks.
“It sits on a thousand acres of land.”
Somebody whistles. Mark Sutter probably. He has a cheeky side to him.
“Please feel free to wander about as you wish during your stay. You might want to visit the East Park during your visit. The landscape, designed by Capability Brown, is widely admired for its beauty.”
I pause at the foot of the Robert Adams staircase which sweeps to the first floor in a majestic arch. “Our staff will show you to your rooms.” As the members of the Smith Cannon team follow our retainers up the stairs, I tug on Elizabeth’s elbow to have her remain behind, if only for a moment. Once her co-workers are out of sight, I whisper. “I’ve missed you.”
She fidgets, and her gaze bounces from me up the steps. “I better go.”
“You’ll come down for tea?”
“Of course,” she says, before dashing up the steps.
Her jittery behavior doesn’t surprise me. She’s worried about being found out. I’m tired of the subterfuge, the whispered words. I want to claim her as my own, mark her as mine, but the sad truth is I can’t. It would jeopardize her job.
Two hours later, when we gather for tea, Elizabeth no longer appears to be jumping out of her skin. She’s relaxed and smiling, and her gaze shines with curiosity as she looks around the room. I introduce her to Athena, my cousin’s wife, a chatty thing who’ll keep Elizabeth entertained while I keep the Countess away from her.
As I’m discussing an environmental matter with our local Member of Parliament, Royce arrives. Dark-haired and blue-eyed, he positively breathes easy charm, according to the gossip rags. Unfortunately, today he reeks of whiskey as well. One of the family curses, along with promiscuity, thrill seeking and tossing pots of money at losing propositions. At least our generation managed to avoid the last one.
Weaving on his feet, he bows over the Countess’s hand.
Predictably, she recoils. “For pity’s sake, Royce. Go sit. Right now.” She hisses at him.
But rather than steer toward one of the many sofas and chairs in the drawing room, he heads toward Elizabeth and Athena.
Athena takes one look at him and blurts out. “You didn’t drive, did you Royce?” Her words echo in the cavernous room, and heads swivel toward them.
“Not to worry, ducks, I bummed a ride. Who’s this lovely?”
“Elizabeth Watson.” Elizabeth says, sticking out her hand.
When he turns it over to kiss her palm, the urge to throttle my one remaining brother burns through me. Leave her alone, she’s mine. But of course I can’t say such a thing. Not if I wish to keep up the pretense that Elizabeth doesn’t mean a thing to me. I continue chatting with the MP, his wife, and daughter. But I keep my eye on Royce, ready to pounce if he says, or does, the least objectionable thing.
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes, Royce, you’re making a spectacle of yourself.” Athena again.
Ignoring her, he winks at Elizabeth. “I’m the black sheep of the family, don’t you know?”
Her lips split in a smile. “Well, I suppose every family must have one.”
Grinning back, he squeezes her hand. “I like you.”
Having had enough of Royce’s tomfoolery, I stride toward him just as Brianna strolls in.
Officially, she hasn’t met Elizabeth, so I perform the introduction. While they chat, I draw Royce aside and murmur to him. “Excuse yourself and leave. Go to your room. Don’t come down until you’re sober.” Without saying another word, Royce turns to the entire company, bows, and wanders out. Leave it to him to make a grand exit.
After tea, I do what I’ve wanted to do since Elizabeth arrived. Spend time alone with her. As the guests drift in sundry directions, I offer to give her a tour of the castle. We stroll through the green and red drawing rooms, the saloon, the audience room where we receive important guests.
Half an hour into the tour she appears adorably confused. “Does the castle come with a map?”
I try to hold back a smile. “A map?”
“I’m serious. I’m afraid to go wandering. If I get lost, you wouldn’t find me for days.”
By now, no one’s in sight, so I pull her into an alcove, one fronted by a massive sculpture of some Greek god, and a treasured hiding place from when I was young. Capturing her face in my hands, I whisper, “If you’re lost, here or anywhere else, I’ll find you.” And then I do what I’ve hungered to do for days. I kiss her.
Seeking entry, I nibble her bottom lip. For a space in time, I’m lost in the sweetness of her lips, the heat of her mouth. Soon she’s moaning, tangling her tongue with mine. I harden against her belly and pull her into me, wishing I could raise her skirt and take her right here, right now. But this is neither the time nor place to make love. So I ease from the kiss.
She sighs and snuggles into my chest. “I missed you. Missed this.”
Her warmth, her intoxicating gardenia scent does things to me. I wish I could show her how much she means to me. But there’s too much at stake. If we’re discovered, she could lose her job, and I would lose the advantage in my battle with my mother, so I settle for a simple, “Me too.”
I lead her to the library, one of my favorite rooms in the castle. Designed by Christopher Wren, the domed-ceiling chamber houses a fine art collection, hundreds of books, and a pipe organ which takes up one entire wall.
“Oh, my, that’s beautiful.” Her eyes glow shiny bright as she stares at the imposing instrument. “Do you ever play it?”
Recalling happier times, I nod. “I used to sit at the bench and pretend I was giving a concert.”
She clasps her hands and turns to me. “Could you play now?”
“No. It’s sadly out of tune.” It isn’t. I’ve made sure of that. But I haven’t touched a keyboard in a long time. I tug on her arm. “Come. I have something I want to show you.”
“What?”
I walk toward one of the bookcases and push a lever hidden in one of the shelves. A panel slides open, revealing a hidden space.
Her breath hitches. “What is that?”
“A hidden passage.”
“I’m not going in there.” Her reaction’s understandable, given her fear of tight spaces.
“I wouldn’t ask you to, love.” I reel her in and drop a kiss on her nose.
“What is it used for?” When her voice goes breathless, I prefer to think it’s due to my embrace and not her claustrophobia.
“The original tunnel was built as an escape route by an ancestor. But the fourth Earl expanded upon the idea and designed a secret passage to a specific room.”
“Which one?”
“The emerald bedchamber.” I grin down at her.
Her mouth gapes open. “The one I’m staying in?”
“Yes. He fell in love with a married lady. Since he was married himself, they needed to keep their affair private. Whenever she visited, he assigned her to that room.”
“And he used the passage to get to her.”
“So smart.”
She wriggles away to peer into the dark hole before turning back, her eyes big as saucers. “Wow.”
I laugh. “You should see your face.”
Before I can say anything else, heels clack on the sm
ooth-tiled library floor. I put distance between us and talk about one of the paintings—a Vermeer. “The Piano Lesson depicts a young man seated at a keyboard and, like many of his paintings, takes place in a small room.”
“Oh, there you are, Ainsley.” The Countess. The temperature in the library drops a couple of degrees.
“Mother.”
“Lady Melissande will be arriving any second, and I want you to help me welcome her.”
“What a stunning organ you have, Lady Winterleagh,” Elizabeth says, smiling.
The Countess scoffs. “We should have gotten rid of that monstrosity years ago, but my husband won’t have it.”
Elizabeth glances between her and the organ. “But it’s so beautiful.”
“It serves no purpose.”
I clench my hands behind my back, and Elizabeth steps closer to me. Although I take comfort from her action, I wish she hadn’t done such a thing.
My mother’s gaze shifts from me to Elizabeth and back again. Her countenance turns even frostier. Bloody hell. By that one simple step, Elizabeth revealed we’re more than business acquaintances.
“Come, Ainsley. We must not keep Lady Melissande waiting.” The Countess walks out, so assured of my compliance, she doesn’t bother to glance back. I have no choice but to follow. After all, this is what I must do to maintain the fragile peace between us.
I pull Elizabeth into me, drop a kiss on her lips. “I have to do this.”
“Of course you do.” She lays a hand on my chest. “You’re the host. Go.”
“See you later?” I lower my voice, imbuing a world of erotic meaning into that one simple verb.
Her breath hitches, her eyes turn into warm, limpid pools. “Yes.” She breathes out in a husky whisper.
After kissing her hand, I walk out of the library before I lose myself in her.
When I catch up with my mother in the great hall, she hisses at me. “What is she to you?”
“A fling. Nothing you need worry about.” The sour lie curdles my stomach.
“One of your women? Honestly, Ainsley.” Her lip curls in distaste. “I would appreciate it if you would keep it in your pants this weekend. We want to make a favorable impression on the Duke and Duchess of Marchstone and Lady Melissande. She’s to be your wife, after all.”