The Bachelor

by Tilly Bagshawe

  ‘I want her to be a part of it, Flora,’ said Mason. ‘She’s the only family you have.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Flora, touched that Mason would go to so much effort for a woman who had been less than welcoming to him or his family. ‘But you know what she’s like. Even talking about the wedding brings her out in hives.’

  ‘I know. But I think part of that is because things have been so uncertain and up in the air. We hadn’t decided on a venue or a date or anything when we told her. Then you disappeared, first to Nantucket and then to England. Your mother’s been through so much turmoil in her life, Flora. I think more than anything she wants to know where she stands.’

  Flora raised an eyebrow. First the jazzy shoes. Now the amateur psychology. What had happened to her straight-as-a-die, conservative boyfriend?

  ‘So,’ Mason went on, ‘I told her we’d set a date. That we’re getting married on the fifteenth of April, at St James’s Presbyterian in Westchester. The reception will be at my parents’ estate, and all she has to do is turn up and look beautiful. She was actually really happy.’

  Flora sat there, stunned.

  ‘One of us had to make a decision.’ Mason shrugged, only slightly sheepishly. ‘I figured, as you were overwhelmed with Hanborough, I’d better do it.’

  A million thoughts, feelings and emotions assailed Flora all at once.

  The fifteenth of April was too soon. Much too soon.

  It was also the month submissions had to be in for the International Designer of the Year award.

  Graydon was going to go ballistic.

  On the other hand, it did feel kind of nice to have things settled at last. To have someone else – Mason – take control; make all the decisions that she, Flora, couldn’t make. And the work at Hanborough Castle would have to be finished by then.

  Perhaps Flora had more in common with her mother than she realized?

  And really, at the end of the day, what could Graydon do about it? People had a right to get married. They had a right to a life of their own.

  Right?

  ‘Flora?’ Mason reached for her hand anxiously across the table. ‘Are you OK? Are you mad at me?’

  ‘Mad at you?’ Flora shook her head. ‘No. I’m not mad. A little surprised, maybe. I figured we’d discuss all this when I came home for Christmas.’

  ‘Christmas is going to be way too busy,’ Mason said firmly, his confidence returning as he saw that the alpha-male approach seemed to have worked. You could never quite tell with Flora. ‘We have a whole string of parties to attend at the bank. My senior partners are starting to think I made you up.’ He laughed. ‘Plus my mother wants to throw two formal engagement celebrations for us, one in the country and one in town, at the club.’ ‘The club’ was the Metropolitan Club, probably Manhattan’s oldest and most self-consciously elitist private members’ club. ‘And of course we’ll need to invite your mother too,’ Mason added.

  ‘Right. OK,’ said Flora, trying to imagine Camila in the hallowed surroundings of the Metropolitan Club, surrounded by the Parkers’ Mayflower-descendant friends.

  She knew she was being steamrollered. Yet, in an odd way, it was a relief.

  At least if Mason took charge of the wedding and their New York life, she’d be free to focus solely on Hanborough and the International Designer of the Year gong that she hoped to share with Graydon. All the work and stress and exhaustion would be worth it if, this time next year, she had that award.

  And, of course, if she’d become Mrs Mason Parker. Although that part hopefully wasn’t an ‘if’.

  Mason squeezed her hand.

  ‘I love you so much, Flora.’

  ‘I love you too.’

  ‘Let’s go to bed.’

  Back in their suite at the Mandarin, Flora tried to relax as Mason undressed her. Unbuttoning his shirt, she ran her hands over his smooth, firm chest. It felt wonderful. He felt wonderful. And yet there was a certain awkwardness there, an unfamiliarity that made it hard to get into the mood, at least in the beginning.

  It had been the same when Flora went back to New York. The first couple of times they’d made love they’d both had to work to rediscover each other’s rhythms. That’s normal, Flora told herself. That’s what happens when you spend time apart. There’s always that initial feeling of bumpy re-entry. Sex had been fine in the end on that trip and it would be fine now. She just had to stop overthinking things.

  She was naked now, and Mason was down to his striped J.Crew boxer shorts. Scooping her into his arms, he carried her over to the bed like a groom carrying his bride over the threshold, and began kissing her breasts, his tongue flickering over her nipples the way she’d always liked it. Flora ran her fingers through his preppily short blond hair, sighing with pleasure as he began to slide downwards, kissing her ribs and belly and taking delicious, nibbling little bites at the tops of her thighs.

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ he breathed, slipping both hands under her bottom to lift her slightly before burying his face between her legs.

  Flora closed her eyes and squirmed with pleasure.

  This was new too. Mason was a good lover, but he’d never been big on foreplay, and especially not on oral sex. Flora could count on the fingers of one hand the times he’d been down on her.

  Oh God. A horrible thought occurred to her. Has he been unfaithful? Has he been with someone else? Is that why he wants to bring the wedding forward? And why he showed up here, out of the blue? Out of guilt?

  Feeling Flora’s muscles tense, Mason looked up. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Flora said quickly. ‘Nothing’s wrong.’

  I’m being ridiculous. Mason wouldn’t cheat. He’s straighter than straight, the most trustworthy person I know.

  She’d been spending too much time with Henry Saxton Brae, that was the problem. Henry, with his good looks and his charm and his absolute lack of morals of any kind.

  Reaching down so her hands were on Mason’s back, she coaxed him upwards, guiding him inside her. The foreplay was nice, but she wanted him to make love to her the way he usually did. To close her eyes and sink back into the familiar rhythm that was theirs and theirs alone. Mason smiled as if to say, ‘Are you sure?’ But he didn’t need to be asked twice. Hard as a rock already, he flipped Flora over onto her stomach and thrust deeply into her, groaning with pleasure as she gyrated her hips back against him.

  After a few minutes, Flora felt her own climax starting to build.

  Then, to her utter horror, she found herself thinking about Henry. First an image of him screwing Lucy Smart up against the wall of the barn jumped, unbidden, into her mind. Then she remembered his eyes boring into her own; the liquefying, awful feeling of desire mixed with loathing in the pit of her stomach; and his voice, so revoltingly arrogant.

  ‘You’re ambitious. I like that in a woman.’

  Mason didn’t like Flora’s ambition.

  He was fucking her harder now, and faster, his movements getting more and more urgent as he was about to come. At last he climaxed, his fingers gratefully clutching the soft, pillowy flesh of her incredible breasts.

  ‘Flora!’ he moaned.

  Flora screwed up her eyes and tried to block it out, but the image of Henry Saxton Brae’s triumphant, obnoxious face wouldn’t budge. It was still there, squatting in her mind’s eye like an unwanted cuckoo chick, shattering the safety of her nest, when she came too, gasping for breath as Mason collapsed on top of her.

  ‘Well, that was pretty amazing,’ Mason panted, laughing.

  Turning over, Flora buried her head in his neck. ‘I love you. I really do love you, Mason.’

  ‘I hope so,’ he replied, still laughing. ‘Because in a few short months, you’re gonna be stuck with me for life.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Reverend ‘Call-me-Bill’ Clempson clapped his gloved hands together and stamped his feet against the cold.

  Being vicar of a place like Fittlescombe had its advantages, naturally, but
also its trials. It was November now, hunting season, and Bill’s Swell Valley parish had distinctly divided views when it came to the morality or otherwise of chasing foxes around the countryside in the hope of having them ripped to shreds by a pack of slavering hounds.

  The arguments on either side of this debate were as old as the valley itself. The pro-hunt lobby argued that foxes were pests, a bane to farmers, chicken fanciers and anyone who owned a dustbin. They also played the ‘tradition’ card, equating fox hunting with an English rural way of life already under attack from ignorant city dwellers, who seemed to view the countryside as some sort of theme park designed for their benefit.

  The antis, in turn, saw the bloodthirsty pursuit of a single, innocent animal by scores of riders and hounds, intent on killing for no better reason than their own pleasure, as nothing short of barbarism. Hunting had no place in a modern, civilized, animal-loving society, and tradition be damned.

  Considering himself both a liberal and a voice for the underdog – in this case, the fox – Bill sided firmly with the latter group. Unfortunately this alienated him not only from at least fifty per cent of his parishioners, but also from his wife, Jen.

  ‘I’ve never heard such anthropomorphic twaddle,’ she’d told Bill earlier that morning. ‘Foxes are a menace.’

  He’d been outlining his views on the sanctity of life in the kitchen at the vicarage, while preparing a Thermos of Bovril and a large round of ham and cheese sandwiches to take with him to today’s meet at The Fox. Along with Barney Griffith, Angela Cranley, and a small but vocal group of anti-hunt protestors, Bill was going to gather on the village green and generally make a nuisance of himself, annoying the huntsmen.

  Bill sighed disappointedly. ‘I know we don’t agree on this, Jenny. But I hope I can rely on your support.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Waddling over from the sink, Jen kissed him on the cheek. Enormously pregnant, she’d started to look not unlike a human puffball mushroom. Everything that could swell had swelled, and her hormones were teetering on tsunami levels. ‘I’m with the red coats all the way on this one. Besides, Gabe has already invited me to the meet.’

  ‘Gabe Baxter?’ Bill spluttered. ‘I hope you said no!’

  Bill had had numerous run-ins over the years with Jenny’s old boss. Although the two had officially buried the hatchet, it was fair to say that relations between them would never be warm.

  ‘Why would I say no? If I weren’t such a heifer I’d ride out with them. As it is, I’ve loyally agreed to support the cause by eating some free meat pies and knocking back some port.’

  ‘You can’t drink port. Not in your condition. And not at ten o’clock in the morning, for heaven’s sake,’ Bill said sanctimoniously.

  Jen’s eyes narrowed. ‘Watch me.’

  So now Bill stood – cold and, so far, completely alone – on the village green opposite the pub car park, a desultory stack of ‘Say No to Cruelty!’ placards at his feet, watching the first huntsmen and their followers arrive.

  ‘Sorry I’m late.’ Barney Griffith, out of breath and looking even scruffier than usual in a filthy Barbour jacket, dark blue fishermen’s sweater with holes in it and a pair of what looked like canvas trousers tied at the waist with string. ‘I had a bit of a … erm … wardrobe malfunction this morning.’

  ‘So I see,’ said Bill.

  ‘Get down, you little focker!’ Barney shouted at Jeeves, his even scruffier Border terrier, who was half-heartedly cocking his leg on his master’s shin. ‘Sorry, Vicar. Didn’t mean to swear.’

  ‘You didn’t have a belt?’ Bill asked, glancing disapprovingly at the string holding up Barney’s trousers. He was more concerned with the boy’s appearance than his language. With so many in the village already viewing the anti-hunting activists as ruffians and troublemakers, it didn’t help to have prominent members such as Barney show up looking like tramps.

  ‘Jeeves chewed it up months ago,’ Barney explained cheerfully. ‘I only really need it with these trousers, which I hardly ever wear. But I put my other trews on to wash last night, and the sodding machine broke. Started making weird gurgling noises and now the door won’t open.’ He glanced around the green. ‘Where are the others?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ griped Bill. ‘Coming, I hope, and soon. We’re going to be ridiculously outnumbered as it is.’

  ‘They’ll be here,’ said Barney confidently, clapping a hand across Bill Clempson’s back. ‘You know your trouble, Vicar? You don’t have enough faith.’

  Lord Saxton Brae, aka Henry’s older brother Sebastian, mounted Elijah, his stocky but surprisingly fast grey stallion, at the back of The Fox’s car park and surveyed the scene around him approvingly.

  If inheriting his father’s title and the struggling family estate at Hatchings were the greatest responsibilities of Seb’s life, his position as master of the Swell Valley Hunt was easily his greatest pleasure. Nothing could ever quite beat the excitement of turning out on a crisp, clear November morning like this one. The smell of horseflesh, the excited barking of the hounds, the warm, jolly feeling of camaraderie amongst huntsmen and riders and followers as the meet began to gather and swell. Seb was often accused of being a snob, and fox hunting the ultimate snob’s sport, toffee-nosed and out of touch. But as Seb looked around at today’s turnout, he saw people from all walks of life crowded happily in The Fox’s car park and beer garden, sipping the landlord’s excellent (and free) hot toddies and fortifying themselves with steaming game and venison pies. Even better, a quick glance across the green revealed that barely a handful of antis had turned up – miserable, joyless spoilsports in Seb’s opinion. Perhaps the tide of public opinion was finally swinging back in favour of field sports? About bloody time.

  Kate, Seb’s wife, was about twenty feet away, also mounted and chatting to Eva, who was on foot. Seb felt a surge of pride watching her. In her new tight white breeches and fitted black hunting jacket, with her hair tied back and netted in a chic chignon beneath her hat, she looked a knockout. Her bay mare, Starlight, was also easily the prettiest horse there. As she should be, the price Seb had paid for her. He was pleased to see Kate and Eva getting along. Henry could be quite prickly with his sister-in-law. Seb hoped that marriage to Eva would take off some of his little brother’s rough edges and improve Saxton Brae family relations.

  ‘Hello, Master. Good turnout.’

  Gabe Baxter rode up cheerfully on the dirtiest horse Seb had seen in some time. Not that its master looked much better, in a tatty tweed jacket with holes in and a thoroughly threadbare pair of jodhpurs. Trotting along behind him was a small blond boy on a fat little pony, grinning from ear to ear.

  ‘I don’t think you’ve met my son Hugh. It’s his first time.’

  Seb beamed. ‘How marvellous!’ He wasn’t a natural with children, but it was always good to see a new generation taking an interest in the hunt. ‘How do you do, Hugh?’

  ‘How do you do?’ The small boy shook his hand solemnly, a look of excitement and determination on his freckled face.

  ‘Hello, monster!’ Riding up behind him, Santiago de la Cruz lifted Hugh right up out of the saddle, tickling him under the arms, before plonking him back down again.

  ‘Hi, Uncle Santi!’ Hugh grinned.

  Turning to Gabe, Santiago asked, ‘Laura let him come, then? How’d you swing that?’

  ‘With difficulty.’ Gabe rolled his eyes. ‘She’s still convinced he’s going to break his neck. She’s over there.’ He nodded towards the pub, where Laura stood chatting with some of her old Fittlescombe girlfriends, intermittently stealing anxious glances at her eldest son. ‘If I bring him back with so much as a scratch, she’ll divorce me.’

  ‘Yeah, well. At least she’s not an animal-rights nutter. Penny’s the bloody Che Guevara of foxes.’

  Gabe laughed. ‘Over on the green, is she? Looks like poor old “Call-me-Bill” needs all the help he can get. Even his wife’s abandoned him,’ he added, waving at the hugely pregnant Jen who was chat
ting to Henry Saxton Brae while simultaneously shovelling pies into her mouth like a human conveyor belt. Catching Gabe’s eye, she waved back.

  ‘Pen’s not a placard waver, thankfully,’ said Santiago. ‘She prefers to waft around among the enemy, radiating disapproval.’

  ‘Speaking of radiating,’ said Gabe, sotto voce, ‘the future Mrs Saxton Brae’s not looking too shabby this morning.’

  Still politely listening to Lady Saxton Brae (Kate was explaining at great length to her why Henry should do more to support the West Swell Valley), Eva did look particularly fetching this morning in a pale grey cashmere sweater that clung to her in all the right places, and tight black corduroy trousers tucked into a pair of gleaming black riding boots, of the kind that never actually went riding. Her long blonde hair was loose and blowing in the breeze. She was easily the most attractive woman at the meet, and quite possibly on planet earth.

  ‘No,’ Santiago agreed. ‘I wouldn’t let Laura catch you looking if I were you, mate. Sounds like you’re on thin ice as it is.’

  ‘True,’ Gabe agreed, reluctantly averting his eyes from the vision that was Eva Gunnarson.

  ‘Five minutes, chaps,’ Seb announced brusquely, in his best military manner, riding off to check on the hounds who’d just been let out of the hunt van and were swarming around the car park excitedly, tails wagging like metronomes. ‘Good luck, Hugh.’