Holiday Fling

by Christina Jones

  Without replying he steered me into a doorway. The wood felt cool against my back. Eyes closed he leant in, kissing my neck and ears. The scent of sandalwood engulfed me, his touch was passionate and tender. He inched towards my face. Images of Eva looming in my mind, my mouth dried up and despite my desire I was unable to return his kiss.

  Ashamed I pushed him off and ran. His confused words followed, fading as I sprinted; they couldn’t keep pace. I was fast – even in those heels.

  In the taxi I tore off the shoes. I wanted rid of them. My feet were blistered and bleeding, unused to the stringencies of such footwear, and as we crawled along the harbour seafront I hurled them through the open window. The tide was in. I heard a faint splash and imagined them sinking to the sea bed – the ribbons unravelling, soaring like a mermaid’s hair, Eva’s yellow shoes drifting with rusty cans, old trainers, and fishermen’s abandoned weights.

  I left a month later. Deferring my university place, I travelled, and forged a life independent of Eva.

  Before I went Tony called a couple of times and though I wanted to, I couldn’t pick up. On my voicemail he asked what he’d done wrong. ‘Call me,’ he said. But I was too embarrassed. I wanted to tell Eva about the shoes but never found the right time.

  As Eva watches me drag my bags from the boot of her car she asks, ‘This is going to sound weird … Did you take my yellow shoes?’

  My stomach turns over.

  ‘Tony said something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He saw you in them.’

  Memories return. Of how messed up I was. How jealousy convinced me he couldn’t possibly like me, that I was a poor substitute for Eva. How months later, in a foreign city, I realised the reference to ‘twin’ was meant as a compliment. Bitter tears of regret had mingled with the wails of car alarms and sirens.

  I hope he’ll give me a second chance.

  ‘Where did you see Tony?’ I say.

  ‘In his bar.’

  I want to confess. It has weighed on me too long.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ It pours out. My confession. ‘I brought you something. To make up.’ And I pull out the box. A pair of shoes; Manolo Blahnik. A month’s salary.

  ‘I would have lent them to you,’ she says.

  ‘You wouldn’t.’ I smile.

  ‘You’re right. I wouldn’t. Serves me right. Thank you for these. They’re gorgeous, much lovelier than the others.’

  Clutching the shoes, Eva grins. ‘I have a confession to make too.’ Python sly smile. ‘You stepped into my shoes …’

  I wonder what on earth I have, or had, that Eva covets. And then I know. Tony. I cannot move.

  Leaning forward, she grabs my suitcase and wheels it to the front door. ‘Come on, slow coach.’

  I kick off my shoes and stand still, watch her step into the house, watch the difference between us increase, the flagstones of the drive cool against my aching feet.

  A Lady’s Fancy

  Eve Bourton

  Prologue

  15th August, 1805

  Boxcombe Park, a fine Palladian mansion set in rolling downs some fifteen miles to the south of Bath, was full to bursting with fashionable guests. It was not often that the beau monde bestowed its dazzling presence on this small corner of Somersetshire, so there was talk aplenty in the local taverns about the ladies’ magnificent jewels and beautiful gowns, the gentlemen’s revolutionary short haircuts and extremely tight inexpressibles, the handsome equipages and prime bloodstock in the stables. But what caused most comment was the actual occasion for all this gaiety and glamour – the 5 th Earl of Avon’s betrothal ball.

  The earls of Avon were not famous for getting married. Indeed, they were notorious for poaching other men’s wives and leading prim and proper ladies at breakneck speed down the road to ruin. Sometimes their mistresses came down to Boxcombe, but they were never received by the local gentry. There was talk of gambling, drunkenness, orgies, and wild debauchery. The 3rd earl had married very young and produced the required heir before his countess expired giving birth to a spare. He had promptly abandoned his infant sons to their maternal grandmother while he proceeded to employ his handsome face and charming manners to seduce his way through the ladies of high society. He had fought several duels over his love affairs and twice had to flee to the Continent after killing his opponent, but he remained a libertine to the very end. Many previously unsuspected matrons had shed copious tears when news of his death at the age of fifty-two reached England from his final refuge in Switzerland.

  His eldest son Jamie had stepped into his father’s shoes while he was still Viscount St Maur. No proper young lady was allowed within a mile of his contaminating presence, so horrendous were the tales of his womanising, drinking, gambling, and general hell-raising. Nevertheless, he admired innocence. Demure young debutantes out strolling in Hyde Park were sometimes accosted by the fascinating young viscount with mischief on his mind. It was unfortunate for anxious parents everywhere that he, like all the de Grays, was extremely good looking. He would lure his victims away from their chaperones with flatteries and tumble them headlong into love before they knew it. The result was seduction followed by disgrace; he could never be bullied into marriage, and he considered his financial support of several bastards more than generous.

  When he could not prevail upon a woman of his own class to warm his bed, he patronised several Covent Garden brothels. And it was in one of these fine establishments that a characteristically reckless fit of chivalry led him to engage in a brawl with the madam’s enforcer over their brutal treatment of a terrified young girl who had been kidnapped from a coaching inn when she arrived in London to take up employment as a seamstress. The enforcer had been getting the worst of it until the madam stepped in with a knife and stabbed Jamie through the ribs. He had been the 4th earl for little over a year.

  The Ton thought it was shockingly bold of his brother, twenty-five year old Hugo Charles St Maur de Gray, now 5th Earl of Avon, to honour Jamie’s satanic memory by a magnificent funeral at St George’s Hanover Square, and generous of him to rescue the girl who had caused his early demise and send her back home to her parents with enough money for a decent dowry. It was equally bold – and entirely unexpected – for the new earl to announce his betrothal just one month after acceding to the title to Miss Elinor Camden, a respectable nineteen-year old with little fortune but an impeccable pedigree.

  She was the niece of the Marquess of Hargrave and had been raised by her uncle after her parents died in a typhoid epidemic when she was scarcely two years old. Lord Hargrave had been in negotiations for the match with Jamie, who although averse to matrimony himself, felt his younger and more sober brother ought to do his duty by the family. Hargrave held few hopes of making a good marriage for his orphan niece owing to her want of fortune, but assured Jamie that Elinor was a biddable girl who would be happy to raise some sturdy little de Grays in Somerset while her lord and master enjoyed himself in town. She had elegant manners, loved country life, was passably attractive, and well-versed in household management and the domestic arts.

  Jamie had shuddered with horror at this scene of connubial bliss, but after inspecting Miss Camden at Almack’s (where his presence – as rare as a snowstorm in August – had raised all sorts of expectations and flutterings in the fond bosoms of match-making mamas), he told Hugo that she certainly wasn’t an antidote, and he could do a lot worse than look the filly over for himself.

  ‘If the earls of Avon are to continue, m’boy, one of us had better start producing some legitimate brats, and it won’t be me. Hargrave’s daughter was giving me the eye while I was being introduced to her cousin, but if he thinks he can lure me into parson’s mousetrap as well, he’s a bigger fool than I take him for. She’s a pretty, fluffy little piece – but with those come-hither smiles, I’d lay a monkey she ain’t nearly as innocent as she seems. Never did trust women with china doll faces.’

  Hugo lent but half an ear to his brother’s pithily
crude appraisal of Lady Angela Hargrave’s physical attributes and gave the rest of his somewhat stunned wits to the idea of matrimony. Strangely, the idea did not displease him, so he called on Miss Camden the following day and found that although she was not fashionably pretty, she possessed a striking beauty – dark-eyed, dark-haired and graceful, she was also witty and made intelligent conversation without in any way being affected. He promptly fell in love.

  The very least he could do to thank her for agreeing to marry a demonic de Gray was to give her the grandest possible betrothal ball. It was an occasion that none of the guests would ever forget.

  25th April, 1813

  THE weather was hardly propitious for romance and adventure, even though it was the second week of May. Miss Aramintha Durrant, just seventeen years of age and possessed of a rare optimism, had learned in the nursery that one should ‘ne’er cast a clout until May is out.’ She should not have been surprised, therefore, that the wind was howling over the Mendip Hills and penetrating every stitch of her pale blue muslin gown and summer cloak, or that the sky was leaden and distant rumbles threatened a storm that could well see her dying of consumption before she managed to reach The George and board the stagecoach to London. Alas, she had long since forgotten Nanny’s dictums on the correct attire for young ladies when running away from home, which was why she was shivering and muttering imprecations under her breath (she was far too much a lady to utter them aloud) as she made her great escape from the den of terror and oppression that was Stokenbridge Manor.

  Elinor Camden chuckled to herself as her pen flew across the page. Aramintha would love it. She had featured in every story Elinor had ever written, and delighted in her unique blend of the comically commonplace with the outrageously Gothic. She was eagerly awaiting the next instalment of this new work from her governess-turned-companion, for the spring was very wet and visits to the circulating library in Frome were consequently less frequent than normal. The roads were exceptionally muddy, in fact flooded in places, and Elinor’s employer Sir James Durrant did not choose to risk his horses on the steep hill into town. They had all finished the last volume of Pride and Prejudice two weeks ago, and disdaining Sir James’ teasing suggestion of ‘a close and critical study’ of Fordyce’s Sermons, Elinor had taken up her pen to see where her fancy would lead her this time. Last evening after supper she had read the opening chapter to Aramintha and Sir James as they sat around the fire in the drawing room.

  ‘Oh, Elinor, you simply must get it published!’ Aramintha had enthused. ‘This one will be a worthy successor to your first book, I’m sure. Have you had word about A Matter of Sentiment yet?’

  ‘No. But I only sent the revised manuscript off a fortnight ago. And pray do not speak as though it were already published. I am in mortal dread of a crisp letter of rejection with every post.’

  ‘Pshaw!’ Aramintha tossed back her auburn curls. ‘Mr Murray would be a fool to let you slip through his fingers.’

  ‘Indeed he would,’ agreed Sir James. ‘Do you have a title yet for your new book? It promises to be just as amusing as the last, although I’m not too certain that Lucius will enjoy being an Insensitive Blockhead.’

  ‘But he was a Vile Savage in A Matter of Sentiment, Papa, and you know he liked it prodigiously.’

  Sir James smiled. ‘Your brother always did have some strange ambitions.’

  Aramintha herself had copied out the whole manuscript in a very neat hand and sent it to her favourite brother, Lieutenant Lucius Durrant R.N., who was stationed in the West Indies. When a letter finally reached home, he reported that the entire wardroom of HMS Galatea was eagerly awaiting the next production from the pen of the divine Miss Camden.

  ‘I should like to know who Count Draco is meant to be,’ said Aramintha with a wicked grin, ‘since he is my Shocking Secret.’

  ‘It’s a novel, dearest,’ replied Elinor. ‘There has to be some latitude for imagination. Count Draco is not a real person. He’s simply a type.’

  ‘Oh, I see. The Most Licentious Rake in Christendom. That must keep him fearfully busy. Is he really the villain, then?’

  Elinor caught Sir James’ look of warning. He did not want Aramintha to find out. He knew exactly who Count Draco was modelled on, of course. That was why he had offered Elinor a home and a job as Aramintha’s governess eight years earlier, when she had walked out of the neighbouring estate of Boxcombe with little more than the clothes on her back. Boxcombe had been unoccupied since then, its owner the Earl of Avon preferring to reside on a smaller property he owned in Berkshire when he had been home on furlough from the Peninsular campaign. Rumour had it that his late countess had loathed Boxcombe because the air did not agree with her fragile constitution. She had remained in the soot and fog of London, although her death at the tragically young age of thirty-one just over a year ago reflected rather badly on her preference for the tainted atmosphere in Town. No one knew why Lord Avon continued to absent himself from Somersetshire, and in truth, few people still cared. He had once promised to be a credit to his house, but he had gone to the bad like they all did. He was a de Gray, after all, and few could match the de Grays for decadence, debauchery and diabolical wickedness.

  Elinor jerked her mind back to the novel and Aramintha. ‘How could he not be a villain with a name like Count Draco? You’re slipping, Ari.’

  ‘Well, please don’t give Lucius too big a part, even though he asked you to. That would be too awful.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ agreed Sir James, rising to his feet. ‘But I’m sure Elinor has a few more characters tucked up her sleeve. Good night, my dears. I shall leave you to find a suitable name for the gentleman who will rescue Aramintha from the toils of Count Draco.’

  ‘Ormond? Algernon? Percival?’ suggested his daughter eagerly.

  The following day around noon Elinor pondered on suitable heroic names as she walked back from the village, where she had been to call upon her friend Caroline Lansley, the rector’s wife. Three of the Lansley children had chicken pox, and since Elinor herself had never been exposed to it, she was ordered to go straight back home and not to venture into Stokenbridge for at least a week because all the village children appeared to be afflicted. She marched quickly away from danger, enjoying an unexpected respite from the rain. It was late April, and the hedgerows were turning fresh and green at last, replacing the dreary browns of winter. The downs, dotted with sheep and cows, gave off the pleasing smell of wet grass, and the sun was valiantly trying to poke through the darkening clouds. It was perfect weather for daydreaming and literary flights of fancy.

  Elinor wished Lady Durrant were not staying in Bath with her eldest daughter during her confinement. She was a voracious reader of novels and always had a vast store of improbable and outlandish names to suggest; she had used several on her own children, after all. But Elinor’s train of thought was interrupted as she suddenly became aware of the thunder of galloping hooves behind her; then carriage wheels approaching at an alarming speed. She scurried to the side of the road, narrowly avoiding a fall as she slipped ankle-deep in a puddle in her haste. As it was, the hem of her gown got a good soaking and she felt water seeping through the laces of her half- boots.

  ‘Oh, botheration.’

  She managed to scramble up onto the verge to avoid being hit, but to her surprise she heard the carriage slowing down. A moment later it drew to a smooth halt beside her. She turned to give the coachman the blistering set-down he deserved, but stood speechless as she saw first a smart new curricle, then the elegant figure of a man in a multi-caped driving coat, and finally the starkly handsome and insolently amused countenance of Hugo, 5th Earl of Avon, notable whip, occasional wit, the most licentious rake in Christendom, and the man who had once filled every last corner of her heart.

  ‘Dear me, a damsel in distress,’ he purred in a warm baritone that still managed to send a shiver through her. ‘Running away again, Elinor? May I be of assistance?’

  ‘You may go to hell with my
compliments, my lord.’

  ‘I’ve been in the infernal regions for eight years already, my love. I thought it about time I gave Purgatory a go, which is why I have returned to Boxcombe.’ He gave her a lethal smile, all brilliant blue eyes, white teeth, practised charm. ‘Who knows, perhaps we could turn it into Paradise Regained.’

  ‘How dare you even speak to me? You, you … toad!’ It was unfortunate that astonishment had temporarily robbed her of her considerable vocabulary. She was usually much more articulate when rebuffing unwanted male attention. ‘You loathsome apology for a man! I never wanted to set eyes on you again!’

  ‘But you have, Miss Camden. And still you breathe. So there is no need to make such a tragedy out of it.’ Languidly he tossed aside the reins and climbed down onto the road.

  They were so very close, Elinor only had to stretch out her hand a few inches to touch the beautiful, hard, familiar physique. He truly was a magnificent specimen of manhood. She had thought so when she was a carefree nineteen, and she still thought so now she was a dried-up cynic of twenty-seven. She was mortified to feel her senses stirring, a long-forgotten tug of desire flare deep inside her, to realise that almost eight years of isolation had failed to immunise her against his animal attraction.

  Tall, broad-shouldered, and muscular, he radiated a raw sexual energy that was utterly compelling. One smouldering look from him, and her wits seemed to have gone wandering in a cloud of lust. How could she have forgotten how horribly attractive he was? Count Draco would have to be rewritten – she had utterly failed to convey the sheer magnetic danger of her latest villain. Any reader with red blood in her veins would have to feel it might even be worth risking ruin to be pursued by him.

  Hugo’s intensely blue eyes were studying her closely. His full mouth was set in a firm line, his jaw tense. A prominent Roman nose emphasised the patrician cast of his features. An errant lock of jet-black hair grazed his forehead. She longed to brush it back with her fingers as she used to do, such a long, long time ago.