by Lulu Taylor
Imogen found it hard to hold back her tears through the simple service. The registrar, standing behind the anvil, read out the legal definition of marriage, bringing a gentle poetry to the formal words with her soft Scottish accent. Then she asked the couple to make the declarations and repeat the vows after her. They were unadorned promises, plain and clear: they were free to marry each other; they would love and support each other all their lives, and they recognised the legal nature of their promises.
Romily and Mitch stared into each other’s eyes, held hands and repeated the lines in voices tremulous with emotion.
Imogen gulped and felt hot tears run down her cheeks. She had never expected to find a wedding so moving, particularly one as simple as this. Perhaps it was because it was Romily, whom she’d known from a schoolgirl, now taking this hugely adult step. Perhaps it was because no one could fail to be moved by those life-changing promises, made with so much hope and love. Whatever, she couldn’t help giving a huge sniff.
Romily turned to her, laughing, but her eyes also were bright with tears. ‘Oh, Midge, you’re setting me off!’
‘Have a heart – I’m only just holding on here,’ Mitch said with a grin.
‘Sorry!’ Imogen said, and sobbed, then laughed, then cried again. ‘It’s so beautiful!’
‘Congratulations,’ the registrar said, smiling. ‘You are now husband and wife.’
Romily threw her arms around her new husband, her bridal bouquet pressed against his back, and shut her eyes tight, unable to say a word.
Chapter 32
SHE NUZZLED INTO his neck, pushing her lips against his ear. A strand of her hair brushed against his cheek. ‘Tomorrow we’ll go to London,’ she said, her breathy whisper sending electric pulses of excitement across his skin. ‘I’ve booked the Royal Suite at Claridge’s. Then the honeymoon can really begin.’
‘I don’t care where I am, as long as it’s with you,’ he replied huskily. ‘Now, Mrs Mitchell, I believe it’s traditional to carry the bride across the threshold on their first night as man and wife.’
They were standing outside their hotel room, a drab grey door with gold plastic numbers stuck on it. Romily giggled. She was definitely a little drunk after three glasses of the best champagne the hotel bar could offer, which they’d had with their wedding breakfast of steak and kidney pie and chips, followed by an extraordinary whisky and oat concoction called cranachan. Mitch could see now why Scottish cuisine hadn’t caught on as a world favourite.
‘I thought it was supposed to be the threshold of our first home!’ protested Romily, as he swept her up in his arms. ‘Oh! Mind the jacket, darling!’ She giggled again.
Mitch pushed the door open with his foot and went inside, gazing into Romily’s eyes as he carried her in. He put her down gently on the shabby carpet. ‘Here you are. The bridal chamber.’ He took her hand and looked down into her face, thinking that he’d never seen another person look so astonishingly beautiful. ‘I can’t believe it. You’re my wife.’
‘And you’re my husband,’ she said softly, staring back at him.
Is it possible to be any happier than this? he wondered. For months now, he’d been living in some charmed existence so far from his old one that he couldn’t stop marvelling at it. Sometimes he was seized by panic at the thought of how nearly it had never happened. If Robert had not come back from his sickbed, and he had not been standing outside the restaurant … If Romily had not argued with her family … It all seemed so tenuous. His whole life had turned on these tiny events happening at exactly the right time. Without them, he’d still be slaving in the kitchen at Reynard, and Romily would be trotting about on her round of social engagements, perhaps flirting with someone, wondering who her destiny was.
Well, they knew the answer to that now. It was him. Theodore Mitchell. No man in the world could love her more than he did, he was sure of that.
‘So, Mrs Mitchell …’
‘Yes, Mr Mitchell?’ Her brown eyes sparkled at him.
‘Shall we retire from the exertions of our wedding day?’
‘Oh, yes, please, Mr Mitchell, if you don’t mind.’ She looked up at him coyly from under her lashes.
They began to kiss and a wave of tenderness and passion crashed over him. What had he done to deserve this happiness? He’d never known anything as perfect as passion mixed with deep, all-encompassing love. Heroin had once made him feel blissed out but it had also made him feel like shit. But this … this extraordinary natural high only made him stronger, better, healthier … and unutterably happy.
The sequined jacket was abandoned on the floor, and he pulled down the zip of the silk shift. Underneath, she was wearing a strapless bra of ivory silk that pushed her breasts up into soft mounds, wispy matching knickers tied with ribbons at the seams, and a creamy lace suspender belt attached to a pair of fine stockings. He murmured appreciatively when he saw her underwear – she knew how much he liked it. She began to undress him, pushing off his jacket, unfastening his trousers, ridding him of his clothes until he stood naked in front of her, his proud cock showing how much she excited him.
She pulled the ribbons at the sides of her knickers and the triangles of silk fell away, leaving her in only stockings, suspender belt and bra. Then she led him to the bed, made him lie down on his back and climbed on top of him, sinking her soft sweet mouth on to his. He could feel her breasts in their bra pressing against his chest, her mound with its strip of brown hair brushing his belly, and his prick against the sheerness of her stockings. He moaned with pleasure, lust burning through him. ‘My gorgeous wife,’ he muttered, leaning down to release her breasts from their cups and lick and suck them.
‘I can’t wait any longer,’ she breathed, and straddled him. ‘I’ve been desperate for you for hours.’
‘Since the moment I saw you in that room …’
‘I wanted to fuck you the minute we were married.’
‘Oh, Christ …’ He felt her lift herself up, position her pussy on the tip of his cock and then press down, engulfing him in the hot wetness, taking him in as far as she could and pressing down to rub herself against his pubic bone. He put his hands on her hips, huge against her soft slender body, and sighed as she began to move up and down, making the most delicious friction.
‘Mitch,’ she moaned. She sat up straight and threw back her head, rubbing her hands across her breasts and down across her belly, rubbing her clitoris and then reaching back to run her hand over his balls.
They moved together for long minutes, gazing into each other’s eyes when they weren’t closing them to concentrate on the sensations they were causing in each other.
This was his new beginning, he knew that. He’d thought it had been when he’d come to after that terrible beating and realised he had to change, when he’d decided to leave New York, break his heroin addiction and make something of his life. But that had just been the prologue to this, the real beginning of his life. From the moment he’d met Romily, he’d known she was his destiny. He longed to prove to her that he was worthy of her love, and had already decided that he was going to devote himself to making his dreams come true. He would go places. He would show everyone. They would think he had married her for money; he’d demonstrate to them all that they were wrong. He’d make a new fortune, one of his own. Then no one would doubt their love or that he was her equal.
He already had plans. He’d been set on his path even before he met Romily. After he met her, he was doubly determined to win through. And with his beautiful wife by his side, how could he go wrong? Her sharp intelligence and cool judgement impressed and excited him. Her understanding of the European mind and sensibility was invaluable. Her taste was exquisite, her style impeccable, and her knowledge of the finest luxuries the world could offer was unsurpassed …
He moaned. Oh, yes … and her hot pussy drove him wild. He was going to come any moment now, he knew that, and could see that she was close as well. Her eyes were glassy, her tongue darting out to lick h
er lips. She was breathing in short gasps. He couldn’t bear it any longer. Pulling her down next to him, he rolled on top of her so he could feel her legs around his back, her hands on his buttocks urging him on, and so he could thrust hard into that delicious tightness until they both cried out, possessed by their shuddering climaxes.
‘Oh, Mr Mitchell,’ she said, sighing, as the crisis left them.
‘Mrs Mitchell …’ he said, grinning, his hair damp with sweat. ‘The first fuck of the rest of our lives.’
‘You know what? I don’t think that’s long enough for me,’ she whispered, pulling his mouth back to hers for another kiss.
Chapter 33
ALLEGRA WAS UNPACKING a box of vanilla-scented candles and feeling rather overcome by their sickly sweetness when she heard the door of the shop open and the ting-a-ling of the little bell that announced a customer.
‘Just a moment, I’ll be right with you!’ she said from her position on the floor behind the counter.
The customer said nothing but she heard footsteps walking about as whoever it was inspected the wares on the shelves. She quickly pulled out the last dozen candles, folded up the box and stood up.
This customer was a man, which was surprising: men almost never came into this shop, with its candles, scented drawer liners, padded hangers and lavender bags, except for just before Mother’s Day and Christmas, when there was an unseemly rush to buy gifts. The man was standing with his back to her, examining the liquorice and ginseng range, and wearing a rather gorgeous green tweed jacket over navy trousers and brown brogues polished to a conker shine.
Allegra was just frowning and thinking that the jaunty figure looked very familiar when it said sternly: ‘I’m very, very angry with you, young lady!’ The man turned round to face her. ‘You’ve been in London for weeks and you haven’t even let me know!’
‘Uncle David!’ she cried joyously.
‘That’s enough of the Uncle,’ he said, trying to look strict but unable to keep the smile off his face. ‘You’re grown up now. It’s time I was just David, I think.’
He came over and she dashed out from behind the counter to give him a hug. He kissed her on both cheeks, then pulled back and examined her. ‘Hmm, you’re looking rather radiant, considering you’ve just nabbed the post of official black sheep from your brother. Sent down from Oxford! What on earth did you have to do to get that dubious honour? Don’t worry too much, I’m sure Xander will be stealing this particular tag back from you in no time.’ David looked about the shop. ‘What can you be doing in this place? I didn’t expect to see you as a shop assistant. And how can you stand the smell? It’s like being inside a giant pudding!’
‘You get used to it,’ Allegra said. ‘I hardly notice it any more. I’m just passing the time until I work out what I want to do.’
‘Passing time? At twenty? My dear girl, never simply pass time unless you are in a dentist’s waiting room. You have to seize it while you can. Let’s go out for lunch and you can tell me all about everything and then we’ll work out something exciting for you to do.’
Allegra perked up. ‘That sounds fun.’
‘Yes. And you can explain to me exactly why you haven’t been in touch with me before now. As you can imagine, I’m furious. Now let’s go. We’ll go and have oysters and a very crisp Sancerre downstairs at Bibendum.’
‘I can’t! I’m all on my own here. My lunch break isn’t for another hour.’
‘Whose shop is this?’ David enquired, frowning.
‘Jane Armstrong’s.’
‘Oh, dear Jane! Her cushion shop must have failed, I assume. Well, candles are the next most obvious step. Better luck this time round. She’s a dear old friend. She won’t mind if I explain to her that you absolutely had to go out. Come on!’ David flicked the sign on the door round to Closed. ‘Have you got a key? I don’t suppose anyone will steal this lot, but we ought to play safe.’
Allegra giggled. Uncle David was irresistible. ‘I’ll get my jacket,’ she said.
Twenty minutes later they were sitting in the cool, tiled oyster bar beneath Bibendum. A huge silver stand, packed with ice and heaving with crustaceans, had just been put in front of David, who tucked a napkin into his Turnbull & Asser shirt and eyed them greedily.
‘My absolute favourite,’ he breathed. ‘Now, while I dig in, you tell me all about what happened at Oxford.’
Allegra peeled a langoustine and regaled her uncle with the whole story. He listened solemnly as he sprinkled shallot vinegar over his oysters and shook them out of their shells into his waiting mouth, swallowing them down with gusto. He nodded when she told him about the row with her father.
‘I imagine that’s shaken him up a bit,’ David remarked. ‘Your father’s not used to people standing up to him. You must understand, Allegra, his entire family relies on him for money, and he likes to use that power over them. Our father used to do the same to us. You can imagine how much your grandfather thought of my career – interior designer, that’s what I said I wanted to be! When I was supposed to go into the army, the Black Watch, like every other younger son in the family’s history. But, of course, I refused. Can you imagine how I would have survived that? There was simply no way on earth. So he cut me off. “All right then, Pa, if that’s the way you want it,” I replied, and gallivanted straight off to London. I haven’t looked back.’
‘Is that when you started up the club?’ Allegra asked, interested.
‘Oh, well, no … not right away. I started out doing up people’s houses – friends of the family at first. I loved it and found I had an eye for it. I spent my days with dowager marchionesses picking out fabrics for their drawing-room cushions, or choosing antiques with countesses, lampshades with duchesses … generally amusing myself hugely with society ladies. But come the evening it was a different story. There were deathly dull dinner parties, or else dancing to the house band at the Old Hundred or Les Ambassadeurs, in full evening dress. And that was it. Really, the social scene was awful, so antiquated and stuffy! We needed something a little more amusing and no one else was doing anything so I thought I would open a little nightclub and see how it went.’
‘And that was Colette’s?’
David nodded. ‘Named after my favourite French novelist. It was really because a friend of mine, Eddie Frobisher, decided to open a casino. The gambling laws had just been relaxed and casinos were going to be the next big thing. He bought a house in Mayfair – a total wreck, so it was cheap, cheap, cheap! By Mayfair standards, anyway. And he brought me in to do the interiors. Comfort was the watchword. People had to feel utterly relaxed and yet cosseted in great luxury. It should be like a wonderful country house, full of muted grandeur, and yet as warm and comforting as a hug. We understood each other completely. I knew exactly what he wanted.
‘Before long, I was restoring the very gracious Georgian interior with the help of some wonderful craftsmen and plasterers – and that was when I stumbled on the basement. It was dark, dingy and damp – usually the things that turn me off the most – and yet … there was something about the place. It breathed magic over me. It felt like somewhere things could happen: naughty, nefarious, delightful things. And that’s when I thought – I know, I can do something with this, if only Eddie will let me. And I remembered my old idea of opening a nightclub and was sure I’d found my ideal spot.’
‘And he didn’t mind?’
‘Oh, no!’ David swallowed the last of his oysters and put the shell back on to the ice, sighing with pleasure. ‘Well, that was delicious.’
Allegra was fascinated. She wanted to hear more. ‘So he said, go ahead?’
‘He said more than that. He said, “What a bloody brilliant idea!” He was aiming his casino at the richest and most influential people in the land. They would gamble big money at his tables and then there would be a special added extra: an exclusive, members only nightclub where they could kick back, relax, enjoy the company of beautiful women – not whores but good pedigree girls who
knew how to behave – and take a break from the intensity of the tables.’
‘And was that what you wanted?’
‘I wanted style,’ David said simply. ‘I wanted to create a beautiful, special place that belonged to me, that realised my vision. You see, I believe in the redeeming qualities of beauty, and the utterly worthwhile pursuit not just of luxury but the discipline of luxury. I aimed to create a place where everything was always perfect, from the table linen to the cocktails, from the bread rolls and butter curls to the way the towels in the lavatory hung over the rails. Somewhere you would always get the most sublime Martini, the best food, the most dedicated service. It would be a place that would never disappoint you. And where you would always be among friends.’
Allegra’s eyes were wide. ‘And you did it?’
‘Of course.’ David sipped his Sancerre. ‘I can’t pretend it was easy. At times I felt hugely frustrated. And the actual construction was a nightmare. In order to get enough space for the club, we had to excavate down and out into the garden – an administrative and architectural ordeal. Sometimes, standing in the dark, dirty shell, surrounded by heaps of mud and the whole thing open to the elements, I thought it would never be finished, would never be worth all the pain and hard work. But, eventually, it was done. And then the fun could really begin.’
‘What happened next?’
He eyed her with his piercing blue gaze. ‘I created Colette’s, of course.’ He gazed at her thoughtfully for a minute. ‘Would you like to go there?’
Allegra gasped. ‘Are you kidding? Of course I would!’
‘I know I’ve been promising you a trip there for years but I’ve never thought that the time was right. But now … now I think you’re ready.’ He leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘I’m going to show you the magic first. Always see the play before you inspect the set and the props. Do you have anything suitable to wear? Imagine a chic cocktail party where you might conceivably bump into a duke.’