She sipped the wine carefully, and thought it was like tasting sunshine and flowers.
Her pudding was a raspberry tartlet with clotted cream, carried ceremoniously to the table by a stout man with a large apron over his blue check trousers who, Diaz told her, was the owner and chef, Morris Trencro. In the middle was a tiny ornamental holder, with a lighted candle for her to make a wish, then blow out.
‘No room for the proper thirteen, maiden,’ Mr Trencro said. ‘But reckon you won’t mind that.’
What was more, he began singing ‘Happy Birthday,’ in a strong baritone, and at his signal the rest of the customers joined in, turning to smile at this young red-haired girl whose eyes were shining more brightly than any candle flame.
And then they’d driven home, as decorously as they’d come.
There had been a moon that night too, thought Rhianna, and Diaz had put quiet, beautiful music—Debussy, she thought—on the CD player. And what with that, all the gorgeous food and that little drop of wine, she’d had to fight to stay awake, because she didn’t want to miss a single moment of her heavenly evening.
Of course, there had been repercussions later, she recalled wryly. Not from Aunt Kezia, oddly enough, although that was probably due to the brief, private interview Diaz had had with her in the sitting room after he’d brought her home.
But Moira Seymour had seemed to develop another layer of ice whenever she saw her.
And worst of all, she thought, was when she’d returned to school in September and found herself the object of unwanted and unwarranted attention from some of the older girls.
‘My sister Bethan saw you at the Boathouse in Garzion with Diaz Penvarnon,’ Lynn Dellow had announced, looking Rhianna up and down. ‘She says he was making a big fuss about your birthday, and pouring wine down you. She says you were wearing your yucky school dress and looked a proper sight.’ She giggled. ‘I thought Mr Penvarnon liked ladies his own age, not little schoolgirls.’
‘That’s a disgusting thing to say,’ Rhianna told her hotly. ‘It wasn’t like that. I—I didn’t have many birthday presents, and so he gave me a treat, that’s all.’
‘Did he try and snog you on the way home?’ someone else asked eagerly.
‘No.’ Shocked and upset, Rhianna felt her face turn the colour of a peony. ‘No, of course not. That’s rubbish. He wouldn’t do anything like that.’ And suddenly she remembered the night when she’d inadvertently glimpsed him on the terrace, intimately entwined with that girl, and how it had made her feel. How she’d found herself guiltily wondering what it would be like to be kissed—caressed—in that way by a man…
‘Bet you wish he had, though,’ said Lynn. She sighed gustily. ‘Sex on a stick, that one.’
‘Well, you’re quite wrong.’ Rhianna lifted her chin, dismissing the inconvenient jolt to her memory. ‘As it happens, Diaz Penvarnon is the last man in the world I’d ever fancy.’
There was some derisive laughter, and a couple of girls looked at her as if she’d grown an extra head.
‘Pretty high and mighty for a nobody, aren’t we?’ Lynn said critically. ‘So who’s your dream man, Lady Muckcart?’
Rhianna swallowed. She had to say something—name someone—if only to get them to stop talking about Diaz in that horrible way, which made her burn everywhere all over again.
‘Simon Rawlins, actually,’ she said, adding, ‘If you must know.’
After all, she told herself defensively, it wasn’t that much of a lie. Who wouldn’t want Simon? And hadn’t she been secretly hoping she might run into him in the village again some time?
‘That tasty blond bit who comes down here every summer?’ Lynn stared at her. ‘Lives at the top of the village? Thought he hung around with Carrie Seymour.’
‘Not all the time,’ Rhianna tossed back over her shoulder, as the bell sounded and she walked away.
‘That wouldn’t stop her,’ she heard someone say. ‘Takes after her mother, I dare say.’ And there was more laughter.
And she hadn’t had the courage to turn back and say, What are you talking about? What do you mean?
But even without that her image of Diaz smiling at her across the table had become blurred, as if it had been touched by a hand dipped in slime.
And her precious birthday celebration had been spoiled—tainted, she thought, with a sigh that was almost a sob.
She recovered herself with a start, and slid down from the rock, smoothing her skirt. Bed for you, my girl, she told herself, with a touch of harshness. Before you get maudlin, remembering a time when he could be kind.
Because tomorrow night, when you have dinner with him for the last time, kindness will be the last thing on his mind and you know it.
Ten years on, at least she didn’t have the same problems over her wardrobe, she thought wryly, as she viewed herself in the mirror the following evening.
She’d decided to wear the dress she’d originally planned for that night, a wrap-around style in a dark green silky fabric, which accentuated the colour of her eyes. The skirt reached mid-calf, the sleeves were three-quarter length, and its cross-over bodice revealed a discreet plunge.
She’d slept badly the previous night, and she’d been jumpy all day, thankful for all the tiny last-minute tasks that she’d been able to help with, while all the time she was turning her mind by sheer force of will away from the prospect of the evening ahead of her.
But now the time was nearly here. In less than an hour, she thought, glancing at her watch, she’d be setting off for the Polkernick Arms in one of the taxis that had been ordered.
Where Diaz would be waiting…
She drew a deep breath as she fastened her prettiest earrings—small gold hoops studded with tiny emeralds—into her lobes. She still couldn’t fathom the actual motive behind his invitation. If she was feeling charitable, she might attribute it to his wish to solve the Seymours’ unexpected problem and save them further embarrassment.
But charity isn’t the name of the game, she told herself silently. For either of us.
She took one long, final look, checking that the pink polish on her finger and toenails was still immaculate, and that her make-up was understated but effective.
Then she collected the green patent purse that matched her elegant strappy sandals and went downstairs.
There was the usual momentary hush as she entered the drawing room, and she knew that many of the older people in the room would be looking at her and seeing someone else entirely—her mother, Grace Carlow.
Knew too that someone would be saying in an undertone, ‘But you must remember—all that appalling scandal. That’s why Esther won’t be here. She doesn’t come near the place. Hasn’t done for years now. Poor Moira must be devastated.’
The devastated Moira simply gave her a look and turned away, but Francis Seymour came over to her with a smile. ‘Every inch a star, Rhianna,’ he told her kindly. He handed her a glass of pale sherry. ‘I hope this is to your taste. You look like a fino girl to me.’
She laughed. ‘You guessed right.’ She raised the glass. ‘Here’s to the family gathering. I hope it goes well.’
He gave her a dry look. ‘I would not put money on it, but we shall see.’ He sighed suddenly. ‘Sometimes I wish that Carrie hadn’t been quite so single-minded about her future. That she’d had other serious boyfriends besides Simon. Oh, I’ve nothing against the boy. But she was so very young—hardly more than a child—when she decided he was the one, as, of course, you know, which is why I can mention it to you.’
‘Yes,’