‘My predecessor sold the chandelier along with everything else, so the room needed some kind of light.’ Jago was kneeling, unpacking a hamper. ‘I bought these last week and thought—why not do it in style?’
She said shakily, ‘Why not indeed—except it’s not dark yet.’
He sighed. ‘Stop nitpicking, woman, and lend a hand.’
There wasn’t just food in the hamper. There were plates, dishes, cutlery, even wine glasses, all in pairs, strongly suggesting that he might have hoped Barbie would indeed be there.
Instead, she thought, he was settling for second best—if she even rated that highly.
Don’t think like that, she adjured herself fiercely. You’re not taking part in some competition, but just filling in time before the rest of your life, so remember it.
She watched Jago arranging the food on the rug. There was smoked trout pâté, chicken pie, green salad with a small container of French dressing, plus a crusty baguette, butter and a bottle of Chablis. While, to round off the meal, there was a jar of peaches in brandy.
He looked across at her, his smile faintly crooked. ‘Will this do?’
‘It looks wonderful,’ she said. ‘Like a celebration.’
‘That’s just how I wanted it to be.’ He drew the cork from the wine and poured it, handing her a glass. ‘To Ladysmere,’ he said. ‘A phoenix rising from the ashes.’
‘Yes,’ she said. And all because of you. She thought it, but did not say it. ‘It—it’s a special moment.’
He said softly, ‘Yes it is, and thank you for sharing it with me.’
The tawny gaze met hers, held it for an endless moment.
And Tavy felt her heart give a sudden, wild, and totally dangerous leap, as she raised her glass and echoed huskily, ‘To Ladysmere.’
THE WINE WAS cool and fragrant in her mouth, and she was glad of it. Grateful too for the niceties of cutting bread and butter and pâté, which gave her a chance to steady her breathing, and generally get a grip on herself.
As they ate, she said, deliberately choosing a neutral topic, ‘Sir George’s cousin. Why did he strip everything out of the place if he wanted to sell it?’
Jago shrugged. ‘From his incoherent ramblings when we met in Spain, I gather he’d given up all hope of a sale and opted for making a fast buck out of the remaining contents instead.
‘He even tried to dismantle and flog the four-poster from the master bedroom, but fortunately that couldn’t be shifted.’
‘Oh,’ Tavy said. ‘So that’s how it got damaged.’
‘Yes, but I’m assured it can be repaired and I’m having a new mattress specially made.’ His face hardened. ‘He also confided that he hoped vandals would set fire to the house so he could claim on the insurance.’
Tavy gasped. She said hotly, ‘I’m only glad Sir George never knew how vile he was.’
‘You liked him, didn’t you?’
Outside the window, the sunset light was fading. In the massive room, the picnic rug had become a small bright island in a sea of shadows. And in the flickering light of the candles, Jago’s dark face was all planes and angles as he watched her.
It was as if they were in total isolation, cut off from the rest of the world. Not close enough to touch, yet lapped in a strange and potent intimacy.
Something was flowering deep inside her—a wish—a longing that they could stay like this for ever, his gaze locked with hers. Except that was no longer enough, because her body was stirring at the memory of his hands touching her, and her lips parting beneath his.
Pushing such thoughts away, she rushed into words. ‘Sir George? Everyone liked him. He was a dear man and so good to the village.’
‘A lot to live up to,’ Jago said lightly as he cut into the pie.
Tavy said quickly, ‘Oh, but nobody expects...’ and stopped, her face warming.
‘Nobody expects much from a degenerate ex-rock musician,’ Jago supplied drily, placing a generous wedge of pie on a plate and handing it to her. ‘Well, I can hardly blame them.’
She bent her head. ‘I didn’t mean that. It’s just that the locals were sad, I think, that Sir George didn’t have a son to come after him and hoped that Ladysmere would be sold to a family so there might be—I don’t know—a new dynasty, perhaps.’ She forced a smile. ‘Unrealistic, I know.’
‘Very. For one thing, if there were children around, the lake would need to be fenced off.’ He added softly, ‘And that would be a pity, don’t you think?’
The lake...
She was thankful he could not see how her colour had deepened. I’ll never live that down, she thought helplessly. Never.
Then took a deep breath and rallied. ‘But only for a while—until they learned to swim.’
‘A good point,’ he agreed solemnly, leaning across to refill her glass.
She said quickly, ‘I shouldn’t have any more.’
‘Why not? I’m the one who’ll be driving later.’ He grinned reminiscently. ‘And as my old nanny used to say “I can’t, cat won’t, you must”.’
‘You had a nanny?’ She tried to imagine it and failed.
He nodded. ‘I did indeed. She was a terror too. My sister and I went in fear of our lives.’
The sister was news too. The computer biography had omitted that kind of detail.
She said haltingly, ‘Do you see much of your family?’
‘You mean—are they still speaking to me?’ He sounded amused. ‘Well, yes, but currently from a distance. Becky’s married to a sheep farmer in Australia and my parents have gone out to stay with her to await the arrival of their first grandchild.’
He paused. ‘Now will you tell me something?’
He was going to ask about Patrick, she thought with dismay. Ask about her emotional state and she had no idea what to say.
She said stiffly, ‘If I can.’
‘Do you remember how this room was furnished?’
It was the last thing she’d expected and she nearly choked on the mouthful of wine she’d taken for Dutch courage.
Recovering, she said slowly, ‘Well, a huge table, of course, with extra leaves so that it could seat twenty or thirty if necessary. And a very long sideboard on the wall behind you. I think it was all Victorian mahogany.’
Jago nodded thoughtfully. ‘It sounds fairly daunting. And the drawing room?’
‘Oh, that had enormous Chesterfields and high-backed armchairs in brown leather, very dark and slippery.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘I remember sitting on them as a child and being afraid I’d slide off.’ She paused. ‘Why do you ask?’
He said quietly, ‘Because I came here originally looking for a bolt-hole. But I now have other reasons to live here. And my ideas about décor are changing too.’
She remembered some of the catalogues. ‘No Swedish minimalism?’
‘Absolutely not,’ he said. ‘But no nineteenth century gloom either.’ He paused. ‘Talking of gloom, it’s starting to feel chilly.’ He slipped off his jacket and passed it to her. ‘Put this on.’ Adding, as her lips parted in protest, ‘I