It occurred to me that it was nice to have someone to talk to when I came in at the end of the day, but I pushed the thought firmly aside. I pointed a finger at George instead. ‘But you’re going to help! I hold you entirely responsible for the whole thing. If it wasn’t for you, I could have got away with a couple of cocktails at a male stripper bar.’
George linked his hands behind his head and suppressed a smile. ‘Would that have been more your thing?’
‘Oh, all right, I’d have hated that too, but at least it would have been over quickly.’ I hunched a shoulder. ‘I’m dreading this house party already. I hate parties.’
‘Really?’
‘I never feel I belong,’ I said, remembering those awful parties my father had made me go to. One awful party in particular. ‘I don’t seem to fit in anywhere. I never have. Life with Mum was worlds apart from the life I had in my father’s house, and after a while I didn’t belong in either of them. It’s always been like that,’ I said.
I didn’t expect George to understand. He was the guy at the centre of any party, the one everyone revolved around, the one who made the party start just by walking in the door.
‘Saffron’s friends all think I’m weird,’ I added glumly. ‘We’ve got absolutely nothing to say to each other. Still.’ I put my hands on my thighs and made an effort to rouse myself. ‘It’s only one weekend and it’s what Saffron wants. I just need to make a plan.’
‘Well, I don’t mind helping you with that,’ said George. ‘Let’s do it in the pub.’
‘I don’t know...’
‘Oh, come on, it’s the least I can do to make up for landing you with a party to organise in the first place,’ he cajoled. ‘It’s not like a date, in case you’re still wondering if I’m going to turn into that weirdo you were so concerned about! Think of it as repayment for the tea.’ He saw me hesitating. ‘And it’s a lovely evening.’
It was. The earlier clouds had cleared to leave a sky flushed with the promise of spring, and the air was soft and enticing. In spite of myself, I glanced longingly out of the window.
There was no use pretending that I wasn’t tempted. ‘All right.’ I looked down at my black trousers and the taupe jacket I wore over a long-sleeved T shirt. ‘Give me five minutes to change.’
When I went back into the kitchen, I was pulling a cardigan over a simple blue T-shirt, and George’s brows lifted at the sight of the mint-green skirt that stopped just above my knees. He got to his feet, eyeing my legs with undisguised appreciation.
‘You look nice,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen your legs before.’
I tugged down my sleeves in a self-conscious gesture, and willed the stupid flush to fade from my cheeks. ‘I always wear trousers for work.’
‘I can see why. It would be far too distracting for your colleagues, otherwise.’
‘I shouldn’t have to worry about what I’m wearing,’ I said grouchily, mainly because I was ruffled by the way he was looking at me. It was only a skirt, for heaven’s sake! ‘Do you think the men I work with care about what they look like? But if I want to be taken seriously, I have to look professional at all times.’
‘That explains all the severe suits.’
‘And why I like to wear a skirt sometimes when I’m not working.’
‘You wore trousers last night,’ George pointed out.
After some discussion, it had been decided that Saffron would spend the rest of the day with Roly, while George and I went back to work. Roly had been all for Saffron staying the night at the Hall too, but I had vetoed that, afraid that if Saffron got too comfortable she would never leave. We had compromised with the four of us meeting for dinner at the Hall, where plans for the pre-wedding party had grown ever more elaborate before I managed to extract my sister and take her back to the cottage. I knew that one night on my sofa bed would be more than enough for her.
‘Of course,’ I told George, remembering the evening with a grimace. Torn between the need to keep my sister under control, to please Roly and—most difficult of all—to ignore the warm amusement in George’s eyes, I hadn’t enjoyed dinner much. ‘If I’m with a client, it’s even more important to look competent.’
George held the door open for me. ‘I don’t think Roly was thinking like a client last night.’
‘No.’ I locked the door and tucked the key into my purse. Not that there was much point in locking up when every Tom, Dick and George had a key, but it was hard to break London habits. I glanced up at George. ‘He does know that Saffron’s getting married, doesn’t he?’
‘It would be hard not to with all the talk of weddings last night.’
‘It’s just...he seems very smitten,’ I said, chewing the corner of my bottom lip. ‘Saffron’s so pretty, and she can be delightful when she wants, but she’s never had to think about anyone but herself. I wouldn’t want him to get hurt.’
‘Are you worried about Roly himself, or about your client being upset?’
‘Both,’ I said frankly.
‘Well, don’t. Roly’s obviously besotted with your sister, but he’ll be content to adore her from afar. He has surprisingly old-fashioned notions about being a gentleman, and he’d never take out any disappointment on you.’
I’d been surprised, in fact, that Saffron hadn’t shown more interest in George, but she clearly didn’t know quite what to make of him, and she didn’t have the sharpest sense of humour in the world. Mind you, who needed a sense of humour when you had silver gilt hair, emerald eyes and a siren’s body?
Saffron clearly felt much more at home with Roly’s uncritical adoration. George had teased her and flattered her, but it was obvious that he wasn’t bowled over by her.
I tried really hard not to feel pleased about that.
* * *
The Whellerby Arms was a traditional village pub. It had a low, beamed ceiling, plain, serviceable wooden furniture and was mercifully free of slot machines, piped music or padded banquettes.
I found a table in the corner while George went to the bar, and got out my notebook and pen. Gathering up the cardboard coasters and stacking them in a neat pile, I watched George under my lashes. There was a lot of laughing and back-slapping and hand-shaking going on. I saw him bend his head down to an elderly man who was leaning on the bar. He was listening intently, nodding, and then he smiled and a strange feeling stirred in the pit of my stomach.
Hunger, I told myself firmly. I hoped George would bring some nuts.
He did. I pounced on the packet as he tossed it onto the table and tore it open.
‘No lunch,’ I said through a mouthful of peanuts.
I had chosen to sit on the wooden trestle with my back to the wall, assuming that George would take the stool opposite. Too late, I remembered that it was a mistake to make assumptions as far as George was concerned, and to my dismay he sat beside me and stretched out his long legs.
He lifted his glass. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers,’ I mumbled, edging surreptitiously away.
I really resented the way George made me nervous. I wasn’t the type to lose my head over a handsome face. I’d done that once before, and I was never going to make that mistake again. I believed that integrity and humour and intelligence were far more attractive than looks, and yet the moment my gaze caught the lean line of his jaw or the creases around his eyes or that telltale dent in his cheek, which deepened when he was trying not to smile, my heart would stumble and a warmth would uncoil unnervingly inside me. It was all very unsettling.
To