“Mrs Henley, have we another starter to serve our guests?” Cherie murmured anxiously as the cook reached out to remove the vichyssoise tureen from the table.
“I’ll go and fetch the oxtail soup.” Mrs Henley scowled. “I made it for tomorrow’s luncheon, but it’ll do, I reckon.” Grumbling, she exited the dining room.
A few minutes later, a tureen of oxtail soup replaced the vichyssoise, and Holly turned to Lady Blandford. “Mrs Henley’s oxtail soup is really good. Would you like some?”
“I would indeed! I adore oxtail soup.”
And as Holly dabbed at her mouth with a napkin and listened to her ladyship drone on about her failures and successes with the various recipes for oxtail soup she’d tried over the years, relief swept over her.
Alex might be furious with her at the moment, and he might think her completely mad, but his irritation wouldn’t last. And his phone really would dry out eventually.
And best of all, she’d succeeded in keeping Alex Barrington from hearing her message. And in the end, that was all that mattered.
Despite Mrs Henley’s fears, there were plenty of eggs for breakfast the next morning. Holly helped herself to a generous portion of soft-boiled eggs and toast soldiers from the sideboard. And what the hell, she decided, even though she normally shunned meat, that bacon looked really good, too…
“Good morning, Ms James.”
Holly looked up guiltily, bacon clamped in the tongs she held over her plate, to see Alex entering the dining room. He wore jeans and a faded blue-and-green striped rugby shirt, and he looked…well…fit. Very, very fit.
She noticed he also still looked a bit put out.
“Hello.” Holly indicated the empty dining room. “It looks like we’re the only ones up so far.”
“I’m not surprised. It’s a bit early.” He eyed her plate, heaped liberally with eggs, toast, tomatoes, and bacon. “Hungry this morning, are you?”
She glared at him. “It’s rude to comment on one’s eating habits, you know.”
“Sorry. It’s just that I never knew a girl who ate like a footie player before.” He joined her at the sideboard, picked up a plate, and asked conversationally, “So, do you punt for Arsenal, or United?”
“Ha ha. If we go for a walk with the dogs this morning, believe me, you’ll need every single calorie.”
“I see. Consider me suitably chastened. At any rate,” he added as he took his filled plate and sat down across from her at the dining-room table, “it’s refreshing to see a girl with an appetite. No food issues here.” He picked up a bottle of HP Sauce and poured it liberally over his eggs and fried potatoes.
She raised her brow. “I see you drown everything in brown sauce.”
“It’s rude to comment on one’s eating habits. Or so I’m told.”
“Did you put your phone in a zip-top bag with rice, like I told you?” she asked as she dunked a toast soldier in egg.
“I did. I’ll check it later today.” He eyed her over his toast. “You’d best hope it works, Ms James.”
“It will.” She studied his half-eaten plate of food. “Well, hurry up and eat. The day’s wasting.”
When they finished breakfast, they went into the foyer to let the dogs out of doors for a ramble across the fields. Delirious with joy, the mastiffs streaked across the grass, racing each other and gambolling like children, until Holly whistled for them to settle down. The weather was glorious, all blue skies and mild breezes, as she and Alex set out after them.
“Are you and Camilla an item?” she asked casually.
He glanced at her. “God, no. She was my plus-one for the drinks party last night. That’s all.”
“Yet you had her thong in your pocket at the interview.”
Alex came to a stop. “I told you, that was just a silly wager.”
“And does Camilla know about your ‘silly wager’?” Holly didn’t know why — she didn’t even like Camilla Shawcross — but she was nonetheless outraged on her behalf.
“No! Of course she doesn’t know.”
She crossed her arms against her chest. “Do you keep trophies from all of your…conquests, Mr Barrington?”
“Am I being cross-examined?” he asked evenly. “Because that’s what it sounds like.”
“I just think it’s reprehensible, that’s all. Tucking a woman’s thong in your suit pocket—”
“It wasn’t like that. And it wasn’t Camilla’s.”
Holly eyed him sceptically. “No? Whose was it, then? Or do you have an assortment of thongs from your many conquests?”
He let out an exasperated breath. “It wasn’t anyone’s. I—” he scowled “—I went into Agent Provocateur and I bought it.”
“You bought it? You mean—”
“I mean,” he admitted, “that I haven’t actually slept with Camilla Shawcross. I only wanted my co-workers to think I had. So I bought the thong and took the tags off, and tucked it in my pocket. It worked a treat.”
“So you lied!” she exclaimed. “You lied to win the wager.”
He shrugged. “I don’t like to lose.”
“I’d forgotten that about you,” Holly said suddenly. She leaned forward to open the dog gate when they arrived at the first stile. “We were arguing in the sandbox once, about whether we could dig through to China, I think — and you lost the argument. You were so furious you threw cat poo at me.”
“It was dried cat poo,” he pointed out, and paused. “It was my way of showing that I liked you.”
“Really? Well, I hope you’ve learned more acceptable ways since then to show you like someone,” she said tartly.
Alex came up behind her and closed the gate. “I have, actually,” he said, his voice gone husky. “Much more enjoyable ways, too…”
Holly looked up at him. His eyes were a lovely velvety brown. He stood inches away, and his gaze dropped from her eyes to her mouth. She tilted her head back and parted her lips in anticipation of his kiss…
When her bloody mobile rang. Sasha.
“Sorry,” Holly apologized as she held up her mobile, “but I have to take this.”
“Well, at least you have that option, unlike me.”
Dismay coloured her voice. “Alex, truly, I’m sorry about your phone—”
“I’m kidding, Holly. Go on, take your call.” He turned away, whistling for the dogs. They capered eagerly after him as he headed up the hill.
“You’re in serious trouble, Holly,” Sasha said without preamble. “Valery is furious. You’ve opened BritTEEN up to a potential lawsuit with your interview. Has Henry seen it yet?”
“Henry?” Holly echoed blankly.
“Henry Barrington, you idiot!” Sasha snapped.
“Oh. You mean Alex. No, he…” she paused as he caught her eye from halfway up the hill and waved “…he doesn’t know, yet.”
“We’ll talk about what’s to be done as far as damage control on Monday. Valery wants to see you, first thing. I shouldn’t be surprised,” Sasha added with satisfaction, “if you don’t get sacked over this.”