Hitched!. Jessica HartЧитать онлайн книгу.
or something?’ he protested. ‘You wouldn’t hold my looks against me if I was ugly, would you? Or at least you wouldn’t admit it.’
I sighed. ‘I don’t know why you’re so keen to ask me out anyway,’ I said. ‘You must be desperate for a date.’
‘I’m just trying to be friendly.’
‘Well, I appreciate it,’ I said crisply, ‘but I’m only here for a couple of months and I’d rather keep our relationship professional if that’s all right with you.’
‘I like the idea of us having a relationship,’ said George, ‘but I’m not so sure about the professional bit. Is everything professional with you, Frith?’
‘It is while I’m here. This job is important to me,’ I told him. ‘I really needed some site experience and this is my first time in charge. It’s a great chance for me. Plus, this contract is really important to Hugh. He’s been so good to me, I don’t want to let him down.’
I looked around the site, narrowing my eyes as I envisaged what the centre would look like when it was finished. The specifications were for the use of sustainable materials wherever possible, and the wood and glass finish was designed to blend into the backdrop of the trees edging the site.
‘It’s going to look good,’ I told George. ‘It’s expensive, but I gather Lord Whellerby’s plan is to make Whellerby Hall the top conference venue in the north, and the centre will be a step towards that. It’s a good idea,’ I added. I rather liked the sound of Lord Whellerby. I hadn’t met him yet, but I got the impression that he was astute and sensible—unlike his estate manager!
George had been following my gaze, rocking back on his heels as he studied the site thoughtfully. The breeze ruffled his hair and set it glinting where it caught the sunlight. In spite of the muddy boots and worn Guernsey, he looked as if he were modelling for a country sports catalogue.
‘He had to do something,’ he said frankly. ‘These stately homes are expensive to keep up. Roly nearly passed out when he saw the first heating bill!’
‘Does Lord Whellerby know you call him Roly?’ I asked disapprovingly. In spite of his regular requests for progress reports, he had never visited the site, apparently happy to appoint the laid-back George as his go-between.
‘We were at school together,’ George said. ‘He’s lucky if Roly is all I call him!’
‘Oh.’ I was disconcerted. ‘I’d imagined an older man.’
‘No, he’s thirty-two. He never expected to inherit Whellerby. The last Lord Whellerby was his great-uncle, and he had a son and a grandson who were groomed to take over the estate in due course. But they had a whole string of family tragedies and Roly was pitched into the middle of things.’
‘It must have been difficult for him,’ I said, still trying to picture Lord Whellerby as a young man instead of the experienced landowner I’d imagined.
‘It was. This is a big estate. It was a lot to take on, and Roly had never even lived in the country before. He had no experience and he was frankly terrified. I don’t blame him,’ said George.
‘Oh.’ The breeze was pushing in some clouds, I noticed worriedly. It kept blowing my hair around my face and I wished I’d taken the time to plait it. My hair, by the way, is another bane of my life. It is fine and straight and brown and I can’t do anything with it other than let it hang there.
I pulled away a strand that had plastered itself against my lips, still trying to reconfigure this new information about Lord Whellerby, who was, after all, the client.
‘Did you come here at the same time?’ I asked George.
‘Not immediately. Roly inherited an estate manager from his great-uncle and the guy was running rings round him. I was...at a loose end, shall we say? Roly invited me up to keep him company for a while, and when the estate manager left he asked if I wanted the job.’ George grinned and spread his hands. ‘I had nothing better to do, so here I am.’
That rang true. George was exactly the kind of person who would get a job because of who he knew rather than what he knew, I thought darkly.
‘Jobs for the boys, in fact?’
George’s smile was easy. ‘No one else would employ me,’ he said, clearly unfazed by my disapproval.
I sniffed. ‘I still think you should show your employer some respect and refer to him as Lord Whellerby,’ I said primly.
‘Do you call Hugh Mr Morrison?’
‘That’s different.’
‘How?’
‘He’s not a lord, for a start.’
George made a big deal of shaking his head and then smacking his ear as if to clear it. ‘Sorry, that was really weird,’ he told her. ‘For a minute there I thought we were in the twenty-first century, but, thank God, we’re back in the nineteenth where we all know our place!’
‘Maybe it is old-fashioned of me,’ I conceded, ‘but I happen to think there’s nothing wrong with using a title to show a bit of respect.’
‘You call me George.’
‘And your point is...?’
He raised his hands in surrender and smiled. ‘I’d hate to be called Mr Challoner, anyway,’ he said. ‘I’d constantly be looking over my shoulder for my father.’ For a second, his mouth was set and a grimness touched his eyes, but so fleetingly that afterwards I decided that I must have imagined it.
A moment later, and the blue eyes were full of laughter once more. As they rested on my face I realised just how long I had been standing and talking to him when I should have been overseeing the pouring of the concrete.
‘Look, did you want something in particular?’ I said, summoning my best crisp manner. ‘Because I really do need to get on.’
‘I’m on my way up to the Hall. I just thought I’d drop by and see how things were going so I can give Roly—excuse me, Lord Whellerby—an update.’
‘I’ve done a progress report if he’d like one.’
‘Another one?’
‘I got the impression Lord Whellerby likes to be kept informed,’ I said stiffly. ‘It’s part of my job to keep the client happy.’
‘I must remember to tell Roly that,’ said George with a wink, which I met with a stony look.
‘Would he like this report or not?’
‘Oh, absolutely.’
‘Fine.’ Tucking my clipboard under my arm, I shouted to Frank over the sound of the concrete mixer. ‘Can you carry on, Frank?’ I pointed at the clouds. ‘And keep an eye on those!’
Frank lifted a hand in acknowledgement and I led the way to the site office. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried it, but there is no way to walk gracefully through mud in a pair of Wellington boots. The mud sucked at my feet and made horrible squelching sounds, and I was horribly aware of George behind me, watching me waddle. I had to resist the urge to tug my safety jacket further down over my rear.
‘Boots,’ I said, pointing to George’s feet when we reached the prefabricated building that housed the site office, and he threw a crisp salute. Needless to say, he had made it across the mud as if he were walking across a perfectly mown lawn.
I ignored him. My boots were so clogged with mud that I struggled to get them off even using the scraper at the bottom of the steps, but after a tussle that George watched with undisguised amusement I managed to replace them with a pair of pumps I kept just inside the door. Tossing my hard hat onto a chair, I stalked across to my computer and pulled up the file, my colour still high.
George—of course—had no trouble taking off his own boots. He lounged