His Rags-to-Riches Bride: Innocent on Her Wedding Night / Housekeeper at His Beck and Call / The Australian's Housekeeper Bride. Susan StephensЧитать онлайн книгу.
perhaps I truly thought they were, Laine thought listlessly, recalling how she’d gone through every item in her inadequate wardrobe, trying to find something that would do the occasion justice. At the same time reminding herself with every breath that this was not—not—a date. That he was simply being kind.
I knew it then, she thought sadly. Why couldn’t I remember it later—when it really mattered?
She heard the flat door bang, and realised that he’d left for the evening, that she was on her own again. Which meant that she could leave her room and move around freely, if she wanted, without the risk of any unwanted encounters.
Except that it just seemed easier to stay where she was as her mind dived back into the deep waters of the past, to that night when her life had changed so completely and so wonderfully—or so she’d thought then.
In the end, she’d decided to wear her summer best of a turquoise wrap-around skirt and white scoop-necked top. Not glamorous or sophisticated, she’d thought wistfully, but the earrings he’d given her would make the outfit a little more special. At the last minute she had added a moonstone pendant on a slender gold chain which had been her seventeenth birthday present from him, watching how it seemed to slide naturally into the faint cleavage between her small breasts and nestle there.
Wondering if he would notice that too, and halting right there, knowing that she was straying into the realms of dangerous fantasy. Reminding herself that the pendant had got her into enough trouble already when, on her birthday evening, she’d gone running into his arms to thank him, seeking his cheek with her lips and somehow finding the warm, lingering pressure of his mouth instead, along with a strange inability to move away, out of range. As she should have done. At once, if not sooner.
An error which, she’d realised, had been lost on no one present—particularly Angela, who’d delivered a stinging rebuke later, telling her she was far too old to fling herself at Daniel like that.
Too old one minute. Too young the next. She’d never known where she stood.
But on that evening, as she’d touched her lips with pale rose colour and recalled the sensation of his mouth on hers, she had felt all too young. And flustered. Thinking, for no fathomable reason, of the clean but so elderly bra and briefs she was wearing. Glad that it wasn’t a real date, so there was no chance that they’d ever—that he’d want to—that she’d be expected to.
At which juncture she had told herself sternly to stop thinking, because it was clearly turning her into an idiot, collected her bag and, breathing deeply, gone downstairs.
Angela still hadn’t returned, and Candida had been in the drawing room, turning over the pages of a magazine in a way that suggested she’d rather be tearing them to shreds and throwing them at someone.
She’d given Laine a hard stare. ‘You’re actually planning to wear that—for dinner with Daniel Flynn?’
‘My crinoline’s at the menders.’ Laine pretended to check the contents of her bag, feeling her fragile confidence shredding.
She was rescued almost at once by the shrill of the doorbell and the need to answer it.
‘Oh,’ she said, almost blankly, finding Daniel waiting on the doorstep, immaculate in a dark suit and a tie the colour of rubies. ‘It’s you.’
‘How many other men are you seeing tonight?’
‘But you never ring,’ she protested. ‘You usually just walk in.’
He glanced past her, his mouth twisting faintly. ‘Not when I’m hoping for a fast getaway,’ he said, and took her hand. ‘Let’s go.’
The car was long, low and sleek, and Laine sank down into the soft seat, stifling a sigh of pleasure as she breathed in the expensive smell of leather.
‘Is this new?’ she asked as the engine purred into life.
‘It’s always the same car,’ he admitted. ‘I simply update the model.’ He paused. ‘Are you learning to drive?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Not yet.’ And probably not at all, she added silently. Not when driving lessons were so expensive. She couldn’t visualise her mother footing such a bill—or ever allowing her the use of the household’s only car.
She glanced sideways at him. ‘You look—well,’ she volunteered shyly. ‘Very tanned. I thought it was winter in Australia.’
‘It is, but I stopped off in America on the way back. Some friends have a house on Cape Cod, and I spent a couple of weeks there.’
‘I expect it’s very beautiful.’
‘Incredibly. Lots of beaches to walk on while you think.’
He seemed to want to think now as well, she reflected rather wistfully as he relapsed into silence, or maybe he was just concentrating on his driving on these narrow country roads.
Not that it really mattered. It was enough just to sit beside him and let her mind flicker through a series of small, impossible dreams.
But when at last he turned the car through a pair of imposing wrought-iron gates she sat up swiftly, her enjoyable reverie over. ‘But this is Langbow Manor.’ She sounded shocked. ‘Are we having dinner here?’
‘You’ve got something against the place?’ He looked surprised. ‘It seemed fine when I checked into my suite earlier.’
‘I’ve never been here before. But isn’t it terribly expensive?’
He slanted a grin at her as he slotted the car into a parking space with expert efficiency. ‘That’s not an objection I usually get when I take a girl to dinner.’
‘No, of course not,’ she said, flushing. ‘I’m sorry.’ Candida’s words stung her afresh. ‘It’s just that I’m not really dressed for somewhere quite as grand.’
He walked round and opened the passenger door. ‘I shall be the envy of every man in the place,’ he told her softly, and her flush deepened.
Comfort closed round her as soon as she crossed the threshold. The room he took her to was like someone’s lovely drawing room, with charming chintz-covered sofas, and chairs grouped round small tables, but within a moment a waiter had arrived beside them. ‘For monsieur a vodka martini? Certainement. And, for mademoiselle may I recommend a Kir Royale?’
The drinks were there within seconds, accompanied by a dish of tiny, exquisite canapés, bursting in her mouth with all kinds of delicious and subtle flavours.
‘I shan’t be able to eat a thing later,’ she sighed.
He laughed. ‘I think you will.’
And he was right. Because, however nervous and excited she might feel, the watercress mousse she was served, followed by lobster mayonnaise, was just too wonderful for her to leave even a scrap—especially when accompanied by the crisp white wine Daniel had chosen, and which the sommelier had brought to them with an air of quiet satisfaction.
She found she could even manage the sweet pastry tart filled with tiny strawberries that ended her meal, while Daniel followed his vichysoisse and river trout with a tiny pot of something dark, rich and alcoholically chocolate, of which she sampled a taste.
‘This is a magical place,’ Laine said, looking around her with shining eyes. They had been given a secluded table in the corner of the Manor’s famous conservatory, where the massive vine above their heads was already loaded with bunches of small grapes. Because of the evening’s warmth the doors stood open to the garden, and subdued lights had begun to edge the scented borders outside as the daylight faded.
She added, more stiltedly, ‘I—I’ll remember it always.’ She tried to smile. ‘I don’t think Spain is going to be anything like this.’
‘I don’t suppose so either,’ he said. ‘So why go?’
She