Escape for the Summer (33 page)

“What’s in there?” Angel asked, intrigued.

Laurence turned and smiled. “Home. That’s Lion Wood and we just passed Stag Gate.” He slowed the Aston Martin and swung the car to the right and through an even larger pair of gates, wide open this time and guarding a drive that swept across a deer-filled park, towards deep green woods and a glittering lake. “Welcome to Kenniston.”

It wasn’t often that Angel was lost for words, but she was now. This was Kenniston? OMG! There was no way the Internet did this place justice! It was bigger than Disneyland Paris! As the car juddered and jolted its way along the drive, Angel was too distracted by the breathtaking views to care that her boobs were pinging about like a pair of wallabies thanks to all the potholes. And if the foliage seemed to be encroaching upon the drive with all the determination of the crowds at the Next sale, then she was far too busy staring at the enormous house to think too much of it. Angel didn’t really register gardens anyway. In her book, gardening was far too much like outdoors housework. No, she decided as she pulled on her shades to admire the house in the bright rays of the evening sunshine, Andi was the Evans sister with the fetish for gardeners. She, on the other hand, was more than happy to leave the Lady Chatterley fantasies well alone.

“What do you think?” Laurence asked, sweeping the car up before the house in a gravel-scattering arc. The mansion loomed up before them, the graceful pillars and honeyed stone seeming to spring from the earth just like the winding ivy. Windows glittered like eyes, the gardens tumbled away to the lake and years of history, wealth and privilege seemed to bask in the sunshine.

Tooting Bec it wasn’t.

“Do you like it?” he pressed.

Did she like it? Angel was just on the brink of shrieking with excitement when she remembered that Laurence was still under the impression that she was used to immense wealth. Vassilly and Vanya’s place probably made Kenniston look like a Barratt starter home to him, so jumping up and down shouting “Kerching!” probably wouldn’t go down well.

Not cool, Angel. Not cool at all.

She took a deep breath. “It’s lovely.”

Laurence beamed at her and the genuine pleasure in his smile made her heart melt.

“I can’t wait to show you inside. We’ll have tea and then I’ll give you the tour.”

Angel could hardly wait to see inside herself. And the thought of having afternoon tea on the lawn, probably served by a butler, made her very happy. As Laurence took her arm and guided her up the sweeping steps, she had a Lizzy-Bennet-seeing-Pemberley-for-the-first-time moment and had to restrain herself from asking him to jump in the lake. Laurence in a wet shirt would be sex on a stick! Or, more appropriately, sex in a pond! She almost needed to jump in herself in order to calm down.

“The place suits you,” Laurence said, taking her hand and raising it to his lips gallantly. “Your grace and beauty enhance it.”

Angel goggled at him. Was he saying what she thought he was saying? That he could see her here with him? When Laurence then lowered his mouth to brush hers, his lips skimming her own, she almost passed out from a mixture of desire and joy. Yes! He was! She was certain of it!

Lady Angelique Elliott
, she mused to herself as hand in hand they climbed the steps that led to an enormous front door. Yes, that would suit her very well indeed!

An hour later, though, Angel was starting to feel slightly less certain. Whether this was down to the roaming pack of smelly dogs shedding hair over every surface or the icy chill that pervaded the place even in the midst of the hottest heatwave on record, or just a side effect of the overwhelming smell of damp, she wasn’t sure. What she did know for certain, as she cuddled the ancient range in the kitchen and pushed the wet nose of a retriever out of her crotch for the umpteenth time, was that she was bloody cold. Her little vest top and floaty wrap might be brilliant for showing off her tan but they were pretty useless when it came to keeping her warm. Brrr. Even her goosebumps had goosebumps. And as for the afternoon tea… rather than having that served on the lawn and in delicate bone-china cups, it was brewed by Laurence in a chipped teapot and in a cavernous kitchen that might have been the latest word in culinary technology when Queen Anne was ruling, but which now left a great deal to be desired. The huge range and chimney, together with the spit, quarry-tiled floor and yellowing butler’s sink, were a million miles from the designer kitchen of her dreams. Where were the chandeliers and marble worktops, she wondered as she sat at the huge scrubbed table and sipped her tea (after fishing out several dog hairs), and where was the Smeg fridge? In
25 Beautiful Homes
all the mansions had stunning kitchens. Hadn’t the Elliotts seen a copy?

It appeared not.

“Darling, you’re cold.” Horrified, Laurence shrugged off his beautiful cashmere sweater and draped it over her shoulders. His expensive aftershave and body warmth were a soothing combination, and as his hands skimmed the bare flesh of her shoulders, Angel shivered – and not just from the draught.

“It is always cold here,” he added apologetically. “Kenniston was intended to be manned by a small army of servants and every room had a fire going, back in the day. We obviously don’t run it like that anymore and the central heating is a little temperamental to say the least.”

He wasn’t kidding. Angel could see her own breath. In mid-summer.

“Can you turn it up?” she asked hopefully.

Laurence grimaced. “To be honest it isn’t working right now. I will have it serviced before the winter but it hasn’t been a priority. Ma isn’t a fan anyway and prefers to have fires lit in her rooms. Would you like me to lend you a coat?”

A coat? Indoors? Angel wasn’t sure she recalled the part of
Pride and Prejudice
where Darcy lent Lizzy his Puffa jacket.

“Why don’t you show me around?” she suggested. Surely if they walked around she would warm up a bit?

“Excellent idea,” Laurence agreed, and they set off on a tour of the house. It was on a vast scale that Angel had only encountered on trips to Blenheim Palace and Hampton Court. As Laurence showed her around she marvelled at the tapestries and friezes and at the beautiful rooms that streamed with light when he pulled open ancient wooden shutters. The sheer size of the place was incredible, and it would have taken her breath away if the dust hadn’t got there first. Where was Gemma’s asthma inhaler when she needed to borrow it?

Seriously, this place was so dusty it made the flat she shared with Gemma look clean. Some rooms looked as though they hadn’t been opened for years; the furniture was shrouded with yellowing sheets and the antique carpets were pale with dust. Eugh. It needed a good clean.

“We don’t use the majority of rooms very often,” Laurence explained when he caught sight of the expression on her face. “There’s only Ma and myself living here now, so we tend to stick to the west wing where the kitchen is. A place this size costs a fortune to run.”

Angel nodded sagely. But didn’t he have a fortune? Wasn’t that the whole point?

“Come and see the Grand Bedchamber,” Laurence continued, taking her hand and guiding her through a chain of apartments until they reached a beautiful room smothered in exquisite hand-painted Chinese wallpaper and crammed full of antique furniture. “This was commissioned by the Fourth Viscount for his favourite mistress. If you look up you’ll see the artwork on the ceiling he chose especially.”

Angel craned her neck. Plump cherubs and fat goddesses with serious cellulite cavorted merrily over the ceiling, scarlet nipples and dimpled bottoms on full view to leering satyrs with very graphic hard-ons. Good Lord. It was the eighteenth-century version of
Fifty Shades.
She blushed and looked away.

Laurence caught her blush and grinned. “I think a lot of fun could be had in here.” He nodded at the canopied four-poster, swathed in moth-eaten yellow silk and balanced precariously on a plinth. “What do you think?”

It was the most suggestive comment he had ever made to her, but Angel was too busy listening to the woodworms chomping away for it to really register. When she did acknowledge him, he looked so proud that she did her best to look enthusiastic. Besides, everyone knew that antiques like this lot were worth gazillions. She must stop being such a pleb.

“Totally,” she agreed. If somebody went through the place with a Dyson first and then fumigated the place, that was.

“And this is the Fourth Viscount, famous for his five mistresses who all lived in the house,” Laurence declared proudly, pointing to a portrait on the wall. “He’s the eighteenth century’s Hef! That’s him there, painted by Gainsborough.”

From within a gilded frame a version of Laurence in a powdered wig and frilly suit stared beadily down at her. Even after centuries there was no mistaking the gleam in his eye. Angel only hoped she could put the same gleam into his descendant’s. Still, if fat bums and chubby arms were what did it for the Elliott men, then she was on a hiding to nothing. He’d be better off with Gemma. She wiggled her arm a bit so that the borrowed sweater slipped to reveal the smooth curve of her shoulder and the elegant line of her throat; these were usually sterling weapons in her arsenal, but Laurence was far too busy reeling off his family history to even notice. Angel sighed and tugged the fabric up before she got frostbite, and pasted a riveted expression onto her face. It was all very well hearing about the past but it was the future she was more interested in. While he talked on, Angel entertained herself by imagining just how she could redecorate the entire place. With some white walls, a decent carpet, less tatty furniture and those gross cherubs painted out, the room would look awesome. Surely a viscount’s wife got free rein to decorate?

They continued to stroll through the house, taking in endless bedrooms, galleries and even a billiards room. She wondered if Prince Harry had ever enjoyed a game there. It was certainly a house where the rich and titled would feel at home. Everywhere she looked there were wonderful treasures on display, although some shelves and sideboards seemed curiously bare. Now and again Laurence stooped to move a bucket out of the way (the roof, it seemed, could be a menace), and when the sun poured through the freed blinds, bright patches of wallpaper stood out like scars. Paintings must have hung on every surface at one point, Angel realised. Where were they now?

“On loan to various galleries,” Laurence said smoothly when she asked him. “One can’t be selfish. The nation should enjoy my heritage too. That was one of the first things I did when I inherited.”

Angel drew a finger through the dust on the dining table. If she’d inherited Kenniston the first thing she would have done would be to send the cleaners through. Still, aristocrats did things differently, didn’t they?

“Ah, that’ll be Ma,” Laurence added quickly when a car door slammed outside. He gently took Angel’s hand and brushed the dust from it with his long slim fingers. She wondered how it would feel to have those fingers dusting the rest of her. She could hardly wait until bedtime. Maybe she would find out at long last. In a house this large they’d be sure to find some privacy.

“Come and meet Ma,” he said.

“Really?”

He nodded. “Really. She’d love to meet you at last. She must be sick of hearing me bang on about you.”

Wow. He’d told his mother about her? Excitement rocketed through her. In that case he must really like her!

Running a nervous hand through her hair and tugging her vest top up so that she didn’t reveal too much cleavage, Angel followed Laurence through a warren of passageways and out to the back of the house where an ancient shooting brake had pulled up. Several dogs were hanging out of it, panting in the heat and drooling while a tall skinny woman dressed from head to toe in tweed wrestled with
Aldi
carriers.

Angel stared.
Aldi?
Was this for real? Lady Kenniston was shopping at
Aldi?
Missing pictures? No heating? Dust everywhere? Leaking roofs? Suddenly Angel was full of questions, which she was determined to ask Laurence as soon as they were alone again.

But the first and most important one had to be:
where on earth is the nearest Waitrose?

Chapter 30

It wasn’t often Gemma picked up a newspaper and discovered her backside plastered all over the front page. In fact this had never happened before, so when she arrived at Rock Cakes
to see her cellulite featured across the red tops it came as something of a shock.

“Is this you?” Dee asked curiously, looking up from scanning the story, and brandishing a paper in Gemma’s direction. “Did you really save Callum South’s life?”

Hands over her mouth, Gemma backed away in horror – as though putting distance between her actual self and the pale blobby newsprint image would help to erase the hideous sight. Not that there was any hope of this now she’d clocked it. Her pallid skin and the sodden fabric of her skirt clinging to every dimple and bulge was branded onto her retinas. She’d probably need to be in therapy for years to have any hope of getting over it.

“‘Callum South, ex-striker for the Dangers, and reality-TV star, was filming for his new show when disaster struck,’” read Dee, tipping a sugar into her coffee as though she was the one in shock. “‘South fell into the water without his life jacket properly fastened and, being a poor swimmer, panicked. At this point a mystery woman heroically dived from her speedboat to save him.’” She looked up. “I won’t go on but there’s loads more in a similar vein. All the papers are running the story, and
The Wright Stuff
has already been debating whether or not Callum’s show sets a bad example of safety at sea and should be pulled. On the
Today
programme, John Humphrys made some very cutting remarks about Callum South’s heroic image gravely misleading the public. It’s only a matter of time before the Loose Women tear him to shreds.”

Gemma felt terrible. Poor Callum. Being carved up by Radio 4 while he ate his bran flakes was probably not the best start to his day.