The Second Time I Saw You: The Oxford Blue Series #2 (6 page)

‘Alexander would kill me if he found out. He’d definitely kill the boy.’ Emma has ignored me and her eyes throw down a challenge. She clearly wants to share something.

‘He might be pissed off about the expulsion and the drinking but he’s no need to know about this boy,’ I say carefully.

‘Yes, but it was Henry Favell, and Alexander can’t stand him.’

I daren’t reveal that Rupert has already told me this, and I feel sorry for her with so many other people interfering in her life, even if they think it’s for a good reason. Thank goodness she’s stopped sleeping with
him. Thank goodness she doesn’t know he tried to get me into bed during the hunt ball.

‘I … um … This was some time ago, though, I’m guessing? Why would Alexander be mad at you now?’

She says the next words to Harvey, as if that makes it OK. ‘Henry told me that Rupert and Alex had threatened to nail his balls to the wall if he carried on seeing me. I was
so
mad at Alex I almost left school there and then to get revenge on him! Henry did leave for a while, but’ – she gives a little smile, nurturing the secret she just shared – ‘we’ve started seeing each other again. He took me to the Ivy when I was last in London and he rented a room.’

I feel physically sick at this news. Why, why,
why
do I have to be the one to hear Emma’s confession? Why
now
?

‘You won’t tell him, will you?’ Suddenly there’s panic in her voice. ‘You’re the only person who knows about us apart from a couple of girls at school. Alex really would kill Henry. He’s never liked him and I know he doesn’t trust him.’

‘I’m sure he wouldn’t
actually
kill him,’ I say, although I’m not confident there wouldn’t be some kind of physical pain involved. Henry’s fate doesn’t bother me; but Emma’s does. Should I tell her that Henry hit on me at the ball? Oh help, was she actually dating him back then? Because if so, she has no idea what a slimeball he truly is.

‘Don’t say a word!’

‘I won’t tell him.’

‘Promise me!’ She grabs my arm.

‘I promise, but maybe you should be … um … careful. Maybe Alex has a point.’

‘Don’t you start too. I thought I could trust you. I love Henry, and it’s none of Alex’s business.’

Emma also has a point; no matter what Alexander thinks of Henry, she has a right to see him. However, after my one encounter with him, I side with Alexander. He’s a charming, manipulative bastard who’d do anything to get what he wants and now that Emma is, I assume, a very wealthy young woman, he might well be even more interested.

‘It’s none of my business either, but Alexander would never do anything to hurt you, I’m sure.’

‘I know and I do love him to bits most of the time but he thinks he knows what’s best for me. Just like Daddy did.’ Her eyes glisten dangerously. ‘Don’t tell me to stop seeing him. Not now. I need him.’

This statement is heartrending and from the wobble in her voice, I think she really means what she says, which is even more tragic. Deciding that now is definitely not the moment to shatter her already fragile heart, I give her a hug. ‘Come on, let’s go back inside. Most people will have gone by now, with any luck.’

The chandelier has been lit in the ballroom, making it seem darker outside than it actually is. The fire still glows in the hearth but it’s growing chilly despite the heating. Our voices echo because almost all of the mourners have gone. A few closer relatives lingered after I got back with Emma but they’ve gone too. Finally, the room is almost empty and we’re standing by the door, as Alexander kisses Aunt Celia goodbye and almost passes out from her floral fragrance. A few of the catering staff bustle about collecting glasses and plates.

After smiling politely during countless glances and remarks about Americans, I suddenly feel tired, and Emma’s ‘secret’ is an added burden I never asked for. I know Alexander would hit the roof if he found out and that kind of news is the last thing he needs now. Fingers crossed, Emma will get bored with Henry Favell, or he’ll think better of chasing her. I just hope she doesn’t get hurt too badly.

Rupert approaches, knocking back the remains of his whisky.

‘I’m off, then.’ He embraces Alexander in a way I’ve never seen him do before, which makes me suspect it’s for my benefit. ‘If you need me, you know where I am.’

‘Thanks.’ Alexander’s eyes seem a little glazed.

Rupert turns to me, ultra polite. ‘Can I give you a lift anywhere, Lauren?’

‘Thank you so much for the offer, Rupert, but I’ll take care of myself.’

‘She’s shtaying.’ Alexander slings his arm around my back and hugs me to his side. ‘Aren’t you, Lauren?’

I smile at Rupert. ‘If you want me to.’

Alexander glances down at me, puzzlement in his eyes, although that could, of course, be the whisky. ‘Of coursh I do.’

‘In that case,’ says Rupert, pulling on a pair of black leather gloves, ‘I’ll leave you to console each other.’

What a toad he is. Who else would use a funeral to score points off his own cousin, who’s supposedly his ‘best’ friend too? Alexander, however, is wrapped in a fug of Lagavulin and hasn’t noticed the irony in Rupert’s remarks. Actually, in his state, I don’t think Alexander would notice irony if it hit him over the head.

‘Robert will show you out …’ he says, tightening his arm around my back. I think he needs the support.

‘There’s no need. I think I know my way out of Falconbury by now.’

As Alexander turns away to pick up his glass, Rupert shoots me a glance of pure venom that makes me shiver inside, but I smile sweetly and give him a little wave. ‘Goodnight. Have a safe journey, Rupes.’

A few hours later, Emma has gone to her room and Alexander slumps in the deep buttoned armchair in the library, staring into the embers of the fire. His black tie is unknotted and the top button of his shirt is open. I’ve been curled up in the chair next to him, trying to catch up on some reading for college. No one wanted dinner in the dining room, so the staff brought a tray of buffet leftovers into the library. I was starving but Alexander hardly touched anything, preferring his whisky.

The door creaks as Robert enters and places a tray with a fresh bottle of whisky, a jug and two glasses on the table between our chairs. ‘I brought some water too …’ he says, eyeing Alexander apprehensively. ‘Can I get you anything else, sir? Some more food? Helen could make you an omelette or a fresh sandwich? What about some coffee?’

‘Coffee? What would I want coffee for? I don’t know about Lauren.’ He flaps a hand in my general direction.

I give Robert a tight smile. ‘I’m good, thanks.’

‘Call me if you need anything.’ Robert seems to direct this offer at me and I mouth a ‘thanks’ at him.

The door closes with a soft click as Alexander reaches for the bottle.

‘See thish?’ he says, ripping off the seal. ‘This is a Glen Moray from the 1960 vintage.’ He screws the paper into a tiny ball and flicks it at the fire but it falls short. ‘It was bottled in 1988, the same year I was born.’

He unscrews the cap and sloshes the contents first
into one glass and then another, leaving a tiny puddle of amber pooling on the silver tray.

My head has started to throb. ‘Not for me, thanks.’

He frowns, his eyes full of hurt. ‘You have to try it. You have to drink it
now
, or when will you? Who knows when “when” will be. Here …’

The tumbler trembles a little as he hands it to me and leans over, his breath reeking of whisky. He’s off his face already but who can blame him?

He holds the glass in front of him, and the crystal and amber liquid glisten like jewels in the firelight. I cradle mine in my hands and he sniffs the glass, takes a sip and leans back against the chair, with a dramatic sigh.

‘Now isn’t that the best fucking thing you’ve ever tasted?’ He looks at me lustfully. ‘Apart from me, of course.’

I take a sip and try to look as if I’m enjoying it for his sake, although by now I’m just wishing he’d stop drinking.

‘I’m no whisky buff but I’ll admit that it’s good.’

‘
Good
?
Is that all you can say about a bottle of whisky that costs a grand?’

‘I don’t care how much it costs,’ I say.

He laughs, and tosses back a third of the measure, which was generous in the first place. ‘My father would have a blue fit, if he saw me glugging it down like lemonade,’ he says, with a bitter laugh. ‘He’d hit the roof.’

‘Perhaps he wouldn’t mind so much in the circumstances.’

‘In the circumstance of him being dead?’ I flinch a little as he raises his voice, then he seems to realize he’s almost shouted and lowers it again. ‘I
knew
him. I knew – fucking lived – every one of his moods while I was here. You know, he told me he’d bought this to celebrate me being born, but he never opened it for some reason. God knows why, he was obviously waiting for something more momentous than that.’

‘Maybe he just forgot it was in the cellars …’ I say, trying to deflect his rising anger.

He looks in my direction, but I get the impression he doesn’t really care who I am any more. ‘Maybe,’ he says truculently, briefly reminding me of Emma.

‘Or he might have been saving the bottle for you.’

‘Why would I merit something so infinitely more precious to him as
this
?’ He holds up the glass again and drinks it all down. Then he starts laughing, really loudly like I’ve just made some hysterically funny barrack-room joke. I put my glass down, wondering if I dare fetch Robert. I just hope Alexander passes out very soon before he can get alcohol poisoning.

He downs the rest of the glass and while I haven’t been counting, I figure he must have had close on a bottle of whisky already today. How the hell am I going to stop him drinking himself into oblivion? Should I even try after what he’s gone through?

He pats his lap and his eyes are hungry with lust. ‘Why don’t you come and sit here?’

‘I was thinking of going to bed.’

‘Why bother with a bed?’

‘Robert might come in,’ I say keeping my tone light. ‘And I’m sure you don’t want to be caught shagging by the staff.’

‘Personally, I don’t care but I’ll lock the door if it bothers you.’

He gets up, or rather staggers out of his seat. I jump up and steady him with my arm around his back. ‘You’re pissed,’ I say.

‘Pished?’ He tries to mimic my accent. At least I think that’s what he’s trying to do.

‘Do you want to go and sleep?’

‘No. I want to fuck you.’

He may be too drunk to stand, but he’s still incredibly strong and when he half topples, half sits back down in the armchair, I overbalance and fall into his lap. As I get my breath back, our eyes lock. His breath smells like a distillery as he kisses me and his mouth is hard against mine. Drunk he may be, but I can feel how much he wants me. Besides, he can’t drink and have sex with me at the same time so this is for his own good, I try to kid myself.

His hand is on my thigh, pushing up my skirt. ‘Alexander, I don’t think this is the greatest idea.’

‘I do. If you hadn’t noticed, I’ve had quite a day and I need to forget it.’ He pulls my skirt up and his hand snakes between my legs. I’m turned on, even though he’s drunk and someone might come into the room. I make a pitiful attempt to stop him, clamping my fingers
around his wrist, but despite the whisky, he’s strong and I
can’t
lie, I want him too. It’s been a hell of day for me too and I find myself kissing him back, my sheer lust for his body obliterating everything else. He tugs my blouse impatiently out of my skirt and his hands are all over my back, fumbling with my bra strap.

He frowns at me. ‘What the –’

‘It’s front-fastening.’

He pulls his hand from my blouse and starts to attack the buttons.

‘Hey …’ I reach for his hand but it’s too late and one of my buttons pings off and bounces off something as he almost tears my blouse open. I moan with pleasure as he snaps the fastening of my bra open and bares my breasts.

Something in his eyes changes and he reaches for the bottle from the table.

‘Hey, no!’

He lifts the bottle pours several hundred dollars worth of single malt over my breasts.

‘Alexander!’ My cry is loud as my white blouse turns amber and the whisky runs down my cleavage. ‘What are you doing?’

‘This.’ His mouth descends on my chest and he starts licking the whisky from my breasts. He closes his mouth around my nipple, sucking it hard, and I cry out in pain and pleasure. I push my breasts together into his face and, for a second, I think I can hear voices outside the door but they move on. I’m past caring anyway; this
feels like the wickedest thing I’ve ever done. It’s so, so wrong, so why do I want him more than I’ve ever done?

I climb off his lap and pull my panties down. His eyes devour me and he starts to fumble with the zip on his trousers.

I throw my panties on the sofa and close my hand over his. ‘Here, let me.’

I loosen the knot on his tie and pull it over his head, trying to blot out the fact I’m about to have sex with a man in mourning clothes.

Alexander leans back against the chair, his hands hanging limply over the edge of the armrests, with his trousers around his thighs. He licks his lips as I strip off my whisky-stained blouse and shimmy out of my skirt. I climb into his lap and straddle him, and he rests his hands lightly on my waist.

I kiss him softly, savouring the bittersweet malt on his lips. When I stop, he looks at me. ‘Lauren?’

‘Uh-huh?’

‘I loved him, you know. Despite the fact he was an awkward sod and he blamed me for my mother’s death. I did actually love the old bastard.’

‘I know,’ I say.

‘And from now on, I think we should be honest with each other. No more shecrets.’

‘No more shecrets, eh?’

‘No. I think we should be absholutely honest with each other.’

‘Absholutely honest?’

‘Are you laughing at me?’ I think he’s trying to intimidate me but it’s more glazed than glare.

‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ Boy, am I glad he probably won’t remember any of this in the morning, after what Emma confided in me earlier.

‘Close your eyesh …’ he says and I obey, happy to move on from a tacit agreement I can’t keep and he probably has no intention of so doing.

His breathing gets louder as I wait for him to kiss me again or touch my breasts. I clench my bottom and wriggle against his thighs, still waiting. When nothing happens, and his hands drop from my waist, I open my eyes. His lashes flutter once or twice against his cheek before he passes out cold.

Getting dressed was simple; getting Alexander’s trousers zipped up again wasn’t. I’d half hoped he’d wake up but maybe it’s far better he’s unconscious and out of his misery temporarily. At least he still had his shirt on or I’d have had a hell of a time explaining that to Robert, because I had to call him in the end. There was no way I could get Alexander to bed and no way I wanted to leave him in that state all night. I’m not sure Robert believed my story that Alexander had spilled the whisky on me by accident.

After covering him up with a tartan rug – which I’m not sure Alexander will be too amused about when he wakes up – Robert offers to check up on him periodically so I can get some rest. I don’t know when Robert
gets any himself but I’m too exhausted myself to argue with the guy and anyway, he seems to consider it his duty.

I drag myself to the guest suite I had last time I stayed here and flick the light switch, expecting to find my bags on the bed.

‘Miss Cusack?’

Helen walks into the room behind me.

‘Hi, Helen. Do you know what happened to my bags?’

‘They’re in Lord Falconbury’s room, miss.’

I can’t believe this. ‘I’m staying in the general’s room?’

She smiles at me. ‘No. You’re staying in Alexander’s room. He asked for your things to be moved in there while you were out for a walk with Lady Emma. Is that all right? I can move them back in here if you’d prefer.’

I blush, embarrassed at my mistake yet quietly delighted. ‘No, thank you, Helen. Things are just fine as they are.’

So, the unthinkable has happened. An unmarried woman is sharing a room with a guy at Falconbury. The last time I was here, Alexander told me about the tradition, which I assume was enforced by his father, and even he agreed it was laughably old-fashioned, but neither of us wanted to rock the boat by complaining.