Sharon hung back, watching Rebecca press the flesh. She was so self possessed, it was hard to see her as only twenty-one. Her hair swept up, diamonds at her earlobes glittering in the firelight, and a whisper of chiffon all around her, half her male guests could barely take their eyes off her. They might be stodgy old goats, like Mr Hope here, fifty if he was a day, in his black tie, with his pimply son with the pudding-bowl haircut, but he had a hard time taking his eyes off P,.ebecca’s face. Mrs Hope, who had the reddish face of somebody who liked her port a little too much, and whose complexion matched her voluminous burgundy Laura Ashley ballgown with a huge bow on tier bum, dug her elbows into her husband’s side and dragged him off to the food tent.
Guests were milling around, arrayed in ball dresses and cocktail sheaths, the deepening night illuminated as much by then: jewellery as by the candles. Everywhere Sharon looked the crowd glittered. There were hundreds of people here, with waiters circling endlessly, carrying magnums of champagne, and the low hum of conversation rose over the
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liquid sounds of the string quartet. Yet nobody, herself included, shone as brightly as 1Kebecca. Sharon found herself slightly taken aback by how at home her friend was here. Of course, this was 1Kebecca’s place, and these people were her relatives and stuff. :. but maybe it was the American accent. Sharon had never really thought of 1Kebecca as one of them, despite what she’d said to her.
But lKebecca made the Queen look common, the way she stood there, waving and nodding and pressing her hand so lightly over everyone else’s. Her gorgeous gown, her dangling diamonds, the fan, the aristocratic cheekbones …
You would never tell she was an American. No way, Sharon thought. She reminded herself firmly that Jack said he liked bigger girls, and anyway, Jack would never be Becky’s type. He was here somewhere,
Becky had said. She thought she’d drift off and find him.
‘See you later,’ she hissed at her friend.
1Kebecca didn’t hear her. Her feet and legs felt sore from standing up, it was starting to get chilly and there seemed to be an endless line of people coming up to shake her hand. Lords, ladies and Hons galore, with lawyers, and bankers, and their wives; all apparently thrilled to be here. Shaking her hand and wishing her well. As she glanced around at the crowd, swilling her drink and scoffing her food, she felt strange. Her party was a complete success, and yet she knew nobody here. She resisted the temptation to glance at her watch as another set of third cousins trooped past her. Surely soon it would be time for dinner, then dancing. Oh, hell. She’d probably get stucl dancing with her Uncle Henry to lead things o.. Apart from Sharon’s boyfriend, and some guys in the village, he was the only man she knew here.
She waved the third cousins toward the champagne and tugged her thin lace shawl tighter around her waist. The stream of people thinned to a trickle and then to a halt. It was almost nine o’clock now. Perhaps she could go inside and sit down, rest her aching calves.
Not yet, apparently. There was a young man coming towards her, without any obvious wife or children. He was tall, dark-haired and dressed in an immaculately cut dinner jacket, with a crisp white shirt and neat bow-tie. Becky automatically straightened herself a little further. She felt a slight blush creep into her cheeks as he came closer.
Damn, he was handsome. Look at those eyes. Dark, and fringed with thick black lashes, almost Latin-looking. He was well muscled without being too much ofajock, and he bore himself well. She saw the eyes of her well-heeled guests sliding over to him, the conversations around him seeming to halt as he walked past.
She racked her brain. Had she invited any film stars or TV people?
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Maybe he was some kind of English star she’d never heard of. Or an athlete or something.
The young man strode up the steps and gave her a minute bow. ‘Rebecca Lancaster, I presume?’
He had a low, sexy voice. Rebecca felt her blush deepen. His cheekbones were high and arrogant, and he had a sensual, slightly cruel mouth. She tried to collect herself.
‘Yes,’ she said, smiling at him as formally as she knew how. ‘Welcome to Fairfield.’
‘Thank you,’ he said dryly. ‘I’m Rupert Lancaster. Your cousin.’ Becky reddened. She had no idea her meeting with him would feel this way. She hadn’t recognized him at all. In two-dimensional inky newsprint, nothing of his magnetism had come across. Not these chocolate eyes, not the sheeny .jet of his hair, and certainly not the arrogance of his bearing.
‘L-Lord Lancaster?’ she stammered.
He smiled briefly. ‘I think it should be Rupert and Rebecca, unless you have a strong objection. We may be distant relatives, but we don’t have to be that distant.’
‘I agree.’ She hdd out her hand. Instead of shaking it, though, he
curved the fingertips and lifted it gently to his mouth, kissing the back. ‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ Rupert said. ‘I ran out of petrol.’ ‘The car did, or you did?’
‘The car. I never blame myself for anything, if I can avoid it.’ He smiled wolfishly. ‘So kind of you to invite me, by the way. I always felt badly that we weren’t reconciled.’
‘The court case …’ Rebecca gaid awkwardly.
‘Yes. Hard to come together when you’re in dispute over legal matters. But, as much as I may not like it, that’s been resolved.’
‘Absolutely,’ Rebecca said. She suddenly felt embarrassed. It had been really good of Rupert to show up at her party as she played chatelaine in the house that he thought he was entitled to, that he had spent his entire life fighting for. She moved hastily off the top step so as not tO seem quite so queen-like. ‘I’m very glad to see you. I - [ hope we can have dinner together.’
Tm not invited to dinner? I thought it rather went with the ball.’
She blushed again. ‘Absolutely. You are, yes. But I’ve seated you with some distant cousins.’
‘Even more distant than us?’
‘Even more distant than us. I didn’t know if you’d want to sit with rile.’
‘You silly girl, I came all the way from London just to see you,’
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upert said softly, and Becky felt her insides turning into melted butter. He looked at her intently for a second, his dark eyes roving over her gown. It felt as though he were ripping it off her skin.
‘What a ravishing dress,’ he said, putting a faint but discernible emphasis on ravish.
Oh, I wish you would, Becky thought suddenly. I sure wish you would.
‘Thanks. Shall we go into dinner? 1 - I need to switch around some place cards.’
‘Absolutely,’ Rupert said. He offered his arm, and it looked like the most natural, chivalrous thing in the world. ‘I wish I had my friends from London here. I always like to be seen escorting the prettiest girl in the place.’
Even in the darkness of the night, Becky felt a wave of pure sunshine wash over her. Oh, man, was he gorgeous. And definitely distant enough for romance. If he was interested, that was. He was the perfect English gentleman.., courteous, confident, well built.., and his eyes, his eyes were just hypnotic …
She smiled back up at him, and threaded her slender arm through his. Everybody stared as they walked into the marquee together.
I suppose I could hack it, Rupert thought dispassionately. Of course, the accent will have to go, but that could be worked on. A few years here, and she’d probably lose it altogether. The,tan was attractive certainly, but also a little vulgar. Then again, what could you expect, with that upbringing? She probably chewed gum, too, and swore. American women were very pushy. He knew that from first-hand experience.
He regarded her out of the corner of his eye as he shook hands with various nonentities milling around the marquee, which was overdecorated and sumptuous. She was quietly switching the place cards with the minimum of fuss and the maximum of grace. A wash of resentment flooded across his soul. Look at her, so beautiful.., he could not deny she was beautiful.., so regal, and welcoming all these people into his house. And spending all his money, when he had to have frank conversations with his bank manager at Couttsjust to get him to honour his cheques.
Rebecca’s father had been a wastrel without any regard for the family. Marrying that tramp, threatening to divide the house from the title, and then speeding on the open road, killing himself and his heir, so that today it had come to this. lor the first time in ten generations. What a bloody joke. And now his daughter looked as though she was going the
R
same way. What was the point of all this ostentation,e lupert mougnr
enviously as he looked around. American showboating.
Well, he’d soon get that out of her.
She was highly fuckable. That dress couldn’t hide the slimness of her figure - never mind the full skirts, he could tell from her slender wrists and delicate collarbone. Her hair was thick and glossy. It couldn’t be natural, but it looked good. Real good. Rupert imagined those long, coltish legs wrapped around his waist. Was she a virgin? He’d love to break her in. Each thrust would feel like a victory.
When Rebecca was his wife, safely pupped up with a boy, preferably two, everything would be all right again. He would be master of Fairfield. His son would be master of Fairfield. He would set up a proper 97os entailment that no strident Yankee female and her barrage of lawyers could break.
And he would have nobody to thank but himselfi
‘I got it,’ Rebecca said, coming back to him, holding up the small, thick triangle of card. She smiled, a wide, healthy smile full of white teeth against golden skin. Rupert saw the flush of her cheeks, the glitter in her eyes. It was a look he’d seen on countless young girls, from sixth formers at St Mary’s, Ascot, to that hot tamale of a model, Lita Morales. Rupert grinned. He had her already. All he had to do was red her in.
He felt lucky. He had no doubt he could get Rebecca Lancaster. As soon as the invitation arrived in the post, it had been a done deal. She obviously wanted to ‘make friends’. Yeah, right … like he would ever be friends with the woman who had stolen his inheritance. But she was American. She’d be touchy-feely, and on top of her desire to reconcile with him he had a title. All women liked that, especially Americans. And with an American, you had the accent. As successful as he’d been with babes in the London dubs and at country balls, 1Kupert had never known anything like the ease of getting Yank chicks. In New York they just couldn’t wait to drop their little panties. Only Lita had made him wait, and probably only as a ploy to get him to marry her.
And it had nearly worked. Rupert shook his head; he had actually told himself he could have smoothed over Lira’s rough edges. Foolish, for ultimately she was … Hispanic. Working class. Unsuitable to be Lady Lancaster, and the mother of a Baron.
Besides, he’d lost the case, and then it had all become moot.
The pool of eligible wives had shrunk to one. Just. one. It was his good fortune that he’d actually enjoy banging her. Maybe he could work out some arrangement with Lita, too, when he was in New York. But maybe not. It wouldn’t do to have got that far and then to risk everything.
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He’d have to cut Lita off completely.
‘Let’s sit down,’ he said. ‘I really want to get to know you.’
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Lita checked into the Pierre. It was sinfully luxurious, but she needed it. She needed comfort, and reassurance. The gilt lobby of the hotel, with its massive Christmas tree, soothed her slightly.
She took a bubble bath and swathed herself in the warm, white, voluminous towelling robe. Then she sat by her window overlooking the cold, grey, leafless stretch of Central Park and reread the telegram.
There had to be some mistake. Rupert couldn’t mean it. If he did, wouldn’t he have said something? At least called?
He had been so warm when he’d left. Was it the stress of the new business?
Oh, hell. The business. Lita snuggled deeper into her robe, trying to overcome the sudden surging feeling of panic. What had he said about her money.., that he would set up a drip-feed and only take what was needed? The business was brand-new, though. It couldn’t have needed
that much. Besides, P,.upert was rich.
Wasn’t he?
Lita pressed her manicured nails to her forehead and tried to think. She didn’t want to consider this, “but she had to. It was the same feeling she’d had the first time Pappy took her up to the observation deck of the Empire State Building. She was afraid of heights, but somehow she couldn’t resist walking to the rail and looking over the edge, watching the sickening drop and feeling as though she were falling, even though her feet were planted on the concrete, even though she was perfectly safe.
She always looked out over ledges. And she had to think about this. Her father’s words rang in her ear as she examined her engagement ring. It flashed prettily. How much would a 0ne-carat solitaire go for these days? A thousand dollars, maybe? Two, if it was a nice stone? Two thousand. It wasn’t that much of a stretch. Lira had assumed that 17Zupert had picked the ring for its classic elegance, rather than its she. But what if he couldn’t have afforded anything more?
The apartment. Unless this telegram was a horrible practical .joke, it wasn’t even his. Benson Bailey had leased it for him, with the lease
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running out at the end of the year. And now he’d been fired, they’d have to take it back. But his gifts to her. The pearls, the fur … the hampers from Fortnum’s. No doubt luxurious. But, said the nagging doubt in her head, wouldn’t it be easy to afford status symbols if you didn’t have to pay rent?
Rupert had never paid when they went out. Maybe a dinner here and there. But that was always charged to ‘expenses’, because she was working for the agency. Clubs let him in free, and they dined at friends’
a good deal. Of course, he dressed immaculately. But he had no car. No car of any kind. They took cabs everywhere.
So assuming he paid for the things people noticed … suits, shoes, cufflinks, flowers, the occasional gift.., what were his other expenses?