An Eligible Bachelor (8 page)

Honor saw Henty’s little face cloud over at Charles’s implied criticism. Why couldn’t he just have told her she looked gorgeous and leave it at that?

She’d noticed that Charles always managed to burst Henty’s bubble. She thought he was probably a bit of a bully. Henty had told her once that Charles wouldn’t buy her a tumble-dryer because he liked his clothes line-dried. Honor had been horrified. With four children, two of them girls who changed their outfits at the blink of an eye, Henty did not need to be lugging baskets of washing outside only to have them rained on. But she
didn’t seem to be able to stand up to Charles.

He was shrugging on his dinner jacket now. Honor supposed he was good-looking in an oily sort of way, with his dark hair slicked back and his hooded hazel eyes. But didn’t he know it. She’d put her life on him having wandering hand trouble.

‘Who’s going to drive?’ asked Henty. ‘We should have booked a taxi.’

‘I’ll drive,’ said Charles magnanimously, wanting to look generous in front of Honor. He sometimes felt uncomfortable with the way she looked at him. Honor made him nervous, made him behave badly and say things he didn’t mean because what he really wanted to do was flirt with her but he didn’t quite dare. Henty had told him one night, rather aghast, that Honor had gone for nearly seven years without sex, and Charles had become rather obsessed with the information. Though he wasn’t quite sure if he believed it. He suspected it was a myth Honor had built up around herself, to make sure other women weren’t threatened by the fact that she was both single and incredibly attractive. He followed the girls out of the living room, running his eyes over the little buttons that ran down Honor’s back, wondering how long they would take to undo.

In your dreams, mate, he thought wryly.

The ball was in an enormous marquee in the grounds of a nearby country hotel. The committee knew from experience that there was no point in knocking themselves out to decorate, as the guests were notoriously hardened drinkers and wouldn’t notice their surroundings after
about an hour. And the less that was spent on fripperies the more money would be raised for the hospice, which was, after all, the point. Half decent food, a decent band and plenty of booze was all that was needed to make the evening a success.

And tonight they had a bonus novelty which would make everyone feel they’d had their money’s worth. Guy Portias had brought along Richenda Fox. Their engagement had been splashed all over the
Daily Post
that morning. The
Post
was one of those papers that no one admitted to reading but secretly did, full as it was of celebrity gossip and right-wing mantras. As long as you took their editorial with a pinch of salt it was a jolly good read.

Everyone had slavered over the pictures in the paper over their Saturday morning croissants. It was a typical Hello!-magazine style spread, with Richenda in sumptuous designer outfits posed in various different parts of Eversleigh Manor, while Guy hovered next to her in his jeans and a dark blue linen shirt, rumpled and bemused. Those who knew him well smiled inwardly, knowing he would have hated the attention. Guy was as popular locally as his father had been; both of them affable, charming, unaffected. Madeleine, of course, was a different story. She had an edge, though many of the wives locally protested that she had to stand her ground, as the Portias men were laws unto themselves. Utterly impossible in the nicest possible way.

Having had their fill of the tabloid gossip that morning and duly exchanged notes over the telephone, none of the guests at the ball were star-struck by Richenda’s
presence. They’d been used to having stars in their midst for the past six months with the film crew, after all, and anyway they were all far too well brought up to gawp. They all agreed, however, that the two of them made an absolutely stunning couple. Richenda was in a shimmering pale gold sheath; Guy looked as ever as if he had pulled on the first thing he could find when he got out of bed, in this case his dinner jacket. But they both looked incredibly happy, and couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

Guy had indeed found the photoshoot a trial. He had resolutely refused to put on any of the clothes that had been brought along for him to wear.

‘I’m not a bloody footballer,’ he’d protested, chucking the cream satin shirt with the pointy cuffs back at the stylist, who’d winced.

‘That’s five hundred quid’s worth of shirt!’ she shot back, replacing it hastily on the hanger before it got creased.

‘Says who?’ said Guy amiably. ‘Something’s only worth what someone will pay for it and personally I wouldn’t give you tuppence for it.’

In the end, Richenda had intervened, picking out the most understated shirt and agreeing he could wear his jeans.

‘I’m not changing for every picture,’ he warned. ‘I never change! I wear the same clothes for weeks on end.’

‘I had noticed,’ said Richenda drily. ‘And that’s fine. You look gorgeous. Just smile.’

She kissed him on the nose as a hairdresser descended
once again to smooth down her already immaculate locks. Satisfied with her handiwork, the hairdresser turned to Guy, wielding her scissors.

‘Could I just chip in to a few of your ends, give you a few layers, then put in some sculpting mousse?’

‘Definitely not,’ grinned Guy, running his hands through his curls. ‘I’ve given it a good wash with some Vosene this morning.’

The hairdresser narrowed her eyes, not sure if she was being wound up.

‘Leave him,’ said Richenda, who was having eyelash extensions put on. ‘I don’t want him looking like David Dickinson. Anyway, the public might as well know the horrible truth.’

Guy had trailed round with long-suffering good humour, as the photographer ushered them excitedly from fireplace to sweeping staircase to gazebo.

‘I’ve never sat in this bloody gazebo in my life,’ he grumbled. ‘It’s a bloody charade.’

‘I’m sorry, darling,’ murmured his fiancée, ‘but this is the price you have to pay for asking me to marry you.’

‘He’s got ten more minutes then I’m going for a pint,’ said Guy, squinting into the glaring October sunshine.

Now, the two were enjoying their first outing as an officially engaged couple. The first hour had been taken up with congratulatory kisses and handshakes and back-slapping from people Guy had known all his life, and Richenda had been introduced to all of them. Now, however, everyone had forgotten the novelty and the two of them were regarded as just another pair of guests
whose duty it was to have as good a time as possible. Dinner had been eaten, jackets were off and cigars were being lit, and the chairman of the committee was auctioning off the many items donated by local businesses in order to swell the money raised to renovate the kitchens at the hospice.

Guy had already unsuccessfully bid for a free pint every night for a year at any of the Honeycote Ales pubs. He’d drunk a bottle of Merlot and was itching to bid for something else. The mood amongst the bidders was of spirited competition, with everyone eager to outdo each other – not out of ostentation, but because the chairman was good at his job.

‘The next lot,’ announced the chairman, ‘is a bespoke cake, decorated to your requirements. Donated by our very own domestic goddess, Honor McLean –’

At this point there was a resounding cheer from Honor’s table and she had to stand up and take a bow.

‘– who, I’m reliably informed, also does freezer fills – whatever they are, sounds rather uncomfortable – and dinnerparty puddings. So, those of you who have an imminent celebration – birthday, anniversary,
wedding
…’

This last he said meaningfully, with an arch look over to Guy, and another resounding cheer went up. Guy grinned, and turned to Richenda.

‘I’ll have to bid for this now. We are going to need a wedding cake.’

Richenda opened her mouth to protest. She’d already decided on the cake she wanted, a towering concoction of white chocolate cherubs and rose leaves, hideously expensive but quite, quite stunning. But now was not the
time to argue. Guy was obviously keen to bid for something. Hopefully he’d forget about it in the run-up. Or she could pretend she had forgotten. They’d be able to use the cake for something else – if he bid successfully.

Three minutes later, the cake was his.

‘Three hundred and seventy quid!’ he exclaimed. ‘That’ll be the most expensive wedding cake ever.’

Richenda didn’t tell him that the one she had her eye on was over a thousand. The important thing was that the money had gone to a good cause. And she’d already decided that the most gracious thing to do would be to donate the cake to the hospice when they had the ceremonial opening of their refurbished kitchen. It would look lovely in the photos in the local paper.

The auction was soon over, and the chairman, smoke steaming from his calculator, announced delightedly that they had raised over fourteen thousand pounds and that the band was about to start. Chairs were pushed back and people hurled themselves on to the dance floor as the strains of ‘Let Me Entertain You’ urged them to their feet.

Guy walked past a table on his way to the bar and spotted the girl who had donated the cake he had bid for. She was sipping her wine, gazing at the dance floor –rather wistfully, he thought. She was a striking creature, with her short, dark hair and huge brown eyes. Elfin, he decided. Though tall for an elf. At least five eight. Fab legs. Coltish.

An elfin colt. Or a coltish elf.

Guy touched her on the arm. She looked up at him, startled out of her reverie.

‘I bought your cake,’ he said.

‘Thank you.’ She smiled, and her whole face lit up. ‘You paid far more than it’s worth. But I’m really pleased. I could never have afforded to make a donation like that otherwise.’

‘We’re going to have it as our wedding cake.’

‘I’m very flattered,’ said Honor. ‘But if you change your mind I won’t be in the least offended. I’m not professional. It’s just a hobby, really. Pocket money’

Pocket money was an equivocation. More than once the money from her cakes had meant the difference between beans on toast or a proper Sunday lunch.

‘I’m delighted. I’ll send Richenda to talk to you about it – she’s in charge of all the wedding plans.’

Honor swallowed.

‘Great. It would be… an honour.’

God – she’d start tugging her forelock or curtsying any moment. But there was something about Guy that made you feel deferential. An air of owning the place. He was very definitely in charge, but relaxed with it. Top of the pecking order but didn’t put it about. Incredibly attractive. Honor realized that she was staring at him. And that he was staring back.

‘Would you like to dance?’ he asked suddenly.

Honor couldn’t think of anything she’d like to do more. But at that moment she saw Richenda descending upon them.

‘This is Honor, who’s doing our wedding cake,’ said Guy.

‘Lovely,’ said Richenda politely, looking straight through her, and guiding him away firmly by the elbow.

Honor was left feeling as if she was standing in her
underwear, which to all intents and purposes she was.

‘Isn’t he just totally edible?’ breathed Henty in her ear.

‘I think he’s slightly spoken for,’ said Honor ruefully, as Guy took Richenda in his arms on the dance floor.

‘I don’t know. There’s plenty of time for it to go horribly wrong. Personally, I don’t think she looks his type at all.’ Henty analysed the happy couple critically. ‘She’s far too uptight.’

‘Yeah, right,’ said Honor. What would most men go for? A rich, famous and beautiful actress? Or a struggling single mother?’

‘You’re ten times prettier than her,’ protested Henty. ‘And he was dying to get his hands on you. You could see it a mile off.’

Honor just shrugged and smiled.

‘Come on. Let’s go and dance.’

Ten minutes later, Honor made her way back to their table in search of mineral water. It was boiling hot in the marquee – a relatively mild night combined with the heaters and vigorous activity on the dance floor had caused a mini greenhouse effect.

There was a particularly raucous table by the bar. Lots of extremely attractive blonde women in expensive black evening gowns, tanned and coolly confident. The men were equally complacent, their chairs pushed back, jackets off, bow ties undone. Honor’s eyes flickered round the table. They weren’t really her cup of tea – success stories who despite their charm she knew would have a ruthless streak – but they were interesting to look at. Honor loved people watching.

As she looked at the foot of the table, her heart skipped a beat. She had to blink twice to make sure, but yes – it was definitely him. He was leaning in to talk to one of the women, whose head was bent towards his. She was smiling in delight at what he was saying, and Honor could just imagine the innuendo, the flattery, the compliments, the suggestiveness that could relieve a woman of her knickers within minutes…

Johnny Flynn.

Johnny Flynn, with his thick, dark red hair that stuck up like a fox’s brush no matter how hard he tried to stick it down, and his exquisite bone structure covered in perfect, porcelain skin.

Johnny Flynn, whose amber eyes burnt right through you, turning your defences to cinders and your resolutions to ashes.

Johnny Flynn, with his lilting Kerry brogue that had mockery and poetry in equal parts.

Like Cinderella, Honor turned to flee. She wasn’t sure where she would go: she didn’t have the number of a taxi on her. She could hijack a car but she was too drunk to drive. It was a three-mile walk to Fulford Farm, and she hadn’t a coat. But she knew she had to get away as quickly as possible, before he saw her. The moment he clapped eyes on her, she knew she’d be lost. She was surprised she hadn’t spotted him before. Or him her – her name had been read out by the auctioneer, she’d stood up to take a bow. Hadn’t he seen her then? Though knowing Johnny, he was probably out the back groping someone else’s wife during the auction.

She started to push her way back through the bodies
heaving on the dance floor. She felt a sweaty paw clutching at her arm.

‘Come and dance,’ commanded Charles, his hand like a vice on her upper arm.