Hitched! (13 page)

George had volunteered to be a footman but Saffron wouldn’t
hear of it. ‘You and Roly are guests,’ she said. ‘I can’t have my sister’s
boyfriend waiting at table!’

Unfortunately that meant I had to be a guest too, although I
would much rather have kept an eye on things behind the scenes. I was fairly
sure none of the guests would know if I was at the party or not, and I’d thought
that if George and I could have been staff, it would have been a lot more fun.
But George was only allowed to make the cocktails—we weren’t pushing
authenticity too far—and I had to be content with popping in and out of the
party to see how things were going on downstairs.

SEVEN

Everyone had taken the Edwardian theme to heart. I’ve
no idea where they got their costumes from, but they all looked ravishing. The
men wore white tie and tails, while the girls were in a dazzling array of
evening gowns, out-peacocking each other in long gloves and jewels that
glimmered at their throats and in their ears.

Guess who was odd one out? My dress was very simple, made of
sage-coloured silk with short sleeves that draped and an elegant neckline that
left rather more of my shoulders exposed than was advisable in the draughty
dining room. Still, I had nothing like the flesh on display in some of the other
dresses. Saffron herself was dazzling in a midnight blue beaded creation with
narrow straps and a deep V at the back. It was the perfect foil for her bright
blonde hair, and Roly couldn’t take his eyes off her.

Next to my sister, I looked like the poor relation I was, but
at least I had the satisfaction of knowing that my dress was genuine. Roly had
suggested that I look in the attics, where I found whole trunkfuls of clothes,
and Mrs Simms, whom I was recommending for canonisation, helped me alter it. It
did the job of making me invisible, which was exactly what I wanted, and I was
able to slip away to the kitchens and check that everything was under control
there without anyone noticing.

Roly had taken away the heavy red ropes that normally kept the
public away from the furniture in the long gallery. I was nervous about people
dropping their drinks or breaking some of the spindlier looking chairs, but he
waved aside my concerns.

‘The rooms were built to be lived in,’ he reminded me. ‘It’s
great to see the house being used the way it was meant to.’

Saffron was the sparkling centre of the party, in her element
as the focus of attention. I was pleased to see her looking so happy. We had
decided in the end to drop the idea of the Mr and Mrs quiz. Saffron had been
able to answer so few of the questions we’d planned that I was afraid it might
turn out to expose a ghastly distance between the two of them. But for tonight
at least Jax was the perfect fiancé, looking darkly handsome and dropping hints
about being in the running for the next James Bond.

‘Everybody! Everybody, listen up!’ I was about to slip back to
the kitchen—I knew Mrs Simms was worried about her lobster bisque—when Saffron
swooped down on me and enfolded me in her scented embrace. ‘Come with me,’ she
said, and dragged me to the centre of the room where she proceeded to make an
extravagant speech thanking me for the party, and telling me that I was the best
sister in the world.

I was touched, but wished that she would stop. I was bright
red, and I could see some of the guests looking at each other and mouthing
That’s
Saffron’s
sister?

Saffron had clearly had one too many cocktails already. ‘I love
you, Frith,’ she finished owlishly, and I remembered the little girl who had
clung to my hand, not understanding why her big sister was so unhappy.

‘I love you too, Saffron,’ I said, my throat suddenly
tight.

Everybody was looking at us, not knowing what to do next. I
caught sight of Jax, looking pained.

‘Jax, come here,’ I said, beckoning him into the spotlight
where he belonged with Saffron, and, inspired by desperation, I made a short
speech on the spot so that everyone could drink to their happiness. This was a
good move, as it enabled me to slink away to where George was making cocktails
at the back of the room. He had a shaker in both hands and was shaking it with
aplomb. Anyone would think he’d spent his entire life as a barman.

For a moment, I just stood and watched him. If I’d thought he
looked good in muddy boots and jeans, in white tie and tails he was
heart-stopping. My stomach had hollowed whenever I caught sight of him through
the crowd. No one looking at him that night would guess that this was a man who
spent his spare time coaxing a damaged horse back to health, who sat in the site
office with his feet on my desk, or shared a sandwich on the stable block.

Instead, he looked utterly at home. George belonged with my
sister’s glossy crowd in a way I never could, I thought dully. He might want a
nice country girl, but this had been his life once. Looking at these beautiful
girls, these people who had nothing to do all day but have a good time, how
could he not miss it?

How could he possibly be interested in having an affair with an
uptight engineer? I cringed at the idea that I had been even thinking of asking
him. I didn’t fit here, and I didn’t fit with him. It was just as well I’d
remembered that in time, before I made a complete fool of myself.

George handed two margaritas to the girls who had been eyeing
him under their lashes with a smile that made my heart twist in my chest. They
wandered off back into the party, and he turned back to the temporary bar he’d
set up on a cloth-covered table. I didn’t manage to turn away in time, and he
caught me watching him.

‘That was a nice speech,’ he said, sounding so exactly the way
he always did that I was thrown. He looked so at home that he ought by rights to
be speaking with a languid drawl.

‘The evening was supposed to be about Saffron and Jax, not me.’
I felt stiff and uneasy with him, although George didn’t seem to notice anything
amiss.

‘Still, I’m glad she thanked you. Do you think she has any idea
how hard you’ve worked for this party?’

‘Mrs Simms has done most of the work,’ I said. ‘I’m sending her
a huge bunch of flowers tomorrow.’

George wiped the shaker with a cloth. ‘Well, it looks like the
party’s a big success already. You can stop worrying now.’

‘I just hope they don’t damage anything.’ I clutched my elbows,
surveying the guests with a tense frown. ‘They’re already well away. Can you
make those cocktails a bit weaker? They’ll be too sloshed to appreciate Mrs
Simms’s cooking otherwise and I’ll have humiliated myself for nothing.’

‘Relax,’ said George soothingly. ‘They’re enjoying themselves.
That’s what they’re supposed to be doing.’

‘That’s what’s worrying me,’ I snapped. ‘This place is
chock-a-block with valuable antiques. Do you really want them covered with glass
rings?’

‘You are such a worrywart,’ George said, exasperated. ‘Stop
fretting and look adoring. We’re supposed to be having a mad, passionate
affair.’

‘It’s not that kind of affair,’ I reminded him. Reminded
myself
. ‘I’m just amusing myself with you, remember?’
I was on edge, and it wasn’t just the prospect of ring marks on Roly’s
heirlooms. I couldn’t believe I had wasted so much time even considering an
affair with someone like George. Hadn’t I learnt my lesson with Charles all
those years ago? ‘
You
adore
me
.’

Like
that
was a likely
scenario.

‘So I do,’ said George, putting down the shaker and reaching
for me before I had time to resist. ‘I think it’s time I got into lovesick-puppy
mode, don’t you?’

His arm was warm and strong around my waist as he held me to
him, and he kissed me, his mouth smiling against mine. He was gloriously solid,
his lips wickedly enticing. For one treacherous moment I longed to relax into
him.

Not fit?
This is where you fit!
my
body was shouting.
You fit right here
.

But that couldn’t be right. I was the one who never fitted
anywhere. Not here, not with George. I tried to pull away but he held me tight.
‘We don’t need to do this,’ I said tensely. ‘No one’s the slightest bit
interested in us and Saffron’s not watching.’

‘I know,’ said George. ‘Maybe I feel like a lovesick puppy
anyway.’

I glanced at him uncertainly, only to find my eyes snared in
those impossibly blue ones. The long gallery rang with chatter and squeals of
laughter, but the two of us were trapped in a bubble of stillness and silence,
where there was nothing but the blueness of George’s eyes and the thump of my
heart and the warmth on my skin where he held me.

His gaze was so warm, it was reeling me in, and in spite of my
tension, in spite of everything I’d just decided, I was swaying towards him when
our bubble was rudely punctured.

‘I say.’

One of the guests—Clive, I seemed to remember Saffron
introducing him as—was lurching towards us. I jumped and would have sprung away
from George if he hadn’t clamped a hand on my waist and secured me back against
him.

‘We’re lovers,’ he murmured in my ear. ‘I can’t keep my hands
off you, remember?’

I laughed a little nervously. If we hadn’t been interrupted
when we had, I was very much afraid that I might have been the one who couldn’t
keep my hands to myself. I turned to Clive with a mixture of gratitude and
frustration.

He had a cut-glass accent, patrician cheekbones and the
requisite floppy hair, but a dissolute air clung to him, and I wondered if this
was what George had been like once.

I hoped Clive didn’t want another cocktail. It was obvious that
he was already half-cut.

But it turned out that Clive had something else on his mind. ‘I
say,’ he said again, weaving up to us and poking a wavering finger into George’s
chest. ‘Didn’t you used to be George Challoner?’

George stiffened, but he kept his smile easy. ‘Once upon a
time,’ he said.

‘Told you, Jon!’ Clive chortled and turned to the friend who
was swaying gently beside him. ‘It is him!’

‘George Challoner, a barman?’ the other guy said, frowning in
concentration. He shook his head so vehemently that he staggered, and I could
only watch in horror as he reeled towards a delicate eighteenth-century side
table. At the very last moment, he hauled himself upright. ‘Don’t believe it!’
he said.

‘I prefer to think of myself as a cocktail provider,’ said
George. ‘It sounds better, don’t you think?’

‘From Challoners to barman...bit of a comedown, isn’t it?’

‘That depends how you look at it,’ said George pleasantly.

Clive was staring at him hard, presumably to stop his eyes
crossing. ‘I thought you were in prison,’ he said.

At that, George let me go. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It seems not.’

‘I worked for Challoners, you know,’ Clive slurred. ‘You don’t
remember me, but I was there. It was my first job, and I was having a great
time. Then suddenly there are cutbacks and retrenchments and the Serious Fraud
Office are called in, and guess what? It was all because of
you
. I was out of a job and I’d missed my chance to get in with
other investment banks. Do you have any idea how humiliating that was?’

His face twisted with resentment. ‘I don’t suppose you gave a
thought to the people who would lose out because of you?’

‘I’ve got to admit,’ said George in a level voice, ‘that I
wasn’t thinking of you at all.’ He glanced at Clive’s immaculately tailored
dinner jacket, at the Rolex on his wrist. ‘You seem to have done all right in
spite of me.’

‘Eventually,’ Clive conceded. ‘Not as well as you, though,
obviously,’ he added, turning his bleary gaze to me.

I didn’t need him to tell me what he saw: I was trim and dull
and totally unspectacular. ‘Not a bad move hooking up with one of Kevin Taylor’s
daughters, eh?’

The subtext was obvious: what use would any man have for me if
it weren’t for my father’s fabled millions?

‘Never even knew Saffron had a sister,’ Clive went on,
oblivious to the dangerous look on George’s face. ‘Now I see why you’re hiding
away in the country.’

George didn’t say anything, but his expression blazed with such
contempt that even in their befuddled state the two men took an unsteady step
backwards. My mouth dried as I watched George. I’d never seen him lose his
temper before, and he made me think of nothing so much as a big cat, tail
twitching, muscles coiled to lash out with a snarl.

The confrontation was beginning to attract attention. I saw
Saffron turn, and I laid my hand on George’s arm.

‘George,’ I said warningly.

George didn’t look at me, but I could feel the rigidity in his
arm relax very slightly after a moment when he realised that a scene would spoil
things for Saffron. I saw the effort it took to release his jaw, where a muscle
still twitched dangerously.

‘Excuse me,’ he said, picking up the tray of glasses from the
table behind him. ‘There are guests needing drinks out there.’

As he passed Clive he said something in his ear. I didn’t catch
it, but I saw Clive’s expression darken. Whatever it was, it hadn’t been
nice.

‘You be careful,’ Clive said to me savagely as he caught me
watching him. ‘George Challoner’s a bad lot. Everybody knows that.’

* * *

To my dismay, I found myself sitting next to Clive’s
friend, Jon, at the dinner. Saffron had done the seating plan, on the grounds
that I wouldn’t know who would want to sit together and who needed to be kept
apart. I’d been more than happy to let her agonise over it, but now I wished I’d
paid more attention. George was right at the other end of the table.

Jon had clearly decided to appoint himself my advisor.

‘How much do you know about George Challoner?’ he asked me in a
low voice as we unfolded our linen napkins and he splashed wine into my
glass.

‘Enough,’ I said.

‘I couldn’t believe it when I saw him here.’ Jon took a
reviving slurp of wine. ‘I said to Clive, I thought he was in prison. He should
be!’ He shook his head. ‘Does Saffron know he was fired?’

‘I don’t think being sacked is a criminal offence yet,’ I said
coldly.

‘It is when you’re doing what George Challoner was doing.
Corruption is a serious business and he was embezzling hedge funds.’

I wasn’t going to let him know that I didn’t know what hedge
funds were.

‘Since he didn’t go to prison, it’s safe to assume that he
didn’t do it,’ I said.