Scandalous (55 page)
“Go,” said Theresa. “We’re fine.”
“Actually, we’re better than fine,” grinned Horatio. “We’re getting married. First church we can find after Christmas. Aren’t we?”
He turned to Theresa.
And in that moment she knew.
“Yes,” she laughed. “We are. We absolutely, definitely are.”
Sasha was at her parents’ cottage in Frant when she heard the news.
It was a beautiful Christmas in Sussex. Snow had fallen two days before Christmas Eve, blanketing the wooded countryside in a magical frosting that had melted even the most cynical of hearts. New York Christmases were magical in a different way, but for Sasha there was nothing to beat the smell of wood smoke
wafting over the village green and the festive sound of the church bells pealing their traditional yuletide song.
Sue and Don Miller had gone all out to make this a traditional family Christmas par excellence. Knowing that Sasha was depressed, they’d insisted that she come home for the holiday. From the minute she walked through the door of the tiny, cluttered cottage, she’d been roped in to tree decorating and mince-pie making, dragged out to sing carols at the village school, and generally plunged into Sussexy home festivities whether she liked it or not. Sasha appreciated the effort. She had more money than she could ever want, let alone need, but it couldn’t buy her this: the love and care of a family. Unfortunately, though, she wasn’t a child anymore. Grateful as she was, it wasn’t her parents’ love that she needed.
When Theresa O’Connor called on Christmas morning, Sue Miller saw her daughter smile properly for the first time in weeks.
“William? Oh, I love it, very traditional…Are you kidding me? Of
course
I’ll come to the wedding…”
Sue Miller closed the study door quietly, returning to the kitchen to check on her turkey. Closing the oven door—it still needed a few minutes—she turned around and screamed. A strange, long-haired man was standing in her kitchen.
“Get out!” she yelled, grabbing the heavy frying pan she’d used for this morning’s bacon. “My husband’s upstairs, you know. Get out of my house this minute!”
“Please!” The man ducked from the frying pan. “The door was open. I only…”
Just then Sasha came flying into the kitchen. “Mum? What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Did you burn yourself?” Then she saw the man. “Good God. What are you doing here?”
The two of them stared at each other. Slowly, Sue Miller lowered the frying pan. “You know him?” she asked Sasha.
Sasha nodded, too dumbstruck to say anything.
“How do you do, Mrs. Miller.” Jackson stuck out his hand. “Jackson Dupree. I wondered if Sasha and I might have a word in private.”
“Oh…yes…of course.” Flustered, Sue started taking off her apron.
“Don’t worry, Mum,” said Sasha. “You stay here. Jackson and I will go for a walk.”
Outside, the village green was quiet. A few children were chucking snowballs at each other in the lane, but other than that the village was indoors, huddled around fires, drinking, cooking, unwrapping presents, and watching
A Christmas Carol
. Sasha crunched over the snow in silence waiting for Jackson to speak. When, after five minutes, he still hadn’t said anything, she decided to break the ice.
“I hope you didn’t mind coming out. There’s no such thing as a private conversation in that house.”
“I can see that.” He nodded. “It is kind of small.”
“I offered to buy them something bigger,” said Sasha quickly. “Mum would have liked to I think, but Dad wouldn’t hear of it. I was relieved, in a way.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. You know, it’s home.”
They walked on. With nowhere particular to go, they headed for the churchyard. After yet more silence, Sasha blurted, “I applied to Oxford for a research fellowship. I start in January.”
“Oh.”
Jackson stopped walking. Standing in the snow with his hands in his pockets, Sasha looked at him properly for the first time. He was wearing a long, dark coat and a thick gray scarf, but even under the layers she could see he’d lost weight. His cheeks
looked hollow and sunken. If he’d slept in the last week, it didn’t show. He certainly hadn’t shaved.
“How are you? How are things at Wrexall?” she asked, mindlessly, wondering if he could hear the desperation in her voice. She knew she should ask how Lottie was, and the baby. She knew they’d had a little girl, Serena. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. “How’s business?”
“Business is fine. Wrexall’s fine.”
It was no good. She couldn’t take it any longer.
“For God’s sake, Jackson, put me out of my misery! What are you
doing
here? It’s Christmas Day! Has something happened? Do you want to buy me out of my stock, or…” She stopped. His face had crumpled. Whatever it was, it clearly had nothing to do with stock.
“I’m in love with you.”
He said it so quietly, Sasha wasn’t sure if she’d misheard him.
“I’m sorry…what did you say?”
Jackson ran a hand through his hair. “I should never have married Lottie. It was a mistake. She’s an amazing, wonderful, incredible girl, and she deserves someone who loves her. It just isn’t me.”
The surge of happiness flooding through Sasha was so violent she almost lost her footing. She knew it was wrong, to delight in the end of someone else’s marriage. Especially someone as good and kind and decent as Lottie. But she couldn’t help it. The missing jigsaw piece to her happiness had just fallen out of the sky and landed in her lap. With an effort she managed to control herself. She mustn’t jump to conclusions.
“Have you told her how you feel?”
Jackson nodded grimly. “She was very good about it. We agreed to spend Christmas apart. She’s with her family. And Serena, of course. We’ll work out the details when I’m back in New York.”
“You must miss her. The baby, I mean.”
“I do,” he said with feeling. “She’s the light of my life, that girl. Well.” He looked at Sasha. “One of the lights.”
They moved toward each other, like two figures in a dream. Jackson pulled her close and hugged her as if she were a life raft. Sasha could feel how frail he was. As if reading her mind, he said, “I haven’t been eating much. I couldn’t. Not till I knew what you were going to say.”
“What I was going to say?” repeated Sasha. “Say to what?”
“Say to this.” He sank down on one knee, making a deep hole in the snow. Behind him the church steeple Sasha had known since childhood stood proud and strong. To Sasha it looked benevolent, a smiling God looking down on them. “I’ve loved you since the day I met you, Sasha. Will you marry me?”
She paused, smiling, not wanting this moment to end. Mistaking her silence for hesitation, Jackson started panicking.
“Please, Sasha. I know I can be a pain in the ass at times. But, you know, so can you.”
Her eyes widened. “Is this still part of the proposal?”
“You’re ambitious, you’re stubborn. You slept with Theo Dexter!” he blurted, to his own horror as much as Sasha’s. The stress of proposing seemed to have given him some sort of emotional Tourette’s.
“Well
you
slept with every woman you ever met!” she shot back. “Talk about pot calling the kettle!”
“Aw, shit. It wasn’t supposed to come out like this.” He grabbed her hand. “Look, you can still take the job in Oxford. I’ll move. I’ll quit Wrexall. I’ll do anything, Sasha, please. Just tell me you love me. Tell me you love me and you’ll marry me and you’ll stay with me forever. Ideally before my balls drop off with cold.”
It wasn’t the most romantic proposal in the world. But it would do. Kneeling down in the snow beside him, she threw her arms around his neck.
“Do you promise never to mention Theo Dexter’s name again?”
“Promise. Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“And will you definitely try to work on some better romantic lines before the honeymoon?”
“Definitely. I will. I promise.”
“And do you—”
“Sasha?” He looked at her pleadingly. “I wasn’t kidding about my balls.”
“Merry Christmas, Jackson.”
She kissed him, and he kissed her back, and suddenly the cold didn’t matter anymore.
It was going to be a very merry Christmas indeed.
Photo by: Michael Pilkington
T
ILLY
B
AGSHAWE WAS
born in London and raised in a large family in the English countryside. She enrolled at Cambridge University and later launched a successful career as a headhunter in London. At twenty-six, she became the youngest-ever partner in the number-one global search firm, before changing course to pursue a writing career. After a brief stint at the
Sunday Times
, she followed her novelist sister’s example and wrote her first book. Today she is a happily married mother of four and author of ten novels, including
Adored, Showdown
, and
Sidney Sheldon’s Mistress of the Game
. In addition to her bestselling novels, Tilly has contributed to numerous British newspapers and magazines, including
Cosmopolitan, Glamour, Elle, The Sunday Times, The Times
, and
The Daily Mail
. She divides her time between Los Angeles, London, and Nantucket.
