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‘Actually, I rather think I’d like some more champagne. I’m celebrating, you see,’ she heard herself telling him, uncharacteristically and recklessly emptying her glass before he could remove it and then looking round for the waiter with what she didn’t realise was champagne-induced vagueness. Her lips did feel slightly numb, it was true, but then so did her toes, and they hadn’t had any contact whatsoever with the champagne, had they?
‘Celebrating what?’ Marcus demanded tersely, his hold on her arm tightening.
‘My miracle,’ Lucy responded, forming the words very carefully.
She might have imagined it, but she thought Marcus actually swore softly. ‘The only miracle here is that you’re still standing,’ he muttered.
The waiter was almost level with her. She reached out to pick up a full glass of champagne from the tray he was carrying, but Marcus got there before she could lift the glass, the fingers of his free hand closing hard on her own.
‘Leave it where it is, Lucy,’ he commanded her calmly.
‘I’m thirsty,’ Lucy protested. Thirsty for the nectar of his kiss, thirsty for the feel of his mouth on her own, on her skin, everywhere, whilst she drank in the taste of him. She looked at his hand, at his long, strong fingers curled around her own. She wanted to put her other hand on top of it, so that she could touch him. She wanted to lift his hand to her mouth so that she could breathe in the scent of his skin as she explored it with her lips and with her tongue. Longing burned through her, leaping from nerve-ending to nerve-ending until she was filled with it, possessed by it…
‘I think it’s time we left.’ The cool hardness of Marcus’s voice chilled her overheated thoughts.
‘We?’ she queried warily.
‘Yes. We. I was just about to leave—and, unless you want the remainder of your great-aunt’s guests to witness the unedifying sight of you sprawled on her parquet floor, I rather think you would be wise to leave with me. In fact, I am going to insist on it.’
‘You’re my trustee, Marcus, not my guardian or my keeper.’
‘Right now, I’m a man very close to the edge of his patience. And besides, I need to talk you about Prêt a Party.’
Lucy stiffened defensively.
‘If you’re going to lecture me about Nick again—’ she began, but Marcus simply ignored her and continued as though she hadn’t interrupted him.
‘You may remember me mentioning some time ago that my sister Beatrice wants to plan a surprise party for her husband’s fiftieth birthday?’
‘Yes,’ Lucy agreed. Beatrice was Marcus’s elder sister, and her husband George was something very important in the mysterious highest echelons of the civil service.
‘I have to go and see Beatrice later this week, and she suggested that I should take you along with me so that she can discuss her party with you. I thought you might want to check your diary before we fix on a date.’
Lucy exhaled weakly. She was grateful to be given any business right now—even if it meant having to spend time with Marcus in order to obtain it.
‘I’ve got a fairly free week,’ she responded, as nonchalantly as she could. The truth was that she had a wholly free week; in fact the only event she had coming up in the whole of the next month was a launch bash for a sportswear manufacturer.
Somehow or other they had actually reached the door to the hallway, where her great-aunt was already saying goodbye to some of her other guests, and it was obvious that Marcus had every intention of hauling her through it. If she dug in her heels, would he literally drag her across the parquet?
‘You’re walking too fast,’ she told him breathlessly, and then gave a small startled ‘oof’ of exhaled breath as he stopped so suddenly that she cannoned straight into him.
She was standing body to body with Marcus, and he had one hand on her arm whilst his other was pressed into the small of her back. She could smell the faint lemony scent of his cologne, mixed with warm man scent. Suddenly the back of her throat prickled treacherously with tears. How many hours had she wasted after she had first smelled it on him haunting the men’s toiletries departments of upmarket stores? Sniffing and testing and searching, hoping that she might recognise it and find out just what it was he wore, so that she could buy some and put a little on her pillows, so that she could wear it herself if necessary—anything just to be able to feel closer to him. But she had never discovered what it was.
Body to body with Marcus. If only by some miracle he would draw her closer now, and bend his head and cover her mouth with his—if only, if only…
‘Marcus, dear boy—so good of you to come. And Lucy…’
Lucy could feel her face burning as Marcus stepped back from her but still continued to hold on to her arm.
The almost flirtatious warmth of her voice as her great-aunt had greeted Marcus chilled quite distinctly over her own name, Lucy noticed cynically. Was there any woman on the surface of the earth who was immune to Marcus’s personal brand of male charm?
‘A truly delightful occasion, Alice. Thank you for inviting me.’
‘My dear boy, how could I not? After all, your family have been taking care of our family’s financial affairs since before the Peninsular War. Of course there should have been food, but I’m afraid Lucy rather let me down there.’
Lucy gasped in outrage.
‘That—Ouch!’ she protested as Marcus trod on her toes, then hustled her out into the street—just as though she were a prisoner under armed guard, Lucy decided indignantly.
‘You do realise that you stood on my toes, don’t you?’ she objected, as she breathed in the familiar scent of the sun-warmed city.
‘Better my foot on your toes than your foot in your own mouth, don’t you think?’ Marcus suggested.
It took Lucy several seconds to recognise what he was saying, but once she had she glowered indignantly and told him, ‘It was Great-Aunt Alice herself who decided not to have any food. It was nothing to do with me.’
‘You amaze me sometimes, you know, Lucy,’ Marcus told her grimly. ‘Has no one ever told you that a little tact goes a long way towards oiling the wheels of business and reputation?’
‘You’re a fine one to talk! You never bother using tact when you talk to me, do you?’
‘Some situations call for stronger measures,’ Marcus answered grimly.
‘If you mean my marriage—’ Lucy began hotly, and then stopped.
Her marriage was just not something she felt safe discussing with Marcus. The last thing she wanted was to have him probing into the whys and wherefores of her relationship with Nick. There was no point in allowing herself to be drawn into an argument she already knew she was not going to win.
‘You can let go of me now, Marcus,’ Lucy hissed valiantly several seconds later, when he was still holding on to her. But Marcus ignored her, keeping a firm grip on her arm as he flagged down a taxi and then opened the door for her, almost pushing her inside it. Lucy resentfully moved as far away from him as she could as he sat down beside her.
‘Where to, guv?’ the taxi driver demanded.
‘Wendover Square. Number twenty-one.’
‘Arncott Street.’
They had both spoken together.
‘Make yer mind up,’ the cabbie complained.
‘Wendover Square,’ Marcus repeated, before Lucy could speak, leaving her to glower angrily at him.
‘It would have been easier if he’d dropped me off first, Marcus.’
‘I want to talk to you,’ Marcus told her coolly.
‘So talk,’ she said recklessly.
‘In private,’ Marcus informed her in a very gritty voice.
The taxi driver was turning into Wendover Square, its elegant Georgian houses overlooking one of London’s most attractive private squares.
Marcus’s house—the same house his grandfather and his great-grandfather had lived in, in fact all his ancestors right back to the Carring who had first begun the bank in the days of the Peninsular War—had just a
bout the best position in the whole square. Four storeys high and double fronted, with a proper back garden, it was a true family house, and Lucy could see how impressed the cabbie was as he pulled up outside it and unlocked the door for them.
‘I do hope that whatever you want to say to me isn’t going to take too long, Marcus.’ Lucy was trying to sound as businesslike as possible—a difficult task when suddenly, for no discernible reason, her tongue seemed to be slipping and sliding over her words, and the motion of the taxi had made her feel very dizzy indeed.
