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‘Well, there are several things that need to be confirmed before a formal announcement can be made,’ Mr Melrose was saying, ‘but…’
He looked at Amber, who smiled back at him before turning to Dougie to say warmly, ‘I don’t quite know whether to congratulate you or commiserate with you, Dougie. Or should I say, Your Grace?’ she added, teasing him gently.
Dougie shook his head, half bemused and half embarrassed.
‘You’ll want to see the Eaton Square house, I expect, and Osterby, of course,’ Amber continued. ‘I have a confession to make with regard to the London house. I’m afraid that I’ve allowed my daughter to move into it for the duration of her season and that her coming-out ball is to be held there.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Dougie began, and then stopped as both Mr Melrose and Amber looked curiously at him. ‘That is to say, I remember reading about it,’ he amended, ‘and of course I’m delighted. That is, I mean that I don’t…well, there’s no problem at all with your plans, so far as I’m concerned.’
‘That is very generous of you,’ Amber told him. ‘I know you’ll have made your own friends here in London but I’d like to introduce you to the rest of the family soon, if you think you could bear it. My stepdaughters and my niece live here in London, in Chelsea, and I know they would love to meet you. Jay, my husband, spends most of his time at Denham, our estate in Macclesfield, and our twin daughters are still at school. They’ll be home for Easter in a few days, though, and if you haven’t made any other arrangements it would be so nice if you would join us at Denham.’
Amber had caught Dougie off guard. He hadn’t made any plans for Easter, and in many ways he would be very happy to accept her invitation. As he was beginning to realise, there was going to be a lot more to being a duke than being called Your Grace. However, whilst Amber seemed ready to welcome him into the family, Dougie couldn’t see Emerald being equally welcoming. She wasn’t going to be at all pleased when she learned that they were related.
Before he could say anything Mr Melrose was announcing with evident relief, ‘Amber, my dear, that is an excellent suggestion and typically generous of you.’
It was, Dougie admitted. After all, she owed him nothing, not really.
‘You must give me your address and your telephone number,’ Amber was saying, ‘and I shall give you ours so that we can make arrangements for your visit.’
It was too late to back out now; it would be too rude, Dougie realised.
Outside in the thin April sunshine he mounted his motorbike, kick starting it. He had followed his employer’s example and bought himself the sturdy but sleek chrome machine, and had soon learned to weave it in and out of the busy London traffic at high speed.
‘Shit!’ Ollie cursed as he stared in bleary-eyed disbelief at the alarm clock, before sinking back against his pillow. How the hell had he managed to oversleep so badly?
It was almost midday. He was due at Vogue’s offices at noon for a briefing, before leaving for Venice with a bunch of models, Vogue’s fashion editor, makeup artists, staffers, and no doubt trunks full of clothes. He ran his hand over his stubbly jaw. His eyes felt as though someone had throw a handful of grit in them and his mouth felt like the bottom of a birdcage.
His brain was refusing to wake up, creaking into action like an asthmatic old car, wheezing and protesting at every demand made on its clapped-out engine. Clapped out–that was exactly how he felt. No way was he going to make Vogue’s office for half-past twelve, never mind twelve. He sat up in bed, dropping his head into his hands and squeezing his eyes tightly closed against the thudding pain in his head.
He really should not have drunk that suspect bottle of wine last night after his bacon sandwich. He had been thirsty, though, and in the mood to celebrate, and the wine had been there.
The thin ray of reluctant sunshine edging its way past the faded curtains made him wince, as it lanced his aching eyes and then dappled his naked torso honey gold. His olive-toned skin tanned easily, and as soon as the weather warmed up he’d be off down to Brighton to get himself a tan and check out the girls in their swimsuits.
Quarter to one, gone that now. Hell. Vogue’s fashion editor would have his guts for garters, and his balls off as well. No way was he going to make the appointment. But he could still make the boat train, if he went direct to the station.
His earlier malaise forgotten, he was galvanised into action, getting out of bed to reach for the jeans he had left lying on the floor, and pulling on a sweater before heading barefoot for the door and the public telephone in the hallway to the flats. He’d ring Vogue and tell them that due to unforeseen circumstances he’d meet up with them on the platform.
He grinned to himself before starting to whistle under his breath. It would be OK. It always was for Oliver Charters.
Chapter Twelve
Ella grimaced beneath the weight of the bags her boss had given her to carry. She had travelled from the office to the station in a taxi with the three models and the makeup artist, and had somehow or other ended up having to help the makeup artist carry her things as well as her own and her boss’s.
The platform was a chaotic mix of travellers and those who had come to see them off, heads turning to stare at the models in their ‘departure outfits’, ready to be photographed embarking onto the
train, providing the photographer ever actually turned up.
The fashion editor had given vent to her feelings about his absence with a string of profanities that had turned the air in the offices as blue as her blood, and her assistants had been dispatched to try to drum up a stand-in.
Now that they were on the platform Ella looked round anxiously for her own boss, exhaling faintly with relief when she saw her. Their brief was to source information for an article about the way the social scene in Venice was changing, as the old guard of fashionable visitors, such as Coco Chanel and her peers, gave way to the likes of Princess Grace of Monaco and Greek shipping millionaires, as well as the perennial British upper classes, continental aristocrats and pretty society girls.
Ella was travelling in sensible clothes, wearing a tweed coat over her plain jumper and skirt, but in deference to the specialness of the occasion she had crammed a small hat with a pretty veil down on top of her now windblown curls. She was satisfyingly aware for the first time that only this week, when she lay down in bed, she could actually feel her ribs. Losing weight had become an exciting challenge now that she knew how it was done. She’d lost over a stone and she could dare herself to lose as many pounds as she wished.
To Ella’s relief, at the same time as she spied the features editor, a porter finally arrived to relieve her of her case, leaving her free to hurry to her boss’s side, keeping a firm grip on her handbag and the portable typewriter which she’d been told must never leave her possession.
Ollie surveyed the seething mêlée on the platform with a grimace. He hated Vogue shoots, but there were certain benefits, like the money and a chance to flirt with the models, and, if he was lucky and they were willing, do more than merely flirt.
He hadn’t had time to shave, merely managing a quick shower from which his overlong hair was still slightly damp, like the white T-shirt he had pulled on without bothering to dry himself properly, before stepping back into his jeans.
