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“Got it.” It makes less than no sense. It sounds like gibberish to me. But if that’s what my friend Pippa requires of me, I can quote lines of poetry with the best of them.
“We have some of theHome & Gardensoft-story journos in the mix, and they lap this stuff up like hounds. So play it big, but in that quiet, charming way you have, so that the rest of us can do our jobs and get thisforeign boffinin and out of here under the radar.” She hovers over the food, vacillating between the quail eggs and olives, finally opting for the spiced eggs.
The music pauses and the dance floor clears. Just in time for Lolly to make her appearance. It is not only I who gasp. The entire room is sucked of oxygen. That’s how radiant she is.
THE SPY WHO LOVED ME
Lolly Benoit. The Ballroom, The Great House. The Cotswolds, England.
The music pauses as I step into the large ballroom and the crowd gasps, then applauds. I selectedCarmen’sdress, with its plunging neckline and flamenco inspired flounces and the slit up the front. The plan was to flash my legs at Mariano in hopes he’ll remember what he said about my legs needing to go all the way up to my ass and do something by way of apology. Preferably something physical. But it seems the outfit is a hit with other partygoers, too. I curtsy, blushing, and make my way through the thronging crowd.
Thank all the gods, as well as my itinerant mother, that I was in the States for so much of the English social season when I was growing up, because if I hadn’t been abroad, half the people in the room would know who I am, and the other half wouldwantto know who I am. And not in a good way.
As it is, I can make an entrance as Lolly Benoit, Polo Riding Instructor, Second Class, rather than Charlotte Benoit, Daughter of Gwen Spicer, self-made millionaire and nouveau riche pretender to the county seat.Um, she’s also the owner of this house. Crucial little detail you omitted there, Lollz.As it is, no one here knows me. And though not telling Mariano about my family feels weird, I still don’t want anyone to think I got my place on theTS&Kteam because of my connections, rather than my prowess as a Riding Instructor, Second Class.
I’m bubbling with excitement. On the one hand, Mariano and I are going to have to keep our hands off each other because, if I know anything about Mummy Dearest, there are photographers in the crowd documenting everything because “every event is an opportunity.” On the other, we’re going to be forced to press ourselves up against each other when we dance, perhaps steal a few kisses when no one’s looking, and end the night somewhere only I know about. No one has an estate this old and this venerable without secret passageways.
Mariano and Pippa are over by the buffet with their heads together like a couple of conspirators. He’s as serious as ever, and she’s gesticulating over the food. “Can anyone join in, or is this a private conversation?”
They straighten up and do the worst impersonation of two people who aren’t in cahoots. “Don’t be giving up your day jobs to work for MI5.” I laugh but get less of a chortle than I expect by way of response. Which means they truly are up to something. “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do, either you’re going to let me in on your little secret, or I’m going to go over there and get myself some soused herring, or whatever’s passing for hors d’oeuvres these days, while you pull yourselves together.”
Mariano cocks his head at Pippa.
“We need to distract the hacks who are milling and snouting about for the merest hint of blood in the water.”
“There’s blood in the water? Already?” I’ve heard of no brewing scandal.
“Do they need an excuse?”
She has a point. If there’s no story, Fleet Street will make one up. But for this set? In sleepy Gloucestershire? Oh, I guess Henrietta’s a big deal, even if she’s only the three hundredth in line to the throne.
“So, what are we going to do about it?” I assume they have a plan.
“You have a fabulous laugh, Lolly. Toss that around like confetti. Flirt with all the old codgers. Make sure you dance with every student, but never more than twice, and steer the photographer and his note-taking friend toward Mariano so he can deliver his lines.”
“I am to praise the fish. Not just any fish. This fish here in the bright jelly.” Mariano informs me of his part in this charade with such gravity that I burst out laughing.
“Of course you are. ‘Ponder deep wisdom, dark or clear, Each secret fishy hope or fear.’” The two of them look at me as if I’ve grown an extra head rather than quoting a line of Rupert Brooke. “Never mind. It isn’t worth explaining.”
Pippa’s eyeing the crowd, though what she sees and what I see are possibly quite different. “Get to it.” She gives me a little push. “Strut your stuff.”
“If I may?” Mariano offers me his hand. “They can’t refuse us one dance, surely?”
“Have at it.” I’m not sure when Pippa became the boss of all she surveys, but we definitely seem to be taking our marching orders from her.
Mariano leads me through the parting people to the center of the dance floor. “Tango Por una Cabeza, if you please.”
The violinist steps to the podium and bows the opening notes. Mariano’s hand is on my back, my arm on his, and I have to fight back tears when I realize I have the ability to take back our first dance, which was polluted by the patroness-who-wasn’t just a few short weeks ago. Wow! Has it only been weeks? This man, who for years was nothing more than an idea—a pinup, a crush, a fantasy—is now flesh and blood and mine, mine, mine.
“Do you trust me?” Mariano whispers in my ear, the tickle sending a ripple of sensation through me, rendering me speechless. I once told him that I do not dance, but I lied. With him, I can do anything.
I let myself melt into his steps, sliding and gliding and turning on command.
“Tango is a dance of trust.” He has pulled me close, gripping the back of my thigh and dragging it upwards along his bare one—skin against skin as my skirt rides up. “Do you trust me?”
He lifts my leg even higher so that I can feel exactly how aroused he is. “Fuck, yes.”
“For the woman, the tango is a dance of surrender.” He pushes me away, stalking forward into me, hunger in his eyes as we move across the floor. Unlike a waltz or a country square, there are no set pieces. There are only possible patterns, decided—at least in Argentinian tango—by the lead. When Mariano pulls me to him again, I go where he tells me. “You are ready to surrender?” His voice is a murmur, graveled in the same way it was at the wishing well. Full of desire.
