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Emily, Ethan and Lorcan pushed forward to place their chocolate crispies offerings on the white linen-covered “Children’s Treats” table, but while they were gone Rosie grabbed the opportunity to nip behind the marquee and ditch her bullet-like baking attempt to the hovering birds’ delight. Unfortunately, the guy ropes securing the marquee hampered her expedition and, in the unfamiliar boots, she tripped over headfirst, the scones shooting from the plate like Frisbees and scattering in the long grass.
Raising her gaze from the dispersed culinary failures, she encountered the chocolate brown eyes of a fellow escapee. She paused, casting a glance over to where the scones had landed, and couldn’t suppress a giggle. The stranger smirked, too.
‘Lurking around the back of a tent like a naughty schoolgirl, eh?’
‘I’m just getting rid of these – have youseenthe competition? I’ve seen less zeal in a Wall Street trader desperate to make that month’s bonus! And they’ve even booked some TV personality to present the “Best in Show” prize!’
‘Mm, good decision,’ agreed the guy, his dimples deepening as his amusement increased. ‘They do look more like rock cakes than scones.’
‘In my defence, they were my first attemptandI had to master a ridiculous beast of an oven last seen on the Ark.’
‘Practice makes perfect.’
‘Anyway,’ Rosie narrowed her eyes as they met his mischievous glint, ‘why areyouhovering behind the show tent? Are you ditching your own offerings, too?’
A muffled announcement sprung from inside the tent, and she saw the stranger flick a glance to the back exit behind him, clearly eager to make his escape. With his riot of espresso curls, his confidently drawn eyebrows, and thick, dark lashes that would be the envy of any catwalk model, he looked like he could have danced the Flamenco without much persuasion. His eyes lingered on hers for a second longer than necessary, sending an unexpected frisson of interest through Rosie’s veins, but it was his hands that Rosie’s gaze dawdled upon – elegant, slender fingers and beautifully manicured nails – as he offered her his palm.
‘I’m Charlie, by the way.’
‘Rosie Hamilton.’
It seemed an incongruous introduction, shaking the hand of a handsome stranger in the long grass behind a marquee in the middle of a muddy field, but as his fingers encircled her own, she experienced such a jolt of desire her knees threatened to give way.
He brushed away the spirals of hair from his eyes, but they flopped back to their station, tickling the tips of those liquorice eyelashes, his jawline sporting a fashionable shadow. He was hunched into a scruffy Barbour jacket like her own – his an olive green colour – and he looked a little crumpled around the edges. His ski-slope nose rendered him quirkily attractive, but he was the diametric opposite of Rosie’s “type” – the sleek, clean-cut, fair-haired corporate image of Edward and Angus.
But as she drank in his sultry good looks and smouldering expression, she noticed the mischievous smirk playing around Charlie’s lips as he dropped his own eyes to take in her mud-splattered Hunter Wellingtons, her bushy golden tresses which she had decided against taming that morning – a French chignon for a rural village fair seemed to be taking things a little too far – and realised she must look like a bullion-haired Medusa.
‘Well, I’d better get...’ He tipped his head towards the back entrance of the tent.
‘Oh, yes, me too.’
‘See you around, Rosie Hamilton. Do you live around here? Your accent is…?’
‘Oh, yes. I’m staying in Somersby for a couple of months. A sort of sabbatical from work.’
‘Great decision. Oh, how I’d love to take a sabbatical from the mania of everyday life!’ Charlie shot a rueful, almost nervousglance to the tent, as though in fear of a pursuer. ‘I usually work in the food trade in London but over the summer I help out in the kitchen up at the hotel.’ He flung his thumb towards the architectural splendour of Somersby Manor brooding in the distance. ‘Know it?’
Rosie nodded. ‘Beautiful building. I’d adore to stay there as a guest. It’s so elegant. I’d love to know the family’s history. Is it true that it is an adults-only hotel?’
‘Yes. Only the east wing of the Manor is used as a hotel, and then only for five months of the year. The family still live in the west wing but they are really hands-on with the running of the show. Had to diversify in these difficult economic times. The upkeep of the place would be prohibitive without the additional stream of income the hotel and conference business offers. We do the occasional wedding, too.’
‘Well, it sure is a handsome property.’ Rosie felt her face flood with warmth as Charlie’s eyes lingered on hers.
Charlie jumped as another muffled announcement emanated from within the confines of the marquee, breaking their connection. From the anxious look in Charlie’s eyes, it was obvious someone was waiting for him, and Rosie wondered who that was. Girlfriend? Wife? Boss?
‘You’d better go, Charlie.’
‘Bye, Rosie. It was interesting to meet you.’
Charlie leaned forward, his lips level with hers, and for a split second she thought he was going to kiss her. But, as the lemony tang of his aftershave tickled her senses, she felt his thumb on her cheek as he brushed away a smudge of mud, his eyes filled with amusement as he wiped it away on his jacket. A surge of heat rushed up her neck and into her face at the intimacy of the moment. It was as though they were the only people in that field,lovers even, not two strangers meeting for the first time in the middle of a village fair.
As he strode towards the rear of the marquee, Rosie took full advantage of the opportunity to study his rear view, which didn’t disappoint, as a repeat ripple of desire flashed its fire around her body. She scolded herself at such blatant drooling. But a girl could window shop, couldn’t she?
She had waited all her life for a suitable man to cross her radar, and here were two within the space of a couple of days. Perhaps her decision to stay in the UK did have benefits after all.
Chapter Seventeen
The next morning, Rosie dragged her bones from the sagging single bed and made her way slowly to the bathroom. Her head felt like a colony of ants had taken up residence in the apertures where her brain cells should be. She couldn’t think straight, and knew it was because she had no routine, no plan, no itinerary to follow. She was like a ship that had weighed anchor but had left the nautical maps behind in the harbour.
