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Angus parked in the car park and ushered Rosie into the restaurant, holding out a chair for her to sit down at the table and forcing her to reconsider her doubts as to his manners. He ordered a bottle of Champagne for her, and she downed the first glass with relish to calm her swirling nerves. With a dose of Dutch courage administered, she began to relax whilst Angus sipped at his iced Perrier. When she queried his choice of beverage, he explained that not only did he not drive-and-drive, he found that excessive alcohol intake caused bitter introspection which he preferred to avoid if possible.
Conversation flowed freely over their starter of foie gras pate with grapefruit chutney and, despite their differences in upbringing, Rosie found they enjoyed acres of common ground. She relished the opportunity to discuss with someone the topical stories of the day and the respective futures of corporate Britain and the US after the recession had finally blown itself out. She found they both harboured ambitious plans for their future careers and a single-minded intention of personal fulfilment.
But the evening wasn’t all business. Angus confessed his love of cricket and regaled her with a number of hilarious anecdotes from recent Sunday gatherings at the local village cricket club where he and his friends dreamed of one day playing a match at Lord’s, the official home of cricket.
‘My one ambition, when I was a boy growing up in Bath, was to play cricket for England. Unfortunately, the demands of the law shunted those dreams to the side-lines but, thankfully, not into obscurity.’
Rosie’s third glass of Champagne dulled Angus’s sharp edges and she became aware of the curl of golden hairs on his forearms, the broad expanse of his chest and shoulders, and, when she imagined him bedecked in his cricket whites, her stomach performed a somersault of attraction.
It was a wonderful feeling.
Under Angus’s attentive scrutiny she felt desirable for the first time in a long time, well, since Carlos. Edward had made her feel like she was a precious piece of jewellery, a prize to be worn on his arm as part of his sartorial uniform, not attractive in her own right but as an extension of him, an accessory really. She realised Angus was still talking, his sensual blue eyes sparkling as he raised them in question.
‘Pardon me?’ Rosie refocused.
‘Would you be up for watching a match one Sunday afternoon? I confess the rules of cricket are a little weird to US spectators, I’m afraid, but I’ll happily talk you through them. Oh, and I’ll collect you. I know you still have no motorised transport.’
Rosie thought fondly of Bernice’s rickety bicycle which she’d scrubbed and oiled and pressed into action to collect her daily groceries from Susan’s shop and, on the odd occasion when she was feeling energetic, undertaken the five-mile round-trip to Cranbury to visit Emily and the boys, or to have a drink with her and Nick at the pub.
‘Thanks, Angus. I’d love that.’
She met his eyes, but the extraordinarily handsome chef – who introduced himself as Marc Bouvier and the owner of that little slice of French heaven in the English countryside – chose that moment to appear at their table to ask if everything had been to their satisfaction, and the conversation changed direction.
Rosie had to admit that she was delighted that her silent, posthumous promise to her aunt to start dating again was going so well. And with a handsome English lawyer to boot – she couldn’t have planned it better. Angus’s manners were impeccable, he was interesting and engaging and she’d thoroughly enjoyed his company. There really was very little to distinguish Angus from the guys who frequented the corridors of the financial hothouses back in New York.
Except the accent, of course. She could listen to him talk, even about cricket, all evening, and she couldn’t wait to call Lauren to tell her that she might have met her “prince” without having to kiss any frogs at all! The word “kiss” sent a frisson of excitement through her chest. There was bound to be a goodnight kiss to look forward to!
But was this wise?cautioned her inner oracle. Had she really not learned her lesson about dating preppy, corporate guys with Edward? And she lived in Manhattan, this wouldn’t be a long-distance romance, it would be inter-continental!
This time, when they returned to the Mercedes for the journey home to Somersby, Angus did hold the door open for her and Rosie slid, a little wobbly, into the soft leather seat, exposing a larger-than-intended expanse of sheer thigh. She felt Angus’s eyes linger for a few long moments before he twisted the key in the ignition and revved the engine, and she felt the delicious swirl of attraction deep in her belly.
‘So, how long have you decided to stay at the cottage, Rosie?’
‘I’m not sure; another couple of months, I think. The garden is starting to look great again, don’t you think?’
Was he enquiring because he wanted to ask her on a second date? If so, she would leap at the chance. She’d found his company stimulating, especially bearing in mind she hadspent the last few weeks impersonating a lonely spinster in a dilapidated cottage in rural Gloucestershire with only Emily and the flowerbeds for company.
No, that wasn’t entirely true.
Ollie had been true to his word and arrived on his decrepit bike every Sunday afternoon and they had laboured companionably in the front garden, the pungent fragrance of lavender and sage accompanying their toil. The lodge’s “drive-by appeal” was now much improved, and she intended to repaint the blistered front door the same scarlet chosen by Bernice next Saturday.
She smiled across at Angus, his large hand resting loosely on the gearstick, his strong profile outlined against the inky black sky. It had been a long time since she’d invited a man into her home for coffee and, as a wave of desire snaked her abdomen, she decided Angus would be the first since Carlos.
‘Yes, I did notice that the cottage is looking smart, Rosie. Youhavebeen working hard!’
She smiled at his compliment. ‘Thanks, Angus.’
‘Mm, but you do know it’s a complete waste of your time and effort and, if you’re paying the gardener, your money too.’
Rosie thought she glimpsed a faint twist at the side of Angus’s mouth as he concentrated on the dark ribbon of tarmac ahead, whipping the Mercedes confidently around the winding country lanes towards Somersby.
‘It’s unlikely the work you have undertaken will enhance the value of the property, either. As you know, Mr Dixon’s offer is still on the table. In fact, I wasn’t intending to mention business this evening, but as he has been the only interested purchaser, I urge you not to lose him. It’s a difficult market out there at the moment, as I’m sure you know, and you’d be a fool to let Brian’soffer slide. He’s a cash buyer too, so the sale could be wrapped up in the next four to six weeks.’
‘I know. I seem to be thinking with my gut and not my brain at the moment. It sounds trite, but the lodge holds a kind of magical aura for me. I’m even finding the physical labour in the garden enjoyable. I’ve discovered so much about the plants and horticulture from Ollie, but I also found one of my aunt’s journals in the…’
‘Look, Rosie, as you have instructed me to act in your aunt’s estate, it’s my professional duty to advise that you consider this offer very seriously. Brian Dixon does have a number of other properties on his target list. Can I remind you that when we met at the will reading you were adamant about your reasons to sell? Are they still valid?’
‘Well, yes, but…’
