The Secret Life Of Lady Gabriella

It was only the words that came out of his mouth that persistently spoiled the image.

‘How is it?’ he asked, finally getting even that bit right. ‘Your leg?’

‘Fine,’ she said, feeling no pain. Then, realising that she was staring up at him instead of testing her knee, she quickly said, ‘Thank you.’ And let go.

For a moment she thought it was going to be all right, but then she made the mistake of twisting around to get at her backpack, and gasped as pain shot through the joint.

‘That fine?’ he said, catching her elbow, taking her weight as the knee buckled.

‘Tricky things, knees,’ she said, catching her breath. It was the knee, not the man. She did not fancy him. She was not that shallow. She had standards, and they included kindness above sun-kissed hair and cheekbones that could slice cheese. ‘Great in a straight line, not so good for cornering. But it’ll be okay.’

‘Of course it will.’

Now, that, she decided, really was sarcasm.

‘Where were you going?’ he asked.

‘What? Oh, to the Assembly Rooms in the city centre. There’s a reception for the Chamber of Commerce.’

‘You’re a member of the Chamber of Commerce?’

She stared at him. Was he kidding? It was impossible to tell from his expression. ‘No,’ she replied, taking no chances. ‘I’m attending the reception in a professional capacity.’ Then, in the face of his blank expression, ‘I’m on waitress duty,’ she explained. ‘Drinks, canapеs…’

‘Right.’ Those blue eyes swept over her in a thoughtful look. ‘The dress code, if you don’t mind me saying so, seems a little casual. What happened to the little black dress and white apron?’

‘For your information, Dr Faulkner, they’re in my backpack.’ Well, the modern equivalent, anyway. Black trousers and black shirt. ‘Along with the black stockings and suspenders,’ she added, tossing caution to the winds. There was only so much sarcasm a girl could take with a smile. ‘The police have forbidden me from wearing them when I’m riding a bike,’ she added, just to demonstrate that sarcasm was not a male preserve. ‘Speaking of which…’ she shrugged off her backpack and extracted her cellphone ‘…I’d better call a cab.’

‘What?’ It was the second time she’d managed to grab his full attention. She was beginning to enjoy it. ‘You can’t seriously be planning to spend the evening on your feet? Surely they can find a replacement?’

‘I am the replacement,’ she informed him, as she scrolled through her fast-dial numbers. Waitressing at receptions was absolutely her least favourite job—including cleaning ovens. ‘And I can’t let Sue down.’

‘Why not?’ he demanded. ‘Who is Sue?’

‘My best friend since playgroup, despite the fact that we’re total opposites…’ She found the number she was looking for and hit ‘dial’. ‘Which is why she’s the one running Busy Bees, while I’m the one she’s paying to smile and waft around gracefully with trays of drinks and canapеs.’

‘Not tonight.’

‘Well, maybe wafting gracefully will be a stretch,’ she admitted. Then, ‘Damn, it’s engaged.’

As she hit ‘redial’, he said, ‘Leave it!’ And, in case she had any plans to ignore him, he wrapped those long and very strong fingers around both hand and phone, so that she could do nothing but blink.

How dared he?

She looked at his hand. Then at him.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ she demanded.

‘Stopping you from behaving like an idiot.’

That would cover it, she thought. However, since it was the only option open to her, she said, ‘I appreciate your concern, and if I had any choice I can assure you I wouldn’t be doing this.’ Then, when he didn’t seem convinced, ‘Truly. I had something much more interesting planned for tonight.’

For just a moment she thought he was going to ask her what, but he apparently thought better of it and instead said, ‘Very well, if you insist on going then I have no choice but to drive you there myself.’

‘You don’t have to do that.’

‘Oh, yes, Mrs March, I do.’

‘Ellie, please.’ Maybe she’d misjudged him…

‘But not before you’ve got some strapping on your knee.’

‘There’s no time for that. I’ll sort it out when I get there,’ she assured him, lying through her teeth. ‘A lift is more than enough—’

‘I’ll do it now,’ he said. ‘Or I’ll take you to the local hospital and let them do it.’ He didn’t wait for her to choose, which suggested he was a fast learner, but put his arm around her waist. It must have been shock that stilled the ‘get lost; I’ll take a cab’ retort that flew to her lips, and made redundant his follow-up, ‘How will you beat off burglars and mow the lawn if you’re laid up with a crook knee?’

Pressed against the soft weave of his jacket, his arm supporting her, she felt the words still in her throat. This, she decided, must be what being swept off your feet must feel like.

‘This,’ she said, ‘is ridiculous.’

‘I agree. You should be lying down with a cold compress on your leg. Maybe if I tempted you with something from my extensive library of gothic novels you might think again?’

He could tempt her, full-stop, she thought, shocking herself, as she looked up at him. Despite the sense of humour shortfall and the high-level bossiness. She must be a lot shallower than she thought. For once, however, she managed to keep her thoughts to herself; maybe discretion, once admitted, seeped into the mind and took over.

‘Any other time.’ She sounded breathless. Totally pathetic…

‘It’s a one-time offer,’he said. Then, reluctantly, ‘Oh, well, it’s your knee—’

‘Right.’ She swallowed, gathered herself. ‘So leave me to worry about it. Let’s go.’

‘The accident, however, was partially my fault—’

‘Partially?’

He shrugged. She felt the movement, rather than saw it. ‘All right, I’ll take full responsibility. But I don’t suppose kicking your bike improved matters.’

Oh…rhubarb-and-custard! But of course he’d seen her childish outburst, or he wouldn’t be standing here now, with his arm around her waist.

‘And as your employer, however unwittingly…’ make that ‘unwillingly’ she thought ‘…at the moment of impact, I’m going to have to insist on some rudimentary precautions. Just in case you’re unable to work for weeks and decide to sue me.’

‘Now who’s being ridiculous?’ There went the discretion, she thought, as he gave her a look that suggested it wasn’t him. ‘Really! I like living here.’ More importantly, ‘Lady Gabriella’ lived here; in fact she was doing a brilliant job of fixing the place up, if only on paper. Even she wasn’t mad enough to re-gild frames, actually plant the herb garden she’d planned, or paint the sagging summerhouse—another coat of paint would probably bring it tumbling down. ‘I love living in that ridiculous little turret.’

‘You do?’

He could have tried harder to disguise his regret.

‘I do.’ The house inspired her. ‘Why would I do anything to put that at risk?’ Then, in a moment of inspiration, ‘Besides, Adele is my employer, not you.’

‘Since I own the house, that’s debatable.’