The Secret Life Of Lady Gabriella

‘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.’

‘I know nothing about that. My agreement is with her, so I couldn’t sue you, could I?’ His eyes narrowed, and it occurred to her that she might have accidentally hit on the perfect delaying tactic. ‘Maybe you should talk to her about it?’ she suggested.

‘I will.’

You can try, she thought. One of the reasons his sister had wanted someone responsible in the house was because she didn’t want to be bothered with long distance emergencies such as frozen pipes, or squatters, or tiles blowing off in a gale.

Didn’t want to be bothered full-stop. In fact she’d made it perfectly clear that she thought her brother should sell the place and buy something modern and easily run, like her.

Maybe it wasn’t so surprising that she’d imagined Dr Faulkner as some half-witted old bloke, lost in his books.

‘Look,’ she said, checking her watch, because it was so hard to think when she was looking at him, ‘if we don’t make a move right now, I’m going to be late.’

‘Then the sooner you stop arguing,’he said, ‘the better.’

With his arm about her waist she was very up-close-and-personal indeed, and his eyes warned her that she was testing his patience.

‘Who’s arguing?’ she asked. Not that he’d bothered to wait for her to humour him. Instead, with one arm he lifted her clear off the ground so that, dangling at his side, her only option was to fling her own arms around his neck and hang on as he carried her through the front door, down the hall and into the kitchen.

Maybe ‘swept off her feet’ was an exaggeration, but if he had done that it would have been hideously embarrassing. Far too reminiscent of being carried over the threshold.

Besides, it was a terrific neck.

Strong, with smooth skin and a soft mane of silky hair that brushed against her bare arm. He smelt good, too. Nothing fancy, just a tweedy, leathery, totally male smell. There was no doubt about it, the man was solid hero material. He just needed to lighten up, smile once in a while.

He lowered her onto a hard kitchen chair, held her there for a moment, presumably concerned that she might spring to her feet and make a bid for freedom.

He didn’t just have amazingly blue eyes, she realised, but seriously wonderful eyelashes, too.

‘First-aid kit?’ he prompted.

‘Umm?’ Then blushed furiously as she realised that it wasn’t him hanging on to her. On the contrary, she was the one with her arms still around his neck, clinging on like a limpet. ‘Oh. It’s under the sink,’ she said, using one of her arms to wave in that direction. ‘A red box with a white cross…’

She managed to keep her mouth tightly closed as he sorted through the contents, found a crêpe bandage. Watched curiously, but still in silence, as he fetched a bottle of water from the fridge, filled a bowl with it. Then he dropped in the bandage.

Oh, no…

‘You’re not coming near me with that!’

‘No?’ He poked at the bandage to make sure it was thoroughly soaked in the icy water, then glanced at her. ‘I thought you liked living here.’

She shouldn’t have told him that, she realised belatedly. Knowledge was power. If he knew how important it really was he could use it to make her do anything.

Okay, not anything…

Although, actually, if he smiled…

‘Can you get out of those jeans without help?’he asked.

What?

‘Or would you prefer me to cut up the leg?’ He held up a small pair of scissors and snipped graphically at the air with them.

‘Your choice,’ he prompted.

‘No!’It wasn’t just the fact that they were her favourite jeans that made her capitulate. Annoying as it was to have to admit it, she knew he was right. She’d never last five minutes in the scrum of a Chamber of Commerce reception without some kind of strapping on her knee. She wouldn’t be doing it at all if Sue hadn’t been desperate. It was her Writers’ Circle night, and she was going to miss the first half of the meeting.

‘Give me a minute,’ she said, snapping open the button at the waist, pausing for him to turn around, give her a little privacy in which to wriggle them over her bottom.

He just waited for her to get on with it, and maybe she was being unnecessarily coy. Once they were off, they were off…Her legs would be bare and, since she was wearing a crop top, her knickers were going to be on show.

She wasn’t sure whether she was relieved that she’d opted for comfortable, sensible white knickers, or sorry that she wasn’t wearing her barely there special occasion scarlet thong that might just have brought a blush to his cheeks and made him regret being quite so bossy.

She let her jeans crumple in a heap around her feet, but she didn’t dare kick them away and risk doing any more damage.

Apparently unmoved by the sight of her naked limbs, he eased them over her feet, tossed them over a nearby chair, and then lifted her injured leg, propping her foot against his leg while he prodded her knee, all the time watching her face to see if she flinched. But, given sufficient time to compose herself, she could keep a straight face, too. She needed it when, apparently satisfied that there was no serious damage, he used the icy bandage to bind her knee with deft efficiency.

It seemed that the shoulders weren’t just for show; he strapped up her leg with the skill of a man who knew all the moves.

‘How does it feel?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know. It’s numb with cold.’

‘An hour from now you’ll be wishing it was still that way. Can you walk on it?’

She gripped his hand, hauled herself up, took a stiff-legged step. ‘It would seem so. Good job, Doc.’

The look he gave her suggested that he did not appreciate the ‘Doc’, but he let it go. ‘It’ll help, although you’ll probably find “wafting” rather difficult.’ He picked up her jeans, offered them to her. ‘I’ll bring the car to the door while you struggle back into these.’

Ellie abandoned the jeans; since she wasn’t cycling, she might as well save time by changing now. She stripped off the little crop top to reveal her favourite white lace push-’em-up bra. Such a pity it was her knee she’d strained; she’d have liked to see how straight a face Dr Faulkner could have kept with her ‘wench’ boobs in his face as he’d strapped her shoulder…

Grinning idiotically at the thought, she hauled her black waitressing trousers and shirt from her backpack. It was only when she was all buttoned up and ready to go that she turned—very carefully—and saw Benedict Faulkner standing in the doorway. She’d assumed he’d wait in the car for her.

Just how long had he been standing there?

‘You were lying about the stockings and suspenders, then?’ he said, his face straighter than a ruler.

‘I charge extra for them,’ she said, walking stiff-leggedly to the door, ‘and the Chamber of Commerce is cheap…’ She stifled a gasp. ‘I was expecting Adele’s Morris Minor,’ she said. It had been tucked up during her absence, in her brother’s garage. Unlike this stunningly beautiful vintage sports car. ‘Where did this come from?’

‘I left it with a colleague while I was away.’

‘Someone you trust, obviously?’ she said as, unable to bend one leg, she was reduced to flopping backwards into the low seat, then lifting her stiff leg into the car.

‘Obviously.’

‘The fact that you took the time to reclaim it suggests you’re going to be around for a while.’

‘I stayed with her for a couple of days while I caught up on sleep,’he said. ‘But you’re right. I won’t be going anywhere in the next week or two.’

Her.

She had oddly mixed feelings about that. She concentrated on the ‘oh bother’ variety, and spent the regrettably short ride into the city dwelling miserably on the horrors of flat-hunting.

‘What time shall I pick you up?’ he asked, as he pulled up in front of the Assembly Rooms.

‘What? Oh, there’s no need for that,’ she said, opening the door, then belatedly realising that, while flopping backwards had worked to get into the car, she was going to need rather more help getting out. ‘I’m going on to a meeting next door,’ she said, as he climbed out, walked around the car. ‘At the library. I’m sure someone will give me a lift home.’

Having offered her a hand, he made no immediate move to help her out. Instead he said, ‘How sure?’

Actually, very sure, but with his hand wrapped around hers she seemed to have trouble in breathing.

Taking her hesitation as not-very-sure-at-all, he repeated the question. ‘What time shall I pick you up from the library?’

‘We, um, usually go down the pub afterwards,’ she managed.

‘Your life is one social whirl, Ellie.’

‘What can I say?’

‘If you’re ever going to get out of this car, I’d suggest you tell me what time I should pick you up at the library.’

She was torn between fury at his dictatorial manner and a certain undeniable pleasure at the idea of being collected from the meeting by a dishy man in a seriously good-looking car.

Besides, he was right. She was entirely at his mercy. If he didn’t help her out of the car she’d be stuck there with him all evening. Or, more accurately, he’d be stuck with her.

Oh, the temptation…

Dismissing the idea as unworthy—and because she was already late—she said, ‘Okay, Doc, you win.’

‘Ben,’ he said. ‘Just…Ben.’

‘Ben. Nine, then. At the library.’

Satisfied, he eased her from the car and saw her safely up the steps and inside the Assembly Rooms. It was only then that she allowed herself a self-satisfied little grin. First objective achieved. He’d asked her to call him Ben.

Her next target was a smile. Entirely for his own good, naturally…

CHAPTER THREE

ELLIE’S pleasure was short-lived. The reception was noisy, crowded, and went on well beyond eight. By the time she’d helped clear up and got to the library it was nearly nine, and most of the members had already decamped to the pub.

Diana Sutton, the group’s secretary, who was already locking up, was sympathetic. ‘Bad luck. Never mind, come and have a drink. We’re celebrating. Gary’s sold a short story and Lucy’s sold an article to Women’s World. The one she wrote when we did that magazine exercise.’

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