Hidden Paradise

chapter EIGHT



Rob

He came back into the Servants’ Hall as the drawing-room bell jangled.

“All right, mate?” Ivan asked.

“Yeah, great.” He looked around. “Dejan, where’s the tray of cups and saucers?”

“Cups and…?”

“Yeah. For upstairs.”

Dejan frowned and gestured to the table where the remnants of dinner lay. “Tea?”

“I’ll do it, you berk,” Ivan said, and ran to the adjoining room where the china was stored.

Rob rushed to the kitchen—it was always the same, however well prepared they thought they were, everything always happened at the last moment—and hefted the tray laden with a huge teapot and coffee jug, sugar and cream. He snatched a handful of teaspoons, loaded the cake stand with tiny cakes and dried apricots and chocolates decorated with gold leaf, and carried it all out, narrowly missing Ivan and his tray. They eyed each other.

“Wig’s crooked,” Rob said, and thrust the tray at Declan.

“Bugger.” Ivan laid his tray on the table and adjusted his wig.

Rob armed himself with a couple of smaller trays and a cloth for spills, and opened the door for them. They began the trip up the narrow winding servants’ stairs.

“Why the f*ck didn’t they put in an elevator,” Ivan wheezed.

“Architectural integrity.”

“Archi—what? Did the old guy make a pass at you, then?”

“You know what he’s like.” They paused on the landing at the first floor.

“I had ten quid on it,” Ivan said in disgust. “Couldn’t you give the old sod a pity blow job?”

“Sorry, mate. Wrong team.” They emerged from the servants’ staircase and paused to catch their breath. From the drawing room, they heard the sound of a piano and a woman singing.

“Wait,” Rob said.

“Why?”

“Because you and Dejan are all red and she’s still singing. We go in when they clap.”

The pianist played a final chord and during the applause Rob opened the door and ushered in Dejan and Ivan and their trays. Neither Peter nor Chris was present, which was unusual, and the guests looked a little drunk, which was not unusual at all. At least Lou was pretty much sober tonight. She was sitting next to one of the guys who messed around with the plaster and paint, talking to him with great animation. Mac, meanwhile, across the room, gazed at her, and Rob wondered why he didn’t just go and talk to her. Like poor old Peter had done, clumsily touching him and gazing at him like some sort of pathetic spaniel. It wasn’t the first time a gay guy had propositioned him—it happened, no big deal—but it was a big deal when it was your boss and he looked so sad and scared. Hell, he was even older than Rob’s dad, and he felt more pity for Peter than he could for his own father.

“Tea, ma’am?” he said to Lou.

She took a cup from the tray without even noticing him. “Sixteen layers!” she said to the decorating guy. Jon Nesbitt, that was his name.

“You’ll have to come and look at my samples,” Jon said in his plummy posh voice. Would Rob talk like that, too, after Cambridge?

“Oh, I’d love to.”

Christ, she was practically having an orgasm about looking at paint layers or whatever she was planning to do. He moved the tray away before Jon could take a cup and went to the next guest, the one Downstairs voted most likely to put out. Unfortunately, she also tied for the honor of most annoying and demanding.

“Hi, Rob.” Sarah took a cup of coffee. “Is this organic?”

“Absolutely. And fair trade. Tastes nice, too,” he said vaguely, staring straight into her cleavage. He couldn’t help it. It was just there, all ripe and pillowy and gorgeous with its mysterious deep shadow, and she was sitting and he was standing, and if he wasn’t careful he’d tip half a dozen cups of tea and coffee into its depths.

Dejan nudged him and Rob tore his gaze away and stepped aside. Sarah smiled at Rob, took one of the small cakes from Dejan’s tray and flicked her tongue out to capture the sugared rose petals adorning the top. Rob stood transfixed, his limbs immobile—except for his cock, which was moving around rather too much—and wondered if he had some sort of hormonal infestation that made everyone come on to him. Even he, inexperienced as he was, knew Sarah, gorgeous, very silly Sarah, was all but inviting him to bed. It was so f*cking ironic that a woman he fancied only in a general tits-on-parade way should proposition him. What was wrong with liking a woman you f*cked? Something must be, because the women he did like—Di, for instance—didn’t invite him to bed and they put up some sort of invisible wall that stopped him inviting them. How did you resolve this? Maybe you never did, maybe all guys were like this. All their lives.

Back to business. He nodded to Dejan to move on to the next guest.

“I might need some help later, Rob,” Sarah said in a soft whisper. She licked her lips.

“Okay,” he said, trying not to let his face stretch into a huge, stupid grin. Sometimes tits on parade was enough. “I’ll be around, ma’am.”

“Sarah,” she said. “Call me Sarah.”

“Not my place, ma’am. Not in company.”

She smiled and he, sensing that the other guests were interested in the contents of his tray, left the view of Sarah’s splendid cleavage to serve them.

“Nice teats,” Dejan said, nudging him.

“Which ones?” Rob said. It was true, the room was full of nice tits, because that’s how all the women were dressed and he was doing his best now to ignore them, since he was standing, the guests were sitting, and he was self-conscious about his excitement. He was glad Peter and Chris weren’t around, because they’d certainly be aware of his condition.

The woman went back to the piano and rustled some music around and everyone stopped talking, giving Rob the chance to move back into the shadows, holding the small tray in front of himself. Things were getting pretty uncomfortable down there and he really wanted to adjust himself, but not in public. He could do that only by unbuttoning the flap and once he’d done that he knew the adjustment would need to turn into something providing a different level of comfort, and he’d have to wait until he was alone for that.

To take his mind off it, he tried to listen to the music, which was the sort of stuff his mum liked. She’d love this sort of thing, the culture and everything. To get his good mood back, he thought about Sarah and exactly how he was going to hook up with her when he was off duty. And what about her husband? Rob didn’t fancy getting beaten up by him, but he didn’t look like the sort of guy who’d get into a fight over his wife. He wouldn’t want to mess with Alan, though, and he and Cathy were all over each other, occupying a small sofa in a corner, and not paying any attention to the music at all, only to each other. Lou sat fanning herself, obviously all steamed up about plasterwork and layers of paint, and Mac continued to watch her from the other side of the room.

At the end of the next song, Chris and Peter came into the room, and Rob wondered if he was the only one who could sense the tension twanging between them. But they went into their usual genial hosts act and, as Rob expected, Peter kept his distance, approaching Dejan for a cup of tea. More standing around, more tedious music—Cathy and Alan had the right idea; they’d slipped quietly from the room when Peter and Chris had come in.

Sarah didn’t give Rob another glance. The whole situation reminded him of being caught in the middle of some complicated game where everyone except himself knew the rules. Where was he supposed to find her after? Had she been serious? He sent Dejan and Ivan to the kitchen for more tea and coffee and refreshments and leaned against the wall, tired of standing, and immensely relieved when the singer announced that the next song would be her last. After that, the guests, yawning and gathering up fans and gloves, left the drawing room in couples or groups. Rob watched Sarah for some sort of sign but she left in a group of people that included her husband without another glance at him. Or maybe she did, but there wasn’t enough light in the room, other than where the candlesticks were massed, to see. So it seemed as though the next move would be up to him. Great.

* * *


Lou

“CAN I HELP?” SHE SAID TO Peter as they left the drawing room.

He paid her no attention but stared at Chris, who had an avuncular—possibly—hand on Ben’s shoulder and seemed to be sharing a joke with him and Sarah.

“Honey?” she said.

He turned to her, and she saw how drawn and tired he looked, the lines in his face etched deep. “Lou, there’s no fool like an old fool.”

“How would you know?” She tucked her hand into his arm. “Want to talk about it?”

He nodded. “Let’s go…not into the office. The dining room.” He plucked a candlestick from a table in the hallway and they made their way through the dark house. “I’m beginning to wonder about you and Mac,” he said.

“There’s not much to wonder about,” Lou said. “I think I’d be better off sticking to the footmen.” His silence told her she’d blundered. “Oh, shit, Peter, I’m sorry.”

He pushed open the dining-room door and set the candlestick on the sideboard. “I’ve rather screwed things up, I think.”

“How?” She sat opposite him, the polished surface of the mahogany table cool to her fingertips and elbows.

“There’s a lot of stress in this endeavor,” he said. “Lots of worry and details and…well, things haven’t been too hot in the bedroom recently. We’re both tired, we talk shop all the time and it’s not exactly romantic, you know? And…”

“And you don’t f*ck the help,” Lou said.

“If f*cking the help was a problem, I think we could deal with it. I’m in love, Lou. I’ve fallen in love and I still love Chris and he can’t understand it and I can’t, either. It doesn’t make any sense at all.” In the near darkness, he swiped at his face and she saw him attempt the semblance of a smile. “They all know downstairs, of course. He—that is, the one I— Well, he’s been pretty decent about it. He turned me down very tactfully. Shit, Lou, I don’t even know him, and I’m sighing and fantasizing over him and I can’t get him out of my mind. It’s Rob.”

“Well, he seems a sweet kid,” Lou said.

“He is. And Chris found out, about an hour ago. Maybe I wanted to get found out. Adulterers often do. He overheard part of a conversation, heard me coming on to Rob, and…well, it’s a mess, Lou. Chris and I have pretty much been faithful to each other—he’s flirted a lot, I’ve flirted a little, but this time I’ve done damage.”

Lou reached for his hand. “I’m so sorry. You’ll have to talk to Chris, but you know that.”

“Yes. He’s mad as hell. It doesn’t jeopardize just our relationship—it’s this, all this.” He made a gesture around the room. “We’ve sunk our savings and our hearts and souls into this place, Lou.”

“I know.” She raised his hand to her lips and kissed it. “You’re one of the best people I know, Peter. Chris, too. Yeah, you’ve done damage, but you can make it good again. I know you can.”

“It’s just so damn depressing, Lou. Here I am, I’m fifty-two, and I’m still making the same damn stupid mistakes. I should know better. I should have kept my mouth shut. I should have suffered in silence.” He gripped her hand. “You and Julian, you did okay. I always thought of you as the ideal couple.”

“That’s funny. We always thought of you as the ideal couple. I still do. Keep the faith, honey.”

He released her hand. “Thanks.”

Lou, staring at the reflection of the candle in the windows, caught a sudden movement from outside. “Who’s out on the terrace?”

Peter turned. “Ah. It appears to be a madman, dancing by moonlight. Your madman, I believe. Go for it.”

She borrowed the candle and, following Peter’s directions, found a side door. Outside, the night was clear, the moonlight brighter than the flickering light of a single candle in a corridor paneled with dark wood, and she saw her madman dancing, apparently with his own shadow, on the terrace. He muttered to himself as he stepped and paced.

“One, two, three, four…” He referred to a slip of paper in one hand. “Set? Oh, yeah, set. One-two-three. Cast off…sounds like f*cking knitting. One, two, three, four.”

Lou leaned against the balustrade and let herself enjoy the sight of Mac, painted by moonlight to silver and sable and ivory. The tails of his coat swished around his thighs. Tonight, he wore dark knee breeches and cream stockings that hugged his handsome legs. A lock of hair fell forward over his brow and he frowned and brushed it aside. He raised one arm—presumably to join hands with three other nonexistent dancers—and caught sight of Lou.

He stopped. “Congratulations. You’ve caught me indulging in solitary pleasures again.”

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

He stopped and peered at his slip of paper. “Damn. Lost my place.” He held out his hand to Lou. “Care to join me?”

“It’s easier with other dancers.” She took his hand. They’d both removed their gloves, and the touch of bare hands was an unexpected delight.

“Viv gave me the steps,” he said. “She said I should catch up, since I missed the lesson.”

“And it’s much easier with the music,” Lou said. “But I guess you should be commended for effort.”

“Thanks. Let’s take it from the top.”

They parted, danced toward each other, then away, weaved among imaginary dancers, and met again.

“Oh, hell,” Mac said, and slipped his arms around her waist, bringing her close to him. They slow danced together, thighs and hips bumping, counting forgotten. “Let’s go to bed.”

“With each other?” She tipped her head back to look at his face. That lock of hair had fallen forward again. She raised her hand to smooth it back into place.

“No, with half a dozen footmen. Of course with each other. Come on, Lou, don’t tease me anymore.”

“I haven’t been teasing you. Not much.”

“Sure. Ignoring me all night to talk to that paint geek.”

“That paint geek is one of the U.K.’s leading experts on Georgian-era paint color and restoration. I’ve wanted to talk to him for years, and I would have thought you would, too, for your article. Come on, Mac, it isn’t all about you all of the time. I can’t believe you’re serious.” She tipped her head back to see his expression.

“For what it’s worth, neither can I.” His eyes were dark, troubled.

Something screamed, far off in the direction of the trees. “What the hell was that?”

“Fox,” he said. “Just think, Lou, all around us, critters are screwing.”

“Or killing each other.”

His hand smoothed up and down her back. He tilted his hips at hers. “Nature’s a wonderful thing. Let’s get natural together, Lou. Like I said, it’s bound to happen sooner or later. I’d like it to be sooner.”

“And what if I want those half dozen footmen?”

“I guess it could be arranged. So long as I could watch.”

“So much for moonlight and romance.”

“You’re the one who brought up bringing in the help, Ms. Romance. Real thoughtful of you, but this time I won’t be needing any help.”

Sure enough, the erection pressing against her belly held the promise of being absolutely adequate. She made the decision, then. Was Paradise Hall responsible for her awakening, or was her desire for him an escape from her emotional winter—like the season itself, so long and cold and dark?

“You’re thinking,” he said.

“And that’s a bad thing?” She slid a hand from his lapel to the shirt ruffle above his waistcoat, absorbing the warmth of his skin. “I may be using you. Or, how about if I want more than just a quick vacation f*ck? Or if you do?”

“Then we deal with it. We’re both adults. Let’s go inside.”

The candlestick she’d left on a shelf by the door flared, subsided and died as they entered the house, plunging them into velvety darkness. His warmth and scent, dampened linen, male sweat, engulfed her as their mouths met. This was wrong, the rational part of her mind told her, all wrong. He was far too possessive for a guy who wanted to get laid—and he could achieve that elsewhere, as she knew only too well. Why me? And the perfect dance of tongues and lips gave her the answer. His hand fumbled at the back of her gown and then moved to the front, freeing a breast and rasping his thumb over the nipple.

“Stop.” She pushed him away, afraid he’d strip her naked there and then, and that she’d do the same to him. “Wait until we get upstairs.”

“Which way?”

She took his hand and led him forward, the darkness fading a little as her eyes adjusted. Cool air washed over her exposed breast, tightening the nipple. She raised a hand to tuck herself back into the bodice of the gown.

“Leave it out,” he said in a low, lustful rumble. “I want it ready.”

A door stood ajar, letting in a little light, but only a very small amount, enough for her to see a steep set of stairs. Servants’ stairs, she was pretty sure, but going in the right direction, with another flight leading down into pitch-darkness.

“This way.” She lifted her skirts to ascend the stairs, and predictably his hands, hearing the slither of fabric, slid up her legs, stroking her thigh, cupping her butt.

He gave a low hum of appreciation.

“Not on these stairs. Too steep.” She spoke in a whisper, although she wasn’t sure why.

“Hold that thought, then.”

The stairs curved into pitch-darkness and ended. She spread out her hands to assess where they were and what sort of space they were in and almost screamed as her fingers and then her exposed breast brushed against warm skin. Mac? No, he was behind her and this felt different, smoother, scented with a clean soap smell, and was almost certainly a bared male chest.

“What—”

“Shit. Sorry,” the owner of the chest said in a whisper. Whoever it was released her and a faint greenish light illuminated Rob, wearing only a pair of boxers and holding a cell phone. They were standing on a landing, with the staircase going up the next flight. “Sorry,” he said again.

“What the f*ck!” Mac moved forward, threatening, the alpha male.

“Shh!” Rob jerked his head toward a closed door.

A slow grin spread over Mac’s face. From the other side of the door came the unmistakable sound of a couple making love, a bed creaking, groans, panting. “We could be singing ‘God Save the Queen’ and I don’t think they’d notice.” He addressed Rob. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“She invited me to… Well, I thought she did.” Rob jerked his head toward the door. “There’s a hidden door to this room. But it’s locked. What are you doing here? This is the servants’ staircase.”

Lou leaned against the wall, overcome with giggles. Both Rob and Mac gave her curious glances, although Rob’s gaze fixed on her exposed breast. She pulled her bodice back up to cover it.

“Are you up for a threesome?” Mac asked. “Looks like they started without you.”

Even in the dim light from his cell, Lou could see Rob blushing. “I thought… Well, I’m not even sure what she meant, now. She said she’d need me later, whatever that meant. May I help you get back to your rooms?”

“Does every room have a hidden doorway?” Mac asked.

“Most of them. I’ll show you if you like. Not now,” he added, glancing away in embarrassment. “If you go up the next flight, there’s a door opening into the main corridor. You’ll know where you are then.”

He directed his cell phone to the staircase and gave a longing glance at the doorway.

“Is it Sarah?” Lou asked.

He nodded. “Good night.”

He brushed past them and Lou noticed his hair was wet. Silly Sarah, leading the nice kid on like that. The sound of his bare feet pattering down the stairs died away.

“Well, come on.” Mac, who had been paying rather careful attention to the sound effects from the bedroom, grasped her arm and pulled her in the direction of the stairs. “Or do you want to go read Rob a bedtime story?”

“He’s sweet,” she said.

“Yeah, I noticed you checking him out.”

She ignored him. Chances were that after they’d had sex he wouldn’t be nearly as possessive. At least, she hoped not. He was in pursuit mode right now.

“So, Mac,” she said casually as they began the ascent up the stairs in pitch-darkness, “how are your relationships with exes?”

“Great. Her family invites me and my mom over for Christmas.”

Well, that didn’t sound like a stalker.

“And the other one travels a lot but lets me stay in her guest room when I’m in London—”

“We’re talking ex-girlfriends, right?”

“No, ex-wives. Now, the girlfriends—”

“You’ve been married twice?” she said as they arrived at the next landing. “What happened?”

“I was very young the first time.” He pushed open a doorway and they arrived in the upstairs hallway, which was illuminated by candelabra, and they were able to see each other again. “Think of it as me being road-tested.”

“Or housetrained. Whose room?”

“Mine.”

“Do you have protection?”

“Yes.” He stalked ahead and she followed after, trying to read his mood.