His eyes hold hers but he does not speak.
“You don’t even know who I am, do you?” she asks, portraying her hurt.
He nods. ‘I know exactly who you are.”
“What is my name?” she asks with a sarcastic raised brow.
He smirks at her pushy demeanour. “Elizabeth.”
She smiles shyly, relieved that he does, in fact, know who she is.
She puts the tray down onto the hale bay and begins to place jam and cream onto a scone for him.
He looks around nervously again. What is she doing? He will be whipped if he gets caught talking to his employer’s daughter. Truth be known, Henry only stays working here to keep an eye on Elizabeth. She is basically held hostage in her own home as her father awaits a large dowry when he marries her off. His only child, her mother passed when she was young and she has mostly been raised by the governess and the house staff. Henry knows a lot more about her than she could ever realise.
“Do you mean to tell me that I have been baking for you all morning for nothing? She puts her hands on her hips in an outrage. You ungrateful man.”
He cannot hide his smile. “You baked these… for me?”
“Yes, I did.” She smirks and pretends to dust something from her dress. “The very least you can do is eat them.”
His gaze holds hers and he looks around again.
Elizabeth rolls her eyes. “Oh, for heavens sake. Nobody is going to see you. He’s not even home.”
He shakes his head. He has been dreaming of Elizabeth for far too long. This could be dangerous to his sanity.
He sits on the hay bale and she passes him his scone. Their eyes lock on each other and she smiles shyly. Henry passes half of his scone back to Elizabeth. “Are you going to sit with me?” he asks.
She smiles broadly and happily sits beside him. This morning is turning out just as she planned.
* * *
It’s Friday night and I walk into the art gallery. This is all new to me and I am feeling totally out of my depth. My workmates are in a fluster and rushing around like maniacs, so I head over to Dulcie. “What do you want me to do?” I ask.
She looks around. “Can you just go and check that the canapés and champagne are getting round to the clients?”
“Sure.” My eyes wander nervously round the space. I know that Alastar may be here. He has three paintings on auction tonight. They’re gorgeous paintings, too—apparently earlier works of his. Who knows why he doesn’t paint anymore?
I walk into the kitchen to see a hive of activity.
Travis spots me and releases a low whistle. “Wow. Hot, Emerson.”
I smile as I look down at myself. I may have searched the whole of London for the right outfit for tonight. Sexy business is what Hank, Vanessa and Brielle have called it. I am wearing a black woolen pencil skirt and a black turtle neck woolen tight sweater that hugs in all the right places. This outfit cost a bomb but who cares. It’s only money, right? I may break my neck in these high stilettos by the end of the night, though. Sheer black stockings finish off my look. My blonde hair is up in a high ponytail and my lips are hot pink and glossy, with smoky dark eyes. I grab a glass of champagne as a man with a tray walks past me and wish to God I could drain it. Mark spots me from across the kitchen and smiles warmly as he approaches. “Hello.” His eyes scan up and down my body. “You look gorgeous.”
I smile.
He leans and whispers in my ear. “If I could kiss you hello, I would.”
Oh. I fake a stronger smile. Oh… shit. I need to knock this on the head. I have zero attraction to him and that’s only getting worse, not better. An hour, and a million jobs later, the auction starts and the staff stand at the back to watch the proceedings. I’m relieved I’m not on the actual auction team. They seem to be running around like maniacs. Alastar hasn’t shown up, so it looks like I bought this outfit for nothing. The night is loud and fairly uneventful, until about half an hour before it ends, Mark whispers into my ear.
“Lets go outside and get some air.”
“Okay.” I reply. For an ultra modern building, it is rather stuffy in here and I would like a break from all the shouting. It will also give me a chance to talk to him in private. I head toward the door.
“No, this way,” Mark replies as he heads down a corridor to the left. It is quiet and semi-lit. Oh jeez. He has something on his mind here, for sure. He opens a glass door out onto a courtyard. It’s small, square, and has a large oak tree in the centre with a spotlight shining up onto its trunk. It’s beautiful. A seat sits in the centre and Mark sits down and pats the seat next to him, I hesitate and then sit nervously.
“How are you liking the UK?” he asks.
“It’s good, I like it. I’m a bit homesick. I’ve never seen so much rain and I’m missing my parents and brother.” I’m rambling and talking way too fast.