across the marble in their high-heeled shoes like a troupe of tap dancers.
Vicky would have outshone all of them.
As for Tatiana, who looked so like her mother it was painful … Rory Flint-Hamilton closed his eyes and said a silent prayer. Please let Tati behave herself. I couldn’t face another scandal. Not here.
He would send her an email today, telling her in no uncertain terms that her married duke was absolutely not welcome. The rest of the world may have gone to hell in a handbasket. But the Furlings Hunt Ball would remain a bastion of tradition and propriety. Rory Flint-Hamilton intended to make sure of it.
* * *
Daniel Smart gazed out of the train window, sipping his disappointingly watery hot chocolate and glad he was in the warmth of a first-class carriage and not outside in the cold and wet.
The last time he’d been to Fittlescombe, he’d been in his final year at Oxford. It was at Christmastime, and he remembered how struck he’d been by the beauty of the village, blanketed in snow, the flint cottages nestled tightly together beneath a crisp, bright-blue winter sky. He and Laura Tiverton had been lovers then. They’d spent a joyous holiday together in the gardener’s cottage at Mill House, making love by the fire and drinking mulled wine and going for long, romantic walks in the snow.
Christ, that was a long time ago.
So much had happened since that Christmas. Daniel’s career had taken off spectacularly. He now had two West End plays under his belt and a third in production. He’d got married to Rachel, had two little boys, Milo and Alexis. And now, at thirty, he was getting divorced, painfully and expensively. As the train clattered on through the Sussex countryside, he wondered whether Laura’s life had been similarly eventful in the eight years since he’d seen her last. He’d been nervous, leaving her a voicemail, afraid he’d come across like a stalker or a weirdo. But, when she’d returned his call the next day, she’d sounded so happy to hear from him, so warm and welcoming, that all his fears evaporated. She’d immediately suggested meeting, and didn’t flinch when Daniel proposed that, rather than her coming to London, he would jump on a train to Fittlescombe ‘for old times’ sake’. Her voice hadn’t changed at all, and instantly took him back to those happy, student days. Rather ungallantly, he found himself hoping that the same could be said for her figure. Most of the girls he knew at Oxford had turned into serious heifers since college. Then again, they’d all had babies. Laura Tiverton was still unmarried and gloriously child-free.
At last the train pulled up at Fittlescombe station. There was no snow this time, only grey drizzle and a wind that sliced at Daniel’s face like a razor blade as he stepped onto the platform. A lone figure in a thick Puffa jacket, woolly hat and multiple scarves stood next to the ticket office. They were so swaddled in layers of clothing, they could have been male or female, fat or thin, old or young.
‘Laura?’
‘Daniel!’
They hugged awkwardly. Laura looked at his thin sports jacket, worn over a tight-fitting cashmere sweater in duck-egg blue. ‘Aren’t you cold?’
‘Bloody freezing.’ He grinned. ‘Where’s your car?’
He was every bit as handsome as Laura remembered him, tall and fit with thick chestnut hair and eyes the same dark green as the baize on the snooker table in the Balliol College bar.
‘Follow me. It’s a bit of a banger, I’m afraid. I’m between jobs at the moment so I’m, er, economizing.’
Daniel squeezed himself into the tiny Fiat Punto. His legs were so long they practically touched the ceiling. ‘Please tell me you live close by.’
He looked ridiculous, doubled over in the passenger seat. Laura burst out laughing. ‘Five minutes, honestly. I’ll drive fast.’
As they hurtled along the back lanes of Fittlescombe, Daniel’s attention was divided between looking at Laura – he couldn’t assess her figure beneath the enormous coat, but her skin still looked flawless and the dark curls and almost-black eyes were just as he remembered them – and the village itself, picture-perfect despite the awful weather. No wonder so many influential people from the theatre and TV worlds chose to live out here. It was only an hour and a half from London by train, but it was a different world.
It was four o’clock and darkness was already starting to set in by the time they pulled up in front of Briar Cottage. But if anything the twilight enhanced its decrepit charms. Lights blazed cosily from the downstairs windows, and a thin trail of smoke from Laura’s afternoon fire snaked up into the air above the sloping roof.
‘Wow. Pretty. It looks like every writer’s dream. You must be so productive out here.’
‘Oh, definitely,’ Laura lied. It wouldn’t do to sound like a failure in front of Daniel. He didn’t need to know that she’d spent half of this morning watching Deal or No Deal on television and the other half stuffing dirty laundry into drawers and cupboards so Daniel didn’t think she’d become a total slattern. Not that she expected anything to happen between them. Or even wanted anything to happen. It was too soon after John.
Inside, Daniel dropped his overnight bag on the floor and took off his jacket, watching out of the corner of his eye as Laura peeled off layer after layer of clothing. Unwrapped to a pair of black corduroy trousers and a chocolate-brown sweater, she was plumper than she had been at Oxford, but definitely still foxy. Thankfully, at least half of the extra weight seemed to have gone on her boobs.
‘Let me take that.’ She reached for his jacket, opening the hall cupboard, then closing it again quickly when an assorted medley of dirty wellies, scrunched-up coats and dog chews tumbled out of it onto the floor. ‘It’s a lovely cottage but there’s not as much storage as I’d like.’ Laura blushed.
She’s still sexy, thought Daniel.
‘We’ll hang it in your room. Come on up.’
Following her up the narrow cottage staircase, admiring the curve of her bottom in the slightly too-tight cords, Daniel found himself being led into a low-beamed back bedroom. A small double bed with a chintzy eiderdown took up most of the room, with a small mahogany wardrobe propped up next to the window and a tiny bedside table the only other furniture.
‘If you’d like a bath, it’s across the hall. There are fresh towels in the cupboard. I thought we’d go to the pub for supper later. Might be a bit more jolly than staying in.’
In fact Laura had intended cooking at home, but the Moroccan lamb tagine she’d spent most of yesterday preparing was now a charred mess glued to the bottom of a casserole. Even Peggy had turned her nose up at the remnants of her mistress’s abortive culinary efforts. The Fox’s steak-and-kidney pie beckoned.
‘Sounds good,’ said Daniel. ‘As long as there’s wine involved and we can catch up properly. It’s really good to see you again, Laura.’
He hugged her. Instinctively she stiffened. Would she ever be able to relax with a man again?
‘Good to see you too.’
She left him to unpack. Watching her scurry back downstairs, Daniel wondered if he’d made a mistake coming here. Perhaps, after so many years, he should have booked a hotel. Or met her in London, as she’d suggested.
Too late now. Hopefully a few drinks at the pub would help her relax.
* * *
‘So,’ Laura giggled, knocking back her third glass of Pinot Grigio. ‘Let’s talk about your divorce. Tell me all the grizzly details.’
Dinner at The Fox turned out to be an excellent idea. The pub itself was festive and inviting, with a candlelit restaurant, a lively bar and a suitable roaring log fire. Bunches of Kentish hops hung from the low-beamed ceiling, and a delicious medley of smells wafted out from the kitchens, making Daniel’s mouth water.
The food so far had been simple but excellent – homemade lentil-and-bacon