A Hopeless Romantic (27 page)

“What?”

“She was terribly famous in her day, you know, Vivienne. Real A-list British star. When she married the Marquis of Ranelagh, it was like a real-life fairy tale. Beautiful actress marries richest peer in the land, that sort of thing.”

“And they are…that rich, are they?” Laura said in a small voice.

Mary flexed her right hand, squeezing the secateurs tightly together. “The Needhams? I should say so. Laura, they’re
the
great aristocratic family, you know. Vast wealth. That house is only the tip of the iceberg. There’s the place in Grosvenor Square, that castle in Scotland—and they own half of Belgravia, too.”

Something caught in Laura’s throat; she breathed in the wrong way and started choking, coughing violently. “God,” she rasped, as her breathing returned to normal.

A seagull flew overhead, croaking loudly. Mary looked up, and her gaze followed it as it flew out to sea. She said distantly, “Yes. You know, though, it wasn’t enough for her. She shouldn’t have married him. I think she loved him, but it was Freddy she really loved.”

“Freddy?” Laura said, breathing deeply.

“The brother. I think William—was that it? William? Xan would remember, he—oh, well,” said Mary, her face clouding. “Anyway. Yes, it was the scandal for a while. Because she was so well known. And the Needhams were so rich. And she was running off with his
brother
, you know, that’s really not on in some people’s eyes. And then there were the children. There were three of them. Yes, that was it. Rose was the eldest. Then there was Lavinia, yes, that was it, gosh, I’d forgotten. And then the boy. The heir. She did worry about him. He was only—what? Nearly twelve when it happened? Still quite small.”

The seagull squawked in the distance. Laura stayed very still, her arms around the bowl, not wanting to disrupt anything. She gave a tiny nod, willing her grandmother to tell her more.

Mary sighed, and stretched out her arms. She cleared her throat. “Yes,” she said. “I loved her. But she did suffer about leaving that boy behind. Dominic. Nick, she called him. The heir to the whole damn thing. What a life. Can you imagine?”

“No,” said Laura. “Absolutely not.”

“Can’t imagine it. Losing your mother like that.”

“Well, but she didn’t die,” said Laura.

“No, but they weren’t allowed to see her. Or she them. She missed them dreadfully, you know. I sometimes wonder…” She stopped, and looked out across the lawn, over the wall, down to the sea.

“What, Gran?” said Laura.

“Was it worth it? But they were so in love. And she was so miserable with her first husband, you know. Still.”

“Still…” Laura said encouragingly.

“I think she hated herself for it, for doing such damage. Still does, probably. I haven’t seen her for years, you know. She was lovely.” Mary sighed. “But she was punished for it. She didn’t deserve it, I think. She was only human. We all are, you know.” She put her hands lightly on the arms of her chair.

“Yes,” said Laura. “We are.” She patted her grandmother’s hand, and nodded at the bag of beans. “I’ll get on with these, then.”

The rest of the day passed as if she were sleepwalking, counting down the hours till she saw him again. Against the backdrop of preparation for the next day, as the sun shone down and the Fosters put up bunting, cleaned and cleared everything, tidied the house, put the newspapers outside, Laura worked almost silently, still tossing it all over in her mind like the mounds of salad she washed in the spinner, still thinking so hard her head hurt, without ever reaching a conclusion about what to do. She only knew that she liked him, more than she could say, that it felt so right.

But that was exactly what was terrifying her. Because she’d been there before, and had been proved utterly wrong; and if she’d thought Dan was someone who hadn’t come clean about his life, Nick could win an Olympic gold medal in the same event. She had to see him, to talk to him, to try to work out why, yet again, this had happened to her. And why it mattered so much.

chapter twenty-three

H
e was waiting for her when she arrived at the beach. The last of the day’s holidaymakers were leaving in dribs and drabs, brightly colored nylon sun umbrellas rolled up under their arms, clutching towels, goggles, rubbish—the paraphernalia of family holidays. Laura passed one such family as she made her way down to the beach past the rustling sea grasses and beach huts. There was something real and comforting about them, about the way the father held his son’s hand, the little boy quiet and dirty after the day’s exertions, about the way the other son, who looked about five, trailed behind his parents, his face tearstained, his mouth lolly-stained, the excitement of the day obviously too much for him. That was real life, she thought. This, the encounter she was walking toward in a red sundress, the silver bangles on her wrists jingling, this wasn’t real, was it? But here, now, with the sun setting and the calm of evening falling on the sea, she just didn’t know. All she knew was that she couldn’t wait to see him again.

Nick turned at the sound of her step. He frowned slightly as he recognized her, his eyes squinting against the evening sun. There was something intensely familiar about him, Laura realized. Not because he looked like some postcard of his ancestor. Not as if it had only been three days. She watched, like a neutral observer, as he straightened up from the post he was leaning against, his tall, muscular frame moving easily under his shirt, his tanned, dark face, so distant and arrogant in repose, now smiling quickly at her as she drew near. How comfortable he looked here, in this landscape. Laura knew she looked like what she was—a tourist. Utterly different.

“Hello,” he said, taking the bottle she’d brought and clasping her hand. “My name’s Naomi, great to see you again.” He shook her hand, grinning at her. “Can I show you some interesting bog weeds?”

“Hello,” she replied, her hair blowing behind her in the breeze. She looked up at him, suddenly shy. She’d forgotten how attractive he was, how
nice
to look at he was. Marquis or no marquis. He was still holding her hand, and he pulled her toward him and kissed her. She remembered with a jolt how much she enjoyed being with him, how kissing him was something she wanted to do all evening. She broke apart from him, and stood back.

“How are you?” she said abruptly.

“Fine, I’m fine,” Nick said, scanning her face. She could see a note of uncertainty in his eyes. He was still holding her hand, his face inches away from hers. “I’m glad you could come.”

“Me too,” said Laura. Their eyes met briefly, and suddenly she wanted to put her head on his chest, stay like this forever. But she shook her head, withdrew her hand, and stood back a little.

“Shall we go this way?” said Nick, jerking his head to his right.

“Great,” said Laura. This was strange; it wasn’t working out the way she’d expected. He was still the same. She’d expected to notice the difference in him, now that she knew, but there was none. The same distant, detached amusement at the world, the same politeness, kindness. That same feeling that she could totally be herself with him—it was still there. She did not move as he set off, and he turned back to find her watching him, the knuckles of her hands pressed against her cheeks.

“Everything okay?” Nick said easily.

“Well,” said Laura, suddenly feeling a bit sick, “not sure, really. Nick. Why didn’t you tell me who you really are?”

A tiny muscle ticked in Nick’s cheek. He was silent for a moment, then gave a harsh, short laugh. “I see,” he said, putting the cooler box down. “I assume you’re referring to the title I happen to have, rather than to my unbeaten record as Chartley District Junior Darts Champion in 1985.”

“Don’t joke, Nick,” said Laura. “I’m serious. You—you lied to me.”

He looked as if he were about to protest, but then said quietly, “Yes. Yes, I did.”

“Nick—”

“I lied about a couple of little details, Laura. That’s all they are, I promise you. They’re unimportant to me.”

“But they’re not to me!” said Laura. “You’re—you’re a freaking
marquis
, for God’s sake! How could you not tell me? Do you do this to people all the time?”

“No,” he said, holding out a hand to stop her. His voice was low, his expression serious. “Laura, listen to me. Listen. This is important. It is not a big deal, I promise you. The person you met—that’s me. You know my name, you know what I do all day—that
is
what I do all day, mostly. You—you—I didn’t want to tell you the truth, because you’d got the wrong end of the stick, and then I found, well…” He smiled at her. “I found I wanted you to like me for myself, more and more. So I didn’t tell you.”

“You should have.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “I should have. But”—he stepped forward and grabbed her fingers, enclosing them in his strong hands—“Laura, I swear to you this doesn’t make a difference to us. Whatever this is between us, it mustn’t make a difference.” His hands tightened. “It already does, too much. It’s not going to change this.”

The pressure of his hands suddenly hurt. She winced. He released them, and said, “I’m sorry. It’s just—my life is odd. Extraordinary. And when I’m with you—it’s seemed more normal. And, believe me, that’s quite rare.” He shook his head, and made as if to turn away. “Look, I’m sorry.”

Laura suddenly saw how comic the situation was. “Don’t apologize for being a multimillionaire aristocrat,” she said. “I should be impressed, I suppose, not having a go at you.” She smiled at him to let him know it was okay, not wanting to tell him what she was really thinking.

“Shall we go and eat?” said Nick. “And we’ll pretend it’s yesterday, and you still think I’m your local friendly farmer, or whatever it was you assumed I was when you started shouting at me and trying to set my estate on fire.”

“I thought you were unbelievably rude and a big bully, and I still do,” said Laura.

“Great,” said Nick. “Glad to see you’re still the same charming girl I took a chance on and asked out. Nothing’s really changed, has it.” She smiled at him. “Has it?” he asked more seriously, looking at her for the answer, and Laura shook her head. He picked up the cooler box and handed a couple of bottles to her, and they walked down toward the beach together in silence, casting long shadows in the setting sun.

“Potato salad, some biscuits—ah, there’s some cheese in here, too. Crisps. Some ham. And mustard. Great.”

“You didn’t make this, did you?” said Laura, leaning forward on the sand to peer inside the box.

Nick paused as he lifted out a bottle of wine. He said, “Er, no.”

“So, who did?” Laura said mischievously, genuinely curious. She stretched her legs out on the blanket, feeling more relaxed.

Nick lay on his back, looking slightly embarrassed. “Um…the housekeeper.” He scratched his face.

“Who is called…?”

“Mrs. Hillyard.”

“And does she have a scrubbed red face and wipe her hands on her apron all the time and say things like, ‘Ooh, I say, Mr. Hudson’?”

“No,” said Nick, trying not to smile. “She’s a very elegant lady from a very expensive agency, and I’m terrified of her.” He handed her a glass of wine. “Charles persuaded me.”

“To ask her to do a picnic?” said Laura incredulously.

“Yes,” said Nick. “I know. Pathetic.”

“A bit,” said Laura. She laughed. “I don’t get it.”

“What?” said Nick.

“Your relationship with him, I really don’t. If I was him, I’d have cleared out long ago.”

“Relationships are funny things,” said Nick. “Now, have some wine.”

He clinked her glass.

“Talking of relationships…” said Laura carefully.

Nick looked up. “What?” he said.

“It’s stupid of me to ask,” said Laura, hating herself for remembering in the first place. “My mum mentioned it—when we were coming back from Chartley, after I’d just met you.”

“Yes?” said Nick. He put his hand on her ankle, which was the bit of her nearest to him.

“She read it in the paper,” said Laura. “Believe me, I don’t read that kind of thing. She loves it. It’s none of my business anyway.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” said Nick, rolling over so he was facing her.

“You’ve got a girlfriend, haven’t you?” Laura said.

“Laura,” said Nick. “Don’t.”

“It was Cecilia something, wasn’t it? Oh, God. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

Nick shook his head. “Cecilia Thorson. It’s not true.” He drank some wine.

Laura said uncertainly, “But Mum said she saw a picture of Cecilia Whatsis and the Marquis of Ranelagh in the paper, and it said they were going to get engaged.”

“That’s what she thinks,” said Nick roughly. “Let’s not talk about it, please, Laura?”

She was silent, a worm of fear crawling through her, turning the wine in her stomach into vinegar. This was how it was going to be, wasn’t it? Did she really not matter at all to him? Was she just a holiday fling while his posh girlfriend was away? Already things were different, were altered, because of who he was. It was unfair—and it wasn’t right, most of all.

“No, Nick,” she said suddenly. “Tell me. I can’t help knowing it, can I? You owe me that much, after all. Come on. I know it’s hard for you—but it’s hard for me, too, having just found out. And really”—she flung up her hands in a fleeting gesture—“it’s not as if we’re married. We’ve only just met.”

His face softened. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s ridiculous, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be even bothering you with all that stuff.” He put his hand on her ankle again, and she put her hand on top of his and moved closer.

“Cecilia—she thinks she’s seeing me. But she’s not.”

“Right,” said Laura, confused. “What the hell does that mean?”

Nick sat up. “It doesn’t mean anything. I’m single. I swear to you. But she—we were set up, by my sister Rose. Her husband, Malcolm—he works in the City. He knows Cecilia’s parents, the Thorsons. When Dad died two years ago, he was very helpful when I had to move to Chartley, take over the house.”

“How?” said Laura.

“Dad—well, he hadn’t been the same since my mother left. You know. Things were starting to slide, and he’d left some significant debts. Malcolm was very helpful; so was Lars Thorson. They gave me advice, helped make some investments, so I could get things on an even keel again, or begin to.”