The Second Time I Saw You: The Oxford Blue Series #2 (7 page)

The room is even larger than the guest suite and, unsurprisingly, exudes masculinity. There’s a sleigh bed that has to be six feet wide, a huge gentleman’s chest of drawers and an oak wardrobe. The walls are panelled in
dark oak like the guest room and the prints, predictably, are largely hunting and sporting scenes. What I didn’t expect are the photographs – a dozen or more, framed in silver gilt, wood and brightly coloured plastic, all arranged on a large round table by the window.

There’s a younger version of the general in one, leading a young Alexander on a Shetland pony, and one of the two children on a beach with fishing nets, on either side of their father. There are also two of Lady Hunt. I pick one up and look at the beautiful face that peers back at me. It’s obviously a professional shot, taken in one of the rooms at Falconbury I presume. She can’t be much older than me in the shot, and she’s wearing a pearl necklace and earrings. I wonder if it was done as an engagement portrait.

I move on to another picture, a family snap of her and Alexander in the country, sitting next to a picnic basket. Alexander looks about ten. It can’t have been long before the car accident that ended her life and from which Emma and Alexander were lucky to escape.

I replace it carefully and climb into his bed, wondering when – if – he’ll join me.

I wake to the sun shining through the window and Alexander sitting on the edge of the bed. His eyes are red-rimmed with dark blotches underneath and his voice isn’t so much cut glass as dragged over broken glass.

‘That bad?’ he growls as I stare at him.

I nod.

He manages a wry smile. ‘I suspected as much but I’m avoiding mirrors this morning. I think I may have fallen asleep in the chair in the library. I was off my face last night.’

No shit, Sherlock
. I sit up, wondering if he remembers exactly what he was doing before he passed out. ‘It’s OK. You’d had quite a day.’

‘And a night. My head feels like it’s under mortar fire. Helen greeted me at seven o’clock with a packet of paracetamol and a bacon sandwich.’

‘And?’

‘I needed the pills and I thought it was my duty to eat the bacon.’ He grimaces. ‘It’s stayed put so far.’

‘I’m surprised you haven’t ended up in the ER.’

‘It’s probably a good thing you distracted me from the second bottle.’ So, he
does
remember.

‘As I recall, most of it ended up on us, not in you.’

His expression is stern, his voice rough. ‘That was a very expensive bottle of scotch.’

‘I know.’

‘But I can’t think of a better use for it,’ he adds with the faintest of smiles, which sets my pulse racing again despite myself.

‘No,’ I agree. I wait for him to kiss me but he rubs his chin and sighs. ‘I suppose I need a shower and a shave.’

‘I’d like to take a bath. What time is it now?’

‘Nearly ten.’

‘Arghh. I missed breakfast again.’

‘It’s becoming a habit but don’t worry, I missed it
too. How do you feel about getting out of here for some brunch? I existed on a liquid diet yesterday and the bacon sandwich won’t keep me going long. I hear the full English is the only true cure for a hangover and I think we both need to get out of this house.’

‘What about Emma?’ I ask, remembering again, with a pang of worry, the confession she made to me. Should I tell him and risk making life even more difficult for Emma? Or am I making things worse by not telling him? Shit.

‘She’s going out with a friend while I see to the legal stuff but she’ll be back tomorrow and I’ll need to talk to her then. I’m not looking forward to it.’ He lets out a breath. ‘Do you mind walking into the village? I’m probably still over the limit and I need to clear my head before I deal with the lawyers later.’

While Alexander showers and I take a quick bath, I try not to panic too much about the fact I’m missing a seminar at the faculty later today. I managed to get my tute with Professor Rafe rearranged, and while he’d ‘warned’ me about getting involved with Alexander last term, he could hardly complain about me attending the funeral.

Yet he is my tutor and I really have to leave Falconbury on Sunday morning. Even if he wasn’t pressuring me, I’d put pressure on myself to work hard and make the most of my master’s. I only have one year here – with the vacations, it’s less than six months. Much of my first week has been spent wondering how Alexander is.
I resolve to get some work done on my essay later while Alexander attends the reading of his father’s will.

Wrapped up in a borrowed Barbour and Hunters, I tramp across the deer park to the village with Alexander, our breath misting in front of our faces. Alexander strides out, grabbing my hand and practically dragging me along and shooting out constant jibes about not being able to keep up with him. I have the feeling he’d like to put a million miles between him and Falconbury and never come back.

Even at a brisk pace, it takes over half an hour to reach the village from the house, and I don’t think we’ve even left Falconbury land yet, but eventually Alexander pushes open the door of a tiny cafe in the centre of the village. On a January morning, the joint is hardly jumping, but there’s a definite change in the atmosphere as we walk in. I get the impression they’re amazed to see Alexander out at all, let alone with a strange girl. His shoulders are stiff as he thanks the cafe owner and one of the other customers for their condolences, but then he sets to devouring the plate of bacon, sausage and tomatoes, washed down with gallons of tea. I tuck into a smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel and some fresh juice.

We walk back to Falconbury at a much slower pace, Alexander stopping periodically to point out various landmarks to me, occasionally mentioning his father. He reminds me of Shakespeare’s schoolboy, creeping like snail, unwillingly, to school. Our route back takes
us up a hill with a round stone tower at the top. It looks like a folly to me, stuck in the middle of nowhere.

Finally, after a short, sharp climb, we reach the top. My breath comes in staccato bursts; I’m glowing with the effort.

‘I really must do more running,’ I say as Alexander stands with his hands on his hips, gazing over the view.

‘The last time you went running, you know what happened,’ he says reminding me of the start of last term when I tripped and sprained my ankle outside his house. I almost ended up in bed with him that day but I escaped.

‘Maybe that’s what I should do now. Run away from you …’

‘Perhaps you should.’ He keeps his eyes on the scene below us; the estate – his estate – is spread out in front of us, with Falconbury at the centre. ‘But you won’t.’

‘Won’t I?’ He turns to face me. ‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Because you want me too much for that.’

I don’t know whether to feel incensed at the return of his arrogance – or to secretly rejoice in it. He steps forward and flames me with a look. ‘And I think we have unfinished business, Lauren.’

I couldn’t agree more, but I also know that I arrived back here with such resolve to move on from the stormy relationship we had. This time I’m determined not to be a pushover. I’m here for him because of his father, I remind myself, and I’m not committing myself beyond that. ‘It’s cold out here,’ I murmur, distracted.

‘Then let’s get inside. In fact, I’ll race you back to Falconbury.’

‘In these?’ I point the toe of my wellington boot.

He folds his arms. ‘Excuses already? I don’t accept that from my men.’

‘I’m not one of your men, if you hadn’t noticed.’

He smiles. ‘I need to make doubly sure and it will require you taking all your clothes off. Now come on! You’re wasting your breath.’

Of course, I couldn’t keep up with him. Not even if I was in Usain Bolt’s golden spikes, maybe not even if I
was
Usain Bolt, could I have beaten him to the house but I have my own victory. I amble down the hill, waving at him as he stops a hundred yards ahead, hands on his hips, shaking his head at my refusal to play the game. Eventually, he walks back to me.

‘You’re no fun,’ he says.

‘Not at this game.’

His eyes flash. ‘Is there another one you plan to play?’

‘Maybe. If you’re lucky.’

‘I don’t believe in luck.’

‘Hey!’

My shriek as he sweeps me off my feet cuts through the still, cold air and I fling my arms around his neck to avoid falling, but after a few steps, he staggers, groans and I feel I’m slipping through his arms. He recovers just in time and lifts me back up to safety. I tighten my grip on his neck.

‘Jesus, you almost dropped me!’

He grimaces, and seems to be breathing hard. ‘I’m still hungover. Either that or you’re heavier than I expected.’

‘Youuuuu!’

The insult is snatched away as he sets off again, me in his arms, almost running now with no sign of the hangover whatsoever. I cling on for dear life as we get nearer to the ha-ha that separates the parkland from the gardens. It looms ahead, a deep hidden ditch. Surely he’s not thinking of running down into it? I screw my eyes shut as he heads straight for it.

‘Alexandeerrr!’

He stops and, gently, sets me on my feet. His forehead glistens and he really is breathing heavily now, but also grinning fit to burst.

‘You really are the limit,’ I say as he puts his arms around me. I don’t know if it’s the adrenaline or the endorphins but a bolt of lust hits me and when we kiss, and I push against him, he’s rock hard for me through his jeans.

‘Ready to play the other game you promised?’ he asks.

‘I never promised anything.’

‘Whether you did or not, it’s too late to back out now.’ He lifts my hair off my face. ‘Even if you wanted to.’

My skin prickles with anticipation and lust. ‘Is that a threat, my lord?

‘No, it’s a bloody promise and if you call me that once more, I’ll …’

‘What?’

He folds his arms. ‘Not take you to bed and shag you senseless.’

I hate –
really
hate – to admit it, but the state I’m in right now, a seething mass of sheer lust for him, I don’t think I can face the prospect of being left alone to take care of things myself. Not that Alexander is going to make good on his promise, by the look and feel of him against my body.

He grabs my hand and we hurry over the little bridge that spans the ha-ha and down the path to a side door, grunting thanks to the few members of staff that greet him.

We run upstairs and finally he locks the door of his bedroom behind him.

‘Is this the first time?’ I ask.

‘What for?’

‘That you had a girl in here.’

‘Rules are made to be broken,’ he says. ‘Now are you going to get your knickers off, or do I have to do it for you?’

I lick my lips. ‘Oh, I think you’re going to have to do it for me, my lord.’

I was half expecting it, but the speed at which I’m swept up and dumped on his bed snatches the breath from my body.

‘I still have my boots on.’

‘Not for long.’ He pulls off the Hunters as I lie giggling on the bed. My jeans follow, and my knickers.

He kicks off his own boots and strips off sweater, shirt and jeans.

Wow. My throat is full.

I had forgotten.

Forgotten what the sight and smell and feel of his body did for me. But I’m remembering now, now that I have time to savour him, rather than fucking frantically with a desperate man or fumbling with a drunken one.

His shoulders are broad, his abs taut and hard, though he’s somewhat leaner now than I remember. As for the scar … no matter how many times I see him naked, the angry white flesh on his shoulder fascinates and horrifies me. It reminds me that he’s probably killed, and almost been killed himself, and I realize what I have taken on.

‘Second thoughts?’ he asks as he climbs, naked, on to the bed and plants his hands either side of my shoulders.

‘Am I allowed any?’

‘Like I said, you can’t resist me.’

And I can’t, not when he parts my knees and uses his mouth so skilfully to bring me to unconditional surrender. His tongue makes delicate little circles and flicks on me that have me clutching at the bedcovers and whimpering shamelessly. He blows gently on me and circles his thumb until I’m teetering on the brink of the mother of all climaxes.

Then he stops, climbs up my body and murmurs in my ear. ‘I told you so.’

I can only moan in desperation. While I fist the
sheets, he settles himself between my legs and urges his way inside me in one smooth thrust.

‘You’re so tight, so wet, Lauren.’

I know this and I’m loving the way he fills me up, so much I can hardly take him even though I’m readier than I’ve ever been. Above me, his chest is still tinged with a summer tan, his eyes full of such intent as he drives in and out of me, in long, slow, deep thrusts that bury me into the mattress. It’s not possible to be filled up any more but I want it anyway so I wrap my legs around his thighs and I dig my heels into his backside to drag him into me. Sensation builds again, radiating from my core through my limbs. His face is contorted in a kind of pain as he comes and it tips me over the edge after him, falling hard and fast.

Afterwards, I lie on my back, catching my breath, every part of me, from the tips of my toes to the roots of my hair, relaxed. Alexander lies next to me, flat out, his eyes closed, his palms turned upwards, fingers curled, all the tension washed from his face. I reach out and flatten my palm against his chest, feeling his heart rate slowing down and the light sheen of sweat under my fingers.

The rap on the door makes me twitch and stiffen.

Alexander’s eyes open instantly. ‘What the –?’

The knock comes again, louder and more insistent this time.

He sits up and calls out. ‘Yes?’

‘It’s Robert, my lord. Mr de Courcey and your lawyers are here.’

Alexander lifts his wrist, peers at his watch as if he doesn’t believe it, then hisses, ‘Fuck.’ He pushes himself off the bed and spikes his fingers through his hair.

Robert’s anxious voice is louder now. ‘They’ve been in the study for twenty minutes already. Shall I tell them you’re indisposed?’

Indisposed
? That’s one way of putting it.