As soon as Lia left her suite, she heard voices, laughter, the clinking of champagne flutes and the clicking of high heels on marble floors. She descended the curving main staircase to the entryway of Wingthorn Hall, the ancestral home of the earls of Godwick. Her mother, Mona, the Countess of Godwick, stood by the door, resplendent in a strapless evening gown as scarlet as her reputation.
She grinned broadly as Lia came to stand at her side for door duty.
“You look beautiful, darling.” Her smile turned quickly to a scowl. “When did you get so old?”
“I’m twenty-one, Mother.”
“Impossible,” the countess said. “I’m thirty.”
“You’re for—”
Her mother raised her hand to silence her. “We do not say the F word in this house.”
The F word was forty. Lia’s mother was the F word plus seven.
“Sorry.”
Thunder rumbled outside. The ancient windows shivered. Temporary “footmen” waited at the door, armed with black umbrellas to shield the arriving guests.
“Maybe we should cancel the party,” Lia said. “For safety reasons.”
The safety of her sanity.
“Too late for that,” her mother said. “Here we go again.”
The grand oak front doors of Wingthorn yawned open. A man entered. Lia couldn’t see who he was at first, as his face was hidden behind an umbrella held by a footman. The footman lowered the umbrella, and Lia had one thought at the first sight of the man.
Oh no.
The man, whoever he was, wore a dark blue three-piece suit that perfectly complemented his olive-brown skin. The umbrella had gotten to him a second too late. His hair was rain-damp, dark and curling. His age? Lia guessed thirty, thirty-three tops. Too young to be friends with her parents, too old to be friends with her.
Whoever he was, Lia knew she’d never seen him before. Yet when he looked at her, it seemed he knew her. He gave her the slightest little winking smile as her father shook his hand.
That wink. That smile. Pure mischief. It made Lia’s toes clench in her shoes. She ordered her toes to unclench, which they did, but under protest.
“Blink, child,” her mother whispered, “before your eyes dry out.”
“Who is he?” Lia asked, blinking.
“Has to be Augustine Bowman.”
“What’s the gossip?” Lia had to know all about him at once and even immediately. Stat.
“Supposedly his mother’s a famous Greek beauty. His father is military or something. Divides his time between London and Athens. He’s been buying up ancient artifacts and taking them home to Greece.”
Lia watched her father, Spencer, the fifteenth Earl of Godwick, chatting with Augustine Bowman, no doubt talking of important manly things like football, old Scotch and how very grand it was to go through life with a penis. Mr. Bowman was nearly as tall as her very tall father, but broader in the chest and shoulders. She bet he had good legs, too, like a football player. She needed to find something about him to loathe and quickly, or she’d be staring at him all night.
“Do you think he beats his servants?” Lia asked.
“If they ask him nicely enough.”
“Mother.”
“You should show him the tapestry you’re working on, dear,” her mother, eternal matchmaker, said. “I hear he loves Greek mythology as much as you do.”
“I am not going to show him my tapestry,” Lia said. “Or anything else.”
“Sex really is very fun, darling.”
“My kingdom for a normal mother.”
“Tsst.” Her mother snapped her fingers. “Here he comes. Smile on. Tits out.”
They straightened their backs and put on their best smiles as the man approached.
“Mr. Bowman, isn’t it?” her mother said. “How do you do?”
“A pleasure, Lady Godwick,” he said. Then he turned to Lia. “And you must be Lady Ophelia.”
“No one on earth calls me Ophelia,” she said at once. Ha. She’d show him.
“Shall we go to Venus, then, if I wish to speak to you?” Mr. Bowman asked.
A joke. Unexpected. She didn’t like it. And an accent, too. Greek obviously. And nice. It perfumed his words like a subtle incense. She could give credit where credit was due.
“Call me Lia,” she said, when what she wanted to say was, Please leave before Georgy sees you, because if any man here is rich, handsome and DTFMEL, it’s you.
“And you must call me August, please,” he said. “I have a gift for you.” He offered her a box wrapped in plain brown paper and twine.
Lia saw her mother flashing her the old side-eye. Lia ignored it.
“You didn’t have to bring me anything,” she said. “I have everything I want or need.”
“But you don’t have this,” he said, and there it was again—that winking smile, that smiling wink. She’d heard a phrase before—That one looks like trouble—and Lia never knew what it meant until this moment.
Now she knew exactly what trouble looked like. It looked like him.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll put it with the others.”
She’d meant to go alone to the gift table in the morning room, but Mr. August Bowman had other ideas, apparently. He followed her, which was the exact opposite of what she wanted him to do.
Double trouble, this one. She was determined to ignore him and his obnoxious good looks. They would not get to know each other. She would not, on pain of death, chat him up.
“So...you’re a friend of my father’s, Mr. Bowman?” she asked, unable to stop herself.
Damn her. Damn her to Hades.
“August, please.”
“August.” She did like the feel of his name in her mouth. August, the hottest month of the year. She’d told the other ladies not to flirt and here she was, flirting her head off.
“I’d call your father and I more friendly adversaries than friends,” he said. “At auctions, I mean. Usually I win the duels. He bested me last time. But I haven’t surrendered.”
“Good luck. With my father, you’ll need it.”
“I don’t believe in luck,” he said. “Perhaps divine intervention.”
“Do you know any divinities?”
“I’m looking at one.”
Lia met his eyes. His mouth quirked as if trying not to laugh at her.
“You’re flirting.” She pointed at him.
“Oh, you noticed.”
Lia was about to tell Mr. Bowman a few other things she’d noticed when their housekeeper, Mrs. Banks, bustled down the long hallway, looking as angry as any woman in a pink cardigan and tweed skirt has ever looked. A young woman accompanied Mrs. Banks, a young woman who looked as if she’d been crying.
“Miss Lia,” Mrs. Banks said. “I need a word. Sir.” She nodded an apology to Mr. Bowman.
“What is it?” Lia asked.
“You know this girl?” Mrs. Banks pointed at the pretty young woman who wore the black-and-white uniform of the catering staff. Her name tag read Rita.
“Yes, that’s Rita,” Lia said. She had never seen the girl before in her life.
“Did you give her this?” Mrs. Banks held up a bottle of Hermès perfume still in the packaging. Lia understood the situation at once—a member of the catering staff had nicked one of her graduation gifts. “Found her stuffing it down in her bag. She said it was hers.”
“It’s hers,” Lia said.
“Really?” Mrs. Banks asked. “Can you explain why it was in a wrapped box with a tag on it that said, ‘To Lia, with love and adoration, from XL’?”
Lia blushed crimson. Mr. Bowman said not a word, but the slight arch of his left eyebrow spoke volumes.
“I don’t like that perfume,” Lia said. “It makes me sneeze. Makes Mum sneeze, too.”
“Really, I thought this was your mother’s scent?” Mrs. Banks asked.
“I’m sure you must be mistaken.” Lia stood up as straight as she could. She didn’t like being haughty but she could do it when she had to. “I don’t like the perfume. I gave it to Rita. End of discussion.”
“All right. I see,” Mrs. Banks said. “Just a misunderstanding, then. Apologies for the interruption. Back to work, girl.”
Rita mouthed a “Thank you” to Lia before turning and running down the hallway, Mrs. Banks following behind her.
Lia glanced at August, who was eyeing her with intense interest.
“We should go in to dinner,” she said. August offered her his arm and, against her better judgment, she took it.
They walked side by side down the long main hall, toward the large salon where dinner would be held.
“XL,” August said. “Xavier Lloyd? That’s your father’s attorney, isn’t it? Or perhaps XL is someone’s very flattering nickname?”
“No idea. Just one of Daddy’s friends, I’m sure.”
Xavier Lloyd was her father’s attorney. He was also Rani’s best client. Big tipper. Always sent flowers and very expensive gifts.
“That was kind of you not to get that girl sacked for stealing,” August said.
“I gave her the perfume. You heard me.”
“Poor girl.” August sighed as they walked to the salon. “Waiting tables in high heels. Easier ways for a pretty girl to make money.”
Lia stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Answering phones. Web design. Driving Formula 1 race cars,” he said. “What did you think I meant?”
Lia didn’t answer. She just walked on. The vague looming something she’d been dreading tonight? Good chance it was the man walking right next to her. He definitely had an ulterior motive for attending the party—that she knew. But what?
“Would you allow me to sit with you at dinner?” August asked as they entered the salon.
Lia was impressed by his audacity. She’d met the man all of five minutes ago.
“I have to sit with Mum and Daddy.”
“Ah, of course. I’ll just sit over there with those lovely young ladies,” he said, which was once again the exact opposite of what she wanted him to do. “Enjoy your dinner.”
He left her with a wave and sat at the very same table as Jane, Rani and Georgy—Rani and Jane on his left, Georgy on his right.
August leaned over and whispered something in Georgy’s ear. She laughed and whispered something back. Rani moved her chair closer. Jane took off her glasses. The flirting had begun.
He glanced once Lia’s way and gave her that winking smile again.
Augustine Bowman.
Trouble with a capital T.