“I don't want to be a pain, but it's almost ten, Jenny,” I hear a voice telling me.
Strange. I'm in a soft bed that's not mine and a male voice is telling me to wake up. But I don't want to, I'm perfectly cosy right here where I am.
“Come on, Jenny, there won't be anything left to eat if you don't get up.”
That same annoying voice – a voice that isn't completely unknown to me, but that I can't associate with my usual awakening.
I open one eyelid with great effort and then the other. There's too much light, I can't focus.
I blink again and then finally the mist begins to clear. There's a face in front of me, the face of a black haired man with deep blue eyes. I've seen those eyes many times before… Oh God, Ian!
And in the blink of an eye I realise where I am, but mostly the reason why I've woken up in the castle of Revington.
“Don't you feel ok?” asks Ian, looking almost worried at my bewildered expression.
I rub my eyes. “Not really. What time did you say it was?” I ask in a deep, sleepy voice.
“It's ten o'clock” he says, looking at me suspiciously. I must look pretty dishevelled.
“What!?” I ask in shock. And I'm wide awake in no time at all. “It can't be ten! I've never slept until ten in my life.”
“Well, it's ten anyway,” says Ian, folding his arms across his chest and observing the scene before him.
I don't dare imagine what I must look like right now: eyes puffy with sleep, scruffy hair, no make-up. Why hasn't Ian run away screaming yet? I swear, I wouldn't be offended if he had – to be honest I'd have found it perfectly reasonable.
“I don't know whether I should feel offended or amused,” he admits, as he moves away from me.
“Why?” I grumble in the same deep voice, sitting up in the bed.
“Women usually do their best to look good for me, especially if it's morning and they're in my bed,” he smirks, staring insistently at the low neckline of my pyjamas.
Classic: I've only been awake for a minute and he's already annoyed me. Not to mention that I shouldn't be provoked on an empty stomach. “This is my bed for the weekend, let's be clear about that. And I don't care about how I look before I've even got out from under the sheets.”
“Are you always this grumpy in the mornings?” he asks innocently.
I give him a very dirty look and he laughs but keeps staring at me.
“Don't get me wrong, it's a pleasant change. Not to mention that you look much more like a little girl with no make-up on.”
Do men really think that these are compliments?
“Can you move so I can get up?” I ask him angrily.
He budges over as little as he can to allow me to get out of bed and rush to the bathroom.
“I'll be downstairs, in the dining room!” I hear him shout shortly after I've locked myself inside the bathroom.
Thank God, finally a moment of peace! How horrible to start the morning like this: I look like something out of a horror film and he is immaculate – not a hair out of place and all dressed up.
How the hell did I manage to sleep so deeply knowing that I was in his bed? A little voice tells me that maybe it was precisely because it was his bed, but I quickly push this vexing thought aside.
I brush my teeth and get dressed quickly, opting for a smart looking pair of comfortable black trousers and a blue sweater with wide collar. Finally, I comb my hair, leaving it loose and still a bit messy from sleep and I put on more make-up than usual. Who's the little girl now?
Once out of the room, the first problem presents itself: I don't know where to go. I decide to go down the stairs we walked up last night and then set off in search of food.
Fortunately, I find James at the foot of the stairs together with a very elegant lady who is greeting some newly arrived guests.
“Good morning, Miss Percy,” James greets me formally.
“Good morning. Oh, please – just call me Jenny,” I say, cordially.
On hearing us speak, the lady turns around immediately. “James, can you introduce us?” she asks, as though we were not able to do it by ourselves. These people must have mistaken this castle for the Royal Palace.
“Of course. Lady St John, this is Jennifer Percy, who arrived yesterday evening with your son. Miss Jennifer, this is Lady St John.”
Ah, that explains everything.
Ian's mother is a tall, slim, elegant woman with gleaming auburn hair and green eyes. Her posture is perfect, her skin still that of a young girl, and the jewels she's wearing must be worth a small fortune. Let's say she's the type of woman who doesn't go unnoticed.
The look she gives me is suspicious at first, then curious. I imagine I'm not exactly what she expected.
“Nice to meet you,” she says, holding out her hand to me. But it is unclear whether she really means it.
I shake her hand, and I do it firmly. I'm not easily intimidated. The lady realises this right away and is smiling at me now with a little more conviction.
“I was looking for the dining room,” I explain to both, intending to escape the embarrassment as soon as possible. It's not that the company isn't pleasant, but, you know, it could be better.
“My son should have shown you around,” says Lady St John with irritation.
“Oh, he was going to,” I feel compelled to point out, but then I almost want to bite my tongue, because defending Ian in front of his mother isn't really one of my duties. “I'm the one who's late this morning.”
She looks at me like someone who knows what's what. “I'll come with you and show you the house.” As she says it, she leads me to the entrance of the first room.
“I don't wish to sound impertinent, Jennifer, but what do you do?” There she goes with the questions. Not a bad start to the morning – an interrogation on an empty stomach. Now that's a challenge.
“No problem,” I tell her with a smile, because I am very good at these little games. “I'm a lawyer. A tax lawyer.”
Ian's mother freezes and looks at me again, as though she had only just noticed me.
“Really?” she asks, sounding puzzled.
“Yes. At least that's what was written on my degree the last time I checked it,” I say with a forced laugh.
Which apparently hits the target because Lady St John laughs too, and it is the same laugh as her son. “I'm sorry, but you know… Ian's friends are usually—” and she stops.
I decide to be generous and save her the embarrassment. “A bit showier?” I suggest.
“Oh, yes,” she agrees with relief. “And I dare say a little superficial.”
“I suppose, though, that going from models to PR people is a step forward, isn't it?”
Ok, maybe I've gone too far.
Instead, Ian's mother seems to find it hilarious, because she laughs sincerely. I guess that rarely happens to these people.
“How long have you known my son?” she asks, because I've obviously given myself away now.
I'd better tell the hard truth. “Since the day he was hired at our bank, so seven long years.”
“You're a colleague then?” she asks in surprise.
“Exactly,” I confirm. I think I've already said too much. And who knows what else she'd get out of me if Ian didn't arrived at that moment.
“You've already made friends?” he asks, seeing us laugh. He has a curious look, as though he is genuinely surprised.
“Of course, dear,” confirms his mother. “Your colleague is a very amusing woman. ”
It's clear that she is also thinking about something else, because I've just come down from Ian's room, but it would be rude to imply too much before breakfast.
“Only when she wants to be,” says her son. “She usually doesn't.”
What is that supposed to mean? “I am with those who deserve it,” I add.
Ian turns serious. “I should have imagined you two would get along. You have very similar personalities.”
It's not really clear whether it is a compliment or not. I'm inclined to the second hypothesis.
His mother doesn't seem bothered by the insinuation, though. In fact, her smile doesn't waver.
“Anyway, we are not here to socialise,” Ian points out, “we're here for business. Beverly is one of our clients and wanted to use the occasion of the hunt to discuss some things with us.”
Ian's mother turns in my direction. “Lord Beverly? I am so sorry, dear.”
“No problem, really,” I assure her.
“But I imagine you're used to moving in this society. Perhaps your family is like this too—”
Of course, the interrogation goes on: now its time for my family tree.
“Not really. Actually, I couldn't think of anything more different. Although all families are alike in their own way – apart from the castles and hunting.” Bullseye. Ian's mother turns slightly pale, but recovers in time to say goodbye to us before she goes to meet a lady who has just arrived.
“You don't pull your punches,” Ian teases me, finally pointing to the dining room, where all sorts of good things are laid out on the table. I pour hot coffee into a cup that must be at least two hundred years old and eat scrambled eggs and toast.
“Since I hadn't received any instructions, I limited myself to the truth. So far no one has asked about the nature of my relationship with you, but I imagine that they will soon. Ian, honestly, it wasn't a brilliant idea to bring me here.”
He looks at me sceptically. “You're totally wrong. I could barely get rid of Katie and her mother half an hour ago. Your presence in my room was very helpful then.”
The coffee is excellent, so I pour a second cup.
“Why don't you marry her?” I ask him point-blank, looking at him.
“Are you kidding? You've even met her.”
“That's exactly why I'm saying it, because I have met her: you're both full of yourselves, proud of your blue blood and convinced that you're superior to everyone else. That seems to me to be a good foundation for a marriage.”
Ian isn't too happy with my portrait of him and shifts nervously on his chair.
“What makes you think I'm so class conscious?” he asks, a little annoyed.
I'm chewing my buttered toast while he stares at me with an intensity that I don't like at all.
“Let's talk about this at a more appropriate time, if you don't mind. I hate having my breakfast interrupted.”
Ian shrugs. “As you wish.”
“And where's the rest of the family?” I ask curiously.
“My father is away on business and my grandfather is out checking the horses for tomorrow's hunt. I'll introduce him to you to the dance tonight. But I warn you, he is very old school—”
That's a warning that sounds like a threat.
“I know how to behave, you know,” I tell him, without the slightest hint of anxiety at his veiled insinuation.
Ian raises an eyebrow doubtfully.
“Really,” I tell him. He sighs resignedly. He seems to be going to add something when Elizabeth Beverly and Katie walk into the room. The perfect couple.
Once again, Elizabeth is more naked than dressed, but at least she seems sincere when she smiles on seeing us.
“Hello, Ian, good morning, Jennifer!” she says, and I reciprocate.
Katie instead is a wax sculpture – or better, an ice statue. Saying that she's unhappy to see me would be putting it very mildly. Her face is so hostile that I'm almost worried for her. Anger ages you, you know.
She's wearing a dress that would be much more suited to a cocktail party than breakfast, but if she thinks it's fashionable…
Anyway, if she wants to ignore me, I might very well do the same.
“Hello, Elizabeth,” says Ian, who then smiles at Katie. I forgot – they've already seen each other at breakfast.
For a while, no one dares to say anything. Ian is watching us, Katie is staring at me without lowering her gaze, and Elizabeth looks as if she'd like to run away. I'm chewing very slowly, taking all the time I need. If this blonde thinks she can intimidate me, she can think again.
In an apparently random gesture, she sits down and places her hand on Ian's leg, and he gives me a look that confirms he's picked up on her intentions.
“I'm done with breakfast” I say quietly. “We can go back to our room if you want.”
Ian's eyes sparkle with amusement, while Katie looks like she's going to be sick. I swear, she's so disagreeable and arrogant that I am trying to think of a way to prolong her agony. Not to mention that I've changed my mind: no one deserves a wife like that, not even Ian.
“Sure, let's go.” He gets up and holds out his hand to me, and I grab it unceremoniously.
We say goodbye to the girls and head to our room. As we walk, I remember that my hand is still firmly holding Ian's and I try to break free, but he doesn't let me.
“They could see us, just bear it for another moment.”
His sentence is so sensible that I can find no objection – I, the empress of objections!
When at last we get into the room my hand is burning, and once free of his grasp, I remain surprised by the effect. I'm a grown woman of thirty-three who doesn't generally get worked up over simple physical contact. And yet, while he was holding my hand, it seemed far from simple.
*
This will be an interesting evening, as long as I survive it, which given how the day has gone is not a foregone conclusion. Ian and I seized the opportunity to work on Beverly and now we've agreed to meet up in the middle of next week in our office, to settle things once and for all. Katie has disappeared, but I guess she's locked herself in her room to get ready for tonight’s gala. Basically, she's going for broke, and wants to be at the top of her game.
The castle is full of people, even though not many of them are young. Here, they are all somehow friends of the Duke of Revington, as the average age confirms.
I, instead, had little time to devote to preparing for the evening, so I've had to settle for a quick shower. But I've used the moisturiser that Vera forced me to bring and put on a dress – as usual it's one of Laura's, and, I must admit, it has a certain something: it's black, because I am a black dress type of woman, long, low-cut in the front and with a scooped back. I've combed my hair up into a bun that, miraculously, actually looks pretty good (I'm not kidding myself, it was pure chance), while my make-up is unusually intense and the lipstick bright red.
So, in other words, this isn't me. The girl looking back at me from the mirror doesn't resemble me at all.
Ian must be thinking the same thing, because when I come out of the bathroom, he is utterly bewildered. He wears a tuxedo that fits him like a glove and as I look at him I can't help wondering if he's real.
An awestruck “You look… nice—” is all he manages to come out with.
“So do you,” I answer, equally embarrassed. We're not very good at compliments. We stand there looking at each other for too long.
“Shall we?” he eventually asks.
I nod and walk over to him. He gives me his arm, and I cling to it, trying not to think too much about the meaning of the gesture.
This evening I definitely need support, both moral and physical, because I'm in an environment which isn't mine, wearing a dress that isn't mine and on the arm of a man who certainly isn't mine. Not really ideal.
We walk through a series of corridors before getting to what should be the crown jewel of this castle: the ballroom. No complaints from me, everything is beautiful and the people look very elegant. But that doesn't surprise me.
For a moment I think about how Kate Middleton must have felt, even though I don't really like her, when she arrived at court. I can imagine the panic and embarrassment. I feel pretty much the same way.
To try and give myself some Dutch courage, I sip some champagne while Ian introduces me to the English nobility; I have the impression that they're all there, even the lowliest of barons.
“Now hold on tight, it's time for the big guy,” he warns, pointing to an old man nearby. The resemblance is so obvious that I don't need to ask who he is.
“Grandfather, I'd like to introduce you to Jennifer Percy,” he says solemnly. I sincerely hope that no one expects a bow from me.
“Good evening, Duke,” I greet him with a formal tone.
He looks at me for a long time and then holds out his right hand. I shake it firmly in the hope that mine isn't too sweaty.
Now I know where Ian's eyes come from, because his grandfather scrutinizes me with the same intense blue.
“No need to be so formal, Miss Percy,” he says, clearly not really meaning it. “We all read the newspapers and in your eyes I'm simply the grandfather of your current crush.”
It is immediately obvious that I'm to his liking. If only he knew how little I am to his grandson's liking, I think with amusement.
“Every occasion has its formalities, does it not?” I reply with a smile, not at all intimidated.
“Probably. My daughter-in-law tells me you are a lawyer” he says, changing the subject.
“A tax lawyer, so not a real lawyer,” I specify. I have nothing to hide from these people.
“Well, Ian is not a real economist, and you are not a real lawyer. A perfect match,” he says.
“A perfect couple indeed,” I say, ignoring his sarcasm. Ian looks at me charmed, as though he had never seen anyone stand up to his grandfather.
“I apologize for my frankness, but what makes you think that you're going to last?” asks the Duke. What a boor, I think to myself. But we tend to forgive dukes for this type of thing, and much worse – we've been doing it for so many generations that we can't blame this particular one.
“Yes, I could always find a more interesting heir,” I agree.
Revington laughs nervously. “Don't be foolish. You'll find no better opportunity.”
I've managed to make him fall into my trap in no time. “No one questions Ian's value,” I point out, although the only one to have done so this evening is really him.
“Obviously, because one day he will be a duke.”
“It's a pity to judge a person solely on the basis of what he may be one day. I much prefer to focus on what he is now.”
Revington looks at me for a second, almost troubled. “Yours is certainly a singular opinion” he acknowledges, “because generally, Ian is nothing but my heir in the eyes of everyone.”
“Then I am happy not to be 'everyone'. I've known him for a long time, so I know what I'm talking about.”
I see Ian blush, which is quite unusual. I hope that his usually enormous ego is able to cope with a few more minutes of this bizarre conversation.
“Yes, I've been told you are colleagues,” he says, almost with contempt.
“And is that not to your liking?” I ask, starting to get a little annoyed. Honestly, I've had enough of niceties for one day.
“It's that place that I cannot abide. I can't wait for Ian to resign and start working in one of the many family businesses. He would be spoilt for choice.”
If someone else had put forward the possibility of Ian resigning, I would have jumped for joy, but now, in front of this presumptuous man, I'm suddenly no longer sure of anything.
“That's enough, grandfather,” Ian interrupts us. “Jennifer is my guest and as such I'd like her to be treated with the greatest respect.”
His warning is clear. “Of course, of course. I don't know why I got so carried away. I apologize, Miss Percy – the topic of my grandson's career always makes me very agitated.”
I get the feeling that it's actually knowing that his orders are not blindly executed that bothers him, but I decide to keep it to myself. “Don't worry, our exchange of views was most interesting,” I re-assure him.
Ian and I nod to him and head towards the drinks.
“Well, I can't say that you don't speak your mind,” he says, laughing and offering me a glass of wine.
“As if you didn't know me” I say, knocking it back in one gulp. I may have looked strong, but I'm slightly in shock. “I'm starting to seriously think that you have asked me to come here not to fight off your suitors – because you can manage them by yourself – but to prove something to your family. Something like 'either you respect my choices and stop interfering or I'll marry someone who doesn't let herself get pushed around'. I'm here as a kind of threat. Or maybe better, say, as a warning.”
Ian looks at me for a moment and then bursts out laughing. “I'd never considered that possibility, but now that I think of it, it might be interesting—”
“It's obvious that you have thought about it unconsciously. I understand that this environment has probably affected your brain, but don't underestimate yourself, dear,” I say mockingly.
“Can we can have a drink, and try and raise our self-esteem?”
“Sure, but isn't that what we've already been doing?” I hold up my empty glass in demonstration.
“Let me tell you a secret: on pompous occasions like this, you can never drink too much. Always too little.”
“Yes, but I'm already a bit tipsy,” I note with a hint of alarm.
Ian starts coming out with the type of wisdom typical of those who are well into their cups. “Never mind, we'll run away when we're drunk” he replies, with an unconcerned shrug.
To be honest, the idea of running away from this nightmare is quite tempting.
“How about some fresh air?” he suggests, pointing to a door across the hall.
“Come on, I want to go for a walk around the gardens like the heroine of a regency novel!” I say enthusiastically. It seems that I went over my personal alcohol limit quite a while ago.
Ian gives me his arm again and leads me into the garden, which is lit up and beautiful, although cold.
I must be shivering a little because Ian realises it and is already taking off his jacket to cover my shoulders.
“I don't need that,” I protest, unconvinced.
“You're basically naked,” he notes. And in fact I feel much better wrapped up in his jacket, which is still warm from contact with his body, so I decide not to complain too much.
“Okay, if you insist. But I'm only doing it to keep you happy.”
“And there was me thinking that annoying me was your life's goal.” Ian is a lot more relaxed now that we are away from his family's eyes.
“You're right, a lot of strange things have been happening lately. American banks going up in smoke, developed countries going practically bankrupt, the US credit rating in danger and, to top it all off, me not wanting to annoy you. There must be something in the air.”
Ian laughs as we stroll through the garden.
Suddenly, he tenses. “Katie at twelve o'clock” he whispers.
The young lady in question is wearing a flame red dress that doesn't go unnoticed, even in the dark. Has she only got red dresses, I wonder?
“Do you want to talk to her?” I ask, trying to work out how to quickly change direction.
“Not on your life,” says Ian. For once, we're in total agreement.
“She's seen us,” I say, noticing the decisive way she's marching right towards us.
“I have a plan,” he whispers in my ear, pulling me closer.
I somehow have the impression that I'm not going to like this plan.
“I'm going to need a bit more collaboration than last time,” he says seriously. And when he firmly lowers his mouth onto mine, I don't have time to be surprised.
I must have drunk too much, because I feel my head actually spinning. I cling to him so as not to fall down, close my eyes and let myself go. My conscience is put to rest by the idea that with Katie this close, the kiss really needs to be convincing, so when his mouth presses on mine and his tongue pushes its way into my mouth, I can't help but let him do it. There's a short moment of hesitation in both of us, but it soon passes: I open my mouth with sudden conviction and surrender myself completely.
A few minutes must have passed, because once we open our eyes, there's no trace of Katie. She has evaporated into thin air. At the sight of our performance she must have thought it was wise to keep going.
At least this kiss made sense, I reflect resignedly, feeling as though my body were waking from a long hibernation. It was a pretty outrageous kiss, I think with a blush. Generally, I'm not the kind of person that kisses like that, and I'm pretty sure that my last long kiss dates back to secondary school.
Ian appears to be reflecting as well, because for a few minutes neither of us dares say anything.
“Hmm—” is my only comment. Not very original, but my brain seems to have abandoned me due to the lack of oxygen.
“Yeah,” agrees Ian, as if a bizarre form of non-verbal conversation were taking place between us.
“I think we might have drunk too much,” I speculate, hoping to play down the effects of the kiss.
But in my head rages the dangerous thought that I'd so like to kiss him again. What's the matter with me?
“Obviously,” he says, putting his hands in his pockets, perhaps to overcome the temptation to touch me again.
“What time is it? It's probably late, maybe we'd better to go to sleep,” I suggest, thinking about an escape plan.
“Go ahead, if you want,” he says, without looking at me. “I'm going to stay out here a little longer.”
It is evident that separating seems an excellent idea, so I agree before something makes him change his mind.
“Ok, then. Good night,” I say, while giving him back his jacket and then I set off back up the path from which we arrived.
“Good night,” I hear behind me. I'd like to turn round again, but it's better to just keep going. Far better.