Viola studied the photograph carefully. It wasn’t the first time she had scrutinised a picture of Tobias Cavendish-Blake, and who could blame her? There was no doubt, he was a stunner, with his dark hair, green eyes, dimpled chin, strong jaw line and wicked grin. This was a photograph taken in his mid-twenties, when he was at his most notorious. Hardly surprising then that he had a beauty on each arm, coquettishly gazing up at him. Tobias was dressed in a black dinner suit – well, half a suit – with his white shirt slightly unbuttoned, revealing a dark shadow of hair, his bow tie hung untied, the trousers were none existent. Allegedly they had been taken off at some point in the nightclub, as a dare from Seamus Fox, his best friend. The black boxer shorts revealed firm, muscular thighs that Viola homed in on. In the background was the Fox, similarly dressed, an identical roguish grin spread across his pale face. The two best mates had opposite colouring, but both had had exactly the same attitude to life: basically to rip the hell out of it. Which, as Viola’s research had proved, was precisely what they had done.
Another picture showed a very young Tobias dressed in Eton uniform; a pristine, white shirt and black tail coat, his cold, haughty expression totally in keeping with the formality of his surroundings.
Viola sifted through the collection and picked out the one that she thought depicted him in a warmer, more natural light. It was the most recent photograph taken of him at his wedding a few weeks ago. Choosing to marry inside Treweham Hall chapel meant Tobias had not appeared publicly to the media with flashing cameras, camped outside the Hall gates and lining the village footpaths. Any rare photograph the paparazzi had managed to snap had been taken from a distance with a long lens.
Luckily, a number of discerning reporters had gone to great lengths to secure a few rounds of shots through the leafy woods that joined the back of the Treweham Hall estate. As the wedding party had enjoyed champagne and canapés, basking in the sunshine on the lawn, a few hundred yards away, cameras had feverishly clicked and flashed, recording all the day’s events. They caught a radiant, young bride in an exquisite, ivory gown, holding a champagne flute, smiling with utter happiness; an older Seamus Fox, now a loyal husband and doting father to two giggling little girls, which he held in his arms, whilst his wife looked on affectionately; Sebastian Cavendish-Blake holding court, his animated face obviously entertaining the older, grey-haired lady dressed in tweed; but the absolute corker shot, or so Viola thought, was of the groom.
Tobias looked magnificent in a grey morning suit. He still wore his hair long, and those piercing green eyes shone with love and laughter. His face appeared relaxed, happy and totally at ease, a far cry from the sullen, arrogant looks thrown at the press in the past, or the defiant, devil-may-care smirks for which he was renowned. He still had ‘it’, though, Viola concluded. Men such as Tobias Cavendish-Blake never lost their sex appeal; it just grew with them, maturing naturally.
Viola was a man’s woman. She naturally preferred men’s company to women’s. By and large she found women either bitchy or just plain dull. Often craving the limelight, Viola was vain enough to soak up any attention thrown her way. She was slim and attractive and her long, caramel-brown hair fell sleekly down her back. Born with sharp features, Viola had had plastic surgery to correct her hooked nose and a cute, small one had replaced it. Her thin lips had been plumped to give a full, voluptuous look, and the boob job she’d had done was her absolute pride and joy. Nobody could accuse Viola of not making the most of herself. She had totally reinvented every inch of herself. Even her name. Being christened Vera was hardly the best start in life. Maybe in the fifties, but whoever had heard of a girl being named Vera in the mid-eighties? Yet another misfortune inherited from her mother.
One thing Viola had been born with that had remained was her determination. She had true grit and real perseverance. She never gave up and she always got what she wanted. Viola’s force of will knew no bounds, to the point where it was scary. Only once had she had to back down – she had had no choice; not even Viola could ignore a Restraining Order. But that was all in the past, a minor hiccup in an otherwise successful life, she liked to think. There was nothing wrong with ambition, unless you let it drive you to the brink.
She was set on a career as a producer, just like Marcus Devlin. He interested her too, though not in the same way as Tobias Cavendish-Blake. Instead she sensed her attraction to him was more kindred. Having worked with Marcus before, she had recognised instantly that he was a private man, choosing whom he socialised with on set, if at all. Often she would find him alone, deep in concentration, or quietly talking to only the one or two crew members he had known a long time. Viola suspected there was far more to Marcus than met the eye. A classic case of still waters running deep. Her instincts told her he was camouflaging his life in some way, hiding something, or maybe who he really was deep down. Why did she think this? Because she was doing exactly the same; she recognised the trait.
Viola started to read the article she had found on-line about ‘Lord Cavendish-Blake-the-rake’. It was pure drama: the handsome, aristocratic hell-raiser finally tamed by a local, fresh-faced girl from the village. Viola’s eyes narrowed. Did a leopard ever change its spots? She very much doubted it.