marry, he thought ruefully, it would be quite a waste. What a kisser she was. It made him wonder what else she would be brilliant at, in the privacy of a bedchamber...
Chris shook his head hard to dislodge a sudden image of Emily Fortescue dressed only in a thin silk chemise, laughing amid a billow of white pillows, her glorious chestnut hair spread mermaid-like around her. He had no business thinking about her that way.
And when they were together, they always seemed to argue. She was definitely not for the likes of him and he was not for her. Maybe they would have fun in the bedroom, if that wild kiss was any indication, but they would quarrel each other to death everywhere else. She was too strong-minded, too gloriously goddess-like, for everyday use.
And he was sure he would never quite measure up to her.
Yet, oh, she was so beautiful. He watched as she gracefully drew her arm back to serve, the long, lean line of her body. How had he never realised that before? Oh, he had always known she was pretty, that was impossible to miss. But she was actually incomparable.
‘What are you doing lurking out here, Chris?’ he heard his brother William say.
He glanced back to see Will walking towards him along the pathway between the trees, his brother’s dark suit and dark hair blending into the shadows. He looked impeccable, responsible, the always-serious one. ‘Just hiding for a moment before I plunge into all that Miss Grantley’s schoolness, I suppose. I have a newfound allergy to academia, even if this isn’t quite Oxford.’
Will gave a wry chuckle. ‘I’m rather surprised you showed up at all. It doesn’t seem like your sort of scene.’
Chris glanced at Emily again, her white skirts a blur as she dashed along the net. Her laughter floated back to him on the breeze. ‘Lemonade and deportment lessons? No, thank you. But I thought Alex might appreciate someone here besides the Duchess.’
Will smiled. ‘Yes. Poor, sweet Alex.’ He, too, studied the tennis game and for one awful instant Chris wondered if he, too, admired Emily. But then he realised Will watched Diana Martin, her hair a bright red in the light, waving her racket in mock-threat at Emily. Will’s smile seemed uncharacteristically—soft in that moment.
Interesting.
Will turned away from the sun-dappled scene and aimed his piercing blue gaze at Chris. Much like Emily, Will had an uncanny ability to see too much. Even when they were children, Chris could never pull off pranks on Will. And now Will had left university with a First in the Classics and worked for the Foreign Office, respectable and perfect.
‘Are you sure nothing is amiss, Chris?’ Will asked.
Chris shook his head, making himself give his trademark careless grin. It always seemed to throw everyone off. ‘Amiss? Whatever could be amiss on such a bright, sunny day, far away from any work at all?’
‘Yes,’ Will said quietly. Quiet with him was always a dangerous sign. When Will got quiet, it meant he was thinking even more than usual. ‘You want everyone to think all your days are bright and sunny, don’t you, Brother?’
Chris turned away. ‘Why should they not be? We are young, the world is open to us. Pretty girls, a drink at the pub tonight, maybe a horse race tomorrow...’
‘And that’s all there is?’
‘Of course it’s not,’ Chris said, feeling a strange anger rise up in him. Life should be more, should have some purpose. That was easy for someone like Will to say, or Emily. They seemed brimming with purpose, with serious minds that led them towards something greater. Chris searched for it, but where was it? So, he played the pleasure-seeker, the clown, the trickster.
He looked towards the tennis lawn. The game was over and Emily had put on her hat and was hurrying towards the house, arm in arm with Alex and Diana, the three of them giggling together as if they hadn’t a care in the world. As if the world hadn’t been rocked with a kiss.
‘But that’s what life is for now,’ Chris concluded. ‘As to the future, who can say? Father declares I’m fitted for nothing. Maybe he’s right.’
Will frowned. ‘When has Father been right about anything?’ he said. ‘Listen, Chris, you’ll be done at Oxford soon. Why don’t you come talk to them at the Foreign Office? I can arrange an appointment time.’
‘And work with you?’ Chris thought of how he would come off next to Will and shook his head. ‘They wouldn’t take me. And I’d die of boredom there after a day at a desk, thinking about infinitely boring people at infinitely boring foreign courts.’
Will laughed, a rare, rich sound. ‘Not every job there is as tedious as formal diplomacy, Chris. There is a lot there that would suit you very well indeed. And I’ll be leaving for India soon; they need more men at the London office. You should think about it, anyway. Father will start making noises again about the church and Mother will find you an heiress to marry if you don’t head them off with a different plan.’
Chris grinned. Both of those were tacks their parents had taken with him many times. Both sounded like the depths of wretchedness. Maybe Will had a point. If he had a different job in mind, there could be no vicarages in his future. ‘We’ll see.’
‘Good, do think about it. Now, should we go in? Surely it’s time for tea and no one could ever fault Miss Grantley’s for their excellent cook.’
‘True. I’ve been thinking about those raspberry tarts all day.’ Chris followed Will towards the arbour where maids were setting up the tea service and he was glad the day was almost done. But he could swear he heard the echo of Emily’s laughter following him at every step.
London—spring 1891
Christopher Blakely was sure his eyes were crossing from the mounds of paperwork. He had been making his way through them for hours and still the piles of documents loomed high. This was by far his least favourite part of the job.
He pushed the papers away and sat back in his chair with a laugh. Surely he would be more useful at a party somewhere, drinking and laughing, drawing people in—and learning their secrets. Wasn’t that why the Foreign Office had hired him in the first place, after his useless years at university? His light-hearted ways, his charm, his genuine interest in people and their strange ways. Such charm drew people close, invited their confidences, in a way that cool professionalism, such as that possessed by his brother Will couldn’t hope to accomplish. At least not as quickly as Chris, with his dimpled smiles and endless bottles of wine, the way he seemed born to read people and situations and adjust his reactions accordingly, could achieve.
He sighed as he plucked the document off the top of the pile—a report from an operative in Berlin, where trouble always seemed to be brewing. Even though the Kaiser was Queen Victoria’s own grandson, he was a troublemaker of endless ambition and jealousy. It was certainly difficult work, there on the ground in the embassies, a tightrope of keeping secrets while ferreting out everyone else’s, especially in etiquette-ridden places like Berlin. Yet Chris found he rather envied those men. They were respected, known. His own work, once so exciting, now seemed rather—dim.
The parties, the laughter that hid so much behind the bright masks, the satisfaction of drawing
