took her up a short flight of stairs and unlocked the door at the top, throwing it open so that Dora could view her room.
A room it certainly was, but like no other hotel room Dora had ever seen. Here the walls were painted yellow, but still with that rich red carpet on the floor; there were more tapestries on the walls, and another fireplace, but filled with a huge vase of dried flowers this time, and several pieces of antique furniture. Against the farthest wall stood a four-poster bed.
Dora’s cheeks flushed fiery red as she recalled Fiona’s earlier remark to Griffin concerning the four-poster in his own room…
‘We only have ten guestrooms,’ Fiona told her lightly. ‘The restaurant is our main attraction—a carvery, of course,’ she added ruefully. ‘Shall I reserve a table for you for dinner this evening?’ she enquired pleasantly.
Dora was still disoriented, and this bedroom only added to the illusion. ‘Please,’ she accepted gratefully, her attention caught and held by the tapestry over the unlit fireplace. A lion and a unicorn… How appropriate! ‘I collect books and figures of unicorns myself,’ she told Fiona Madison somewhat shyly as the other woman saw her fascination with the tapestry.
It was a subject Dora and her father totally disagreed on, her father claiming the beast was totally mythical, and therefore foolish, and so by tacit agreement it was something the two of them never referred to. Dora’s collection was kept in her bedroom, where only she could see it.
‘Then this room was obviously meant for you to stay in.’ The other woman squeezed her arm as if in understanding. ‘Make yourself at home,’ she added warmly. ‘And if you need anything, just come down and ask— I promise you that someone will be in the bar,’ she added ruefully, after the earlier oversight. ‘There are no telephones in the rooms, I’m afraid. They are totally destructive to any peace and quiet our guests might desire—as well as being totally out of keeping with the twelfth century!’
They hadn’t had radiators in the twelfth century either, or running water in the bathrooms—in fact, they probably hadn’t even had bathrooms in the house!
But as Dora dropped down wearily on to the four-poster bed once the other woman had left, she found she didn’t particularly care about the lack of a telephone. The complete silence in the room, apart from the sound of birds singing outside in the garden, only added to the mystery that was fast becoming Dungelly Court.
In fact, the peace and quiet, and the total lack of formality from the owner of the hotel, filled Dora with a lethargy of her own, making her feel somewhat reluctant to step outside and let the real world in again.
But she did have that appointment for lunch with her father’s dealer. She was sure she would feel refreshed once she had indulged in the cup of coffee she had mentioned earlier. A shower and a change of clothes would complete the transformation, and then perhaps she would be able to view this place with the detachment she now felt was necessary.
Griffin Sinclair, she readily admitted to herself, was part of what she needed to detach herself from! He was aged, she guessed, in his early thirties, and the shoulder length of his hair was unfashionable to say the least—although Griffin’s confident air seemed to state he didn’t give a damn for fashion! He’d certainly made an impression on her. If only for the fact that after only a few minutes’ acquaintance he had asked her to join him for lunch!
Colour heated Dora’s cheeks as she remembered the way he had looked at her. She’d never had any illusions concerning the way she looked: a little over five feet in height, slender, with a pale complexion and vibrant red hair. Griffin Sinclair, she decided, must either be very bored to have asked her to join him for lunch, or else he had been playing with her. She was not too happy with either possible explanation!
Forget Griffin Sinclair, she told herself half an hour later as she drove away from the hotel to go to her appointment; with any luck he might have checked out by the time she returned.
He hadn’t booked out. In fact, far from it!
The bar, Dora discovered when she wandered downstairs shortly before eight o’clock that evening—having taken a slight detour on the way when she had inadvertently turned left instead of right at the bottom of the stairs!—in contrast to the morning, when she had arrived, was absolutely packed with people. So much so that Dora could hardly see the bar itself, let alone find a seat. The fire was totally hidden by the sea of people standing in front of its warmth, although that heat could still be felt even in the doorway, making Dora glad she had chosen to wear a silk cream blouse over a calf-length black skirt.
‘Our table is through here.’
Dora looked up in time to recognise Griffin Sinclair before her arm was taken in his firm grasp as he led the way through the maze of small dining rooms that seemed to make up most of the lower floor of the hotel, warmly inviting rooms, with only three or four tables in each, log fires burning in the hearths.
‘As you can see, it’s very busy here this evening.’ Griffin stopped beside a table, holding back a chair for Dora to sit down. ‘I assured Fiona we wouldn’t in the least mind sharing a table rather than taking up two!’
Dora frowned at him. He had a damned cheek assuring Fiona of anything where she was concerned!
But there was no doubt that the restaurant was very busy; most of the people that had been in the bar drinking were now starting to drift in to sit at their tables.
‘And sharing the bill, too?’ Dora drawled as she finally sat down.
The room was illuminated by the fire and a dozen or so lit candles. Very romantic! And with a complete stranger, at that. She wouldn’t say he was a ‘perfect’ stranger, because she had the feeling Griffin Sinclair was far from being that!
‘That would be very ungentlemanly of me.’ Griffin sat down opposite her, pouring her a glass of white wine from the bottle he must already have ordered for their table. ‘And although my mother may feel that she failed with me in most things,’ he added hardly, ‘she did bring me up to be a gentleman.’
There was a slight edge to his voice as he spoke of his mother, as there had been earlier when he’d talked of being named after his great-uncle. Dora’s own mother had been dead for eight years, and she still missed her quiet calm, her air of serenity, her sense of fun.
‘In that case, I thank you for dinner.’ She accepted his invitation—albeit a fait accompli!—with a gracious smile.
Griffin sat back in his chair, watching her. ‘You look right in these surroundings, you know, Izzy,’ he finally murmured.
Dora had been aware of his prolonged gaze, and now the hot colour entered her cheeks. She had never been what could be considered a fashionable dresser, preferring to wear what was comfortable or smart, and, in the case of the cream blouse and black skirt, she considered them to be both.
Her hair was freshly washed after her travelling and her business appointment, and fell softly to her shoulders; her make-up was light—a peach lipgloss on her lips, just a brush of mascara to darken her lashes and enhance the grey of her eyes.
In fact, she had been quite satisfied with her appearance before she’d left her bedroom a few minutes ago, but she realised that she probably wasn’t sophisticated or beautiful enough for a man like Griffin Sinclair, that his taste would be for much more glamorous women than she could ever be.
‘I meant that as a compliment, Izzy.’ His husky voice interrupted
