ELEVEN
LILY closed the last page of the play and stared vacantly into the open fire Thomas, the family butler, had lit for her earlier that night. The writer had captured a side of her parents she hadn’t known about. He had focused on their struggles and their hunger for fame and what had driven it, rather than just the consequence of it.
The result was an aspect of their lives Lily knew about from her mother’s diaries but which the press rarely focused on. It was an aspect that always caused Lily to regret who they had become. She had expected that reading the play would imbue her with a renewed sense of disgust at their wasted lives—and it had, sort of—but what she hadn’t expected was that it would fill her with a sense of yearning for them still to be around. For a chance to get to know them.
A log split in the grate and Lily rose to her feet and prodded at it with the cast-iron poker. Then she turned and wandered over to the carved wooden bookcases that lined the Abbey’s vast library.
She had been in Tristan’s ancestral home—a palatial three-storey stone Palladian mansion set amidst eleven thousand acres of parkland resplendent with manicured gardens, a deer forest, a polo field and a lake with swans and other birdlife—for four days now.
She’d taken long walks every day, as she and Jordana had done as teens, petted the horses in the stables, helped Jamie the gardener tend the manicured roses along the canopied stone arbour, and caught up with Mrs Cole, the housekeeper, who looked as if she’d stepped straight out of a Jane Austen novel.
In fact the whole experience of wandering around on her own and not being bothered by the busyness of her everyday life was like stepping back into another era, and the only thing that would have made her stay here better was if she’d been able to see Tristan more than just at the evening meal, where he was always unfailingly polite, and nothing more. It was as if they were complete strangers.
For four days he had studiously locked himself away in his study and, from what Lily could tell, rarely ventured out.
Lily paused beside the antique chessboard that was always set up in the library and sank into one of the bottle-green club chairs worn from years of use.
At first she had thought Tristan had flown them to the Abbey to avoid the constant threat of paparazzi, but it had soon become depressingly apparent that he’d relocated them so that he could avoid her as well!
And she couldn’t deny that hurt. After his apology back in his London home she had thought maybe they could build a friendship, but clearly he didn’t feel the same way. Clearly the chemistry he had felt for her had been laid to rest after just one time together. She only wished she felt the same way.
Unfortunately, consummating her desire for him that night had resurrected an inner sexuality only he seemed to bring out in her. And now that she had experienced the full force of his possession she craved it even more.
‘Want a game?’ a deep voice said softly from behind her chair, and Lily swung around to find Tristan regarding her from just inside the doorway. She’d been so deep in thought she hadn’t heard him come in.
Her heart kicked against her ribs at the sight of him in black jeans and a pale green cashmere sweater the exact shade of his eyes. He looked casually elegant, while she was conscious that she had changed into old sweatpants and a top before coming downstairs to read.
‘I…If you like,’ Lily found herself answering, not sure that saying yes was the sanest answer, all things considered. The man hadn’t said boo to her for four days and now he wanted to play chess…?
‘Can I fix you a drink?’
‘Sure,’ she said, not sure that was the sanest idea either.
‘I know you’re not fond of Scotch, but my father has an excellent sherry.’
‘Sure,’ she parroted, ordering her brain to come online. Her body quickened as he walked slowly towards her, and she straightened the pawns on their squares to avoid having him see how pathetic she was.
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