by-elections.’
‘No spring collections.’
‘No Camilla Shawcross,’ Holly finished, and stood. ‘Now help me clear up.’
‘Leave it,’ Alex ordered, and pulled her into his arms. ‘I’ve just proposed an amendment to the bench that states we should make wild, passionate love, right here, right now. And the dishes be damned.’
‘Hear, hear,’ Holly murmured.
‘Let’s adjourn to the bedroom, shall we?’ So saying, Alex swung her up into his arms and carried her off, giggling, to his bed, where he threw her down and did exactly as he had promised.
And Holly thought that perhaps the law wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
The Jaguar’s engine juddered, heaved a sigh of profound regret, and died.
Natalie Dashwood clutched the steering wheel and stared in consternation at the various instruments on the Jag’s dashboard. Although the car was new and meticulously maintained, it made the odd noise now and again. And it was doing it now…again!
She’d told Rhys, her fiancé, about it; but of course the bloody car didn’t make the bloody noise whenever he drove it.
She eased the Jag off the road. Not only was the engine making odd ticking sounds; it refused to take her any further. She stared at the instrument cluster in dismay. This couldn’t be happening.
But of course it was happening, and of course it would do when she was smack in the middle of nowhere in sodding south Warwickshire. The sun was a rapidly sinking, orangey-red ball on the horizon. Mum’s house was an hour behind her, and there was nothing around for miles but the ribbon of roadway, and fields dotted with cow parsley and sheep.
Bad enough she’d been unable to land the wedding reception venue she’d wanted. She’d left it too late, and now every decent venue in London was booked up. Now, this.
Oh, well…there was nothing for it but to call Rhys to come and fetch her. She chewed her bottom lip. It was Sunday night and he worked tomorrow, plus she’d interrupt the football on TV, so he’d be put out, to say the least. Natalie rummaged in her handbag until she unearthed her mobile to ring Rhys.
No service.
Crikey. She must be in the middle of a dead zone, or something. Perhaps if she got out of the car and walked for a bit, the phone might pick up a signal. She eyed her platform pumps doubtfully and wished to hell she’d put on the jeans and trainers she’d worn on the trip from London up to Mum’s. But she’d wanted to look nice for Rhys when she got back home tonight…
…which she wouldn’t do, now. Bloody hell.
She slid out of the driver’s seat and stood up, mobile phone clutched in hand. It would be dark soon. She had perhaps forty more minutes of daylight before the sun, like the bloody car engine, gave up the ghost.
Right, she told herself nervously, don’t even think about things like ghosts, or you’ll run screaming into the cow parsley, never to be seen or heard from again…
She began to walk rapidly – well, as rapidly as her shoes would allow – northward along the edge of the road. Not only did her mobile refuse to connect to a transmitting tower; after a moment it, too, blinked and died.
Shit! Bloody technology, you could never depend on it when you needed it the most—
Suddenly Natalie realized that she’d not charged her phone last night at mum’s. She’d been so busy catching up on family gossip, and so gobsmacked by the news of her mum’s newfound romance with the local vicar, that she’d completely forgotten.
She groaned. She could just imagine what Rhys would have to say about this latest oversight of hers. Shit, shit, shit…
Perking up as she saw a signpost up ahead, Natalie quickened her steps. ‘Shipston-on-Stour, 8 km,’ she read out loud. Well, that was no help. There was no possible way she could walk eight kilometres in these shoes. She felt tears of frustration well up, and in a fit of pique she hurled her mobile phone into a patch of cow parsley.
Immediately regretting the move, she dived into the cow parsley and retrieved the phone. As she stood there, dusting the screen off with her sleeve and picking off bits of grass, she noticed a low, crumbling wall running alongside the edge of the road. It was made of stone and was obviously very old.
And then she remembered that Dominic’s ancestral home was in Warwickshire, somewhere hereabouts, as a matter of fact… and it was surrounded by a low stone wall exactly like this one. Her heart quickened. Could it be…? If her ex-boyfriend’s family pile was indeed nearby, she could walk up to the house and ask to use the telephone. Surely they’d have a phone.
Curious, Natalie began to follow the wall. Where there’s a wall, there’s a way…
Unfortunately, this wall seemed to run on forever. After twenty minutes and a couple of turns to her ankles, she was ready to give up. Darkness was gathering. Natalie’s irritation gave way to an uneasy fear, and she resisted the impulse to sit down and sob uncontrollably only through sheer effort of will.
As her gaze swept despairingly over the length of the wall in the fading light, she realized her steps had taken her – very gradually – away from the road, and up to what looked like the entrance to a drive. The drive was made of packed dirt, and racked with ruts and ridges, but it obviously led somewhere.
Mansfield Hall, Natalie realized.
Tired now, and dusty as well, she trudged up the drive. Gradually the hedgerows and trees that crowded the lane thinned out, until she could see, at last, the roofline of the house.
Natalie paused. Mansfield Hall was just as she remembered it – large, imposing, but with a rackety Elizabethan charm. She could almost see herself and Dominic – Rupert, as he was known then – running with the dogs across the fields. He’d kissed her for the first time under that gnarled old tree over there.
She’d got bird crap in her hair, from the tree trunk. Rupert called her ‘Poo’, and the nickname stuck for the rest of that summer.
It was a perfect metaphor for her failed relationship with Dominic – romantic, crazy, and fun while it lasted; but destined to end in shit.
As she came closer, signs of neglect met her gaze. The grass, once neatly trimmed, needed mowing; the stone steps that led up to the front door were cracked and sunken, and partially separated from the foundation; even the brass door knocker was tarnished and peeling.
It was a shame, Natalie reflected as she lifted the knocker and let it fall. Despite the neglect, Mansfield Hall was still such a lovely old place, romantic and picturesque—
Her eyes widened and she let out a gasp of excitement as the idea, fully formed, occurred to her. It was perfect. It was inspired. It was brilliant!
She’d have her wedding reception here, at Mansfield Hall.
After all, there was plenty of room for the wedding guests, all four
