No Ordinary Gentleman

The look she gives me? A big fat no.

I sigh, listening as the rain falls against the leaves of a nearby tree, the syncopated sound almost musical. I guess I’ll be tying my hair up tonight. It’s either that or I’ll have to rock the frizz.

On the horizon, one of the gardener’s ATVs moves over the hills and vales of the vast garden. It could be Cameron, I think to myself, waiting for that pleasant little anticipatory twist in my stomach that doesn’t come. I really don’t get it. Why aren’t I more excited for tonight? Maybe my excitement is shy. A late developer. Maybe it’ll develop tonight.

At the meaty rumble of Isla’s Range Rover, I look down at Gertie. “Now you’re in trouble,” I tell her. “The boss is home.”

The boys tumble out of the vehicle, and I move aside to let them pass.

“Hello, Holly. Goodbye, Holly,” calls Archie as he dashes in through the door. A split second later, he’s back and throwing his arms around a (very briefly dejected) dog. “Almost forgot,” he says, shooting me an embarrassed-looking grin. “Love you, Gertie girl.” Hugh is a little more circumspect. Head down, he pats Gertie’s head before gracing me with a very short-lived smile.

“What’s up, champ?”

“It’s nothing I want to talk about,” he mutters stiffly before disappearing through the open door.

“Off for a walk?” Isla asks, coming to a stop under the portico.

“That was the plan.” I glance down at the mutt. “But it’s a plan Gertie wants no part in.”

“Bloody kids and animals,” Isla says, lifting her purse higher on her shoulder before pointing at a patch of grass next to the left. “Gertie, go pee,” she commands sternly. Unbelievable, the elderly pooch shuffles her butt onto the wet grass, cops a squat, and does exactly what’s demanded of her. “Good girl,” she offers in a mildly begrudging tone as she unclips the lead from Gert’s collar and the old mutt trundles indoors. “She does hate the rain.”

“Then she’s living in the wrong country.”

“I’m sure we’d both prefer Acapulco, but one doesn’t always get the choice, unfortunately.”

Oh, boy. That was some frosty tone. I guess that’s me told.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Isla offers almost immediately. “Pay no attention to me.” She presses her hand to her head. “I’ve just got a lot on my plate today, and it must be coming up to that time of the month.”

“Plus, you have a Hollywood superstar staying with you, not to mention a formal dinner to host and a weekend’s worth of entertaining to provide.”

“God, I know,” she says on a moan. “When all I really want to do is disappear into a bottle of wine about this big.” She gestures chest height. “And to top it all, my brother is sodding well late, and then Hugh’s teacher insisted she needed to see me today. Like I haven’t got anything else I need to do!” She throws up her hands, and I think I see the beginnings of some frustrated tears.

“Come on.” Reaching out, I touch her arm. “Let’s go inside. I’ll make you a coffee, and we can plot to murder this teacher.”

“Coffee would be good.”

We don’t go to the castle’s kitchen—there’s too much going on in there today—instead, making our way to the family’s private apartments and the small but stylish kitchen there.

“I’m so tempted to add a shot of whisky,” Isla says as I hand over her cup.

“It’s your house. You’re over twenty-one. I’m pretty sure you can do what you want.”

“Best not,” she replies, not before appearing to consider it. “I’d better keep my wits about me for tonight.”

“Do you have a big crowd?”

“Eight people from the film,” she says, counting the attendants by tapping her finger against her wrist. “The star and his wife, a co-star and his partner, the director, and a couple of the money people. Then there’s Sandy, of course. Along with a couple of his friends, I believe. And Portia.” She rolls her eyes exaggeratedly before listing off more names that don’t mean anything to me. I’ve heard of Dylan Duffy and his co-star too, but celebrities don’t impress me much. Though I get how stressful this must be for Isla. It’s one thing hosting a party for friends and another to keep strangers entertained for a whole weekend. And for her brother to dump this on her plate and not be here seems like an asshole move. If Kennedy dumped this on me, her guests would be lucky to be served McDonald’s.

“Those who arrived earlier are currently out clay pigeon shooting. Nothing says, a weekend in the country like shooting clay discs propelled into the air.” Her gaze slips to the clock on the wall-mounted oven. “I suppose McCain will serve them afternoon tea soon. I should make an effort to join them.”