Off Limits

What are you wearing?

I grin, lift the phone up and take a shot of myself. I examine it quickly—one chin, eyes open, passably attractive—and then send it to him.

His response is almost immediate.

Smoking hot, Lady Gemma.

My heart turns over in my chest and for a mini-second I contemplate blowing the party off—to hell with the consequences—and going to Jack instead. My parents would be furious, but I suspect it would be worth it...

I text him back.

What are YOU wearing?

A few seconds later I am rewarded with a photo of him. I stare at the screen and my heart thumps hard in my chest. He is gorgeous. So beautiful. So dangerously, darkly, distractingly beautiful.

I stare at his eyes and feel as though I really am looking at him.

You’re flying in a SUIT? What happened to comfort?

He doesn’t respond immediately and I put my phone into my bag, letting my eyes catch up with the passing scenery. The anniversary celebration is to be at The Ritz—where else?—and the car eats up the distance from Hampstead into the West End, skirting Kensington Gardens on one side.

I check my phone again as we pull to a stop—nothing.

Disappointment fills me, but I will see him soon. Tomorrow. And we’ll make up for lost time.

Just looking at that photo is enough to get me off. But I need more than that. I need to be held by him. To feel his arms wrapping around me, to look up at him and know that his heart is beating for mine...

‘Madam.’ The driver opens the door and I smile at him, stepping out into the cool night air.

Flashes go off in my face. I’m unprepared. Foolishly, really, given the high-profile nature of the party and the venue that’s designed to draw attention. I just haven’t been focussing on it at all. I plaster a smile on my face as I dip my head forward and clip towards the large glass doors.

The party is in The Music Room. I’ve been there once before, for my grandfather’s birthday, I remember as I step over the threshold. The room is the very definition of elegance, with gold and pink highlights, enormous floral arrangements and curtains that look like they weigh a tonne.

I’m late. Only ten minutes or so, but the room is full. The music is a perfectly refined string quartet, and my parents are at the end of a receiving line, like a scene from a Jane Austen book.

I pause, wondering if I can sneak away before they see me, go and find Grandma. I’d put money on her being near the bar...

But my mother’s eyes meet mine and her hand lifts, waving me over.

I swear under my breath, plastering a smile on my face. ‘Mum.’ I kiss her cheek. ‘You look lovely.’

She does. Mum is always stunning. And now, after her jaunting about—rather, her international philanthropy—she’s acquired a caramel tan. Her outfit is almost bridal—a cream lace prom dress that falls to just below her knees. Dad is in a tux.

‘Welcome home,’ I say.

‘Oh, yes. That’s right. We haven’t seen you since we got back.’ Her lips pucker in disapproval.

‘I’ve been in Australia,’ I explain awkwardly, then wish I hadn’t. Why the heck am I apologising? It’s not like they’ve been tripping over themselves to organise a reunion. ‘Was it a good trip?’

My father grumbles something I don’t quite catch.

‘Quite.’ Mother nods. ‘We’re thinking of going again next year—aren’t we, darling?’

His look is one of long-suffering tolerance. ‘We’ll see.’

‘Is Grandma here?’

My mother nods, her eyes flitting across the room. ‘In that direction.’