Accepting the Boss's Proposal. NATASHA OAKLEY
‘But your invitations—’
Rachel brushed her friend’s objection aside. ‘We’ll just have to resend them.’
Not to mention hire a marquee, find a caterer and local florist to decorate the keep, Jemima thought dryly. She sat back in her chair and made a determined effort not to let what she was feeling show. In her opinion, three months before a wedding was far too late to be changing the venue.
Jemima gave half an ear to her friend as she continued to lay out her artistic vision of a medieval wedding with a distinctly twenty-first century twist. No mention of the halter-neck dress in soft white satin she’d chosen four weeks earlier. What was happening about that?
She wanted to be excited for Rachel, she really did, but it all seemed rather pointless. So much effort for one day…
She speared a piece of salmon from the central platter. She was being selfish. Just because her marriage hadn’t been the happy ever after she’d hoped for wasn’t a good enough reason not to enter into someone else’s excitement. It was just difficult to summon up much enthusiasm for all this nonsense. That probably made her a horrible person, certainly a lousy choice of bridesmaid, but if she didn’t say it aloud, just thought it—that wasn’t so bad, was it?
Jemima glanced across at Miles and caught him watching her. She had the strangest feeling he’d been able to read her mind. That was impossible, of course, but…there was a definite look of…something in his blue eyes.
She turned back to concentrate on her salmon, feeling slightly shaken. Perhaps she’d been imagining it? On the other hand, perhaps they shared a mutual cynicism for big white weddings? She couldn’t believe he’d be particularly interested in the finer details of how Rachel intended to decorate the marquee.
Jemima risked a second look. He was listening to Rachel and, whatever his opinion of it all was, he was making a reasonable job of looking fascinated. He really was impossibly handsome. Strange how two eyes, a nose and a mouth could look so different from one person to another. He had a good chin too. Her mum would say it was strong and characterful, but what she particularly liked about it was the small indentation in the centre. It was kind of sexy.
Grief. What had made her think that? Jemima pulled herself up a little straighter. There was nothing sexy about a man who knew he was sexy. If that made any sense. Miles was too gorgeous. No woman wanted to be with a man who spent more time looking in the mirror than she did.
Actually that was unfair. Miles didn’t seem a vain man. He just was drop dead gorgeous. An accident of nature.
She really shouldn’t blame him for that. It wasn’t his fault any more than it was Verity’s that she’d inherited the enviable bone structure and the ability to survive on half a grape.
‘Jemima?’
She heard her name and looked up to find Rachel looking at her.
‘You’re off with the fairies. What are you thinking about?’
Thinking about? ‘Um—’ Jemima hunted for something to say ‘—um…’ Opposite her, Miles’s eyes were alight with laughter. Please God he didn’t know what she’d been thinking. She cast about for something likely. ‘Um…I was wondering what you were going to do about your dress? Surely it’s too late to change it now?’
Rachel smiled. ‘I was worried about that, but I rang the designer the second I heard Manningtree Castle was available. It’s not a problem. And she’s caught the vision absolutely.’ She gave a delighted laugh. ‘I’m so excited. It’s going to be perfect.’
‘As is my duck. I hope.’ Alistair began to gather together their plates.
Rachel picked up the central platter. ‘It had better be. He started soaking the apricots last night and he’ll be very sulky if it hasn’t worked.’ She followed Alistair back into the kitchen and Jemima was left alone with Miles.
‘Liar,’ he said softly.
Jemima looked up. ‘Pardon?’
Miles’s eyes glinted with wicked amusement. ‘You were not wondering about Rachel’s dress.’
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. ‘Did it show?’
‘Not to Rachel, it seems. You live to daydream another day.’ There were gales of laughter from the kitchen. Miles looked over his shoulder and then turned back to her, saying quietly, ‘Do you think she’s going to ask me to wear tights and a tunic?’
‘If she does,’ Jemima whispered back, ‘you can console yourself that it’s only marginally worse than a russet-coloured waistcoat made from the fabric of my bridesmaid dress.’
The look of complete horror that passed over his face made her laugh and she was still laughing when Alistair and Rachel returned.
‘What’s so funny?’ Rachel asked as she put a warm plate in front of each of them.
‘Nothing.’
Miles cast Rachel a baleful look that was intended to charm. ‘Are Alistair and I going to be wearing tights?’
‘Absolutely not,’ Alistair said, putting his masterpiece in the centre of the table. ‘I don’t have the calves for it. Now this…is Duck Breasts with Blackberry and Apricot Sauce.’
‘Do please notice the elegant presentation,’ his fiancée teased, looking up at him. ‘Particularly the apricot halves, watercress and blackberry garnish. It was very fiddly.’
The look of love and affection that passed between them suddenly made Jemima feel lonely. Most of the time she managed perfectly well, but just occasionally it spread through her like ink in water.
Rachel sat down. ‘You know, Alistair, I think you’ve got great calves. What about wearing tights?’
CHAPTER THREE
THE Duck Breasts with Blackberry and Apricot Sauce was a triumph, but the Poached Figs with Macaroons and Mascarpone Alistair had lovingly prepared for dessert was less successful. He was entirely philosophical about it and was threatening to invite them all back for a retry later in the month.
Jemima stirred brown sugar crystals into her coffee, surprisingly relaxed. This was so much better than staying home to decorate the bathroom, which had been her original plan for the evening. She’d almost forgotten the trail of ‘welkin blue’ footprints she’d left spread across the new vinyl floor when she’d tripped over the paint pot lid. She’d even managed to forget that Alistair thought she was ‘brittle’ and Miles had said that she dressed like her mother.
She sipped the dark liquid and let the flavours travel over her tongue. Brittle? Did she really come across as brittle? She didn’t want to be seen as brittle. She hadn’t known Alistair thought that about her. Rachel had never said.
It was probably true, though. No one knew how painful a divorce was unless they’d firsthand experience of it. It felt as if…you were being physically ripped in half. There was no other way of describing it. Her whole life, everything she’d invested in and worked for, had been shredded as though none of it had mattered. Anyone would be a little ‘brittle’ after that. Wouldn’t they?
‘Mint?’
She looked up to find Miles was holding out a plate of gold-wrapped mints. Jemima took one.
‘Rachel? Do you want one?’
‘Thank you.’
Jemima slowly unwrapped the foil-covered mint and let the conversation swirl around her. Miles Kingsley had turned out to be good company. At work he seemed…well…a complete caricature of what she’d imagined a playboy would be like.
It offended her that he seemed to select his dates with no more care than you would make a decision between a chocolate with a cream-filled centre and one with a