Promised
Page 40
‘It’s my pleasure,’ Miller replies.
‘Livy.’ Nan pulls my attention back to the table. ‘Have you offered to take Miller’s jacket?’
Turning tired eyes onto him, I smile, sickeningly sweetly. ‘Can I take your jacket, sir?’ I resist curtsying, and detect an amused glint in his eyes.
‘You may.’ He shrugs out of his jacket and hands it to me, while I marvel at his shirt and waistcoat-covered chest. He knows that I’m staring at him, picturing his na**d chest. He leans in, dropping his mouth to my ear. ‘Don’t look at me like that, Livy,’ he warns. ‘I can barely contain myself as it is.’
‘I can’t help it.’ I’m honest in my quiet reply as I leave the kitchen, fanning my face before neatly draping his jacket over mine on the coat stand. I smooth it down and take the stairs, falling into my bedroom and darting around like a woman possessed, stripping, spraying, re-dressing and freshening my make-up. Glancing in the mirror, I think about how far removed I am from Miller’s business associate. But this is me. If it goes with my Converse, then it’s a contender, and my white shirt dress, scattered with red rosebuds, matches my cherry-red Converse perfectly. There’s another woman and what’s worrying is my ability to ignore the obviousness of the situation. I want him. Not only has he fractured my sensibility, he’s also chased away my conscience.
Giving myself a mental stinger of a slap, I ruffle my mass of blond and hurry downstairs, suddenly worried by what Nan and George might be saying to Miller.
They’re not in the kitchen. I backtrack, heading for the lounge, but that’s empty too. I hear chatter coming from the dining room – the dining room that’s only used on very special occasions. The last time we ate in the dining room was on my twenty-first birthday, over three years ago. That’s how special we’re talking. I make my way to the oak-stained door and peer in, seeing the huge mahogany table that dominates the room is beautifully laid, using all of Nan’s Royal Doulton crockery, cut crystal wine glasses and silver cutlery.
And she’s put my heart’s nemesis at the head of the table, where nobody has had the pleasure ever before. That was my granddad’s place at the table, and not even George has been allowed the honour.
‘Here she is.’ Miller stands and pulls out the empty chair to his left. ‘Come, sit.’
I walk slowly and thoughtfully over, ignoring Nan’s beaming face, and take my seat. ‘Thank you,’ I say as he tucks me under the table before resuming position next to me.
‘You’ve changed,’ he observes, turning the plate at his setting a few millimetres clockwise.
‘I was a little creased.’
‘You look beautiful.’ He smiles, nearly making me pass out at the sight of it, that lovely dimple making a rare appearance.
‘Thank you,’ I breathe.
‘My pleasure.’ He doesn’t take his eyes off me, and even though mine are firmly set on his, I know Nan and George are watching us.
‘Wine?’ Nan asks, interrupting our moment and distracting Miller’s eyes from mine. I’m instantly resentful.
‘Please, allow me.’ Miller rises and my gaze rises with him, my eyes seeming to lift for ever until his body has straightened. He doesn’t lean across the table to reach for the wine. No, he steps out and circles, collecting the wine from the ice bucket and standing on my grandmother’s right side to pour.
‘Thank you very much.’ Nan flashes George a wide-eyed, excited stare, and then turns her navy blues onto me. She’s getting way too excited, just like I knew she would, and it’s playing heavily on my mind for the brief moments that I’m distracted from Miller. Like right now when Nan is beaming at me, so elated by our guest’s presence and impeccable manners.
Miller makes his way around the table, filling George’s glass too, before he reaches me. He doesn’t ask me if I’d like some, he just goes right ahead and pours, despite knowing damn well that I’ve politely declined all alcohol when it’s been offered to me previously. I’m not going to pretend that he’s ignorant to it. He’s too smart – way, way too smart.
‘Right.’ George stands as Miller takes his seat. ‘I’ll do the honours.’ He takes the carving knife and starts to neatly slice through Nan’s masterpiece. ‘Josephine, this looks spectacular.’
‘It really does,’ Miller agrees, taking a sip of his wine and replacing it, his fingers scissoring and resting on the base of the glass, the crystal stem towering from between his middle and index finger. I study his resting hand closely, concentrating hard, waiting for it.
And there it is. It’s minuscule, but he shifts the glass a very tiny bit to the right. It’s probably barely noticeable to anyone except my scrutinising stare, and I smile as I raise my eyes, finding him watching me studying him.
He cocks his head, his eyes narrowing but twinkling wildly. ‘What?’ he mouths, drawing my attention to his lips. The bastard licks them, prompting me to make a grab for my glass and take a sip – anything to distract me. It’s not until I swallow that I realise what I’ve done, the unaccustomed taste making me shudder as it slides down my throat. My glass hits the table a bit too harshly, and I know Miller has just glanced at me curiously.
A piece of beef Wellington lands on my plate. ‘Help yourself to potatoes and carrots, Livy,’ Nan says, holding her plate up for George to transfer some crumbly pastry to. ‘Let’s fatten you up.’
I spoon some carrots and potatoes onto my plate before putting some on Miller’s. ‘I don’t need fattening up.’
‘You could gain a few pounds,’ Miller declares, pulling my incredulous face back to him as George finishes his plate off with the Wellington. ‘Just an observation.’
‘Thank you, Miller,’ Nan huffs smugly, raising a glass to toast their agreement. ‘She’s always been skinny.’
‘I’m slender, not skinny,’ I argue, lobbing Miller a warning look and getting a hint of a smile. In a very juvenile fit of revenge, I discreetly reach over and casually start twisting his wine glass by the stem, pulling it a fraction towards me. ‘Is that nice?’ I ask, nodding at his forkful of beef.
‘It’s delicious,’ he confirms, placing his knife perfectly perpendicular with the edge of the table, and then resting his hand over mine, slowly removing it and repositioning his glass. He picks his knife back up and resumes with his dinner. ‘The best Wellington I’ve tasted, Mrs Taylor.’
‘Nonsense!’ Nan blushes, a rarity, but my heart’s nemesis is making my nan’s heart flutter, too. ‘It was very easy.’
‘It didn’t look it,’ George grumbles. ‘You were flapping all afternoon, Josephine.’
‘I was not flapping!’
I start picking at my carrots, chewing slowly as I listen to Nan and George quarrel, leaving one hand free to move Miller’s wine glass again. He looks at me out of the corner of his eye, and then places his knife down again before reclaiming his glass and putting it where it needs to be. I’m restraining my grin. He even eats precisely, cutting his food into perfectly sized pieces and ensuring all of the prongs of the fork are pushed into each piece at a right angle before taking the fork to his mouth. He chews slowly, too. Everything he does is with such thought, and it’s spellbinding. My hand creeps across the table again. I’m intrigued by this anal need to have things just so, but this time I don’t make it to the glass. My hand is seized midway across the table and held between us, looking nothing more than a loving hold of my hand. His grasp is firm, though, not that anyone would notice unless they were on the receiving end of the grip. And I am. And it’s a very harsh grip – a warning grip. I’m being told off.
‘Livy.’ Nan pulls my attention back to the table. ‘Have you offered to take Miller’s jacket?’
Turning tired eyes onto him, I smile, sickeningly sweetly. ‘Can I take your jacket, sir?’ I resist curtsying, and detect an amused glint in his eyes.
‘You may.’ He shrugs out of his jacket and hands it to me, while I marvel at his shirt and waistcoat-covered chest. He knows that I’m staring at him, picturing his na**d chest. He leans in, dropping his mouth to my ear. ‘Don’t look at me like that, Livy,’ he warns. ‘I can barely contain myself as it is.’
‘I can’t help it.’ I’m honest in my quiet reply as I leave the kitchen, fanning my face before neatly draping his jacket over mine on the coat stand. I smooth it down and take the stairs, falling into my bedroom and darting around like a woman possessed, stripping, spraying, re-dressing and freshening my make-up. Glancing in the mirror, I think about how far removed I am from Miller’s business associate. But this is me. If it goes with my Converse, then it’s a contender, and my white shirt dress, scattered with red rosebuds, matches my cherry-red Converse perfectly. There’s another woman and what’s worrying is my ability to ignore the obviousness of the situation. I want him. Not only has he fractured my sensibility, he’s also chased away my conscience.
Giving myself a mental stinger of a slap, I ruffle my mass of blond and hurry downstairs, suddenly worried by what Nan and George might be saying to Miller.
They’re not in the kitchen. I backtrack, heading for the lounge, but that’s empty too. I hear chatter coming from the dining room – the dining room that’s only used on very special occasions. The last time we ate in the dining room was on my twenty-first birthday, over three years ago. That’s how special we’re talking. I make my way to the oak-stained door and peer in, seeing the huge mahogany table that dominates the room is beautifully laid, using all of Nan’s Royal Doulton crockery, cut crystal wine glasses and silver cutlery.
And she’s put my heart’s nemesis at the head of the table, where nobody has had the pleasure ever before. That was my granddad’s place at the table, and not even George has been allowed the honour.
‘Here she is.’ Miller stands and pulls out the empty chair to his left. ‘Come, sit.’
I walk slowly and thoughtfully over, ignoring Nan’s beaming face, and take my seat. ‘Thank you,’ I say as he tucks me under the table before resuming position next to me.
‘You’ve changed,’ he observes, turning the plate at his setting a few millimetres clockwise.
‘I was a little creased.’
‘You look beautiful.’ He smiles, nearly making me pass out at the sight of it, that lovely dimple making a rare appearance.
‘Thank you,’ I breathe.
‘My pleasure.’ He doesn’t take his eyes off me, and even though mine are firmly set on his, I know Nan and George are watching us.
‘Wine?’ Nan asks, interrupting our moment and distracting Miller’s eyes from mine. I’m instantly resentful.
‘Please, allow me.’ Miller rises and my gaze rises with him, my eyes seeming to lift for ever until his body has straightened. He doesn’t lean across the table to reach for the wine. No, he steps out and circles, collecting the wine from the ice bucket and standing on my grandmother’s right side to pour.
‘Thank you very much.’ Nan flashes George a wide-eyed, excited stare, and then turns her navy blues onto me. She’s getting way too excited, just like I knew she would, and it’s playing heavily on my mind for the brief moments that I’m distracted from Miller. Like right now when Nan is beaming at me, so elated by our guest’s presence and impeccable manners.
Miller makes his way around the table, filling George’s glass too, before he reaches me. He doesn’t ask me if I’d like some, he just goes right ahead and pours, despite knowing damn well that I’ve politely declined all alcohol when it’s been offered to me previously. I’m not going to pretend that he’s ignorant to it. He’s too smart – way, way too smart.
‘Right.’ George stands as Miller takes his seat. ‘I’ll do the honours.’ He takes the carving knife and starts to neatly slice through Nan’s masterpiece. ‘Josephine, this looks spectacular.’
‘It really does,’ Miller agrees, taking a sip of his wine and replacing it, his fingers scissoring and resting on the base of the glass, the crystal stem towering from between his middle and index finger. I study his resting hand closely, concentrating hard, waiting for it.
And there it is. It’s minuscule, but he shifts the glass a very tiny bit to the right. It’s probably barely noticeable to anyone except my scrutinising stare, and I smile as I raise my eyes, finding him watching me studying him.
He cocks his head, his eyes narrowing but twinkling wildly. ‘What?’ he mouths, drawing my attention to his lips. The bastard licks them, prompting me to make a grab for my glass and take a sip – anything to distract me. It’s not until I swallow that I realise what I’ve done, the unaccustomed taste making me shudder as it slides down my throat. My glass hits the table a bit too harshly, and I know Miller has just glanced at me curiously.
A piece of beef Wellington lands on my plate. ‘Help yourself to potatoes and carrots, Livy,’ Nan says, holding her plate up for George to transfer some crumbly pastry to. ‘Let’s fatten you up.’
I spoon some carrots and potatoes onto my plate before putting some on Miller’s. ‘I don’t need fattening up.’
‘You could gain a few pounds,’ Miller declares, pulling my incredulous face back to him as George finishes his plate off with the Wellington. ‘Just an observation.’
‘Thank you, Miller,’ Nan huffs smugly, raising a glass to toast their agreement. ‘She’s always been skinny.’
‘I’m slender, not skinny,’ I argue, lobbing Miller a warning look and getting a hint of a smile. In a very juvenile fit of revenge, I discreetly reach over and casually start twisting his wine glass by the stem, pulling it a fraction towards me. ‘Is that nice?’ I ask, nodding at his forkful of beef.
‘It’s delicious,’ he confirms, placing his knife perfectly perpendicular with the edge of the table, and then resting his hand over mine, slowly removing it and repositioning his glass. He picks his knife back up and resumes with his dinner. ‘The best Wellington I’ve tasted, Mrs Taylor.’
‘Nonsense!’ Nan blushes, a rarity, but my heart’s nemesis is making my nan’s heart flutter, too. ‘It was very easy.’
‘It didn’t look it,’ George grumbles. ‘You were flapping all afternoon, Josephine.’
‘I was not flapping!’
I start picking at my carrots, chewing slowly as I listen to Nan and George quarrel, leaving one hand free to move Miller’s wine glass again. He looks at me out of the corner of his eye, and then places his knife down again before reclaiming his glass and putting it where it needs to be. I’m restraining my grin. He even eats precisely, cutting his food into perfectly sized pieces and ensuring all of the prongs of the fork are pushed into each piece at a right angle before taking the fork to his mouth. He chews slowly, too. Everything he does is with such thought, and it’s spellbinding. My hand creeps across the table again. I’m intrigued by this anal need to have things just so, but this time I don’t make it to the glass. My hand is seized midway across the table and held between us, looking nothing more than a loving hold of my hand. His grasp is firm, though, not that anyone would notice unless they were on the receiving end of the grip. And I am. And it’s a very harsh grip – a warning grip. I’m being told off.
