Читать книгу Mansfield Lark - Katie Oliver - Страница 12

Chapter 3

Twenty minutes later, his mother appeared, her arrival heralded by a trio of boisterous, yapping terriers. She wore a T-shirt and jeans tucked into a pair of muddy riding boots.

‘Rupert? You came home!’ she exclaimed as she embraced him. ‘I knew you would.’

‘Why not? I needed a break from London, anyway. Where’s my father?’ he asked warily as he drew back.

She tucked a strand of glossy dark hair behind one ear and indicated a wrought-iron table and chairs. ‘He’s gone to London with Liam to meet with his solicitor.’ She hesitated. ‘He wants to disinherit you.’

‘I’m surprised he hasn’t done already.’

‘What a nasty business…I’ve missed you, Rupert. Why has it been so long since you came home?’

‘You know why.’

‘Yes, of course…your father.’ She sat down with a sigh in the chair he held out for her. ‘I wish I could say he’s changed, but he hasn’t. The responsibility of running Mansfield Hall weighs heavily on Charles. It makes him… difficult, at times. And, of course, there’s the money situation…’ She fixed Dominic with a hopeful gaze. ‘Please tell me you’re here to patch things up with him.’

‘I mean to try…and to offer my financial help, if he’ll have it. But I doubt I’ll have much luck in either case.’

‘He wants Liam to marry Bibi Matchington-Alcester, you know. She’s a very eligible, very rich, ball-bearings heiress.’

‘And what does my brother say to that?’

‘He refuses, of course. Says he doesn’t love her and won’t “whore himself out” for her money, as he so indelicately puts it, even if it means saving Mansfield.’

Dominic reached in his pocket for his cigarettes. ‘Can’t say I blame him; she probably looks like the back end of a horse. Heiresses usually do.’

‘She’s actually quite lovely. When did you take up smoking? Never mind, I’ll blame your bad habits on all those musicians and models you keep company with.’

Dominic snorted. ‘Oh, please. Nobody eats or drinks or does drugs like they used to. They’re all disgustingly healthy.’ He thought of Gemma and her endless succession of diets. ‘Mum,’ he added, choosing his words carefully, ‘I’ve brought someone with me. Her name’s Gemma. I left her behind at the hotel in the village.’

‘Well, why on earth didn’t you bring her here?’ his mother demanded. ‘Is she someone special, or just another of your flings? I know all about them,’ she added, ‘because I follow your exploits in the tabloids.’

‘That stuff’s all crap, Mum.’ He leaned forward. ‘Gemma is…she’s someone I—’ he stopped. ‘The truth is, I love her,’ he said in a rush. ‘And I want you to meet her. But I have to deal with my father first. I don’t want Gemma dragged into the middle of all the family drama.’

‘Where is she from?’ Lady Mary enquired.

‘London,’ he hedged. Gemma Astley had grown up over a kebab shop in Essex, to be exact, and her father had done a runner when she was ten. But there was no need to tell Mum all that.

‘London? Whereabouts, exactly? Who are her people?’

‘Lady Mary? Excuse us. I do hope we’re not intruding.’

Dominic turned to see a woman of middle age and dumpy figure standing at the entrance to the garden. She clutched a handbag against the wide expanse of her floral skirts in the manner of the Queen and beamed at them.

Behind her stood a young woman – the same tall, slim young woman who’d so recently caught him watering the rose bushes.

‘Mrs Norris! Of course you’re not intruding. Hello, Bibi.’ Lady Mary stood. ‘Come, both of you, and meet my eldest son.’

She turned to him. ‘Rupert, this is Bibi Matchington-Alcester and her mother, Mrs Norris. Bibi, this is Rupert, Liam’s older brother.’ She smiled at him indulgently. ‘I’m rather proud of him. He’s the black sheep of the family.’

‘Lovely to meet you,’ Mrs Norris simpered as Dominic took her hand. ‘I’ve always favoured the black sheep, myself.’

‘We’re much more fun,’ he agreed with an insouciant smile.

Recognition, followed by shock, registered on Bibi’s face as Dominic turned to her. ‘You’ll forgive me,’ she told him icily, ‘if I don’t take your hand.’

He choked back a laugh. ‘I completely understand.’ He drew her aside. ‘Listen, I don’t mean to pry, Bibi – but why’s your last name different from your mum’s?’

‘She recently remarried and took my stepfather’s name. I,’ she added pointedly, ‘did not.’

Lady Mary invited them to sit down.

‘I’ll just go and fetch us some wine,’ she announced. ‘It’s a perfect afternoon for an impromptu garden party.’

‘I’ll go,’ Dominic offered. He had no desire to stay and make conversation with Liam’s girlfriend or her battleaxe of a mother. He could all but see their collective disapproval of him.

‘Nonsense. Stay and chat with our guests, darling. I won’t be a moment.’

Before he could protest, his mother departed. Dominic waited until the women were seated before he sat down himself. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit, ladies?’

‘I wondered if Lady Mary would oversee the kissing booth at the village fête next month,’ Mrs Norris replied.

‘A kissing booth? Sounds like fun.’ His glance flickered deliberately to Bibi. He was pleased to see her blush.

‘Oh, it will be. And all for a good cause, of course.’ Mrs Norris leaned forward, her amble bosom preceding her. ‘May I ask what brings you back home after all these years, Rupert?’

He gave her a bland smile. Nosy old cow. ‘Well, I’ve been a bit busy in the interim. Touring makes it hard to get away.’

‘Touring?’

‘Yes. Dominic and the Destroyers world tour, to be exact.’ He raised a brow. ‘You’ve heard of Dominic Heath, I presume? Rock star, guitar-smasher, and defiler of young women?’ He smirked. ‘That’s me.’

Mrs Norris drew back. ‘You…you’re Dominic Heath? You’re that dreadful rock musician? Oh my word.’

Bibi frowned in confusion. ‘I don’t understand. Lady Mary introduced you as her son, Rupert Locksley.’

‘So I am. But I’m also Dominic. In fact,’ he confided, filled with a wicked desire to tease her, ‘you’ll soon see that I’m much more Dominic than I am Rupert.’

She glared at him. ‘I already have.’

Lady Mary and Mrs Sutton returned, bringing wine, glasses, and to Dominic’s relief, assistance on the conversation front.

‘I was just telling your son,’ Mrs Norris said as she accepted a glass of wine from Mrs Sutton, ‘that there’s to be a kissing booth at the fête this year. Might you run it for us?’

‘Of course,’ Lady Mary agreed. ‘Have you any candidates to sit in the booth?’

‘Well, Bibi’s put herself forward; but I hardly think it appropriate,’ Mrs Norris sniffed.

‘On the contrary, that’s a marvellous idea!’ Lady Mary beamed. ‘Bibi’s a lovely girl, she’ll be very popular. And raising money for the local children’s ward is our goal, after all.’

‘True,’ Mrs Norris said, doubt plain on her face.

‘What about you?’ Bibi said suddenly, and turned to Dominic.

He nearly choked on his Pouilly-Fuissé. ‘Me?’

‘You’re a rock star, after all. You’d make a fortune for us. All the girls will line up to kiss Dominic Heath.’

‘That’s brilliant!’ Lady Mary exclaimed. ‘You must do it, darling.’

‘No,’ he said mulishly. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘But you’d be helping the village,’ his mother coaxed, ‘and you’d be helping the children’s ward of the local hospital.’

‘Think of the publicity,’ Bibi pointed out. ‘“Rock Star Aids Local Children’s Ward”.’

Dominic hesitated. He could certainly do with a bit of good publicity. Besides, how hard could it be, getting paid to kiss a bunch of local teenage girls?

‘All right, I’ll do it. But only for a couple of hours.’

Although it clearly pained her to do so, Mrs Norris thanked him for his generosity. ‘I’ll let you know the details later, Rupert…I mean, Mr Heath.’

She did not allude again to his regrettable musical career, nor did she address him further. Loathing emanated from her like heat shimmering above a barbeque grill.

And Dominic was glad. It meant he could sit back, get pleasantly fuzzed, and let the conversation eddy and swirl around him without the bother of joining in.

Shadows grew long on the east lawn as he and his mother finished off the bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé. Bibi and Mrs Norris, after a few more minutes of polite conversation, murmured their apologies and left. Neither Liam nor his father had returned from London.

‘Well, Mum, it’s time I left as well.’ Dominic stood and bent forward to kiss his mother‘s cheek. ‘I’ll come back tomorrow, and I’ll bring Gemma.’

‘I’m not so sure that’s a good idea, darling. It might be best if we all meet for tea at the hotel instead.’

His expression darkened. ‘Why can’t I bring her here?’

‘Now, Rupert, don’t spoil things by scowling at me like that! Of course you must bring Gemma here. Just…not yet. Your father will be in too much of a strop over your return to deal with any more drama.’

He scowled, fully prepared to be mulish, but thought the better of it. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ he agreed grudgingly.

‘Of course I am. Let’s plan for lunch at the tearoom tomorrow at noon, shall we?’ Her words were brisk. ‘I’ll get to meet Gemma, and she can meet me.’ Lady Mary eyed him shrewdly. ‘And we can take one another’s measure.’

Dominic said his goodbyes and made his way through the rose garden and around the side of the manor house, back to his Maserati. Shadows stretched across the drive as he thrust on his sunglasses and climbed in and started the engine. Although he’d wanted to get the meeting with his father over with, he was relieved it hadn’t happened.

It was sure to be unpleasant. Anything to do with Lord Locksley invariably was.

Dominic manoeuvred the car around the front sweep of the drive and headed back to the hotel. His old man could trace his lineage to the Elizabethans, and he had Mansfield Hall, his title, and the family herald to prove it. He was aristocratic to the bone.

He was also intolerant, close-minded, prejudiced, and elitist. And those were his good qualities.

Moodily, Dominic changed gear as he rounded a bend in the drive. He decided to open the Maserati up. Driving in London, the car seldom moved above a crawl; it needed a good, hard run. He floored the gas pedal and the sleek red car leaped forward.

Dominic imagined himself racing across the finish line at Le Mans to waving flags and cheering crowds. He saw the adulation on the faces of the onlookers. He saw a couple of gorgeous, busty models waiting to drape the winner’s ribbon around him. He saw…

… an ancient estate wagon coming straight at him from the opposite direction. He cursed and wrenched the steering wheel sideways to avoid a collision; as he slammed on the brakes and screeched to a halt, the estate wagon skidded and veered off into the ditch in a cloud of dust.

Furious, the driver flung open his door. ‘You young idiot!’ he raged. ‘You nearly killed us. What the devil do you mean, flying through here at such a high rate of speed? This is a private drive! Are you quite mad?’

Dominic emerged from his car and met the man’s irate glare. He was glad for the half bottle of Pouilly he’d just consumed. ‘No harm done, there’s not even a scratch on your fender.’

‘That’s scarcely the point, is it? You might have killed us!’

‘But I didn’t.’

‘You…what do you mean by this?’ the man sputtered. ‘Who the devil are you?’

‘You don’t know who I am? Really? I know it’s been a few years, but still.’ Dominic removed his sunglasses and said evenly, ‘Not much of a welcome home, is it, Dad?’