Читать книгу Vengeful Bride - Rosalie Ash - Страница 8

EMMA sat in silence in the car on the way back to the manor. The powerful headlights swept past dark hedgerows and inky black woods. She stared at the arcs of light, and tried to make her mind go blank. Anything to avoid thinking about the evening she’d just spent at the country club. In fact, anything to avoid thinking at all…

The evening had not been a success. At least, not for Emma. She’d held her own reasonably well, she thought. Given a passably witty explanation of her job as an archivist, when graciously invited to explain her presence. But when she’d calmly stated that her father had been gamekeeper at Fleetwood Manor when she was a child, there’d been a wry exchange of glances between Dominick’s three friends. Vanessa, Hugo and Jan had exuded that exclusive, cliquey rapport that came with shared childhoods, shared schooling, shared backgrounds.

And her own confidence, shaky at best, had dissolved in the knowledge that Dominick had jumped at the chance to liven up his evening by inviting them to his table.

But Dominick had seemed preoccupied throughout the meal. The seafood with its delicate sauce had been superb. And the pheasant, rich and aromatic, served with fine-cut sautéd potatoes, and perfectly cooked broccoli, mange-tout and carrots, had been mouthwatering. But she’d felt rather too on edge to relax fully and enjoy the country club’s excellent cuisine. Infuriatingly, she’d found she was drawn, constantly, to look at Dominick as he leaned back in his chair, long brown fingers idly twisting the stem of his wine glass, shuttered gaze surveying the gathered company with cool disinterest. He’d kept his contributions to the conversation brief and sparingly to the point. His dark blue eyes, shadowed in the candlelight at their table, had been unreadable.