Page 19 of A Sky Painted Gold

“We weren’t hiding her from you, Bernie.” Robert begins to fix himself a drink. “Lou lives here in Cornwall. She doesn’t come up to London terribly often.”

Or ever, I mentally correct him.

“And who can blame you, darling, when London is such a dead bore.” Bernie is nodding at me sympathetically. “I mean it. When Robert and Caitlin suggested this jaunt to the countryside, I tell you I was positively delirious. What a joy to escape the city, particularly in this unspeakable heat.”

“I can’t imagine being bored in London,” I say wonderingly. I’ve dreamed of going to London for years. It looms large in my imagination, a city of soot and smoke and noise and possibility.

“Lou is of the opinion that only boring people get bored,” Robert puts in here, and I glare at him.

“Well, exactly,” Bernie drawls, blithely ignoring any insult to himself. “And the people in London are the most dreadful bores of all.” He nods at me approvingly as though I have made a very astute observation, and I sneak a glance of triumph at Robert.

Suddenly, the door to the sitting room is thrown open and every conversation comes to a screeching halt. All eyes swing in that direction.

I feel my mouth drop open. Standing in the doorway is the most spectacular-looking woman I have ever laid eyes on. She is tall and voluptuous, far from the ideal figure the magazines splash about, though one look at her is enough to tell you she couldn’t care less about that. Her white silk dress ignores the modern lines dictated by fashion and clings to her curves, emphasizing her hourglass figure. Her dark hair is shingled, cut daringly short at the back, and her eyes are enormous, pansy blue with almost comically long lashes. A collar of stunning diamonds glitters at her throat, and despite the warmth of the evening (and the fact that we are currently indoors) she has some sort of white fur stole slung casually around her shoulders. Making sure that all eyes are on her, she shrugs this off, catching it up in one hand and letting the end trail along the floor before turning and dropping it on to a nearby sofa. In doing so she reveals the back of her dress, which is cut into a daringly low V-shape, showing off a good deal of smooth skin. Everything about her and the way she moves is sensual, full of a promise I don’t quite understand.

“Well,” she says, running her eyes over the stunned crowd. “Don’t you all clean up nice.” Her voice is warm honey, her accent unmistakable. Here is Laurie Miller, southern heiress and Robert’s fiancée.

The thought startles me, and my eyes fly to his face. Of course I know that he is engaged. I know, even, that the party tonight is in his fiancée’s honour, but knowing it and seeing it are two different things somehow. It’s almost been possible to forget that the Robert in front of me is the same one I’ve been reading about for so long, but Laurie’s presence brings the fact back into sharp focus. There’s no way to ignore that a creature as dazzling as this belongs in the pages of a fashion magazine.

If I expect to find any sign of burning passion in Robert’s eyes (and naturally I do, when confronted by such a goddess) I am to be sorely disappointed. Robert’s face shows only the faintest trace of amusement, and he sips nonchalantly from his drink as the others in the room move forward to envelop Laurie in a cloud of noisy air kisses. Robert’s eyes slide away, to the clock on the mantelpiece, and – unbelievably – I am sure I see a tic in his jaw, as if he is stifling a yawn. It’s a million miles away from the way that Jack looks at Alice.

I am about to speak, to say something to Robert about how stunning Laurie is, when I am stopped in my tracks by the arrival of another person. Walking in behind Laurie is a boy of such golden beauty that I actually feel myself go weak at the knees, a phenomenon that I thought only happened in romance novels. He is, quite honestly, the most good-looking man I have ever seen, and I almost have to pick my jaw up off the floor as he begins shaking hands with people and patting them heartily on the back.

“Who – who is that?” I manage, trying not to sound overly interested.

“Ooh!” Bernie nudges me with his elbow. “Seen something you like?” He grins at me wolfishly.

“N-no,” I stammer. “I just wondered. It’s not important.”

“That is my future brother-in-law,” Robert says. “Would you like me to introduce you?”

“Oh, no,” I say, my eyes fixed on the floor now. “That’s not necessary. I like it over here.”

“You like it over here?” Robert repeats.

“Yes,” I say, more firmly. “I think that this is a particularly pleasant part of the room and the … view … of everything is so nice and I wouldn’t want to, um, leave off enjoying such a…”

“Oh, dear,” Bernie sighs, interrupting my rambling. “Another one lost at sea. Not that I can really blame you, of course. He is altogether too delicious.” He takes a silver case from his pocket and withdraws another cigarette. “Robert,” he says. “Put the dear girl out of her misery and call him over. I have a longing to play matchmaker. Two such fresh, young daisies would make a sweet pair.”

I stand struggling for words, making small squeaking noises as Robert strikes a match and lights Bernie’s cigarette for him.

“Of course,” Robert says, and his voice is disinterested. “Charlie!” he calls across the room, and the boy looks up, a grin lighting his face. Instinctively I clutch at Robert’s sleeve.

“Robert!” he exclaims, shaking Robert’s hand enthusiastically. “What a shindig! Especially welcome after that godawful journey.”

“Glad you approve,” Robert responds, extracting my hand, which is apparently still clamped to his jacket, and pushing me forward a little. “I know you’ve met Bernie, but allow me to introduce Louise Trevelyan. Lou –” he turns to me “– this is Charles Miller.”

“Nice to meet you, Louise.” He holds out his hand and grasps my own. “But, please, call me Charlie.” His accent is glorious. I stare up into the velvety blue eyes, fringed with the kind of long eyelashes that are completely wasted on a man.

“It’s nice to meet you too,” I say, feeling my temperature rise as his fingers wrap fleetingly around my own. “But, please, call me Lou.”

“Lou it is.”

Charlie Miller is film-star handsome. His sandy blond hair is cut short and swept back, though an unruly lock falls over his forehead and my fingers itch to push it gently away. He has a strong, square jaw and when he smiles – as it seems he often does – his eyes light up and his white teeth flash. It is all I can do not to ask for his autograph.

“Come on, Robert, leave the children alone to play,” Bernie purrs, giving me a very unsubtle wink. “I’m longing to catch up with your fiancée. I must know who dresses her.”

“I believe she dresses herself,” Robert says, allowing Bernie to lead him away.