Highland Fling (31 page)

At least now the smoked salmon was being served with pre-dinner drinks, and was unlikely to spoil.

‘And now you have to get dressed and go downstairs, Jenny,’ she told herself firmly.

Henry, knocking at her door, reaffirmed this. ‘Come on, Jenny! People are here already! You can’t spend all night dolling yourself up.’

‘Why not? You’ve had a good half hour.’

‘Don’t be childish. Lady Dalmain needs you.’

‘You go down. I’ll be as quick as I can.’

She growled loudly in frustration and deliberately stood in the middle of the room, doing nothing. Henry had been out today, and had made no contribution to the dinner-party arrangements apart from impractical suggestions and tweaking the flowers. Felicity, although supportive, hadn’t done a lot either, wandering round the house all day with mud on her face and her hair in curlers, painting and repainting her nails. It was an important occasion for her, Jenny realised, but she couldn’t help wishing that Felicity didn’t need quite so long to make herself presentable.

Lady Dalmain had changed her mind so often about which guest should have which plate or glass or knife and fork, Jenny found herself saying, ‘It kind of makes you wish that instead of all these beautiful antiques you just had a bog-standard set of china, Paris goblets and stainless-steel cutlery, doesn’t it? Shall I ring the hotel and see what they can lend us?’

Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind, she thought, as Lady Dalmain, nearly fainting from the horror of this suggestion, took herself off to her bathroom.

Now, Jenny forced herself to confront the eternal question: should she wash her hair or not? It certainly needed washing; there was no doubt about that. Sweat, steam, anxiety and capillary contrariness ensured that, but could she get it dry and into some sort of style in less than an hour?

She brushed it. It had got long since she’d been away from home and she gathered it from the back of her neck. If I put it up, she thought, it won’t show so much that it’s dirty. I can raid Felicity’s room for hairpins and clips and be ready in fifteen minutes, max. After all, she went on, convincing herself this was the best course, who have I got to impress? I’ve done the bloody cooking, what more does anybody want?

Before she’d even become aware of what she was doing, Jenny had filled her electric kettle and switched it on. She may yet be proved to be an abject failure with the mill, Ross Grant-Dempsey no longer trusted her, and she’d been a drudge all day. But she was not going to face the most attractive man on the planet with dirty hair, not for Henry, or for Lady Dalmain, or anyone else, even if she did hate him. They could just wait dinner for her. In fact, they’d have to, because unless Felicity did them, the vegetables still needed cooking. Mrs Sandison, Lady Dalmain’s ‘treasure’, was only hired to wait at table, not to cook.

Jenny hovered at the top of the stairs thirty-five minutes later. Her hair, still wet, was pinned up, her
make up was on, and so was Meggie’s equivalent of a little black dress. It was little, but it wasn’t black.

Putting it on now, Jenny wondered if this had been the dress Meggie had been wearing when she had seduced Alan Frazier behind the sofa at Heggie Someone’s twenty-first. It was not a dress you wore to a polite Scottish dinner party. It was a sexy dress and being on the small side for Jenny did not make it less sexy. In fact, Henry would say it made it indecent and Jenny wasn’t at all sure he wouldn’t be right. Very low cut, front and back, it was nominally long, as requested. But the slit up the front made the skirt an irrelevance; the moment she took a step, the sides fell back, revealing a lot of leg. Her one sensible decision, Jenny decided, had been to provide herself with some good tights. She put on two pairs, but she still felt like a showgirl. She wondered if Felicity had some feathers she could put in her hair, to complete the effect.

Still pursuing warmth and decency, Jenny had put a black cardigan on over the top of her dress. This at least covered her back and meant she could wear a bra, but there was still a lot of her on display at the front. She tried doing the cardigan up, to hide a bit of bosom, but it didn’t do up high enough to cover much, and the corset effect it created drew more attention to her cleavage than ever. Besides, why should she hide all her charms?

She had some long, jet earrings, but round her neck, not wanting, besides being unable, to compete with Lady Dalmain’s stunning jewellery, Jenny put a length of black ribbon. She definitely looked like something out of the Moulin Rouge now, but who cared? No one
was going to notice her with the beautiful Malcolm sisters and Gloria to distract male attention.

Somehow she got down the stairs on Meggie’s high heels without twisting her ankle.

Chapter Nineteen

Her plans to slip into the drawing room unnoticed were thwarted by a lull in the conversation. She found herself in the doorway, with everyone’s eyes upon her.

‘Good Lord,’ she heard an upright, but elderly man mutter.

Lady Dalmain audibly hissed, and Henry moved forward quickly. ‘Let me get you a drink, darling,’ he said loudly, then whispered, ‘For God’s sake! What do you look like? This is a dinner party, not a tarts and vicars! Where did you get that dress from?’

‘It’s a very good label…’

‘And you didn’t need to wear your Wonderbra! Can’t you do up the cardigan?’

‘It looks worse, and I’m not wearing a Wonderbra. This is all me and Meggie’s dress.’

‘You look – completely inappropriate.’

‘Don’t I look sexy, Henry?’

He shook his head. ‘I can’t possibly say; you look so out of place.’

‘Thank you for that little boost to my confidence,’ she murmured, and looked around the room, hoping to see someone more outrageously attired.

Meggie, she noticed, was wearing a long, floating number in emerald green. She had a multicoloured shawl and Anna, both lovely accessories. Now, she
looked across at Jenny with an approving smile, and Jenny had the uncomfortable feeling she’d been set up for something, but didn’t know what. She took a piece of smoked salmon on brown bread which Mrs Sandison was offering to her. At least Mrs Sandison, who had seen Jenny hard at work all day, smiled kindly.

There was a woman in a high-necked jersey dress in royal blue, talking anxiously to Philip. She had blonde hair in a very tight French pleat, and was slightly red in the face. That must be Gloria. Jenny noticed that the room was, for once, very warm, and hoped she wasn’t tempted to remove her cardigan.

Philip, who she hadn’t seen since she’d discovered him in his flat, caught her eye and smiled. Jenny smiled back, but as everything was still so uncertain, it was rather strained.

Behind Gloria and Philip, definitely trying to hide, were two youths in black jeans and dark shirts, their hair gelled, their spots scrubbed and glowing, their eyes wild. Gloria had done well to get them to come, thought Jenny; it would be the most dreadful ordeal for them.

Felicity and Lachlan stood by Philip and Gloria. Felicity was talking to them both, her expression tense. While Jenny was watching, she saw Lachlan put his arm round Felicity and give her a little squeeze. Felicity looked up at him and smiled. What a nice man, thought Jenny. Felicity is so lucky – but at least she knows it.

Over by the fireplace were the Malcolm girls, with their parents, as beautiful as described. She would have identified them by their porcelain skins and
disdainful expressions, even if she hadn’t seen them at the Highland games. Even from that distance Jenny could tell that it was shyness and self-consciousness that made the younger two look so haughty. She caught one of them sliding a glance across at Gloria’s sons but couldn’t see her reaction. It could have been horror, or longing.

Under a gale of laughter caused by Iain and Philip, who had gravitated together, Henry said, ‘Are you sure you can’t do anything about your bosom?’ He pushed a glass of sherry into her hand and looked down at the offending object.

Jenny ignored the look and glanced at the glass. ‘Is this dry?’

Henry was still furious. ‘I don’t know. I do wish you hadn’t chosen to draw attention to yourself like that. Hadn’t you got anything else to put on?’

‘No. I didn’t pack dinner party clothes so I had to borrow this from Meggie. But it’s perfectly all right. If you don’t draw attention to me, no one will think I’m wearing anything out of the ordinary.’

Henry pursed his lips and looked across at Meggie, ready to disapprove of her, but not only was she looking the picture of pure young motherhood, she was talking to the older man Jenny assumed was Duncan Ritchie, Lady Dalmain’s beau. Lady Dalmain was at his side, and, judging from her expression, Meggie was being far too entertaining.

Jenny scanned the room on her own behalf. It was both full of people and strangely empty; Ross Grant-Dempsey wasn’t there.

The evening would be far simpler for her if he didn’t come. Perhaps he had had some pang of conscience
that meant he had decided to stay way. But on the other hand, the thought of him not being there was worse. She had mentally prepared herself for his presence and, however illogical, she knew she would be bitterly disappointed if he didn’t appear.

She glanced at her watch and found it missing. She must have left it on the washbasin. ‘I’ve left my watch upstairs; I’d better get it.’

‘No!’ snapped Henry. ‘You’re late enough already!’

‘But I won’t be able to cook without knowing the time,’ she snapped back. She took a sip of sherry. It was very sweet. She handed the glass to Henry. ‘I’ll just pop up and fetch it. You don’t know if anyone’s phoned to say they can’t come, do you?’

‘Ask Fliss,’ he suggested, taking the glass with bad grace. ‘I thought everyone was here.’

Jenny pretended to count. ‘No, one missing. When I come back, I’ll ask Lady Dalmain if I should rearrange the table.’

Inside her heart was breaking. All day, while peeling and washing, and digging antique platters out of the backs of cupboards, she had thought of him. Of his eyes, which could snap with irritation or be so kind and sexy they made her insides melt. She thought of the feel of his strong hands on her as he helped her into his Land Rover; she thought of his mouth on hers. She remembered the comforting safeness of being with him that night in the pub, beside the fire. It was completely insane, when he held the wealth and happiness of so many people in the palm of his hand, but she felt there was nothing she wouldn’t do to be with him.

Having negotiated the stairs both ways successfully
for the second time, she was alone in the hall, doing up her watch, when she heard his knock. She knew it was him, and she knew that she had to open the door. The dogs had been shut away and no one else would have heard such a subdued sound; the volume of a roomful of people who’d been drinking for over an hour was rapidly rising.

He stood there in the dark and hesitated a moment before coming in. She moved out of the way and he entered.

She heard his quick intake of breath, saw his hand reach out for her, and took a step back. Her body wanted to throw itself into his arms and be held by him until it couldn’t breathe. Her brain feared his power. Both parts of her knew it would be fatal to allow physical contact between them.

‘Hello,’ she said, hearing the tremble in her voice and praying he didn’t. ‘Come in.’

‘I’m sorry I’m late.’ He shrugged off his overcoat. Unlike the other men, except Henry, he wasn’t wearing a kilt, but a dark suit. As he handed Jenny his coat her hand brushed against his arm and she shivered.

‘It’s all right. You’re not really late. I’ve only just come downstairs myself. I’ll get rid of this for you. Why don’t you go on through and have a drink? But don’t touch the sherry; it’s disgustingly sweet. Mind you, they’ll probably offer you whisky, as you’re a man.’

He didn’t move while she hung his coat on a hanger. It seemed unbearably heavy, her arms didn’t seem to work properly. Why didn’t he go away and give her a chance to pull herself together? Or if he must hover, why didn’t he say something?

Free of the coat at last, she felt that she should make some bright remark, something that would break the tension and prove to him that everything was fine, she wasn’t terrified of what he was about to do to the mill, or that if he touched her, even accidentally, the place wouldn’t burst into flames. No bright remarks came to her. In fact, not even the most unbright, mundane pleasantry about the rain came to her.

‘Shall we go through?’ he said.

Jenny wobbled on her heels. He put his hand on her waist to steady her and she nearly twisted her ankle. She made a decision. ‘I think I’ve got to change my shoes,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll break something if I stay in these.’

She hadn’t meant to whisper, she realised, running upstairs, her shoes in her hand – it was that only a whisper had come out. In her room, pushing her feet into her loafers, she cleared her throat a few times. ‘You’ve got to be able to talk to him normally,’ she said out loud, practising speaking properly, ‘or he’ll think you’re stupid, and then he’ll reject all your plans and ideas out of hand.’ Then, silently, so she could pretend she hadn’t admitted it, she added: And he won’t want anything to do with you, even if you are wrapped up for him like an early Christmas present.