Love to Hate You (15 page)

And I'd carry on moaning if my phone didn't beep.

I read the message aloud. “'I'm outside. Come downstairs'. He could have said 'please', don't you think?” Even his supposedly aseptic messages make me angry.

“Never mind,” warns Vera, who gets up to walk me to the door, “it's just the way he was brought up. He's used to giving orders.”

As if that justified it. In my eyes, it only makes it worse.

“Try not to argue,” says Laura, before seeing my expression and adding, “… well, not
too
much. Just a bit.”

“We'll try,” I say, sounding unconvinced, as I wave goodbye.

As I close the door behind me, I see Ian's Porsche parked in front of the house.

“I'd give you a hand with the suitcase, if you were a normal woman. But considering how things are, go ahead alone,” and on saying so, he pushes a button that opens the boot.

I quickly put my suitcase inside and hasten to get into the passenger seat.

“Don't worry, I
always
do things on my own,” I reply, as I fasten my seatbelt.

“Ready?” he asks, putting on a pair of fashionable sunglasses.

“Not really, but let's go anyway.”

*

It's almost midnight when we pull up outside Revington. The trip was quite hard work – not because of the traffic, but because of the company. Three hours of uninterrupted conversation with Ian is far too much, and should probably be prohibited by law.

We have argued pretty much all the time – and we only spoke about the NHS and school reform! We'd probably better stick to more neutral topics during the trip back, like music and world peace, although to be honest I imagine we could even end up strangling each other over those.

“Welcome, Miss Percy” says an impeccable and absurdly genteel butler as he opens the car door.

We've barely had time to turn off the engine and we're already being waited on hand and foot. I see someone else behind me who is already getting my suitcase out of the boot. I haven't had to lift a finger.

“Thanks,” I say with embarrassment. I am not accustomed to this type of treatment.

“I'm James, Miss,” says the butler.

“Thank you, James,” I reply, totally stunned. I am staring at one of the biggest castles I've ever seen.

Towers, turrets, walls and a white marble entrance that looks like a cathedral. Good God, I'm going to be sick.

“Good evening, James,” says Ian.

“Lord Langley, as always it is a pleasure to have you back home.” True! This is Ian's 'home'. Which is quite bewildering. “Thank you. Have many guests arrived?” he enquires. “Some, but most of them are expected tomorrow morning,” confirms the diligent butler. “You needn't have waited up. I'd imagine your alarm's set for dawn tomorrow, James. I'd have played host,” says Ian, showing me the way into the immense entrance to the castle.

“I have my usual little room, I suppose. Where's Jennifer sleeping?” he asks, turning around as he tries to work out where to go.

And then something strange happens – the butler freezes and blushes. Visibly. I wouldn't have thought it possible, so impassive does he look.

“The entire west wing of the castle is being renovated,” explains an embarrassed James. “There was a terrible storm last month and we were forced to close several rooms. And with so many guests arriving, the Duke imagined that it would be acceptable for Miss Percy and yourself to share a room.”

“What?” I shout in a very unladylike way.

All three turn to look at me, and Ian shoots me a dirty look of warning.

“I mean, 'what'?” I say, much less loudly.

“Is there a problem, sir? The Duke saw your pictures in the paper and thought you would have preferred it—” explains James, turning more and more red in the face and getting increasingly agitated.

It is clear that for a sixty year old butler, talking about sharing rooms presents serious etiquette issues.

“Not at all,” confirms Ian, giving me a withering glance. Of course – as long as he sleeps on the floor, I think to myself. “So, if we're both in my room there's no need to rob you of any more sleep. You go to bed,” Ian dismisses him.

The butler and his silent aide thank us and disappear quickly, leaving me alone with Ian, who, not at all surprised, walks towards the white staircase in front of us. That must have been the fastest exit that I have ever witnessed. Poor James, it was clearly too much for him.

“Are you coming or are you going to sleep here?” he asks, without even looking round at me.

I grab my bag angrily and follow him. “I'm coming, I'm coming,” I say, with a snort.

We cross a long, picturesque corridor on the first floor until we reach an old, white door.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” says Ian ironically, because there's nothing humble about that room. Not even the air.

This 'little room' is the size of my flat, not to mention that the walls are covered in stucco and gold. The style is clearly neoclassical and my attention immediately goes to the most beautiful parquet floor that I've ever seen, partly covered by a huge rug. I wouldn't dare walk on it! The ceiling must be inspired by the Palace of Versailles, I think to myself, and in fact I can spot some resemblances. There are two large sofas in the centre of the room and an ancient inlaid table. I also notice a modern crystal desk with a computer and a printer on it in the corner. It must be the work desk.

Across the room is a huge, old, very plain bed. At the back on the right there's a door that must lead to the bathroom.

I get the feeling Ian doesn't like showing off. This is an amazing room, but it's also somewhat functional and, all things considered, sober.

“It is to your taste?” asks my host.

“Of course. Especially the sofa where you're going to sleep,” I answer quickly. Better get straight to the point and not waste time on pleasantries.

I might be completely out of it thanks to the lateness of the hour, and my ability to protest might be limited, but that doesn't mean I'll forgive him for this brilliant idea of sharing the room. Although, in fact, there's actually room for a couple of families in here!

“And I thought
you
were going to offer to sleep there,” teases Ian.

“You thought wrong,” I say quietly. “The pictures in the paper are all your fault, ergo the couch is yours.”

“Oh well,” he sighs, “it means I'll take a blanket from the wardrobe. Although making a person of my calibre sleep on the sofa is really low.”

I stop in the middle of the room trying to decide how and where to unpack. “Do you really think I care at all?” I ask him.

Ian doesn't even reply, just chuckles.

I sit on the bed and open my suitcase. “Where can I put my stuff?”

Ian opens the wardrobe and shows me a drawer. “This is free if you've got folded things to put away. You can hang the rest here.”

“I've only got one long dress” I re-assure him.

“No problem, there's plenty of room. I don't keep much stuff here now, because I don't come very often. My base is in London nowadays. I try to set foot here as rarely as possible.”

A remark that is too interesting not to follow up. “Why?” I ask, trying not to show my curiosity. “Because if I come here too often, I end up arguing with my parents and my grandfather. So I try and avoid it.”

I'm speechless. “Really?” Oops, that slipped out.

Ian laughs at my expression. “Yes, my dear – you're not the only one with a talent for making me lose my patience. In fact, my whole family is thoroughly dedicated to it. Mine is an
extremely
difficult life.”

“I can imagine… Even Chinese miners slaving away with no legal protection would agree that you have it tough, I'm sure.” I'd like to know more, but it's midnight and I'm starting to feel very, very tired. He, too, looks as though he needs a good night's sleep. “How about saving this discussion for tomorrow and going to sleep?” I propose shortly thereafter, as I put the last of my things in the wardrobe.

“For once, you've had a good idea,” he agrees, yawning.

“I only have good ideas” I retort.

“I'll pretend I didn't hear that. You can use the bathroom first,” and he invites me to go ahead, pointing to the door across the room.

I grab my pyjamas, a very plain two-piece, and head for the bathroom. I brush my teeth and get changed quickly. When I get back into the bedroom, Ian has already changed: he's wearing check pyjama bottoms with a plain white T-shirt. There's no earthly reason why he should look so damn sexy in them! And yet he does…

“No lace?” he asks when he sees me come out.

“Do I look like a girl who wears lace?” I ask him.

Ian seems to reflect and then shrugs. “No, you don't, actually. But one can always hope,” he says, with a chuckle.

“Be serious” I say, not at all impressed with his attempt at humour.

I make for the bed and slip underneath the covers. They're really soft, no doubt about it. I think I'll sleep well tonight, despite the awkward presence of Ian, who will be on a sofa at a safe distance, though.

The little lord comes out of the bathroom and turns off the lights. “Good night” he says from somewhere far away in the darkness.

“Good night” I say, and a minute later I fall into the arms of Morpheus.

“I don't want to be a pain, but it's almost ten, Jenny,” I hear a voice telling me.

Strange. I'm in a soft bed that's not mine and a male voice is telling me to wake up. But I don't want to, I'm perfectly cosy right here where I am.

“Come on, Jenny, there won't be anything left to eat if you don't get up.”

That same annoying voice – a voice that isn't completely unknown to me, but that I can't associate with my usual awakening.

I open one eyelid with great effort and then the other. There's too much light, I can't focus.

I blink again and then finally the mist begins to clear. There's a face in front of me, the face of a black haired man with deep blue eyes. I've seen those eyes many times before… Oh God, Ian!

And in the blink of an eye I realise where I am, but mostly the reason why I've woken up in the castle of Revington.

“Don't you feel ok?” asks Ian, looking almost worried at my bewildered expression.

I rub my eyes. “Not really. What time did you say it was?” I ask in a deep, sleepy voice.

“It's ten o'clock” he says, looking at me suspiciously. I must look pretty dishevelled.

“What!?” I ask in shock. And I'm wide awake in no time at all. “It can't be ten! I've never slept until ten in my life.”

“Well, it's ten anyway,” says Ian, folding his arms across his chest and observing the scene before him.

I don't dare imagine what I must look like right now: eyes puffy with sleep, scruffy hair, no make-up. Why hasn't Ian run away screaming yet? I swear, I wouldn't be offended if he had – to be honest I'd have found it perfectly reasonable.

“I don't know whether I should feel offended or amused,” he admits, as he moves away from me.

“Why?” I grumble in the same deep voice, sitting up in the bed.

“Women usually do their best to look good for me, especially if it's morning and they're in my bed,” he smirks, staring insistently at the low neckline of my pyjamas.

Classic: I've only been awake for a minute and he's already annoyed me. Not to mention that I shouldn't be provoked on an empty stomach. “This is my bed for the weekend, let's be clear about that. And I don't care about how I look before I've even got out from under the sheets.”

“Are you always this grumpy in the mornings?” he asks innocently.

I give him a very dirty look and he laughs but keeps staring at me.

“Don't get me wrong, it's a pleasant change. Not to mention that you look much more like a little girl with no make-up on.”

Do men really think that these are compliments?

“Can you move so I can get up?” I ask him angrily.

He budges over as little as he can to allow me to get out of bed and rush to the bathroom.

“I'll be downstairs, in the dining room!” I hear him shout shortly after I've locked myself inside the bathroom.

Thank God, finally a moment of peace! How horrible to start the morning like this: I look like something out of a horror film and he is immaculate – not a hair out of place and all dressed up.

How the hell did I manage to sleep so deeply knowing that I was in his bed? A little voice tells me that maybe it was precisely
because
it was his bed, but I quickly push this vexing thought aside.

I brush my teeth and get dressed quickly, opting for a smart looking pair of comfortable black trousers and a blue sweater with wide collar. Finally, I comb my hair, leaving it loose and still a bit messy from sleep and I put on more make-up than usual. Who's the little girl now?

Once out of the room, the first problem presents itself: I don't know where to go. I decide to go down the stairs we walked up last night and then set off in search of food.

Fortunately, I find James at the foot of the stairs together with a very elegant lady who is greeting some newly arrived guests.

“Good morning, Miss Percy,” James greets me formally.

“Good morning. Oh, please – just call me Jenny,” I say, cordially.

On hearing us speak, the lady turns around immediately. “James, can you introduce us?” she asks, as though we were not able to do it by ourselves. These people must have mistaken this castle for the Royal Palace.

“Of course. Lady St John, this is Jennifer Percy, who arrived yesterday evening with your son. Miss Jennifer, this is Lady St John.”

Ah, that explains everything.

Ian's mother is a tall, slim, elegant woman with gleaming auburn hair and green eyes. Her posture is perfect, her skin still that of a young girl, and the jewels she's wearing must be worth a small fortune. Let's say she's the type of woman who doesn't go unnoticed.