3. Lizzy
Lizzy
He’d done it again. Instead of making up for his rudeness, he was doubling down. What a bell end.
Couldn’t he see he had to step up? That sneering face cut through my heart. Not even an apologetic wince on those full lips of his, a sorry. Not even a ripple of embarrassment from that steel-cut jawline. Only hardness in those blue eyes frozen on his face. God, did he even have other expressions?
With a hollow drop in my chest, I wondered if it was because of me. Maybe he did dance, but he didn’t want to dance with me.
“But it’s a barn dance,” I said, attempting to appeal to his empathy. “I can’t join without a partner.”
His jaw twitched. “I’m serious. I don’t dance,” he repeated. He stood there, staring ahead now.
I didn’t know why I tried again. Maybe my unerring optimism—I supposed I was still a little disbelieving at how rude he was.
“Not even the excuse of taking your dog out or getting settled in your room?” I joked. “Not even, ‘That would have been wonderful, but I’ve had a hip operation and a triple bypass’?”
He grunted. “I’m always honest.” He looked sharply at me, then away. “I have no patience for flattery or pretense.”
Pompous arse. I growled at him. He’d not only written me off; he’d taken a dislike to me.
Red-faced and humiliated, I turned on a sandaled foot and stalked over to the cooking area of the open-plan kitchen where Trystan, the chef, was hard at work.
“I saw that,” Trystan said with a grimace. He was handsome but also kind. A revelation after dealing with Darcy. “Let me pour you a glass of wine. Maybe a goblet will suffice to soak up that display of rudeness.”
He glugged out some white wine into a vintage crystal glass and handed it to me.
“Do you need any help?” I asked as he chopped the veggies. The menus we’d been handed on arrival, along with the schedule of events, showed locally smoked salmon and fresh farm veggies tonight, and I couldn’t wait.
“I’ve got it. You’re a guest. Relax. What a growly grump. Sorry, babe, that guy has a plank-sized stick up his highly toned arse. Sit with me.”
It felt safe to talk with Trystan here. The kitchen was a colorful, multipatterned Alice in Wonderland meets a dotty English professor, with loads of different spaces to sit and chat.
Pink sofas were cozy around the enormous stone fireplace, and in the other corner was a banquette area dressed in fabric that seemed like a toile, but the illustrated figures were nude.
Over by the French doors sat the chandeliered dancing space.
I plonked myself down on a rattan stool and leaned over the large island to chat with Trystan, who was now working at a powder-blue AGA stove.
Despite how much I loved being in this room, and with Trystan, I huffed with annoyance.
“My life’s ambition has now boiled down to one thing—never speak with Darcy Wainwright again.”
He winced. “That’s going to be a tough one, as there were only ten of you this weekend.
” He nodded to the couple snogging in the corner.
“Eight, now. And by my reckoning, there are only two men who are contenders for your hand.” He chopped the green top off a carrot quite pointedly.
“The nice-looking red-haired man already seems stuck on your sister.”
Jane and Wills were shyly dancing together, sneaking glances at each other as they twirled around in the old-fashioned barn dance.
“And then there’s that weedy guy.” Trystan held up a wizened parsnip and tossed it in the bin. “Who keeps going on about Lady de Whatsit. He is not a contender for your affections or even a proper conversation.”
He pointed his paring knife toward Colin Vicar, a pretentious classics university lecturer who’d pulled up in his Mini Cooper and, within seconds, was boring everyone about his close acquaintance with his neighbor, Lady Catherine de Bourg, who was renowned in the village to be a dreadful old thing, mean and horribly snobby.
Colin had immediately zeroed in on a pretty woman called Nala, and was nattering away at her relentlessly as they twirled. Poor Nala.
Trystan pointed his knife to the left. “But what about that hot, beardy farmer-type who turned up with your cousin Emma? He seems kind of earnest—asked a million questions about the provenance of the vegetables—thank goodness everything was plucked from farms an electric bike’s pedal away from here.
Bit staid, but nice and dependable, and I suspect he’s hiding a great bod under that huge plaid shirt and serviceable pants.
The muddy farm boots he left at the door are on the larger size.
” He waggled his eyebrows to make his point.
I chuckled and playfully slapped his arm.
“You’re terrible. His name is Knightley.
He’s the local vet and is going to lead us in the animal training Sunday morning.
He’s Emma’s oldest friend…or her father’s best friend—I can never work out which—but he’s definitely at their house a lot.
Staid? A little. He’s an old soul, even though he can’t be more than six years older than her.
I’ve always suspected he had a thing for Emma, so I wouldn’t go there. ”
“And yet they’ve been bickering constantly since they turned up.”
“That’s them, all right. Night and day. Knightley will treat any animal who turns up to his door, would never turn away anyone who can’t pay, and volunteers at farms in low-income countries.
He disapproves of all Emma’s frippery and finery and flitting around.
And in return, she teases him relentlessly about being old-man boring. ”
“I rest my case. Sounds like they are primed for a sort of friends-to-lovers transition, if I know my tropes—and I do. Mr. Finelooking Grumpyface is the only one left.”
“I don’t want to have anything to do with him.”
His eyes lingered on Darcy again. “I don’t blame you, sweets. All that nice packaging is totally wasted.”
“Nice packaging?” I wrinkled my nose in disgust. “Ugh.”
“Agreed. Broad shoulders, jet-black hair, blue eyes, square jaw. Yuck.”
I caught Trystan’s twinkly gaze and, my sense of humor restored, we both cracked up.
A bell rang out through the kitchen. Penny Balfour.
Mum turned off the music. I checked the old walnut standing clock—6:30 p.m. According to the schedule left on our beds, it was now meet-and-greet activities with champers and nibbles.
Trystan moved toward the fridge and pulled out some tiny appetizers on a silver platter, two bottles of champagne, and chilled glasses from the freezer, and then filled a bucket of ice.
In the dancing area, Monty hopped onto a chair, which wobbled disturbingly. He made a trumpet sound, both hands around his mouth, which caused the chair to jiggle even more.
“And now for our next icebreaker,” he announced. “With the help of something a little soft and a little pliable. Maybe a reminder to us all to be soft and pliable this weekend.” He chuckled, clearly delighted with himself.
With a flourish, he pulled his hand from behind his back and revealed…a roll of toilet paper.
Inexplicably, my focus was drawn to Darcy for his reaction.
“Jesus Christ,” he spat out.