Page 50 of The Himbo and the Lord

It’s a friendly text, and again, he asks for a date.

I sigh.

Now everything is far more complicated.

My fingers hover over the phone, a reply half written, but suddenly I want to hear his voice, so I call him instead.

His delight when he answers cheers me up, but not what I have to tell him. In some way, it might have been better if he’d never turned up.

“I can’t go on a date with you, Nate,” I say bluntly.

“Can’t or won’t?” he asks.

“Can’t. It’s not a risk I can take. There are already too many people who know about me. This isn’t Sydney.” He thankfully doesn’t point out that we didn’t go on a date in Sydney, that the time we spent together was in our hotel rooms.

I hear him take a deep breath before he speaks again.

“It’ll be discreet.”

“I—” He cuts through my protest.

“I promise it will beverydiscreet. Please give me a chance, Rupert. I need to apologise and explain, and then after that if you don’t want to see me, that’s up to you.” The desperation in his voice cuts through my own worries. I do want to hear what he has to say, and there are no strings attached, are there?

There’s no need to drag him into the shit hole of my situation, but he did travel thousands of miles to find me. I can give him this.

So I agree, and the genuine relief in his voice warms my core for the first time this evening. He asks me to give him a couple of days, and he’ll let me know when, and can I text him my address.

It takes a long time for me to get to sleep that night, with my body hovering between the dread of my father’s plan and excitement at seeing Nate again.

* * *

I let outa little smile at the black limo that pulls up outside my apartment block.

I’m familiar with them of course—they are the only way to travel to opening nights and balls, and they’re not out of place in this part of town—but that Nate thought of it calms a few of the butterflies that have been flitting around my stomach ever since he sent a text with the day and time of our date. He included only two more words... Dress formally.

He didn’t say black tie, so I’m wearing a simple but well-tailored navy suit and white shirt. The driver opens the door for me and I slip inside quickly. Nate is also in a suit, which surprises me slightly because I’ve only ever seen him dressed casually or in nothing at all.

The car starts and I settle back in the seat. I suddenly don’t know what to say, and Nate looks a little subdued as well, another surprise because he’s usually never at a loss for words. I take a breath and let my years of schooling in social graces take over.

“So, what are you studying at Oxford?”

He tells me he’s taking a second masters degree. It doesn’t quite fit with the playboy persona he’s shown me, but then I remember he said he’d graduated fromgrad school, so I suppose that meant the first masters.

The car leaves the city and drives through country lanes. I can’t see enough out of the tinted windows to follow where we’re heading, especially as I’m paying close attention to what Nate is saying. Eventually the car drives through an ornate set of gates—ones I do recognise.

“You managed to get a table at Le Manoir?” I whisper. Raymond Blanc’s Michelin starred restaurant, Le Manoir aux Quat’Saisons, is very exclusive. Tables are booked up weeks in advance, and Nate managed to get a place in just a few days.

He doesn’t answer, but just gives a wide smile and a nod. My breath shudders, because as much as I love the place and haven’t been for a few years, it’s also public. I go to shove my hands between my knees to stop them shaking, but Nate catches hold of one and squeezes it gently.

“Please trust me,” he says quietly, and keeps hold of my hand until the car draws up at the entrance of the restaurant. He seems reluctant as he releases it, just as the door opens.

The restaurant, set in an old manor house, is several hundred years old and is timelessly elegant. We’re greeted and shown through to the dining room, and I hold my breath in case there’s anyone who might recognise me.

The waiter leads us to a secluded table, half-hidden from the rest of the room by some large potted ferns. I look around in wonder as the room is completely empty. There are no other diners.

I give Nate a puzzled look as we’re seated and the waiter silently melts away.

“I promised it would be discreet,” he says, leaning a little forward over the table.

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