Page 57 of Oz
I’m so charmed by this. I’m sure most men and women would expect the Earl of Ashworth to wine and dine them in splendour at expensive restaurants and nightclubs. However, this picnic with wine in paper cups and cake is perfect to me.
I take a sip of my wine, relishing the tart cold taste, and look down at the sea breaking onto the rocks and fountaining into the air. Seagulls dip low over us as if they’re tiny ticket dodgers waiting for the performance.
“It’s so beautiful,” I say. “I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere so stunning and unusual. It has a nice feel to it.”
He nods, happiness in his eyes. “Last time I was here there were basking sharks in the bay. I spent more time watching them than I did the play.”
“Do you come here often?”
He nods. “A lot. I like going to the theatre, but I find London theatres so stuffy and stolid. I like the wildness and eccentricity of this. I’ve sat here through hot sunshine and pouring rain and loved it every time.”
He bends down and reaching into his bag again he pulls out two cushions.
“It’s like Mary Poppins’s carpet bag,” I marvel. “Why have we got these?”
“For your arse,” he whispers. “These seats aren’t the most comfortable.”
They’re stone seats with grass for a cushion and they seem okay to me, but he’s been here before and there’s a wealth of experience in his eyes. I take the cushion.
“Okay,” I whisper back. “I know you’ve got a vested interest in my arse tonight. Can’t have it going to sleep.”
He stills and looks at me and our eyes meet and catch. His darken and I watch him draw in a slow, measured breath. “No,” he mutters. “I need it wide awake tonight.”
And just like that, we acknowledge that he’s going to have me later on. The knowledge forms a subtle undercurrent to the rest of the evening as we watch the play. And even as Shakespeare’s beautiful words float out onto the air, I’m aware with a deep, visceral tug in my groin of the heat and strength of the body next to mine.
The sky darkens slowly from the soft lilac of twilight to the plush navy velvet of night and the sea provides its own soundtrack as it crashes onto the rocks. I shiver and lean closer because I need him rather more than I need breath.
“That was amazing,” I say quietly when the last bow has been taken.
“You really liked it?”
“It was wonderful.” I look around as people start to leave, climbing the stairs slowly until we’re among the last ones.
He sits back. “It’s got an amazing history. It was the brainchild idea of Rowena Cade. She pushed it every step of the way. She even heaved some of the rock down from her house up there. Apparently, they had to light the first performance using people’s car headlights.” He points to the side. “Over there are stone seats with the titles of the different plays that have been performed since the beginning.”
I peer over. “There are even little balconies,” I exclaim.
He rubs his neck. “Did you mind sitting where we were? I don’t like it up there. It feels like everyone’s eyes are on you.”
I stand up and pull him up after me, hugging him affectionately. “I loved where we were,” I say softly. “Thank you for a wonderful date.” I pause. “I mean, we weren’t hiding in a stranger’s drawing room and I wasn’t blowing you, but not everything can live up to that first date.”
“I don’t know,” he says hoarsely. “The night’s young yet.”
And just like that, the heat roars back in and my breath catches in my throat. His eyes darken and he grabs my hand. “Let’s go home,” he mutters, and I follow.
The drive back is quiet and filled with an intense heat that you can almost see shimmer between us. Every move he makes, every time he brakes and the muscles in his thigh work, every time his hand curves around the gear stick, I feel heat run through me and under my skin like I’m connected to him with invisible wires.
He drives with a fierce concentration, but I know he’s just as aware as me from his sidelong glances and the way his breathing is deep and heavy.
When we get home, everywhere is dark and still. I climb out and inhale the scent of roses from the bush growing nearby. He comes around the side of the car and pushes me gently into it. He leans over me, not touching anywhere but staring into my eyes. “Are you sure?” he says in a low voice. “Once we do this we can’t go back. It’s your choice.”
I reach up and push his hair back from his forehead, relishing the feel of the silky locks on my fingers. “I’m sure,” I say quietly. “I want you, Silas. So much.”
He closes his eyes, and when he opens them I inhale at the lust and determination on his face. “Okay, come with me,” he says, grabbing my hand. “I want you in my bed.”
“This is just like a Catherine Cookson book,” I say happily. “Hopefully you’ll use me and toss me aside and then I’ll go away and make myself into a very rich man and have my revenge.”
He shakes his head. “Those books are not good for mental health.”
