Page 12 of Carbon

The evening had turned out less painful than most of Mother’s parties, mainly because by hovering near Gregory’s elbow, I’d avoided duty as a glorified waitress. Plus, she hadn’t introduced me to any random strangers as her “other daughter, the one who doesn’t write the books.”

Gregory’s company had been...nice, I guess. It reminded me of the parties I used to attend with Rupert, in those years when every conversation didn’t start with, “Augusta, I was so sorry to hear about your husband.” I hadn’t needed sympathy; I’d needed to sit on my own and cry.

But now? Enough time had passed for people to forget that I’d been widowed at the age of twenty, and Gregory certainly commanded the respect of Mother’s social circle. He fitted in perfectly.

“Yes, I do believe I’m free next Sunday,” he said to Mother’s accountant. “Eighteen holes?”

“Nineteen, old chap. Can’t pass up on a drink afterwards.”

I stifled a yawn at the golf discussion, a favourite topic of that crowd, along with planning policy, British-made cars, and the state of the economy.

“Tired, Augusta?” Gregory asked.

“A little,” I admitted.

Tired of small talk, tired of strangers, and tired of wearing shoes that made my feet ache.

“It’s carriages at midnight, so only two hours left.”

I pulled out my phone. No, two hours and nine minutes. Nine minutes that had the potential to stretch into eternity if that bloody accountant didn’t stop talking. I looked around, ready to play my usual game of making up stories about the party guests in my head, when my phone buzzed in my hand.

Instantly, I stiffened, then forced myself to relax as Gregory’s eyes cut my way.

“Okay?” he mouthed.

“Great. I just need to visit the powder room,” I muttered, then speed-walked out the door. Or rather, speed-tripped, but a passing waiter caught me. Damn those heels.

Safely locked in one of the downstairs cloakrooms, I looked down at my phone, praying it wasn’t just another one of those bloody sales messages from ambulance-chasing solicitors. “Have you had an accident, trip or fall?” No, not unless you count throwing my phone against the wall in annoyance.

Mr. M

Meet me at midnight. Behind the guest cottage.

Beads of sweat popped out on the back of my neck. Behind the guest cottage? Not inside it? Okay, so in my book Rufus met Lady Anne behind the chapel, and we didn’t have a chapel, but the idea of doing anything outside terrified me. What if a stray guest walked past? The cottage wasn’t that far from the main house, after all.

No. I should text him back and say no.

But the very thought of that made my heart plummet, where it landed among the butterflies swarming in my stomach at the prospect of another Midnight-induced orgasm.

Maybe I could meet him, then convince him to go somewhere a tiny bit more private? Like the summerhouse again. Yes, that would work.

Fingers trembling, I typed out my reply.

Okay.

One word, and as soon as I sent it, I regretted it. It seemed so...so…inadequate. I was supposed to be a writer, and I’d used one of the blandest words possible. Bleurgh. I needed to work on my communication skills.

Ten minutes passed with no reply, and I needed to leave the toilet because otherwise someone would be sure to inform Mother of my bowel problems. Think that wouldn’t happen? Well, it did after Rupert died, and she booked me a colonoscopy.

Back in the ballroom, Gregory’s conversation had moved from golf to squash. I’d only ever played once and the bruises took weeks to fade, so I didn’t feel qualified to join in. Instead, I tried to block the filthy thoughts going through my mind as the hands on the clock ticked closer to the witching hour.

Only at a quarter to midnight, Gregory was still yacking, and I couldn’t figure out how to politely excuse myself.

“I’m feeling a little tired,” I said. “I might go and lie down.”

The slack-jawed banker Gregory was talking to laughed, one finger tugging at his overly tight shirt collar. “Don’t skip out on us, dearie. Only another fifteen minutes to go and then you can take your man for a bit of night-time entertainment.”

My face turned the colour of Gregory’s bow tie as they carried on with their conversation. How could I get away? I was racking my brains for a better excuse when another of the tennis club ladies teetered up.

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