Falling for the Bridesmaid. Sophie Pembroke
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HALL WAS ridiculously large, Tom decided, after getting lost on the way to the kitchen for the third time. Tastefully redecorated, with none of the attempts to recreate the Regency or whatever that he’d half expected from the almost aristocracy. But then, this family were unusual in almost every other way, why not this one too?
There were so many contradictions for him to uncover, but that was half the fun.
Contradiction one. Sherry had inherited this hall from her blue blood family—but had obviously renovated it entirely using her husband’s money—or her own, Tom supposed. She had enjoyed a very lucrative modelling career, after all. Anyway, the point was, while the outside of Huntingdon Hall still looked like something from a period novel, the inside was entirely modern.
As Tom made his way down a corridor that looked almost exactly like the one he’d just explored, Violet’s directions from the night before seemed even more ridiculous. Just follow the walls, she’d said. Eventually all of them lead back to the main staircase. Follow the walls? What kind of advice was that? Especially since it appeared he’d been following the walls in the wrong direction for the last five minutes. Why wasn’t there a helpful servant around here somewhere?
Of course that led him to contradiction two. In a house this size, with a family this rich, he’d have expected dozens of flunkies running around doing things for them. But he’d seen nobody. Oh, he was sure there was a housekeeper somewhere, and he highly doubted that Sherry did her own cleaning, but apart from that? Everything seemed to be kept in the family. Rose took care of the band’s PR and everything else that needed organising, it seemed.
At least until she ran away on her honeymoon and Violet stepped in, rather than hire someone else.
Violet was, without a doubt, most definitely contradiction number three.
Tom turned another corner, dutifully following the wall and, finally, stumbled across the staircase. At last, his path towards coffee and maybe even breakfast was clear.
He hopped down the stairs in double time, smiling as he heard voices coming from what he hoped would prove to be the kitchen. Part of him was surprised not to be the first up—it had been a ridiculously late night, but even with his exhaustion level he’d found it impossible to sleep past ten. Too many years of risking missing the tour bus or a flight somewhere had left him a very light sleeper.
‘Good morning.’ Both Rick and Violet looked up at his words, and Tom got the unerring feeling that he’d interrupted something.
‘Ah! Our guest awakes.’ Rick moved towards the coffee pot. ‘Strong and black? Or do you drink what can only be described as “warm milk with a coffee scent” like my daughter?’
‘Strong and black, please,’ Tom replied. Actually, he normally preferred it somewhere in between, but he wasn’t taking the chance of failing the Rick Cross coffee test. Or any other tests he threw his way before Rick actually opened up to him and gave him the material he needed.
Rick nodded as he poured. ‘Good choice. Now, about today.’ He handed Tom a tiny steaming espresso cup with an apologetic smile that made Tom’s heart sink. There were going to be no interviews today, he just knew it.
This was always the risk in coming here. Staying at Huntingdon Hall gave Tom unprecedented access, yes. But it also gave the subject the illusion of limitless time—and plenty of excuses to dodge sitting down and talking to him.
Tom did not have limitless time, and he needed this story.
‘I was hoping we could make a start on some questions about what the Lemons are doing now,’ Tom said, hoping the allure of potential publicity for the new album would draw him in. ‘I’ve got a couple of possible slots in magazines and supplements coming up, and it would be good to let people know what’s next for the band.’
‘Rose would kick me if she heard me turning down the publicity, but I’m afraid I have some commitments today that I need to take care of before I can sit down with you.’ Rick reached for his own coffee mug—which, Tom noticed, had milk in it, damn him. ‘Sorry, Tom. I’ll be back this afternoon, though. And I’ll get Sherry to book some time with you too, as well as the boys from the band. I want us to get the bulk of the first few interviews down over the next week or two, so we’ve all got more time to focus on the Benefit Concert when it comes around. That sound okay to you?’
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