The Brazilian Tycoon's Mistress. Fiona Hood-Stewart
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unbent. At least the man had good manners. ‘How do you do? Perhaps you’d better come over to dinner some time?’
‘That would be very kind.’
Lady Drusilla thought quickly. She simply must get him over here before Marion Nethersmith caught him first. Then she could tell the others all about him. ‘What about tomorrow night?’
‘It would be my pleasure.’
‘Good. I’ll expect you at seven-thirty for drinks.’
‘Thank you. Perhaps you could tell your daughter that I shall bring her car insurance papers back to her then?’
‘Certainly.’
‘I look forward to tomorrow.’
Well, Lady Drusilla, thought as she picked up the basket once more and headed for the backstairs and the kitchen, where she removed her secateurs from the top drawer, at least she’d steal a march on the other neighbours. Marion would be writhing with curiosity and envy.
The thought brought her a considerable measure of satisfaction.
‘You did what?’ Araminta exclaimed, horrified, hands on the hips of her other pair of worn jeans.
‘I invited him over to dinner. Araminta, are you becoming hard of hearing?’
‘But, Mother, how could you? We don’t even know the man properly. It’s embarrassing—’ She threw her hands up in despair.
‘I really can’t see why you’re making such a dreadful fuss. I merely invited our new neighbour—whom you say is perfectly respectable—to dinner. It’s the courteous thing to do.’
‘I can’t believe it. You didn’t even ask me if I wanted—’ Eyes flashing, Araminta flopped into the nearest armchair, trying to understand why the thought of Victor Santander coming to dinner should be so absolutely disturbing.
After being told by Araminta that Victor Santander had uniformed servants at the Manor, Lady Drusilla decided to call in the local caterer, Jane Cavendish, and have dinner properly prepared, rather than count on Olive’s rather dull repertoire of dishes. That would do for old Colonel and Mrs Rathbone, but would certainly not impress someone grand enough to hire a professional cook.
By seven-fifteen the following evening Araminta’s bed was piled with discarded clothing as she wavered between a black Armani sheath that she’d bought shortly before Peter died and had never worn, or grey silk trousers and a top.
Perhaps the sheath was too dressy for a simple dinner.
Perhaps the grey silk was too dull.
After changing for the third time, she finally settled on the silk trousers and top, and after a last glance in the mirror—she’d actually gone to the trouble of putting on some make-up tonight, for some unfathomable reason—she walked down the wide staircase, feeling more confident than she had in months.
Perhaps it was time to bother more about her appearance, she decided, reaching the bottom step, particularly if she was going to have to promote herself. The thought made her shudder as she made her way to the drawing room, where her mother was giving last-minute instructions to the hired help. With a sigh, she went to join her.
Even in the dark, and illuminated only by the car lamps and outdoor lights, Taverstock Hall was an imposing old pile, Victor reflected as the Bentley purred to a halt. He alighted thoughtfully, straightened the jacket of his double-breasted dark grey suit, and walked smartly up the front steps and rang the bell. It was opened by a cheery-looking woman in what could be taken for a uniform, and he was ushered through the high-ceilinged hall and on towards the drawing room, from which voices and the clink of crystal drifted.
On the threshold he stopped a moment and took in the scene. Then he saw Araminta. For thirty seconds he enjoyed the view. His intuition had been right, and her figure was as sensational as he’d imagined it. She was stunning—and deliciously sexy, he realised, watching her as she stood sideways, talking to an old gentleman near the open fireplace. Long and lithe, the curve of her breast subtly etched under the sleeveless silk top— His thoughts were abruptly interrupted.
‘Ah, Mr Santander, I believe?’ A very distinguished, rake-thin woman in her mid-sixties, dressed in a smart black cocktail dress with a large diamond leaf pinned on her left breast, moved towards him. He raised her hand to his lips.
‘Good evening, Lady Drusilla, it is most good of you to have me.’
‘Not at all. Thank you so much for the lovely flowers. Quite unnecessary, I assure you,’ she murmured, taking in every detail of his person. ‘Now, do come in and meet the others. You’ve met Araminta, of course, and this is Colonel Rathbone and Mrs Rathbone—they live not far down the road, at the old vicarage—and this is Miss Blackworth.’ He shook hands politely with an elderly lady in a nondescript purple dress and a three-tier string of pearls before turning to meet what must be the vicar. ‘Vicar, may I introduce Mr Santander? Our new neighbour at the Manor.’
Her tone of satisfaction was not lost on Victor and he glanced at her, amused. So Lady Drusilla was enjoying introducing him into local society, was she? At that moment he raised his eyes and met Araminta’s. They held a moment, and he read amusement laced with discomfort and a touch of embarrassment. After exchanging a few words with the balding vicar, he edged his way towards her.
‘Good evening.’
‘Good evening,’ she replied, smiling politely, disguising her racing pulse, the slight film of perspiration that had formed on her brow the minute she’d sensed he’d entered the room. ‘I hope you won’t be too bored. The country doesn’t provide much in the line of entertainment, I’m afraid.’
‘I did not come to the country to seek entertainment,’ he replied, his presence and the scent of that same cologne leaving Araminta deliciously dizzy. ‘In fact, I came here specifically to find peace and quiet. I did not expect to be invited out so soon,’ he added. ‘Still, it is, of course, a great pleasure to meet one’s neighbours. Particularly when they are so…agreeable.’ He gave her an appraising look that left her feeling strangely feminine and desirable, something she hadn’t felt in ages.
‘What can I get you to drink?’ she said quickly.
‘A Scotch and water, please.’
Glad for the excuse to conceal her perturbed feelings, Araminta busied herself with the drink. What on earth was wrong with her? He wasn’t anything special. Just a neighbour.
Victor watched as she fixed his drink. A beautiful woman with tons of sex appeal. She probably had a husband. He wondered where that husband was. Odd that she seemed so shy for a married woman. Or maybe she was recently divorced. That might explain the reticence.
The thought was strangely appealing. Then with an inner shrug he accepted the drink and prepared to amuse himself for an evening.
From the opposite end of the table Araminta watched her mother grilling Victor Santander and admired his polite, concise answers that gave little away. But, oh, what she would have given for this evening not to have taken place! By the time coffee had been drunk, after-dinner drinks consumed and the better part of the guests had taken their leave, she was only too ready to usher him out through the door and send him off to his car.
‘This has been a most pleasant evening,’ he remarked, eyeing her again in that same assessing manner that left her slightly breathless. ‘Could I persuade you to join me for dinner tomorrow at the Manor? After all, we haven’t had a moment to go over the insurance papers.’
‘No, we haven’t,’ Araminta admitted, fumbling for words. It was very unlike her to be so—so what? Aware of herself? Of him, standing so close that it left her feeling tingly all over? What on earth was wrong with her?
‘Well? Would you like that? Or would you prefer to dine at the Bells in Sheringdon? I hear they serve a very decent meal.’
‘I don’t think I can,’ she