Liz Fielding - The Secret Life of Lady Gabriella

‘Give me a minute,’ she said, snapping open the button at the waist, pausing for him to turn around, give her a little privacy in which to wriggle them over her bottom.

He just waited for her to get on with it, and maybe she was being unnecessarily coy. Once they were off, they were off…Her legs would be bare and, since she was wearing a crop top, her knickers were going to be on show.

She wasn’t sure whether she was relieved that she’d opted for comfortable, sensible white knickers, or sorry that she wasn’t wearing her barely there special occasion scarlet thong that might just have brought a blush to his cheeks and made him regret being quite so bossy.

She let her jeans crumple in a heap around her feet, but she didn’t dare kick them away and risk doing any more damage.

Apparently unmoved by the sight of her naked limbs, he eased them over her feet, tossed them over a nearby chair, and then lifted her injured leg, propping her foot against his leg while he prodded her knee, all the time watching her face to see if she flinched. But, given sufficient time to compose herself, she could keep a straight face, too. She needed it when, apparently satisfied that there was no serious damage, he used the icy bandage to bind her knee with deft efficiency.

It seemed that the shoulders weren’t just for show; he strapped up her leg with the skill of a man who knew all the moves.

‘How does it feel?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know. It’s numb with cold.’

‘An hour from now you’ll be wishing it was still that way. Can you walk on it?’

She gripped his hand, hauled herself up, took a stiff-legged step. ‘It would seem so. Good job, Doc.’

The look he gave her suggested that he did not appreciate the ‘Doc’, but he let it go. ‘It’ll help, although you’ll probably find “wafting” rather difficult.’ He picked up her jeans, offered them to her. ‘I’ll bring the car to the door while you struggle back into these.’

Ellie abandoned the jeans; since she wasn’t cycling, she might as well save time by changing now. She stripped off the little crop top to reveal her favourite white lace push-’em-up bra. Such a pity it was her knee she’d strained; she’d have liked to see how straight a face Dr Faulkner could have kept with her ‘wench’ boobs in his face as he’d strapped her shoulder…

Grinning idiotically at the thought, she hauled her black waitressing trousers and shirt from her backpack. It was only when she was all buttoned up and ready to go that she turned-very carefully-and saw Benedict Faulkner standing in the doorway. She’d assumed he’d wait in the car for her.

Just how long had he been standing there?

‘You were lying about the stockings and suspenders, then?’ he said, his face straighter than a ruler.

‘I charge extra for them,’ she said, walking stiff-leggedly to the door, ‘and the Chamber of Commerce is cheap…’ She stifled a gasp. ‘I was expecting Adele’s Morris Minor,’ she said. It had been tucked up during her absence, in her brother’s garage. Unlike this stunningly beautiful vintage sports car. ‘Where did this come from?’

‘I left it with a colleague while I was away.’

‘Someone you trust, obviously?’ she said as, unable to bend one leg, she was reduced to flopping backwards into the low seat, then lifting her stiff leg into the car.

‘Obviously.’

‘The fact that you took the time to reclaim it suggests you’re going to be around for a while.’

‘I stayed with her for a couple of days while I caught up on sleep,’he said. ‘But you’re right. I won’t be going anywhere in the next week or two.’

Her.

She had oddly mixed feelings about that. She concentrated on the ‘oh bother’ variety, and spent the regrettably short ride into the city dwelling miserably on the horrors of flat-hunting.

‘What time shall I pick you up?’ he asked, as he pulled up in front of the Assembly Rooms.

‘What? Oh, there’s no need for that,’ she said, opening the door, then belatedly realising that, while flopping backwards had worked to get into the car, she was going to need rather more help getting out. ‘I’m going on to a meeting next door,’ she said, as he climbed out, walked around the car. ‘At the library. I’m sure someone will give me a lift home.’

Having offered her a hand, he made no immediate move to help her out. Instead he said, ‘How sure?’

Actually, very sure, but with his hand wrapped around hers she seemed to have trouble in breathing.

Taking her hesitation as not-very-sure-at-all, he repeated the question. ‘What time shall I pick you up from the library?’

‘We, um, usually go down the pub afterwards,’ she managed.

‘Your life is one social whirl, Ellie.’

‘What can I say?’

‘If you’re ever going to get out of this car, I’d suggest you tell me what time I should pick you up at the library.’

She was torn between fury at his dictatorial manner and a certain undeniable pleasure at the idea of being collected from the meeting by a dishy man in a seriously good-looking car.

Besides, he was right. She was entirely at his mercy. If he didn’t help her out of the car she’d be stuck there with him all evening. Or, more accurately, he’d be stuck with her.

Oh, the temptation…

Dismissing the idea as unworthy-and because she was already late-she said, ‘Okay, Doc, you win.’

‘Ben,’ he said. ‘Just…Ben.’

‘Ben. Nine, then. At the library.’

Satisfied, he eased her from the car and saw her safely up the steps and inside the Assembly Rooms. It was only then that she allowed herself a self-satisfied little grin. First objective achieved. He’d asked her to call him Ben.

Her next target was a smile. Entirely for his own good, naturally…

ELLIE’S pleasure was short-lived. The reception was noisy, crowded, and went on well beyond eight. By the time she’d helped clear up and got to the library it was nearly nine, and most of the members had already decamped to the pub.

Diana Sutton, the group’s secretary, who was already locking up, was sympathetic. ‘Bad luck. Never mind, come and have a drink. We’re celebrating. Gary’s sold a short story and Lucy’s sold an article to Women’s World . The one she wrote when we did that magazine exercise.’

‘Really? That’s brilliant news!’

‘Did you ever do anything for Milady ?’

Ellie, who’d had to force her excitement through an unexpectedly large lump in her throat, found herself floundering. She’d written her journal to prove to everyone that she could do anything she set her mind to, but, having succeeded with it beyond her wildest dreams, it was the one thing she couldn’t brag about.

What, she wondered, was the point of belonging to a support group, with people who sympathised with your rejections, cheered at your successes, if you weren’t totally engaged? Honest.

These were her friends…

‘No? Well, it was a bit of a joke,’ Diana said, taking her silence as a no and rescuing her from having to admit that she was a failure.

Sean’s friends.

He was the one who’d written poetry. This had been his scene. She’d gone along because that was what they did. Sean-and-Ellie. Ellie-and-Sean. Started writing her historical romance because-well, she’d had to do something. No one, least of all Sean, had ever taken it seriously…

‘I’m sorry,’ Diana said, to someone who’d followed her in. ‘The library is closed. Late night is tomorrow.’

‘Thanks, but I’ve just come to pick up Ellie.’

Ellie half turned, happier to see Ben Faulkner than she would have believed possible a couple of hours ago. There was no way she could sit in the pub with these people tonight and not feel a complete fraud.