Chapters (43)
- An Unsuitable Woman
- Praise for An Unsuitable Woman:
- Dedication
- Part One
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Part Two
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- Chapter Twenty-One
- Chapter Twenty-Two
- Chapter Twenty-Three
- Chapter Twenty-Four
- Part Three
- Chapter Twenty-Five
- Chapter Twenty-Six
- Chapter Twenty-Seven
- Chapter Twenty-Eight
- Chapter Twenty-Nine
- Chapter Thirty
- Chapter Thirty-One
- Chapter Thirty-Two
- Historical Note
- Acknowledgements
- About the Author
- Also by Kat Gordon
- About the Publisher
‘Lucky for him.’
‘I wonder what he’s trying to prove.’
‘He quoted Andrew Marvell at me.’
‘That still sounds like him, thank God.’
She laughed suddenly; the lowness of it, the catch in her voice travelled up through my body and I reached out impulsively and brought her hand, palm upwards, to my mouth to kiss. I felt her pulse underneath my lips and my own pulse quickened in sympathy.
‘Why don’t we live out here?’ I said. ‘Just the two of us.’
She closed her eyes fully. ‘That would be nice. What would we eat?’
‘The ducks.’
‘And drink?’
‘Whisky,’ I said. ‘We’d tie barrels of it to the hull.’
‘You’ve thought this through.’
‘I’ve dreamed it often enough.’
She laughed. ‘Tell me about your lady friend.’
‘She’s very pretty.’
‘Of course she is. Anything else?’
‘Very sweet.’
‘Would you take her to a Kirlton party, if they still existed?’
I smiled. ‘If she was American, she’d play the ukulele.’
‘I see.’ She smiled too, and I wondered how she always understood me completely. ‘Bring her around for lunch next weekend. We’ll have duck, since you seem so fond of it.’
‘It’s a date.’
She opened her eyes. ‘You know, I’m looking forward to seeing Freddie. Has he changed much?’
‘Not at all. He’s got a chimp called Jules who he taught to smoke. Maybe if you bring Samson back from Paris they can be friends.’
‘Samson’s dead,’ she said flatly.
‘Oh.’ I thought of the ball of fluff he’d been, bounding through the house and tripping up the servants, then the loping adolescent, fearless and friendly, quizzical when guests ran screaming from him. I saw him again pacing Nicolas’s room when he was ill, his big brown eyes worried and protective, and felt a pang of real loss. ‘How –’
‘I can’t talk about it.’ She looked at her silver wristwatch. ‘We should row back.’
The sun was behind the mountains when we arrived, but the pool was gleaming in the light from lanterns strung up on surrounding olive trees. To the right, I could make out the gleaming white walls of the gazebo that overlooked the jetty, and at the bottom of the lawn, I heard splashes and grunting coming from the lake. The hippos were out.