He walked inside the hall; his old Wellingtons were still there, stashed in the boot room, and on the grey stone walls, the pictures of his ancestors hung over a jar of some slightly faded chrysanthemums, but that was because Mrs. O’Connor was thrifty. It was familiar and welcoming. Hugh made his way to the drawing room; it had a fine view of the copse of oak trees down by the stream that bisected his grounds, a good fishing spot, with trout in the deeper places. There was indeed a fire blazing against the slight chill outside, and he settled in his old burgundy leather armchair and waited.

Sophie came down ten minutes later, after Roberts, his ancient butler, had brought out the tea. She was wearing a beautiful dress of raspberry silk with three-quarter sleeves, adorned with a whimsical Massot brooch: a strawberry, glittering in clusters of ruby and pink tourmaline, with grass green leaves of tsavorite garnet; he loved it. Her feet were now encased in supple black leather heels, Christian Louboutin, he thought, and she had a plain gold cuff around her left wrist. Her beautiful hair was loose around her shoulders, and she had freshened her makeup with a tiny hint of bronzer on the cheeks; she looked warm, like the fire.

“That looks wonderful.” She indicated the tea tray.

“Doesn’t it? I think they pushed the boat out. But then, I did call ahead.”

“Shall I pour?”

He nodded. “Black, no sugar.”

Sophie added a little milk to her cup and one spoonful of sugar. Hugh watched every gesture, drinking it in—the curve of her wrist, the gold glinting on it, the graceful arch of her back.

“I wasn’t hungry, but I am now,” she said.

The tray was groaning. There was the traditional tiered platter of small pastries, a substantial plate of fruitcake, some hot crumbly homemade scones with rich golden clotted cream, jam from the wild strawberries on the estate, and thin-cut sandwiches—slices of roast beef and horseradish, smoked salmon on brown bread, and Mrs. O’Connor’s favourite chicken with rocket and mustard.

Hugh took a scone; Sophie took several sandwiches, handed him his tea, and unapologetically demolished them. He loved her for it; this was incredible—she had no awkwardness, none at all. She seemed as natural in his home as the ivy curling around the battlements, and she made him comfortable—

Well, perhaps that was the wrong word. The line of her neck, the gentle swell of her breasts under the dress, the trim waist, the cool eyes—he found her homely, but breathtakingly excitable. He cast around for something to say. This was really very unusual. It was always women who were nervous near him, and not the other way around.

“Lapsang—my favourite,” she said.

“Almost the only tea worth drinking. But Sophie, I forgot, I was to give you the tour before tea.”