Her Foreign Affair (31 page)

“A butler?” Courtney regarded him with raised brow.

“Household manager.” Court shrugged and poured his own cup. “Okay, butler. Though he reminds me of the other title often enough.”

“A regular country gent, aren’t you, Da—uh, Father?”

“If you’re more comfortable, you may call me Court,” he told her. “It’s how we were introduced.”

“No, you were introduced as Mr. Robinson.”

With a grunt, Court sat with his cup and saucer in hand, Earl Grey straight up as Courtney had said. Since spending time with Randi, he’d cut back on the sugar and even the cream in his coffee and tea. “Take your pick, Father, Court, Da, or some other nickname if you like. It can be just between the two of us. Something with meaning to you. Whatever you feel comfortable with.”

“Wyatt was always Dad or Daddy.”

“Then you should continue to refer to him as such. He was your dad, Birdie.”

A raised brow reminded Court of her mother. “I suppose it goes two ways, eh?”

“Birdie suits you, but I’ll try to remember if it means so much to you.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Utterly exhausted, she melted against the back of her chair. “I’m not sure who I am, so what does a name matter in the scheme of things?”

“You know who you are. That hasn’t changed. The only difference is the picture has expanded. But the core, the heart of who you are, hasn’t changed.”

“Nothing’s the same.” Birdie considered him through tired eyes, and Court wanted to pick her up and cuddle her on his lap, as he would have done from the day of her birth if given the chance.

“Yes, it is. You just added a new branch to the family tree is all. Sort of like grafting a new variety of apple on to an existing tree. Granny Smith on one side, Golden Delicious on the other. Or maybe it would be Granny Smith and crabapple. Still talking apples, just a little wider variety.” Ah, finally, a smile out of her.

“You being the Golden Delicious, my mom’s branch being the crabapple.” Birdie set down her empty cup and saucer on the trolley and helped herself to a refill. “I shouldn’t have dropped in like this. Sounds like you have…family coming for the holidays.”

“We do. My mother, who happens to be your grandmother, is coming home from the hospital in a couple hours. You may go with me to pick her up if you like. Drew—”

“Hospital?” Mindful of the cup in her hand, she sat up. “Is it serious?”

“A fall down the stairs while I was in New York. She had a hip replacement, and they’re finally kicking her out of rehabilitation today. They tell me she’s recovered remarkably. Personally, I think they’ve had enough of her bossy ways.” Just in time for him to suffer her mood through Christmas. Lovely.

“Does she…will she…?”

“She knows about you, but obviously she doesn’t know you’re here.” He smiled gently. Maybe it would be best if Birdie didn’t go along to pick her up. Old Mum wasn’t so happy about a bastard American granddaughter. One more reason he intended to stay as far away from the converted parlor as possible for the next few weeks.

“Anyhow, as I was saying, Drew comes home tomorrow. Later today my sister, your Aunt Liza, and her husband, your Uncle Albert—no Prince Albert jokes allowed—and their children will arrive. Bryon and Jamie are four or five years younger than you and Drew.”

“Prince Albert jokes? Oh, you mean like Prince Albert in a can.”

“Got it in one. Over-played to death.”

“Yeah, Grandpa still tries them out from time to time. Yeah, okay.”

“Anyhow, you’ll get to meet the bushel full and then decide for yourself which branch belongs to the crabapple variety.”

“Do they…” Birdie’s eyes cut away from him and she pretended to study the painting over the mantel. A rather stiff oil portrait of his parents in their wedding finery.

“Yes, they all know about you. I’m sorry to say that without meeting you, they’re mixed on their opinions. Liza wanted to fly off and meet you immediately, but your grandmother, well, she’s not quite as thrilled.”

“I heard my mother’s side. Now I want to hear yours,” Birdie demanded.

“All right, but I get to do this my way, so there will be a bit of repeat, just from a different angle. Allow me a small indulgence, if you would.”

Birdie nodded and settled back in her chair, tea cup and saucer in hand. Court rolled his head and cleared his throat, then stood and assumed his speaking position.

“Once upon a time, there was a boy, who—due to the neighboring estate and the daughter of said estate—was raised knowing he didn’t ever have to play the dating game. While in many ways he considered this something of a relief, he also found it a bit of a disappointment. Took some of the sport out of life, but that’s neither here nor there at the moment.”

Birdie sat still and appeared to listen closely.

“Well, the boy and the girl grew up, went off to separate colleges, but kept in touch by way of regular family gatherings for holidays, weekend events, etc.” Court waved a hand. “One Valentine’s, they met up for a rare date and drank a little too much ale, an early celebration of the end of the boy’s degree program. They’d sort of broken up over the previous break, but meant this date as a means to get things back on track. See, the parents had never accepted the break-up as real, so the wedding plans were still underway.”

Court peeked at his daughter to see if she was still awake—she was—and he continued plowing on with the tale.

“Well, the date didn’t go so well. In fact, it went so bloody awfully wrong, the girl kicked the boy out of her room and told him to never come back.”

Birdie’s eyes widened a little, and he gave her a sheepish smile before letting a grimace take over.

“Let me tell you, the considerable damage done to the male’s ego, well, such damage can be quite traumatic. After all, he’d had some, er, practice and had been complimented most highly on his, ahem, style.”

An unusual flush of heat crept up his neck. Perhaps this was a little too personal, but oh so key to the actions that followed. He began to slowly pace before the fire.

“Anyhow, the boy slunk back off to university, determined to get through his thesis and exams and never touch another woman again. The risk of additional humiliation was just too great. Once he completed his business degree, he was determined to convert to Catholicism and enter a monastic priesthood.”

That earned him a tiny smile, and Birdie seemed to ease a bit.

“So, with this goal in mind, the campus library became the boy’s new home. Night and day, he camped out at one certain table in the deepest, darkest uninhabited corner of the library. The history section was so dull, even the librarians avoided it to the fullest extent they could. One day, as usual, the boy headed for his table, carrying a stack of books right up to his chin, so he couldn’t see the floor. He’d trod this path countless times before and knew each step of the way so well he could navigate it blind. No one ever visited his corner of the library.”

Certainly, he was overdoing the drama, but she’d asked for his side of the story, and he’d do it his way.

“Well, foolish boy that he was, his arrogance was his downfall. Literally. One moment he strode along between the shelves, traversing a particularly boring section, somewhere about the Dark Ages, the next he was sprawled on his face with books and papers scattered everywhere. Before he could say Christopher Robin, a sweet, feminine voice with an adorable accent began chirping at him.” Court paused his pacing to smile as he slipped into a falsetto voice. “‘Ohmigod, Ohmigod,’ she exclaimed. ‘Are you all right? Are you okay? Do I need to get the paramedics? Did you break anything? Should I call for help?’” Dropping the poor imitation, he continued, “The cheeky little darling crawled right up on him, took his face in her hands, and he swore he’d gone to heaven, because he’d never seen such beauty in a mere mortal.”

Caught up in the past, Court stared at the library shelves and dropped deeper into the memory, wondering if Randi remembered as well as he did. The musty smell of old books, the sweet sexy scent of charming young woman, and those eyes. They hadn’t seemed real to him, so deep and clear a green it seemed as if dappled sunlight had lit her eyes from within.

“Green, green eyes, soft ivory skin dusted with freckles, hair shining like spun gold tinged with red…”

Birdie cleared her throat, breaking the moment, and Court looked away. Restless, he rolled his head a few times, then resumed his slow pacing, hands clasped behind his back. “She helped me pick up the papers and the books and carry them to my corner. She absolutely captivated me, but of course, I had sworn off females, so I tried to be distant. The cool, aloof, remote Brit to her California sunshine and American brazenness.”

He peeked at Birdie’s face and found she still appeared captivated.

“We stopped at the pub after studying that evening. Studying.” He snorted. “I’d spent the session studying the way her eyes twinkled and trying to figure out just what she smelled like. Roses, but not just any roses. There was something more at odds with the puffed up hair, the heavy makeup, and the pile of clanking bracelets on her wrists. Remember, this was the era of punk, new age, new wave, big hair bands, and Madonna was teaching the world to wear lingerie on the outside. But I have to tell you, Madonna never looked as good as”—Court glanced at Birdie—“your mum did—does.”

Birdie rolled her eyes and made a sound of disgust.

Court stopped pacing to shake a finger at her. “Don’t discount the fashion. Guys loved it. Anyway, I ended up half carrying her home to my flat. She couldn’t, or wouldn’t, give me clear enough directions to find hers.”

With a wave of a hand, he resumed pacing. “The point being, in a very short while, the boy and girl fell madly in love. So much so, that before he knew it, the boy had thrown away his vows of celibacy. The girl made him whole and, well, there’s never been a more beautiful moment since the beginning of time. Chorus upon chorus of angels sang, the earth moved, stars fell to Earth, and every firework in China filled the sky.”

A quick glance at Birdie showed her looking somewhat spellbound. Or were her eyes glazed with jetlag?

“Anyhow, they didn’t have much time together. She had a ticket to return home in late May. In fact, her flight departed at the very hour the boy had to be at a very important reception. Their last week together marred only by a small case of the flu on the part of the girl. There weren’t enough crumpets or pots of Earl Grey to ease her tummy, but they spent as much time together as possible.”

Together. There was a word. Yes, they’d been together, as in joined, almost as many hours as they’d spent sleeping off their exertions. Oh yeah, he’d happily relive that week. Had tried to in New York…with rather mixed results. He shook off the thought and continued with his story.

“Their last day, the boy kissed her goodbye, and slipped from her flat just as the sun was rising on a glorious morning in May. There’d never been a more perfect day. The sky was a cloudless blue, still cool and fresh with all the promise of spring—which in itself is very unlike London—the trees bursting out in flower, the birds sang their little hearts out, colorful posies lined every scrubbed and gleaming walkway. The only blight was the heavy heart he carried away with him. He was walking away from the one girl he knew he’d love forever. The woman who had given him back his dignity, rescued his abused manhood and made him strong.”

“You really loved her back then?” Birdie asked quietly.

“I really did. Still do. So…” Court continued as if she hadn’t interrupted, sparing only a wink. “The boy made a stop by a travel agency on the way back to his flat and bought a ticket for America, one for first thing the next morning. He’d only be twelve hours behind instead of the year they’d discussed. Wouldn’t she be surprised? With great anticipation he headed back to his flat, thinking to pack up before dressing for the important reception. Big deal, couldn’t be skipped, otherwise he’d have bought a ticket on her flight.”

Court stopped pacing and stared at the floor for a moment. “The thing is… He got a surprise—or three—that day.”

He looked at his daughter, knowing the story already dragged on, trying to sort out the necessary information. He drew in a deep breath, rubbed his face with both hands, released his breath on a gusty exhale, and started moving again. “When I returned to my room, Beatrice, my ex-fiancé, was waiting for me.

“I’d forgotten to get my flat key back from her, so she’d used it to let herself in. That is to say she let in herself, her parents, and my parents. Before I could say one word, she flat out announced she was pregnant. Therefore, the wedding plans were on again, only on a smaller scale. The church and minister were set aside for the following week, and we’d just make do the best we could. By the way, our parents were pleased to hear about the plans being on again. A fact I couldn’t dispute as they were sitting there, all of them nodding like those bobble head things.”

Court stopped pacing at the frost covered window and looked out at only his memories.

“Of course, I didn’t agree right off,” he continued. “After all, a child out of wedlock wasn’t the travesty of a hundred years earlier.”

Grimacing at the painful memory, Court turned again, avoiding Birdie’s eyes. “I told them of Randi, and my plans to go and get her back. Even if it meant staying in California for a year while she finished her degree, I’d chosen in favor of true love. Well, we both know how that fight ended.” He resumed his pacing. “Both families presented logical arguments, and I was reminded of my obligation, not only to Beatrice, but to the business merger already taking place.

“So, we dressed for the reception, and with a fuming Beatrice on my arm, we arrived in style. I had a goal in mind to get royally plastered, blind, stinking drunk so I wouldn’t watch the clock and imagine each step of Jean’s journey away from London. At four thirty, she’d load her luggage into a cab. By five thirty, she’d have been at Heathrow and checking in. See, we’d planned her exit journey so I’d know where she was at each painful moment. I was determined to torture myself to the fullest extent possible. And it was torture. At seven, when her plane would have been pulling away from the concourse, I stood before Danielle Richards from personnel, telling her of my new future, hoping she wouldn’t ask about your mother. I’d been recently informed her name would never be uttered again, and to have Danielle ask about her would have been a horror beyond imagining.”