The Promise of Change (8 page)

“Some escort you are. You’ve left me to fend for myself all evening,” Lady Clara chided her grandson.

He leaned in to kiss her cheek. “Yes, Grandmother, but if anyone can fend for herself, it would be you.” He smiled down into his grandmother’s beaming face. “You’d have Henry VIII himself wrapped around your finger in a moment.”

“You’re a good grandson.” She reached up to pat his cheek as she said it.

Sarah tensed. Would he make reference to their meeting the other night?

“May I introduce Sarah Edwards? Sarah was one of my classmates this week.” Lady Clara turned to her. “Sarah, this is my grandson, Alexander Fraser, the Ninth Earl of Rutherford.”

“How do you do?” He took her hand, never taking his eyes off her face.

Sarah smiled tentatively.

He couldn’t resist. “You look familiar.” Her hand tensed in his. “But then again, if I had met you, I’d have remembered eyes as lovely as yours.” Her hand relaxed a little, but there was a spark of fire in those green eyes.

She pulled her hand from his, with the memory of their warmth uppermost in her mind. Was he being considerate, she wondered, or worse, did he actually not remember meeting her?

Lady Clara’s eyes sparkled mischievously as she looked between the two of them. “Ah, there’s Mrs. Talbot. I must have a word with her. Will you excuse me?” She strode off before either of them could object.

“So, we meet again,” Alex whispered conspiratorially.

His breath tickled Sarah’s face, suffusing her cheeks with warmth, and raising another blush.

“I thought—”

“I know, you wondered if I’d actually forgotten you.” He took her now-empty wineglass which she turned nervously in her hands and placed it on the table behind her. “The answer to that is of course no. But my grandmother told me of your visit to Rutherford, and I gathered from that conversation that you did not reveal our previous meeting.” He tilted his head. “I wondered why that was.”

With nothing left to fidget with, she folded her hands in front of her. “Because I didn’t want to tell your grandmother what a liar you are.”

“A liar?” He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“You told me you were an actor.”

“No, you asked me if I was an actor.”

“So that makes lying about it all right? Did you lie about accidentally bumping into me, too?” Her ire was up. How dare he play semantics with her, as if that excused his dishonesty.

“No. I can assure you the collision was accidental. If I’d set my sights on meeting you, I wouldn’t have resorted to dousing you with beer. I would simply have introduced myself.” The corner of his mouth lifted in a slight grin. “As to the bit about being a liar, I can assure that I am not. I am an actor.” He turned to indicate Lady Clara’s approach. “You can ask my grandmother if you wish.”

“Ask me what?” Lady Clara asked as she rejoined them.

“Sarah expressed an interest in my acting.” Alex said, eyebrow arched in Sarah’s direction.

“Ah, his acting.” Lady Clara waved her hand as if the subject were a disagreeable fly she was shooing away.

“Grandmother doesn’t approve.” He observed Sarah’s chagrinned expression and the pretty blush that accompanied it. He must remember to make her blush regularly and often.

“It isn’t that I don’t approve of acting. I think it a noble profession. Look at Sir Laurence Olivier and Dame Judi Dench. I just disapprove of my grandson, the Earl, acting.”

Lady Clara turned to Sarah. “That isn’t to say he’s not good. I think him quite good. But you can judge for yourself. When you return to the States, you should get the BBC videos and watch them at your leisure. I’m sure they are available on DVD.”

Taking a sip of his wine, Alex asked, “When do you return to the States . . . which state, by the way?”

“I return to Florida the end of next week.” She found herself wishing again for a wine glass, something to hold so she knew what to do with her hands.

“How will you be spending the remainder of your holiday now that your classes are over?” he asked with great interest.

Before she could answer, Lady Clara interjected, “She is planning to tour Oxfordshire and the Cotswolds–all
alone.”

Sarah blushed again; nothing obvious about that response.

“Did you hire a car?” he inquired, again enjoying the pink in her cheeks.

“No, I took the train from London.”

“How did you plan to tour the countryside and take advantage of all it offers without a car?”

“I planned on one of the touring companies.”

“That’s no way to see the Cotswolds,” he said, shaking his head in mock horror. “If I’m not being too presumptuous, may I offer my services as a tour guide for the week?” he replied. “After all, we are no longer strangers,” he added with a subtle grin.

Before Sarah could respond, Lady Clara declared, “Oh, I’m sure she would enjoy your company! Wouldn’t you, my dear?”

“Um, thank you. Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to impose.” Sarah looked down trying to hide her embarrassment over Lady Clara’s transparent matchmaking.

“It would be my pleasure,” he replied warmly. “Where are you lodging after tonight?”

“The Old Parsonage on Banbury Road.”

“Ah, yes. Very nice hotel. May I call you there tomorrow?”

“Oh, yes. Or you could call my cell phone, or my mobile as you call it, in case I’m not in my room.”

“Even better.”

After providing him with her cell phone number, Sarah realized that the room was nearly empty, except for the staff who clearly hoped they would leave so they could clean up. Apparently they’d overstayed their welcome. Although she was now reluctant to leave, she indicated that perhaps the evening was at an end.

As they walked out of the Buttery, Alex offered to walk Sarah back to her dorm.

Wow! Talk about a flashback to college. She felt like she was nineteen again, and Dan Acosta had asked her the same thing. With one glaring difference: Dan had not been an Earl.

When she said good night to Lady Clara, the Countess grinned broadly. “My dear, I will be in touch in a day or two regarding our planned lunch date.”

They’d already planned to meet for lunch while Sarah remained in Oxford, but now she clearly had another motive for their lunch date. Lady Clara was worse than a teenager, but that’s what Sarah loved about her.

Alex and Sarah descended the stairs and stepped out into the cool evening. She wrapped her pashmina tighter around her shoulders, prompting Alex to offer his jacket.

“No, thank you,” she replied. “It was just the sudden difference in temperature. I’m fine.” She realized that it had been rather warm in the Buttery. Or perhaps the warmth was in response to Alex.

It was a beautiful night. The stars were visible, the air perfumed and gentle. She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the night air, thinking how it was vastly different from the climate in Florida this time of year, where you had to wring out the air in order to take a deep breath.

“Where is your dorm?”

Alex’s voice gently pulled Sarah back from her thoughts. “Not far. I’m in Meadow five.”

They turned and walked slowly in that direction. The resonant tolling of Great Tom punctuated the quiet. The seven ton bell housed in Tom Tower rang one-hundred-one times each night at five-after-nine in honor of the original scholars of Christ Church College.

“What am I to call you? Lord Rutherford?” A little embarrassed by her question, she half expected him to laugh.

“You may call me Your Lordship,” he returned in his haughtiest voice, his tone dead serious.

Sarah turned to him appalled, eyes flashing.

“I’m only teasing.”

He chuckled, a warm, melodic laugh that went straight to her head like a shot of whiskey, making her woozy.

“Please call me Alex.”

“Oh.” Astonishment turned to embarrassment once more. She seemed destined to make herself look foolish in front of him. “Alex, I owe you an apology for calling you a liar and assuming the worst.”

“Apology accepted.”

They walked very slowly, meandering through the vaulted corridors, taking the long way to the Meadow Building.

“But why did you focus only on your acting?”

“I’d rather be known for something I’ve worked to accomplish, rather than a fate of birth. Besides, if I’d told you I was an Earl, would you have believed me?” he asked, his expression dubious.

Sarah laughed good-naturedly. “I suppose not.” A breath or two later, she asked, “Do you think that means I have deep-seated trust issues that have only now come to light?”

He laughed, deep and rich. “Perhaps it means you have a healthy mistrust of strangers in pubs who bump into you, clumsily sloshing beer on you, before asking you out on a date.”

“I’ve seen that technique work before.”

“Have you?”

“Not on myself of course,” she said rather primly, although with a slight smile, “but certainly on other women. It even has a name: the Bump and Spill. It’s patented.”

“Hmmm. And I thought I’d invented it. Just goes to show there’s nothing new under the sun.”

The gravel crunched under their feet, signaling their arrival at her dormitory courtyard.

“How—”

“When—”

They both spoke at the same time.

“Go ahead—” Sarah said, a little flustered.

“Ladies first.”

“I saw you speaking with Trevor Byrne, my tutor, how do you know him?”

A smile flickered at the corners of his mouth. “Trevor and I shared a dorm in Peckwater Seven, where I believe your class meets.”

So, he was a Christ Church man. Not surprising.

“You were going to ask a question . . .”

“Did you find your experience worthwhile?”

“Oh, yes. I’d like to return next year, but, of course, my job and economics will dictate that.”

There was another pause in the conversation.

“When did you arrive? Did you spend time elsewhere before your classes started?”

“No. I arrived early to spend a day in London, but that was all.”

They’d arrived at the entrance to her dorm. “Here we are,” she said inanely as she turned to face him, her hands clasped nervously behind her back.

“Yes, well, goodnight.” He hesitated, as if unsure what to do next. He leaned forward, as if to kiss her, but then stepped back. “I’ll ring you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight.”

She watched as he turned and wandered slowly in the direction of Tom Quad, hands tucked casually in his pockets.

She sighed, punched in her door code, and slowly climbed the five flights of stairs to her room.

Well, that was certainly an interesting evening. She wasn’t sure what she thought of Alex Fraser, Lord Rutherford, not to mention Lady Clara’s overt matchmaking. But one thing was for sure, the week ahead was definitely looking up. She pulled out the week’s carefully planned itinerary and balled it up, tossing it into the wastebasket.

That simple act was rather liberating.

After checking into her room in the Old Parsonage, Sarah noticed she had a message on her cell phone. Anxious to see if it was Alex, she checked the minute the bellman left.

She groaned a bit in frustration. The first message was from Becca, not that she wasn’t happy to hear from her, but it wasn’t the message she’d hoped for. The next was from Alex.

“Good morning, Sarah, this is Alex. Unfortunately, I had a change of plans.” Instant disappointment. “I had to return to London to take care of some business. But, if you are available for dinner, I will be back in time. How does seven at the Old Parsonage sound? Ring me on my mobile and let me know, although you may have to leave a message. I hope to see you tonight.”

She slumped down on the bed. Okay, well, at least he hadn’t cancelled completely like she’d initially thought, although the potential was still there if his business took longer than expected. She would wait a bit and then call him. Why make him think she’s sitting around anxiously awaiting his call?

She unpacked and settled into her room for the week. It was a lovely room, bright and sunny, furnished in an eclectic mix of modern and antique furniture, upholstered in soothing tans and whites with punches of grape-colored accents. Two wing-back chairs sat in front of a small fireplace that likely wouldn’t find much use this time of year.

That task completed, she plopped down on the bed again, crossing her legs, and texted Becca and Ann that things were going well, classes were over, and that she looked forward to the remaining week to tour Oxford and its environs. She didn’t mention Alex. No need to stir anything up. She sent them love and kisses and a promise to update them soon.

Well, she sighed, what to do with myself now? Although she’d planned from the very beginning to vacation alone, after making plans to spend the day with Alex, she found herself at loose ends with the loss of his company. And since she recklessly tossed out her itinerary, she’d have to make it up as she went along.

She went to the desk and, opening her journal, concluded her musings on her Oxford experience. So far, she’d managed to keep her promise to herself to write every day.

Task completed and promise kept, the sunny day called her outdoors. A walk along Oxford’s busy streets would provide an excellent afternoon diversion.

She dressed carefully that evening, choosing a pair of black slacks and a silk blouse in rich emerald green. Pulling the front of her hair back, she let the rest fall loose. Even with all the care she took with her appearance, she didn’t want to look as if she’d tried too hard.

After anxiously checking her appearance in a hall mirror, she descended the stairs into the lobby, thinking she was a bit early, but Alex stood by the desk chatting amiably with the clerk. He certainly defied all previous notions on the behavior of British aristocracy.

Alex saw her out of the corner of his eye, and turned in her direction.

She blushed under his appreciative gaze. His smile broadened as he walked over to greet her.

“Hello, Sarah. You look lovely.”

Hearing her name in that charming British lilt made her melt inside. What is it about that accent? His hair was tousled the way she remembered it from their first encounter, with a dark brown lock falling across his forehead. He wore charcoal gray slacks, a white shirt open at the neck, and a blue blazer, looking like he’d just stepped out of an ad for Ralph Lauren.

“Hi, Alex,” She breathed, sounding like a lovesick schoolgirl. Get a grip, she admonished herself.

“Shall we?” He took her elbow and escorted her toward the inn’s walled garden. The scent of her perfume rivaled that of the flowers growing there.

The hostess greeted them enthusiastically, although Sarah thought the enthusiasm was directed more at Alex than at her. Adrian used to get the same adoration from women, but his response to it was quite different. Where Alex was humble and a bit bemused by it, Adrian almost expected it.

Giving herself a mental shake, she wondered why she’d compared him to Adrian. Comparisons were always unfair to all parties involved.

The hostess was clearly a little star struck. With just the briefest glance in Sarah’s direction, she said, “Lord Rutherford, I just loved you in
Mansfield Park.”
She hesitated and then asked
, “
Could I have your autograph?”

He willingly obliged her. After she left with her prize, he turned back to Sarah. “Sorry about that.”

“Oh, it’s no problem,” she said, opening her menu. “Does that happen often?” She lifted a brow in question.

“A little more often with the release of each film. I am surprised, and pleased that young women are watching and enjoying film adaptations of great works of literature. It’s an encouraging sign.”

She smiled. He apparently had no idea that they were watching and enjoying him, not necessarily the great works of literature. How many young women, her nieces included, never gave a second thought to Jane Austen until seeing Colin Firth as Darcy?

The waiter came over and took their drink orders, and their conversation stopped while they perused the menu.

“What did you do today?” he asked after making his choice and setting aside his menu.

“I wandered the streets of Oxford like the tourist I am. First, I visited the Ashmolean Museum then, Carfax Tower. After that, I walked up High Street to Queen’s Lane and took photographs of the gardens and the New College gargoyles, and of course, the Bridge of Sighs, and from there I walked to the Bodleian Library, finally stopping for tea at the Randolph before returning to the hotel.”

“Hmm, you’ve had a very busy day, and it sounds like you made the most of it.”

“I try to get my money’s worth from my vacations,” she said with a self-conscious shrug.

The waiter brought a basket of bread to the table. Suddenly, she was famished. She’d skipped lunch, and although she did stop for tea, the teacakes hadn’t lasted long. Trying not to pounce on the bread basket like a fox on a hare, she delicately selected a soft roll.

Remembering part of Alex’s conversation with Mick, she asked, “Did I understand correctly that you were undertaking the role of Fitzwilliam Darcy in your latest film? Is it based on Pamela Aidan’s trilogy?”

“Yes, you are correct on both counts, which is a convenient segue into my apology for abandoning you today. I had to return to London for a final costume fitting before filming begins. Will you please accept my apology for this abominable treatment, and allow me to make it up to you?”

“I don’t know . . . I suppose if I must, but I warn you, it will take a great deal to make up for your un-chivalrous behavior,” she bantered with feigned disapproval.
Don’t look now, but she was flirting outrageously with a member of the British Peerage.

“Well, I shall endeavor to behave in a more gentleman-like manner.”

They both laughed at his clever use of Jane Austen.

“I take it that you have read Aidan’s trilogy?” he asked, returning to their previous conversation.

“Yes. I really enjoyed reading it. Reading Aidan is like reading Austen. She captures Austen’s style with impeccable accuracy.”

“I agree. I was impressed with the books from the moment I read them, and writing the middle book,
Duty and Desire
, as a gothic novel was a stroke of genius on her part. That’s why I decided to produce it.”

“You’re producing it? That’s impressive.”

“Or daft,” he said with a frown. “I haven’t figured out which yet.”

“So . . . Darcy . . . one of literature’s most beloved characters,” she said with raised eyebrows.

“Yes . . . no pressure there, especially following Colin Firth’s definitive Darcy,” he replied with self-deprecating humor. “But there is nothing more I love than a challenge,”—his look seemed to imply he wasn’t just talking about the role of Darcy—“and next to Rochester, Darcy, is the character I would most like to tackle.”

Taking hold of a rare opportunity to discuss literature, she jumped in with both feet. Adrian had never been interested, and made no pretentions about it, and while Ann and Becca patiently sat through her mini-dissertations on this novel or that character, it was only out of love for her.

Finding someone with a passion for literature that apparently matched her own was like hearing someone who spoke English in the midst of a crowd of Chinese. Finally someone spoke her language.

“I can certainly understand the desire to play a character with such depth and complexity as Darcy, but I’m not certain about Mr. Rochester.”

“Darcy is not without his flaws. He is brooding, introspective, and moody. And, of course, his major flaw, his pride, exposed so eloquently by Elizabeth, and of course in the title of the book, makes him the subject of disdain among those in Meryton. But, he does redeem himself, most nobly in the end, and the reader falls in love with him much the same as Elizabeth.”

She looked up to see if he was paying attention, or if her ramblings had begun to bore him. He appeared interested anyway.

He enjoyed the way her brow furrowed when she paused to think, and the passion and insight she applied to her topic. The combination of her sharp intelligence and her subtle diffidence delighted him. He longed to push past her reserve and ignite the passion she concealed just below the surface.

“Mr. Rochester, on the other hand, well, I’m not sure I can find anything in him to admire. While he is rather complex, he has, to my mind, no redeeming qualities. His deceitful attempt to enter into a bigamous marriage with Jane is outrageous, especially when he professes to love her so.”

He grinned at her conclusion.

“I’m sorry.” She blushed. “I get on a tangent sometimes.”

“No. I quite enjoyed your tangent, and will respond with one of my own.” These days, blushing women were as rare as the Queen’s smile. It intrigued him.

Taking a sip of his wine, he continued. “It is precisely Rochester’s complexity that makes his portrayal a worthy endeavor. He is the archetypal Byronic hero. Flawed, to be sure, but then aren’t we all? His flaws tend to the darker side of literary heroes, but that only serves to add depth to his character. He is moody, arrogant, and self-destructive, and his social and sexual dominance both repel and attract the reader.”

“No, I would very much enjoy delving into the intricacies of his personality.” His eyes were alight with excitement over the thought.

“Hmm,” she said, her chin in her hand, “you’ve devoted a great deal to the study of his character. I wonder, are your daily observations of human behavior that thorough?”

He held her eyes for a few seconds and then looked down as the waiter returned with their salads.

“Yes.” He looked up, his brown-black eyes capturing hers. “And now it is time to begin my study of you.”

The heat rose to her cheeks. That one statement felt like a caress. Until then, she’d never felt that depth of interest from another human being. It was a little disconcerting, as if he intended to reach the darkest depths of her soul.

“Tell me about yourself . . . I’ve learned that you’re a lawyer.” At her frown, he added, “Okay, an unemployed lawyer, and that you have a literature degree. Do have family back in the States?”

After taking a sip of her wine, she replied, “Well, I have a sister, Rebecca, or Becca as her friends and family call her. She is four years older and doesn’t look a thing like me.”

“Really?” he interjected. “How so?”

“She’s blond with light brown eyes, and her hair is straight as a board. She’s a bit taller than I am, and more athletically built. She’s a surfer chick.” She smiled indulgently. Even at forty-two, she still looked like she was eighteen.

“And the two of you are very close.”

“Yes, does it show?” she asked, her brows arched in surprise. Perceptive. She mentally added that to his other superlative qualities, along with intelligent, handsome, funny, charming, polished, well-read . . . and did she say handsome?

“I can see it on your face when you talk about her. I’m a devoted observer of human behavior, remember?” He tilted his head. “Do you have any other family?”

“I have twin nieces, who are as beautiful as their mother, and who are currently home from college for the summer, my brother-in-law, Mark, who’s a great guy, and my father, whom we affectionately call the Admiral–he’s retired Navy. My mother passed away last year.”

“I’m very sorry,” he interjected with sincerity.

“Thank you. Being in the world without your mother is a very lonely feeling. You feel somewhat adrift without her to anchor you to your family, your history . . . I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m rambling on about that.” She looked down, embarrassed.

“No, you’re not rambling.” He leaned across the table. “I’m very interested. I know how difficult it was when I lost my father.”

The waiter came to take their salad plates away.

“Lady Clara told me about that—a plane crash. That must have been horrible for your family.”

“It was, but it seems so long ago now.”

“Do you have other family?” she inquired, hoping to change the subject to a more cheerful topic.

“I have a brother, Robert, younger by three years, who lives in London. He’s a Barrister, believe it or not, so you two have a little something in common.”

“It’s nice that you have a brother. I’ve always wanted a brother.”

“If you say so.” The edge in his voice brooked no further discussion on that topic.

“And your mother?” she said, probing further.

“My mother, Emma, is still with us.” He explained that Emma kept a bag packed with essentials so she could leave at a day or two’s notice. She’d traveled all over the world at deeply discounted rates, not that she couldn’t afford it otherwise, because she was on the list of a variety of travel companies. When travelers had to cancel, they’d call her to see if she’d like to go. Apparently she rarely refused.

“She’s been on African safaris, floating down the Yangtze River in China, hiking the Milford track in New Zealand, dog sledding in the Arctic, cruising in the Mediterranean, and who knows where else. It is often hard to keep up with her. If it weren’t for her mobile, we might go weeks or even months without talking.” He shook his head and smiled.

“Sounds like she’s having a lot of fun.”

“Oh, no question.” He didn’t seem put-out by his mother’s vagabond ways. “I’m glad she’s enjoying herself.”

They turned their attention momentarily to the entrées the waiter placed in front of them.

“She was never really comfortable in her role as countess, and if it weren’t for my brother and me, when my father died, she would have moved back to Leeds. However, she knew my brother, but especially me, needed to grow up in our ancestral home. As soon as we were adults, she moved to a small flat in Leeds.”

The life of a countess was so far beyond Sarah’s comprehension that she might as well imagine living her life as a Martian. The only thing she knew about it was garnered from her reading of Regency romance novels.

“So your mother was a commoner?” As soon as the words were out, she wished she could rewind the tape. “I’m sorry. That was probably rude.”

“No, don’t be silly. It seems to run in my family,” he said with a smile. “I’m sure you didn’t get out of hearing my grandmother’s narrative of her love story.” Sarah noted it wasn’t said with any hint of disrespect.

“How did your parents meet?”

“Are you sure you want me to bore you with the details?”

“Yes, I’m very interested,” she said, echoing his previous sentiment.

“My maternal grandparents had a men’s clothing store in Leeds, where my mother grew up. The shop was quite humble, catering to the modest clothing needs of the men who worked in the various factories. When my mother started working in the shop as a young woman, she tried somewhat unsuccessfully to get my grandfather to upgrade the clothing lines to cater to the city’s up-and-coming financial sector.” He paused to take a bite of his fish.