Page 44 of Coming Home to Sturcombe Bay
She arched one finely drawn eyebrow. “You seem to be in need of a refill of champagne.”
He glanced at his empty flute. “So I am.”
He fell into step beside her as they strolled back through the French windows to the terrace. “So you’re Caroline’s niece. Do you live here in Devon?”
“No, I live in London now, but my family are in Bath. I came down to help Aunt Caroline with the arrangements for tonight.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“It’s so much work for Aunt Caroline — and besides, I enjoy it.”
“And what do you do when you’re not arranging charity balls? Can I guess that you’re a model?”
A soft, husky laugh. “Oh dear. Is it so obvious? And you’re a vet. That must be very interesting.”
“It is.”
“You mainly work with horses?”
He nodded. “Mainly. But my family work with farm animals — cows, sheep, pigs. And my mum runs a small animal practice.”
“Here in South Devon?”
“Sturcombe. It’s down on the coast.”
“I’ve never been there.”
“It’s just a small town, not much more than a village really. But the bay is very pretty.”
It was pleasant to talk to her, and she was certainly easy on the eye. But he was conscious that he had duties to fulfil as one of the hosts, so after a little while he suggested that they should circulate.
“Of course.” Again that alluring smile. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
He smiled back. “Of course.”
The terrace was soon crowded as more people arrived. He knew quite a few of them — their horses were his patients. The Routleys, who bred very fine showjumpers, the Chubbs who had a riding school up by the moor, the Hilsons whose three teenage daughters were all horse mad.
As he moved between various groups he would occasionally glance across the room and catch that sapphire-blue gaze, thatbeguiling smile. And he’d smile back. He didn’t have much experience of flirting, but maybe he could try it.
At last it was time to go in to dinner. The Tudor Barn was looking splendid. The vaulted ceiling was criss-crossed with heavy oak trusses, wound with twinkling white fairy lights. The walls were the original rough brick, the floor was well-trodden stone. The tall windows at the gable ends had been covered in black cloth, so that the only illumination was from the lights set in niches in the walls.
There were twenty circular tables, spread with crisp white linen and laid out with gold-edged white plates, glittering crystal wine glasses and silver cutlery. Each table had baskets of fresh bread rolls and coils of butter in glass dishes. Each had a centrepiece of three tall, slim white candles of graduated heights, wound with a trail of ivy.
Liam was checking the name cards on the tables when Annabel slipped up beside him, tucking her hands into his arm.
“I have a confession to make,” she murmured, a mischievous glint dancing in her fine blue eyes. “I switched the cards around. Do you mind?”
He arched one eyebrow in amused question. “You’re sitting next to me?”
“Yes.”
He laughed. “I don’t mind at all.”
She smiled radiantly. “What do you think of the room?”
“Very nice. You’ve done a great job.”
“Thank you.”
