Page 45 of Gift Horse

“Yes! Quite right! No madwomen in my attic!” Dottie is ablaze with yet another allusion I’m not quite following, but it amuses Lolly, which works for me.

“I rather think there are guests who are floundering and need your help.” She points Dottie toward a new student, who’s holding back from the feeding frenzy. I barely have use of my senses, but I’m sure I haven’t seen her before in the riding ring.

Dottie sweeps away and takes charge of the shy new student, leaving me and Lolly alone-together in a crowd of guppies all munching at the feast.

“You like the egg salad?” My voice is strained and stiff, but I don’t want her to walk away again. I need her here with me. Talking or not talking. Standing or sitting. Clothed or naked. Or.Hell, I’m not going to make it.“Or do you prefer the…” I scan the table for something to talk about, but all I can see is Lolly, Lolly, Lolly. “You like these potted shrimp the English delight in?”

“I like everything. Something a little more satisfying than afingersandwich, maybe?” She leans against me. Close enough that I can smell more than her perfume. Below the vanilla note that I have come to recognize as hers, there’s another scent, then another, and I’m lost in her heat and sweat and pulse while we stand in a typical English living room, complete with tablecloths and her so-calledfinger sandwichesand small talk that has an undercurrent that I’m definitely catching.Oh, god, to have my fingers on her, over her, in her. Banish that thought, Arias, or you’ll tip over the edge.

“How about you? What do you like?” She looks up at me, her eyes pools ofyesandnowandeat this.She has a small cake of some kind in her hand and my mouth opens before I know what I’m doing, but it’s the taste of her finger, slightly salty but with a dusting of sugar, and I don’t know if it’s that flavor or her smile at my tongue against her skin that sends me away.

“Bathroom?” I can’t wait for the answer. I turn for the corridor and throw open doors until I find the wash closet or whatever they call it here. My boner has a life of its own, but we’re here for tea. I can’t very well rub one out in Dottie Hainbright’s house, but it’s that or return to the living room with a furious erection that will not be denied. I unbuckle my pants wishing it was Lolly’s hand reaching in, but it’s not and that’s that and I have to do this as quickly and quietly as I can. This is not what I imagined when I thought of my first time with Lolly Benoit, but she’s in my head and my dick is in my hand and if I am to make no sound I need to take very shallow breaths when in fact I want to be buried so deep in her that she is me and I am her and there’s no stopping until we’re done.

A knock at the door halts me mid-stroke.

“You okay in there?” It’s Pippa. How very un-English of her, disturbing someone in the bathroom. “Because you’re the star and I want to introduce you to a couple of newbies.”

I calm my breathing. “Be right with you.” Whatever enthusiasm I had is waning fast. Pippa may be a friend, but there’s no frisson when I hear her voice. Good thing, too. I flush while I’m collecting myself, then turn on the taps and let the water run for a while. I could go for the schoolboy ‘tuck it into your waistband’ strategy, but after a certain point that’s uncomfortable and unsustainable. I’m not going to be able to avoid Lolly—nor do I want to—but Lolly means I won’t have full command of myself. I’m going to have to grab a book or a magazine and hope my acting skills are up to a game of ‘hidela trancafor as long as it takes.’

Unfortunately, British wash closets are nothing like American ones, which are so often supplied with baskets of magazines, as if encouraging guests to stay awhile. There is no reading material on hand with which to obscure Lolly’s effect on me.

Even worse, Pippa snags me as soon as I open the door and propels me back into the front room. “Be nice to this one.” For just a second, as Pippa waves her hand over the heads of the crowd and pushes me towards the newest of our team, I think of the gala, and Esther when she introduced me to Lolly.Here she is, Esther had said. And that’s exactly what I and my erection think when I walk back into the room. Lolly might as well have a spotlight trained on her, that’s how brightly she shines—what kind of star she is in my universe. Here is the most magical creature I have ever laid eyes on.

But it isn’t Lolly that Pippa is steering me towards. “Henrietta Smith, I’d like you to meet Mariano Arias.”

I hold out my hand. I must keep my job and earn my keep. “Charmed to meet you.”

She hesitates.Oh, no! Is this the royal? We knew she would be incognito, but this is something else.She has on a very English outfit, dour to the last detail: a tweed skirt, all dirty browns and dulled-downed greens ending well below the knee, a frilly blouse buttoned up to her chin, and a sweater that ought to be on her maiden aunt, not a twenty-something heir to the throne, whom the tabloids describe as ‘a pretty outcross.’

“I’m looking forward to our lessons.” She shakes my hand. Two decisive pumps, which is what The Trunchbull told us to expect.

“You ride, I take it?” What a foolish thing to say. She’s an English noblewoman, of course she rides.

“To hounds, yes, but the polo ponies will be new.” She glides towards the omnivores’ table, Pippa burbling nineteen to the dozen.

Lolly’s on the other side of the room chatting to the team, laughing that laugh of hers, glittering and sparkling and lighting the room on fire, but that’s all to the good. Far away is good. I can do this. I can make it until we are alone. But damn if my eyes don’t drift back to her at every opportunity. She is my true north, the Pole Star I follow when I ought to be entertaining Henrietta.

“A plate for you, Henrietta, and another round of these delightful nibbles for me.” Pippa loads her own plate and waits for the other girl to do the same.

The royal spoons some of the shrimp canapés onto her plate, followed by a salmon sandwich and some tuna salad. Pippa and I exchange glances behind her back.

“I know!” Pippa mouths. I’m glad she’s my friend, this larger-than-life Englishwoman who follows none of the rules. She makes this English tea into an English party. If it were Lolly in front of me, rather than Pippa, it would be a feast for the ages.

“Any chance I could beg a glass of sherry?” Henrietta drifts towards the drinks trolley. “Perhaps something stronger?”

“Forbidden fruit!” Pippa tries to whisper, but I don’t think she has much practice keeping a low profile. I can only hope she’s as quiet as she wants to be, but I swear half the room must have heard my friend’s subtle commentary onthe one we will not address as her majestyoryour graceand her choice of afternoon beverages. “Forbidden is the only fruit for me. We’re not going to get bladdered, but we can at least get a sweet buzz going.”

I take the glass from my friend and sip, but the burn that lights my gut has nothing to do with the liquor. Lolly has made her way across the room and is right behind me. I can smell her, and that alone is nearly enough to send me over the edge.

“What do zombie vegans eat?” Pippa’s voice booms through the assembled guests, once again saving me from myself. “Graiiiiiinnnnnnnnnns,” she growls, and the entire company is knitted together, laughing and chatting as if there is no fire in my pants and no Lolly at my side stroking…no…stoking the flames.

THE PRIMROSE PATH

Lolly Benoit. Aunt Dottie’s Dower House. The Cotswolds, England.

Aunt Dottie throws open the French doors that lead from the dining room out onto the flagstone veranda and makes an announcement. “I’m giving a garden tour!” Somehow everyone knows it’s not optional.

I let Mariano file out of the dining room first, giving myself the opportunity to unabashedly admire him from behind—the way his broad shoulders stretch his polo shirt and his back tapers toward his beltline, the firm roundness of his ass. Thank god for his tight polo-white jeans. As if acting on its own volition, my hand reaches out as he crosses the threshold to stop him from going. I want to keep him here and drag him to my chambers, except it can’t be my chambers because Mr. Wiggins is in there and Mariano can’t know that I’m Dottie’s niece and that nepotism is why I even have my new job. He can’t know. No one can know. I’d lose major points and…well…there was something else that was bothering me, but I can hardly think straight, he’s so close. At the last second, I restrain myself—mostly. I take hold of a pinch of his shirt—to remind myself he’s real, he’s really here, and he’smine.

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