The Promise of Change (10 page)

After a sleepless night, Sarah rose at dawn. Ordering a breakfast tray, she set about making herself look rested and refreshed, a Herculean task since her eyes were puffy and her head ached.

The breakfast tray arrived, along with a copy of the
International Herald
. Sipping her hot, sweet Darjeeling tea, she picked up the paper, hoping there was some news that could distract her from the troubled thoughts still plaguing her.

A headline on the inside of the front page caught her eye:
Renowned U.S. Surgeon Saves Prince’s Sight.
Her breath caught in her throat when she recognized the smiling face staring out of the accompanying photo. Adrian.

Prince Asad, a member of the Saudi royal family was recently diagnosed with a rare benign, but progressive, brain tumor that was pressing on his optic nerve. Left untreated, the Prince would lose his eyesight in a matter of months. However, surgery to remove the tumor was predicted to be complicated and very risky. The Saudi family turned to Dr. Adrian Mills, recognized internationally as the preeminent neurosurgeon for deep-brain tumors. Mills flew to Riyad earlier this week to perform the grueling sixteen-hour surgery.

It wasn’t unusual for Adrian to fly to some foreign country to perform surgery, but the previous surgeries hadn’t resulted in an article in an international paper. Skimming over the parts of the article with the Prince’s bio and more medical information about the brain tumor, the article continued on another page:

The surgery postponed Mills’ upcoming nuptials to fiancée, Brie Wood. Following the successful surgery, the Saudi family offered one of their yachts to the couple. The couple will take a two-week honeymoon on the yacht, sailing the Mediterranean, all at the expense of a grateful Saudi family.

There were other photos: one of Adrian with the Prince’s father, the other of Adrian with a beautiful, plastically-perfect blonde.

“He’s marrying the cheese. On a yacht. That belongs to a Saudi prince.” She could feel the tears stinging her eyes, blurring the photo. So he’s remarrying up or down, depending on how you look at it.

Why? Why did this bother her? And why did it magnify her uncertainty? Because, like her hasty romance with Adrian, this one was destined to break her heart, before she’d even begun to pull the pieces back together.

Pressing her fingers to her aching head, she resolved to keep the charming Lord Rutherford at arm’s length, both literally and figuratively. As if that were even possible.

“What a breathtaking view.” Sarah and Alex stood on the top of a knoll just outside the town of Stow-on-the-Wold, the highest town in the Cotswolds, looking out over the deep green valley below, dotted with sheep. The morning was absolutely glorious, sunny and a little warmer than the previous day.

Alex’s warm greeting and tender kiss on her cheek that morning had made her forget all about the sleepless night, the headache, and the potential heartache.

She could hear Ann’s and Becca’s voices in her head telling her to just enjoy herself. That was easy to do with Alex.

“This is one of my favorite overlooks,” Alex said.

She turned in his direction. He was looking out over the valley, his handsome face in profile. “I can see why. I don’t think I have seen a more picturesque view. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

“It’s my pleasure.” He turned to her, taking her hand. They walked a few minutes in silence.

“Alex . . . what are we doing?” She looked up into his face. She wasn’t going to bring it up, but she couldn’t help herself.

“We’re taking a walk,” he said, joking. And evading.

“You know what I mean. I leave on Sunday, and as much as I’m enjoying your company, I just wonder what this,”—she held up their joined hands—“is.”

“Sarah, can’t we enjoy each other’s company without reading anything else into it?”

She blushed. It was exactly as she’d feared. She was definitely making more out of it than it was. She cleared her throat. “Of course. You’re right.” She looked down before he could see her chagrin.

Damn, he thought, when he saw her crestfallen expression. Instead of lifting her mood, he’d just added another layer of anxiety.

When he’d arranged to meet her again through his grandmother, he hadn’t expected to be so captivated by her. He sure as hell wasn’t ready to confront his feelings for her. In fact, he’d been avoiding them–until now.

How could he be falling in love with her? They’d just met for heaven’s sake. He might be a romantic, but that didn’t mean he believed in love at first sight, despite his grandmother’s arguments to the contrary. Utter nonsense.

He’d take his own words to heart: enjoy the time they had together.

“Are you ready to see the idyllic village of Chipping Campden?” he asked, eager to save her from further embarrassment, and himself from further introspection.

As they drove towards Chipping Campden he attempted to bridge the distance between them by asking about her education and interest in literature.

“After graduation, I taught literature to middle school students.”

“Wait, I thought you were a lawyer—”

“I am, or was, or I don’t know.” She grimaced. “Anyway, I had a previous career.”

“I think I would enjoy teaching literature, filling those eager minds with Shakespeare, Milton, and Donne. Why did you change careers?”

She looked at him as if he’d sprouted two heads. “Clearly you’ve never taught hormonal, silly teenagers
Romeo and Juliet.
Believe me, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Listening to their nervous twitters and giggles when one of them read from the balcony scene set my teeth on edge, so after what seemed like three long years of that, I went back to law school,” she explained with a shrug.

She made it sound so simple, when in fact she’d agonized over the decision to abandon her teaching career for law school.

After a few seconds of silence, she laughed out loud.

“What’s so amusing?” he asked, turning to look at her, with a questioning smile on his face.

“Oh, I was just imagining you reciting Romeo’s final lines to a room full of impressionable teenage girls.” She giggled like the schoolgirls she referred to.

“What’s amusing about Romeo’s death?” he asked, appalled.

“Nothing . . . it’s tragic, but I was envisioning the wistful expressions on the girls’ faces, and their sighs of longing.”

He still looked confused.

“You may not realize it, but you are devastatingly handsome, and I am sure every girl in the class would have had a crush on you. Add to that the tragically romantic lines spoken by Romeo as he looks upon Juliet for the last time, and you would have had every girl in the room eating out of your hand.”

He turned to her again, this time with a brilliant smile, “You think I’m devastatingly handsome?”

“Yes.” She blushed at her open admission. “I can’t think of a red-blooded female who wouldn’t think that.”

He turned his eyes back to the road, still smiling, seeming quite pleased with himself.

“So, an Earl-come-actor. How does that happen?” A little chagrined at her blunt question, she sought to soften it. “I mean, I imagine you have plenty of responsibilities as Earl, how do you have time to work elsewhere?”

“The estate has a manager to handle the day-to-day operations, so quite frankly I didn’t have enough responsibilities to occupy my day. And the monotony of the tasks was not my cup of tea.” He sighed, as if remembering the boredom of which he spoke. “I enjoy working with people, but I also need the flexibility of working with ideas.”

“More importantly, gone are the days when the aristocracy can sit on their plump bums with their gouty feet propped on a pillow in front of a fire. Most have to work hard just to keep their estates afloat.

“And besides, I’d always wanted to act. I performed in some community theatre productions while I was at Oxford, thinking that would satisfy me. It wasn’t until the role of Claudio in
Much Ado About Nothing
that I realized acting was my calling. I auditioned for small parts in BBC productions until I landed the role of Jude. And the rest, as they say, is history.”

“Funny, I’d always found the monotony of my jobs comforting somehow . . . predictability I guess.” She said the last as if to herself. “Anyway, it’s great that you found your calling. Not everyone is lucky enough to love what they do.” She sighed and turned to look at the countryside. She’d been so engrossed in their conversation, that she’d missed most of the passing scenery. It flew by in a green blur.

“You’re not happy in your career.” It was a statement, not a question.

“My second career. I wouldn’t say that I’m not happy. I’ve been quite lucky . . . until now.”

“Being lucky with your situation and being happy with it are two different things,” he interrupted gently. “Do you mind telling me why you find yourself unemployed?”

She told him about Ken’s retirement, her shot at a promotion and her subsequent failure to get it, her horrible boss, and the final straw.

“So you just quit, right there on the spot?”

He didn’t look horrified, as she’d expected. He looked impressed.

“Good for you.” He paused. “So what will you do when you return?”

“I have an interview with a company.”

“You don’t sound altogether happy about that.” After a waiting a beat, he asked, “If you could do anything you wanted, what would it be?”

She gave it some thought. Not that she didn’t know her answer. She just couldn’t decide whether to tell him. “Well, I’ve always dreamed of writing.” There . . . she’d said it, and he didn’t even laugh at her.

“What’s stopping you?” His eyes lit with interest.

She contemplated his question a moment before answering. “Fear, I guess.” Despite the completed manuscript from college, she couldn’t get past her fear. Being older only made her more cautious, less sanguine of the possibilities that as a twenty-something had seemed infinite . . . and attainable.

“Fear? Fear of what?”

“Fear of failure, I suppose. If I don’t write, then I don’t risk failure.”

“But by not even trying, haven’t you already failed?”

She sat bewildered for a moment. She’d never thought of it that way. But then, she shook her head. “Perhaps the irrational fear of failure that stops me in my tracks is stronger than the rational argument that you don’t know until you try.” The manuscript was decent, but needed some editing. What if she succeeded only in making it worse?

“Just write about what you know,” he returned. “I believe it was Frank McCort who said, ‘you are your own best material.’”

“I don’t aspire to be another John Grisham. Legal dramas would not be my thing, and health law isn’t exactly rife with danger.” She rolled her eyes at the absurdity of it. Although the Bitchkrieg’s murder might make for an interesting plot.

“The law is not the only thing you know. Don’t sell yourself short. You’re not one-dimensional. Even in the short time I’ve known you, the brilliance of your character is apparent.”

“You are a well-read, well-traveled, intelligent, funny, interesting, and might I add, beautiful woman, who has experienced life’s ups and downs, and who happens to also have a profound love of literature. Put those thoughts on paper, even if only for yourself. You never know where it will take you. But don’t give up on your dreams.”

“I’m already on my second career—”

“So?”

“It seems a little late in life to think about changing careers again, and anyway, my family was so proud when I became a lawyer. I wouldn’t want to disappoint them. Of course that presumes I’m capable of making a career out of writing. Besides, I would have to plan.”

“Plan?” he asked, confused. “What do you mean plan?”

“I’m a planner.” She shrugged. “I try not to do anything without a plan first.”

When she’d made up her mind to abandon her carefully mapped out teaching career to return to law school, she put a well-constructed plan in place. She determined how much money she needed to save and how much longer she would need to teach in order to save that money. Then she stuck with the plan.

Of course, since she’d already quit her job, she didn’t have to worry about that minor detail this time.

“My motto is ‘failure to plan is a plan for failure,’” she said, somewhat sanctimoniously.

He looked incredulous for a moment, and then chuckled. “I’d say I’m not a planner, but rather a preparer. If things don’t go as anticipated, I reassess. I guess my motto is ‘luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity.’”

He was silent for a few minutes, watching the road ahead. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, entreating, “Real living is about accepting challenges and making changes . . . taking risks. You’ve already taken the first step by quitting a job you’d grown to hate. Don’t stop there.”

She didn’t respond.

“Sarah, don’t stare so long at a door that is closing that you fail to see the door that is open.”

“I’m afraid that I have to return to London this evening for a photo shoot in the morning,” Alex announced.

Sarah tried to hide her overwhelming disappointment, apparently not too successfully.

“But, I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon, and to make it up to you, I have a very special evening planned.”

“What kind of special evening?” she asked, sounding like a petulant child.

“It’s a surprise—”

“Again with the surprises?” She rolled her eyes.

“Why, do my surprises disappoint you?” he asked with a concerned look.

“No,” she replied quickly, “of course not, it’s just that you seem to have an affinity for them.”

“I do,” he affirmed, “so, just be ready by five, because we have a bit of a drive. Oh, and it’s a dressy occasion.”

“Dressy? Just how dressy?”

“I’d say a nice dress . . . something like you wore to the Oxford reception would be appropriate,” he replied with a gleam in his eyes.

Super. Since that was the only dress she’d packed that fell into that category, she now had some shopping to do. She hoped she could find something within walking distance. She recalled Queen Street had some lovely dress shops.

“Did I ever mention how spectacular you looked that night? I couldn’t believe my eyes when you stepped into the garden. I noticed more than one approving eye was turned in your direction.”

“Yes, and some disapproving eyes as well,” she returned. “How could I forget? But thank you.”

“It was all I could do to make some pretense of listening to those with whom I was supposed to be conversing. I am surprised you didn’t feel me leering.”

“That’s what that was. I knew I felt something,” she said, giving him a teasing look. “Ugh. Right now all I feel are my aching feet.” It was a warm day and they’d walked the grounds of Blenheim for what seemed like hours.

“Here,” he said, taking her hand and leading her to the shade of an ancient horse chestnut tree. “I can fix that, I think.” Pulling her down on the grass beside him, he pulled her feet onto his lap and removed her shoes. He massaged her tired, sore feet with the expertise of a masseuse.

“Let me guess, you were a massage therapist in your previous life.” She closed her eyes, leaning against the tree, enjoying the feel of his hands caressing her feet.

“No, but I used to watch my father massage my mother’s feet. I guess I learned a thing or two.”

The tree beneath which they sat was perched on a small hill above Blenheim’s extensive parkland, the River Glyme visible as it wound its way through the magnificent lawns, like a silver ribbon, sunlight glinting off the water. A warbler of some sort serenaded from the branches above.

“‘I shall soon be rested. To sit in the shade on a fine day and look upon verdure, is the most perfect refreshment.’”

“Well said, Fanny Price,” he said, his hands gently kneading her feet. “How many does that make today?”

“I do believe that was the first, but I thought you might appreciate that particular quote, Edmund,” she replied, waiting for a response, but none came. “At least I have no Mary Crawford to distract your attention,” she teased, although something clearly distracted him.

“Yes.” He had something infinitely more appealing to distract him, the sight and feel of her beautiful, shapely legs and silky skin. The soft moans of pleasure when he found a particularly sensitive spot and worked the tension from it.

He massaged her feet for a few more minutes, admiring the gold toe ring on her right foot, before his hands advanced to her ankles and then her calves.
Lovely, lovely, Sarah. So fit, so trim, so sexy.

Her eyes flew open, but he wasn’t looking at her, he was looking intently at his hands on her bare calves.

“Were you an athlete in school?” he asked.

Odd question. “Yes, why?” she asked, curious, and not a little excited. His hands caressing her calves made it difficult to carry on a casual conversation.

“Because you have an athlete’s legs . . . beautifully-muscled.” He still frankly appraised her legs.

She gulped, blushing profusely. She sat up and removed her legs from his lap. “Thanks for the massage. My feet feel much better.” She slipped her shoes back on, and sat with her knees drawn up under her chin. So much for keeping him at arm’s length.

Her erratic heartbeat subsided now that his hands no longer stroked her legs, leaving disappointment in its wake.

He stood, holding out his hand to help her up. “We’d better go. I have to catch the train to London.”

“Oh. Right.” She’d almost forgotten that he was leaving tonight.

He obeyed the urge to pull her into his arms and kiss her. Soft and tender, his lips found hers. She tasted of warm sunshine, smelled of sweet jasmine. He could get drunk off both.

Taken by surprise, she nevertheless melted against him on a sigh. Raising her arms, she draped them around his shoulders, her fingers caressing his neck.

He shivered when her fingers found the hair at the nape of his neck. Her soft moans nearly brought him to his knees. He pulled back, looked into her face, her eyes closed, expression all dreamy. “Sarah. Sarah?”

“Hmmm.”

“Open your eyes. Look at me.” He gave her a gentle shake.

She reluctantly opened her eyes, a sexy smile flirting with the corners of her mouth. “Sorry, I momentarily lost all higher brain function.”

Chuckling to cover his own similar reaction, he draped his arm around her shoulder and started down the hill. They walked in silence for a pace, each trying to recover the power of cognition.

“What sport?” he asked, once the blood returned to his brain.

“I’m sorry . . .”

“What sport did you play in school?”

“I crewed in high school and college.”

His brows shot up in surprise. He’d expected gymnastics, or cheerleading. Something a little more . . . girly he supposed.

“What about you, did you participate in a sport?”

“My brother and I played rugby.”

“Tough sport . . . I mean, I don’t know that much about it, but from what I’ve seen it looks more dangerous than American football.”

“Yes. That’s how I got this scar,” he said, pointing to a small scar underneath his chin. “One of these days he’ll pay for it.” He wasn’t joking.

“Your brother did that?” she asked in surprise.

“We’re very competitive.” There was a slight edge to his voice.

They drove back to Oxford in a subdued atmosphere.

She wasn’t looking forward to the lonely evening ahead.

He wasn’t looking forward to the family meeting.

A short time later, Alex walked Sarah into the inn’s lobby. “I’m sorry I’m leaving you to dine alone. I had intended to have an early dinner with you, but we tarried at Blenheim longer than I expected—not that I minded.” He smiled, but the light never reached his eyes. “It was a wonderful way to spend the afternoon.”

“Thank you for such a lovely day.” She hesitated, not sure what she should do. Talk about mixed messages, first he tells her not to read anything into the relationship, then he kisses her to the point of disorientation.

She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. Instead, he took her face in his hands and kissed her tenderly on the lips.

Pulling back so that his face remained just inches from hers, he said, “The pleasure was all mine. Tomorrow at five.” He kissed her once again before he turned and walked away.