FUNERALS and weddings. Sebastian Wolseley hated them
both. At least the first had absolved him from attending
the more tedious part of the second. And gave him a cast-
iron excuse to leave the celebrations once he'd done his
duty by one of his oldest friends.
The last thing he felt like doing was celebrating. "You
look as if you could do with something stronger." He
turned from his depressed contemplation of the glass in
his hand to acknowledge the woman who'd broken into his
thoughts. She was the sole occupant of a table littered
with the remains of the lavish buffet. The only one who
had not decamped to the marquee and the dance floor. From
the cool, steady way she was looking at him he had the
unsettling notion that she'd been watching him, unnoticed,
for some time. But then she wasn't the kind of woman you'd
notice.
Her colouring was non-descript, mousy. She was too thin
for anything approaching beauty, and her pick-up line was
too corny to hook his interest. But her features were
strong, her eyes glittered with intelligence and it was
more than just good manners that stopped him from putting
down the glass and walking away.
"Do you tap dance for an encore?" he asked. She lifted her
eyebrows, but she didn't smile. "Tap dance?"
"You're not the cabaret? A mind-reading act, perhaps?" He
heard the biting sarcasm coming from his mouth and wished
he'd walked. He had no business inflicting his black mood
on innocent bystanders. Or sitters.
"It doesn't take a mind-reader to see that you're not
exactly focussed on this whole "til-death-us-do-part"
thing," she countered, still not smiling, but not storming
off, offended, either. "You've been holding your glass for
so long that the contents must be warm. In fact, I'd go so
far as to suggest that you'd look more at home at a wake
than at a reception to celebrate the blessing of a
marriage."
"Definitely a mind-reader," he said, finally abandoning
the barely touched glass on her table. "Although I have a
feeling that the wake I've just left will by now be making
this party look sedate."
And then he felt really guilty. First he'd been rude to
the woman, and when that hadn't driven her away he'd tried
to embarrass her. Apparently without success. She merely
tilted her head slightly to the side, reminding him of an
inquisitive bird.
"Was it someone close?" she enquired, rejecting the usual
hushed, reverential tone more usually adopted when
speaking to the recently bereaved. She might just as
easily have been asking him if he'd like a cup of tea.
Such matter-of-factness was an oddly welcome respite from
the madness that had overtaken his life in the last week
and for the first time in days he felt a little of the
tension slip away.
"Close enough. It was my mad, bad Uncle George."
Then, "Well, he was a distant cousin, actually, but he was
so much older..."
She propped her elbows on the table, framing her chin with
her hands. "In what way was he mad and bad?"
"In much the same way as his namesake, Byron." Even in the
dusky twilight of a long summer evening, with only candles
and the fairy lights strung from the trees for
illumination, her face had no softness, nothing of
conventional prettiness, but her fine skin was stretched
over good bones. The strength, it occurred to him, came
from within. She wasn't flirting with him. She was
interested.
"Mad, bad and dangerous to know. Such a temptation for
foolish women. So, was the riotous wake an expression of
relief?" she continued earnestly. "Or a celebration of a
life lived to the full?"
Too late now to walk away, even if he'd wanted to, and,
pulling out the chair opposite her, he sat down.
"That rather depends on your point of view. The family
tended to the former, his friends to the latter."
"And you?"
He sat back. "I'm still struggling to come to terms with
it," he said. "But how many people, knowing that they have
weeks left, would take the trouble to arrange the kind of
theatrical exit that would bring joy to their friends and
scandalise their family? The kind of extravagant wake that
people will be talking about for years?"
"Theatrical?" She looked thoughtful. "Are we talking black
horses? Ostrich plumes?"
"The works. Queen Victoria would have been proud," he
said. "Although whether she would have been amused by a
wake at which nothing but smoked salmon, caviar and
vintage champagne is served, I'm not so sure."
"Sounds good to me." 'Yes, well, he wanted everyone to
have a damn good time; an instruction which his many
friends are, even now, taking to their hearts."
"That doesn't sound mad or bad to me, but rather
wonderful. So why aren't you?"
"Having a damn good time?" Good question. "Perhaps because
I'm in mourning for my own life." She waited, apparently
the perfect listener, recognising that he needed someone
to talk to, knowing that sometimes only a stranger would
do. "I'm the one he nominated to clear up the empties —
metaphorically speaking — when the partying is done."
"Really?" She didn't miss the oddity that he'd choose a
much younger, apparently distant relative. "You're a
lawyer?"
"A banker." 'Oh, well, that's a good choice." 'Not if
you're the banker in question." She pulled a face. Not
exactly a smile, but oddly cheering
nonetheless. "Obviously the reckoning is about more than a
few crates of champagne."
"I'm afraid so. But you're right — it's terribly bad
manners to bring my troubles to a wedding. I really hadn't
intended doing more than putting in an appearance to toast
the happy couple, and I've done that. I should call a
taxi."
He didn't move. "Would a decent single-malt whisky help
lay your ghosts?"
There was nothing of the mouse about her eyes, he decided.
They were an unusual colour, more amber than brown, with a
fringe of thick lashes, and her mouth was wide and full.
He had a sudden notion to see it smile, really smile.
"It might," he conceded. "I'm prepared to give it a try if
you'll join me." Then he looked towards the heaving
marquee and wished he'd kept his mouth shut. The last
thing he wanted to do was push his way through the joyful
throng to the bar.
"No need to battle through the dancing hordes," she
assured him. "Just go through those French windows and
you'll find a decanter on the sofa table."
He glanced towards the house, then at her, this time
rather more closely.
"Making rather free with our host's hospitality, aren't
you?" he suggested, vaguely surprised to discover that he
was the one grinning.
"He wouldn't object. But in this instance the hospitality
is mine. I live in the garden flat," she said, offering
her hand. "Matty Lang. Best woman and cousin to the bride."
"Sebastian Wolseley," he replied, taking it. Her hand was
small, but there was nothing soft about it and her grip
was firm.
"The big-shot New York banker? I wondered what you'd look
like when I was writing the invitations."
"You did?" He recalled the exquisite copperplate script
that had adorned the gilt-edged invitation card to the
blessing of the marriage of Francesca and Guy Dymoke and
the reception they were holding in their garden to
celebrate the fact. "Isn't it the bride's job to write the
invitations?"
"I've no idea, but in the event the bride had other things
on her mind at the time."
"Oh, well, so long as she has time to concentrate on her
marriage I don't suppose it matters who writes them. She
runs her own company, I understand."
"She didn't have much choice," Matty replied, rather less
cordially, and it occurred to him that he must have
sounded unnecessarily critical.
"No?" he asked, not especially interested in who'd written
the invitations or why. But he'd been rude — wedding
celebrations tended to bring out the worst in him; good
manners demanded that he allow his victim to put him right.
"No," she repeated. "But on this occasion she wasn't
upstairs, busily drumming up some brilliant new PR stunt,
she was in the throes of childbirth."
"That would certainly count as a legitimate excuse," he
agreed.
Perhaps deciding that she'd overreacted slightly, Matty
Lang lifted her shoulders in a minimal shrug. "To be
honest, I did feel a bit guilty afterwards. She really
wanted to write them herself. But I had to do something to
keep my mind occupied and I'd have only been in the way
upstairs."
"You did them quite beautifully," he assured her. "I hope
she was properly grateful."
"Gratitude doesn't come into it." Then, "Are you and Guy
close friends?" she asked, not that easily appeased. "Or
is this duty visit simply the gloss on a thoroughly bloody
day?"
"I didn't say it was a duty visit. Merely that I hadn't
intended to stay for long. As for friendship, well, Guy
and I bonded at university over our mutual interest in
beer and women..." Realising that was perhaps not the most
tactful thing to say at the man's wedding celebrations, he
took a verbal sidestep and went on, "But you're right; we
haven't seen nearly enough of one another in the last few
years. I live..." lived, he mentally corrected himself,
lived '...in New York. And Guy never stayed put in one
place long enough for me to catch up with him."
"He's a regular stay-at-home these days, I promise you,"
she assured him.
"Good for him." Then, "Why?" 'Why is he a regular stay-at-
home?" 'One look at his wife answers that question," he
replied. "Why did you want to know what I look like?"
"Oh, I see. Well, as best woman I get the pick of the
unattached males." At which point he was amused to see the
faintest touch of a blush colour the cheeks of the very
cool Miss Lang. "Guy, I have to tell you, was no help,"
she went on quickly. "The best he could come up with for
you was "tallish and darkish". Friends you might be, but
my enquiry regarding the colour of your eyes met with a
total blank."
"No? Well, to be honest I couldn't say what colour his
are, either, but it's been a while since we've been in the
same country."
"His excuse was that he'd left gazing into your eyes to
the countless females who trailed after you. But even if
he had been that observant, I can well understand his
difficulty."
"Okay, I'm hooked. In what way are my eyes
difficult?" 'They're not difficult, just changeable. At
first sight I would have said they were grey, but now I'm
not so sure." Then, "Drink?" she prompted. "Add a little
water to mine. Not too much."
"Are you sure you shouldn't be doing your best woman duty
and strutting your stuff with the best man?"
There was just the tiniest hesitation before she
said, "Would you believe he's married? To the most
gorgeous redhead you've ever seen. I ask you, what's the
point of a best man who isn't available for the best woman
to have her wicked way with? I can't believe someone as
smart as Guy could get it so wrong."
"Shocking," he said, almost but not totally certain that
she was kidding. Women usually smiled at him. This one
didn't. He'd changed his mind about her flirting, she was
flirting, quite outrageously, but she didn't smile, or bat
her eyelashes, or do anything that women usually did. He
wasn't exactly sure what she was doing, but she'd got his
full attention. "Definitely time for that drink." Then,
since flirting under any circumstances should not be a one-
way transaction, "Unless I can offer myself as a
substitute?"
"For the best man?" 'Since you've been so badly let down,"
he confirmed. Guy had asked him, but he hadn't anticipated
being in London at the time...
"Are you suggesting that we disappear into the shrubbery
and fool around, Mr Wolseley?"
Her gaze was steady as a rock, and that wide mouth hadn't
so much as twitched. For a moment he found himself
floundering, as if he'd stepped unexpectedly out of his
depth.
He took a slow breath to steady himself and said, "Well,
to be honest, that's a little fast for me, Miss Lang. I
like to get to know a girl before I take her clothes off.
And I prefer to do it in comfort."
"That's no fun. Not entering into the spirit of the thing
at all."
"I don't have to know her that well," he said
seriously. "A dance or two — dinner, maybe? Once that
hurdle is passed and we get to first-name terms I'm
perfectly willing to be led astray."
"But only in comfort." 'I like to take my time." Without
warning her face lit up in the kind of smile that took the
sting out of his day, so that dancing with her seemed like
the best idea he'd had for a long time.
"You like to dance?" she asked. He had the oddest feeling
that he was being tested in some way. "Yes, but we can
pass if you're hungry. Go straight to dinner."