The Second Time I Saw You: The Oxford Blue Series #2 by Pippa Croft Page A
Authors: Pippa Croft
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‘It’s all right. I know you didn’t mean it.’
He still stares at something or someone beyond me. If he doesn’t let me go in a moment, I’m going to have to slap him, but that might make him lash out more. I could reach the glass of water by the bed and throw it at him but I don’t want to resort to that.
‘I’m sorry.’
Thank God. His fingers suddenly loosen, fall away and his arm is left dangling over the edge of the bed.
I scoot backwards until I’m well out of reach, and rub my throbbing wrist. The room is cool, but I feel flushed yet shivery. Again I ask myself: just what have I got myself into here, and with whom? What does it mean for the rest of term? I shudder, too afraid to get back into bed.
I arrived here barely a week ago, with every intention of not even speaking to Alexander Hunt, and yet here I am: back in his bed and at the centre of the drama of his life. I know his deepest fears and his sister’s secret. Even if we get through this term, what lies beyond, with himtied to the estate and me planning to pursue my own career? I want to curate a gallery or work in a museum or art auctioneers in the States or another part of Europe.
Lying there, the covers tangled around his limbs, his chest bared and his handsome face at rest, he’s as quiet as a baby now. His eyelashes flutter on his cheek, his chest rises and falls steadily, like nothing ever happened, and I could almost laugh at my fears. I’m getting way too ahead of myself with Alexander, I remind myself; the only way to live is in the moment and that’s what I’m going to do.
I made it to breakfast but Alexander didn’t. Finally exhausted by so many sleepless nights, he was still dead to the world when I crept out of bed this morning. I’d been awake for some time anyway, still disturbed by what I’d seen in the night. My wrist is a little bruised from where he grabbed me so I’ve put on a long-sleeved top.
Robert’s face is a picture when he sees me enter the breakfast room so early, so I give him a cheery greeting. ‘Morning, Robert.’
‘Good morning, miss. You’ll have to forgive me. I haven’t finished putting out the breakfast things yet. I wasn’t expecting you and Lord Falconbury just yet.’
‘Alexander’s still asleep. He’s worn out.’ I rapidly qualify that statement in case Robert thinks I’m bragging. ‘It’s been a very trying time for him.’
‘Of course, miss.’
While I take my seat at the breakfast table, he disappears briefly before returning with another coveredserving dish, and the aroma of cooked bacon fills the air. It amuses me that this ritual is carried out even though there are only the two of us here, but Alexander told me he hadn’t the heart to ask Robert to stop. Apparently the general was a stickler for a traditional English breakfast and I suspect Alexander can’t face ending this link to his father either, for his sake and Emma’s.
After Robert has placed the dish on to the sideboard, he asks me if I want tea or coffee.
‘An Earl Grey would be good,’ I say, knowing better than to ask for anything ‘newfangled’ like chamomile.
‘Very good, miss.’
‘Um … Robert, thanks for helping me take care of Alexander the other evening.’
I half think he’s going to bow and if he does, I’ll die of embarrassment, but instead I see the trace of a smile tug the corners of his mouth. ‘Glad to be of service. I’ll bring your tea and the newspapers.’
I don’t really want a full English but I feel obliged to taste something after it’s been cooked. After he’s brought my tea and left a bundle of newspapers on the table, I help myself to some scrambled eggs, bacon and toast. Outside the sun is full up, and the formal garden behind the breakfast room shimmers in the early light. The frazzled leaves on the copper beech hedge are rimmed with frost, now melting rapidly. I can see a few roses that ventured out during a recent mild spell, now withered on their stems. I
He still stares at something or someone beyond me. If he doesn’t let me go in a moment, I’m going to have to slap him, but that might make him lash out more. I could reach the glass of water by the bed and throw it at him but I don’t want to resort to that.
‘I’m sorry.’
Thank God. His fingers suddenly loosen, fall away and his arm is left dangling over the edge of the bed.
I scoot backwards until I’m well out of reach, and rub my throbbing wrist. The room is cool, but I feel flushed yet shivery. Again I ask myself: just what have I got myself into here, and with whom? What does it mean for the rest of term? I shudder, too afraid to get back into bed.
I arrived here barely a week ago, with every intention of not even speaking to Alexander Hunt, and yet here I am: back in his bed and at the centre of the drama of his life. I know his deepest fears and his sister’s secret. Even if we get through this term, what lies beyond, with himtied to the estate and me planning to pursue my own career? I want to curate a gallery or work in a museum or art auctioneers in the States or another part of Europe.
Lying there, the covers tangled around his limbs, his chest bared and his handsome face at rest, he’s as quiet as a baby now. His eyelashes flutter on his cheek, his chest rises and falls steadily, like nothing ever happened, and I could almost laugh at my fears. I’m getting way too ahead of myself with Alexander, I remind myself; the only way to live is in the moment and that’s what I’m going to do.
I made it to breakfast but Alexander didn’t. Finally exhausted by so many sleepless nights, he was still dead to the world when I crept out of bed this morning. I’d been awake for some time anyway, still disturbed by what I’d seen in the night. My wrist is a little bruised from where he grabbed me so I’ve put on a long-sleeved top.
Robert’s face is a picture when he sees me enter the breakfast room so early, so I give him a cheery greeting. ‘Morning, Robert.’
‘Good morning, miss. You’ll have to forgive me. I haven’t finished putting out the breakfast things yet. I wasn’t expecting you and Lord Falconbury just yet.’
‘Alexander’s still asleep. He’s worn out.’ I rapidly qualify that statement in case Robert thinks I’m bragging. ‘It’s been a very trying time for him.’
‘Of course, miss.’
While I take my seat at the breakfast table, he disappears briefly before returning with another coveredserving dish, and the aroma of cooked bacon fills the air. It amuses me that this ritual is carried out even though there are only the two of us here, but Alexander told me he hadn’t the heart to ask Robert to stop. Apparently the general was a stickler for a traditional English breakfast and I suspect Alexander can’t face ending this link to his father either, for his sake and Emma’s.
After Robert has placed the dish on to the sideboard, he asks me if I want tea or coffee.
‘An Earl Grey would be good,’ I say, knowing better than to ask for anything ‘newfangled’ like chamomile.
‘Very good, miss.’
‘Um … Robert, thanks for helping me take care of Alexander the other evening.’
I half think he’s going to bow and if he does, I’ll die of embarrassment, but instead I see the trace of a smile tug the corners of his mouth. ‘Glad to be of service. I’ll bring your tea and the newspapers.’
I don’t really want a full English but I feel obliged to taste something after it’s been cooked. After he’s brought my tea and left a bundle of newspapers on the table, I help myself to some scrambled eggs, bacon and toast. Outside the sun is full up, and the formal garden behind the breakfast room shimmers in the early light. The frazzled leaves on the copper beech hedge are rimmed with frost, now melting rapidly. I can see a few roses that ventured out during a recent mild spell, now withered on their stems. I
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