Dirty Aristocrat(22)

''You'd charm the dew right off the honeysuckle,' I said sarcastically.

'I settle for charming the dew right off you,' he leered.

'I'll be darned. You managed to turn that old saying into something dirty.'

'It's a talent,' he said with a filthy snigger.

I batted my eyelashes the way that was more parody than sexy. 'Do you think they'll let me into The Dirty Aristocrat like this?'

'The Dirty Aristocrat is a sex club,' he said, his lips twisting upwards  so sexily, and darn it to hell, but I wanted to lick that dirty smile  right off his face. Men like him should be kept locked up in special  places to be used purely for copulation purposes.

'I know what it is,' I said coolly. 'I asked if they will let me in dressed like this.'

His jaw twitched. 'Baby, there isn't a bouncer born who's going to turn you away from anywhere.'

'Good,' I said calmly and walking to my bed, collected my coat from it. 'Because we're going there later.'

His eyes glittered. 'We are?'

'Aren't we?' I asked innocently.

'They don't play country music there,' he said, helping me into my coat.

I tilted my head to one side as if I was processing the information. 'They don't?'

I turned around and he shook his head gravely.

I put on my best  I'm-so-country-sticks-fall-out-every-time-I-open – my-mouth' expression.  'You mean to say nobody in England ever thought to have sex to Dolly  Parton's songs?'

He kept his face straight. 'Afraid not.'

'It seems to me the English are missing out.'

'It would seem so,' said the slick weasel, hiding a smile. 'Nevermind, you wouldn't have liked it, anyway.'

I looked up at him through my eyelashes. 'Why honey, you're so full of shit it's surprising your eyes ain't brown.'

He grinned. 'You'll get on well with my mother.'

'Good, it's all settled then. The Dirty Aristocrat it is,' I said.

'This should be an interesting night,' he said, a twinkle in his eye.

I buttoned up my coat.

'Shall we?' he murmured.

We went out into the street. It was only a little cold. I lifted my  collar against the wind and snuggled down into the warmth of my coat.  His car was parked down the road and we strolled down to it. He walked  close enough for people to realize that we were together, and I  immediately appreciated the fact that I loved being with Ivan. Every  woman we passed looked at him with hungry eyes first, then at me with  wishful envy.

He drove us to a very exclusive restaurant. Stopping the car at the entrance he turned to me. 'Here we are?'

'Very fancy,' I commented.

'Like you wouldn't believe,' he replied and hit the button that worked the car's wing doors.

I swung my legs out and put them on the pavement, then someone held a  gloved hand, palm up, so I could put my hand into it. As soon as I did,  he gently and expertly tugged me so I floated upwards as if we were part  of an immaculately choreographed dance.

I thanked his impassively polite face and saw that Ivan was already  waiting for me. I linked arms with him and we went up the stairs into a  grand, green, marble foyer. Staff came to help us with our coats, and  show us into a high ceilinged room. It was all white with recessed  mirrors on the ceiling and eggplant leather seats. It was all very  civilized. People in fine clothes and that deliberately languid air of  very fat cats were seated at the white tables sipping at their drinks.  It seemed as if some of them knew Ivan. There were waves and nods in our  direction. The women reminded me of different versions of Chloe. Ugh.         

     



 

'Would you like a drink at the bar?' Ivan asked me.

'No, I'd like to go straight to the table, please,' I said.

'Of course, Madam,' the courteous man hovering at our elbows said.

He took us through a vibrantly emerald corridor hung with  extraordinarily complicated and clever light-staircase chandeliers made  out of bronze plumbing pipes.

The corridor opened out to a truly unique and marvelous dining area. A  rectangular room sculptured out of a variety of materials to give you  the impression that you had entered a glass box. It was decked out with  hoop-shaped lights suspended from the ceiling, pink leather banquettes,  and futuristic looking diagonal brushed steel panels with lighted  butterflies on them.

The waiter showed us to our table. I remembered reading that every  restaurant had golden tables, ones that were kept for their best  customers, their most famous, or their best-looking. Well, we were being  seated at their golden table. It was actually elevated as if we were on  a stage holding court.

I looked at Ivan.

'Is this table OK with you?' he asked.

'Sure,' I said, and let the waiter pull a chair out and carefully push  it back as I bent my knees so I was perfectly seated without having to  pull my chair towards the table.

They brought us menus, we made our selections, and they bowed, smiled,  approved of our choices, and respectfully withdrew. There was no music  in the place, only the subtle murmur of polite conversation. I looked up  at Ivan and he was watching intently.

'Do you come here often?' I asked.

He leaned back and put his wonderfully shaped hands on the table. 'Sometimes. The food is generally superb.'

A sommelier appeared with a bottle of wine. After the usual fluffing  around that they inevitably do in fancy restaurants, he poured it out  into our glasses.

'To our wedding,' Ivan said, holding his glass aloft.

'To our wedding,' I echoed and took a sip. It was dry with subtle tones that I was too nervous to note.

Another waiter came to the table. He placed a plate with a selection of  canapés in the middle of the table and started to explain what they  were, but his accent was so thick I only picked up random words, tomato,  snow crab puree, caramelized onion  … '

Satisfied that he had done his job, he bowed from the neck and made himself scarce.

I leaned forward, my hand accidentally pushed one of the knives: it  clattered onto the glass-like floor. Without music the noise of its  landing was exaggerated and heads turned in our direction. I felt myself  flush.

'Sorry,' I apologized awkwardly, and I was about to bend and pick up the knife when he leaned forward and caught my hand.

'For what?' he asked, a frown making his eyebrows come together in a straight line. A waiter was already picking the knife up.

'For being so clumsy,' I said, winching inwardly.

'Social etiquette is how the moronic silence the intelligent. What does  it matter if you drop your knife, or eat with the wrong fork? Don't ever  apologize for such things again.'

I stared at him. How wonderful to be born in a class where you don't  have to emulate anyone. Anything you do is seen as wonderful simply  because of your bloodline.

As if he had read my mind he said, 'I was very rebellious when I was  growing up and I hated being a Lord. My heroes were all  anti-establishment figures. To my mother's horror I put up a massive  poster of Gandhi in my room. She thought he was a ridiculous, half-naked  fakir, but I admired him because he refused to allow anyone to make him  feel he was less because of his color, descent, or traditions. I loved  that he came to England to meet his colonial masters dressed in rags.'

He flashed a cheeky smile. 'I can imagine how infuriating it must have been for them.'

'You said you hated it when you were young. So you don't hate it anymore.'

'Well, I acted up a lot when I was a kid. I did the most outrageous  things, but no matter what I did, I was always forgiven because of who I  was. And in the end I thought if people were going to be stupid enough  to put me on a pedestal simply because of an unearned title, who was I  to pull myself off it? I milked it for all it was worth.'

I laughed.

'What's funny?' he asked.

'It's funny how you and I are from the exact opposite ends of the  spectrum. When I first came to this country I tried, without much  success, to fit into the very society that you tried without much  success to escape from.'

He looked at me. 'Don't let anyone change you, Tawny. You were always  beautiful. There was not one thing about you that needed to be changed.'

I looked carefully at him to see if he was taking the piss out of me, but he was sincere.         

     



 

'I thought you didn't like country bumpkins,' I said lightly.

He grinned. 'What are you talking about? I adore country bumpkins. I  secretly even like that twangy American accent that you arrived with.'

'I can still talk like that,' I said, returning to my old way of talking  and letting go of everything Robert had taught me. It felt good to talk  like that again. When I first came I didn't want to be the one with the  funny accent. I wanted to belong so I tried to change to suit my  environment, but maybe I didn't need anybody's approval anymore.

I could talk like them, I just didn't want to anymore.

'That's more like the glorious Tawny I first met,' he said and grinned  at me. An open boyish grin that took my breath away. Wow! It hit me  then, that despite all my efforts to keep him at arms length, I was  crazy about this guy. I always had been. From the first moment I laid  eyes on him I wanted him, but he had always looked at me with such cold,  disapproving eyes. I was forced to hide my feelings even from myself. I  did not hate him. Far from it.