LITMIR.BIZ

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delighted.’ Ridiculously delighted.

      ‘Does she even know who I am?’

      He felt his mouth twitch. ‘No. I’ve never mentioned you. Or anyone else, come to that, so you’re safe. You can be as inventive as you like, so long as you let me in on it.’

      Libby sighed and rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t you go spinning your mother porkies, now, Andrew, or I won’t come. We work together, you’ve asked me up for the weekend. End of. No inventiveness. I don’t want to spend the entire weekend like a moonstruck teenager pretending to be in love with you.’

      He was tempted to ask if it would be such a hardship, but thought better of it at the last second and smiled reassuringly. ‘Of course not. I’ll just tell her I’m bringing a plus one. I’ll let her make any further leaps herself. Don’t worry, you won’t have to pretend to smile while I grope you for effect.’

      Pity, she thought, but managed what she hoped was a normal smile. ‘So—what time does this extravaganza start?’

      ‘Seven for seven-thirty. I’d like to leave at six, but Murphy’s Law says it’s unlikely. Is that OK?’

      ‘Fine,’ she said, not sure if she’d lost her marbles or won the lottery.

      ‘Great. I’ll see you later.’

      Lottery, she decided, watching him walk away. Good food, good wine—and definitely good company. And it might answer some of her abundant questions about the most enigmatic and attractive man she’d met in her entire twenty-seven years…

      

      ‘You’re doing what?’

      ‘Going home with him for the weekend. It’s his mother’s sixtieth birthday party and there’s a ball.’

      ‘Good God,’ Amy said weakly, and stared at her open-mouthed.

      ‘What?’

      ‘What? What? You stun me. You must be the only single woman in Suffolk who wouldn’t kill for an invitation like that.’

      She shook her head quickly, resisting the urge to tell Amy that according to Andrew all the single women in Suffolk had already been invited. ‘No. It’s not an invitation like that. It’s strictly no strings.’

      Amy laughed till the tears ran down her face. ‘Yeah, right! You’re going home for the weekend with that man and you’re saying it’s no strings? Are you both dead, or what? And what on earth are you going to wear?’

      She felt a flicker of unease. ‘I don’t know. Clothes?’ she said helpfully, and the physio rolled her eyes.

      ‘Dear heaven. You do realise who’ll be there, don’t you? I mean, this isn’t your ordinary, everyday birthday party for a little old lady.’

      ‘She’s only sixty!’

      ‘She’s only Lady Ashenden!’ Amy said, imitating her voice, and Libby felt her own jaw drop. She snatched it back up and tried not to hyperventilate.

      ‘Lady Ashenden—as in, Ashenden Place? The one that’s open to the public? No! No, his name’s not Ashenden, don’t be silly!’

      ‘No, he’s the Hon. Andrew Langham-Jones, first son of Lord and Lady Ashenden, heir to the Ashenden estate, which as you rightly say is open to the public and only one of the most beautiful country piles in Suffolk—not to mention the family coffers and the flipping title! He’s one of the most eligible bachelors around—good grief, Libby, I can’t believe you didn’t know about him!’

      ‘Maybe because I don’t gossip?’ she suggested mildly, wondering if she ought to take it up if she was going to accept random invitations from gorgeous men without realising what she was letting herself in for. And of course, if he was the future LordAshenden, no wonder all the dowagers were trotting their daughters out! He wasn’t being vain or egotistical at all, he was just being realistic, and she couldn’t believe she’d been so stupid—but Amy could. Oh, yes. And Amy said so. Bluntly.

      ‘You don’t need to gossip, you just need to be alive! You just—you live in a cocoon, do you know that? You go home every night to your little house and your little cat and you snuggle down in front of the television and you have no idea what’s going on right under your nose! No wonder you’re still single!’

      ‘I’m happy being single,’ she lied, trying not to think about the lonely nights and the long weekends and the ridiculous farce of speed dating and internet dating and blind dates that she’d given up on ages ago.

      ‘Rubbish,’ Amy said briskly, and eyed her up and down. ‘So—what are you wearing for this event?’

      ‘Two events,’ she corrected, wincing inwardly when she thought about it. Lady Ashenden? Oh, rats. ‘A black-tie dinner tomorrow night and a white-tie formal ball the following night.’

      Amy’s eyes widened, then narrowed critically as she studied her friend, making Libby feel like an insect skewered on a pin. ‘It’s a pity your boobs are so lush,’ Amy said candidly. ‘I’ve got a fabulous ballgown—that smoky bluey-green one. But you’ll probably fall out of it. Still, you can try it. It’s the only long one I’ve got that’s suitable and it’s cut on the cross so it’ll drape nicely and it’ll be brilliant with your eyes. And you’ve got your classic LBD for tomorrow, haven’t you?’

      ‘If it doesn’t need cleaning. I expect the cat’s been sleeping on it—joke!’ she added hastily, as Amy opened her mouth to tell her off again. ‘It’ll be fine. I had it cleaned after Christmas. And I’ve got a fairly decent pair of heels that do nice things to my legs.’

      ‘They don’t need to. You’ve got fabulous legs—well, you did have, the last time you let them out into the fresh air, which was ages ago, but I don’t suppose they’ve changed. What time does your shift finish?’

      ‘Three, but I’ve got to go home and feed the cat and put the washing on or I won’t have anything at all to wear for the weekend.’

      ‘Right, I’m off at five, so that gives you two hours and then I want you round at mine and we’ll go through my wardrobe and see what I’ve got, because I know you haven’t got anything unless you’ve got a secret life I don’t know about. I can’t remember the last time you told me about a date, and apart from this dreadful uniform the only other thing I ever see you in is jeans. Never mind, we’ll find something even if I have to send you out shopping tomorrow. Actually, on second thoughts I’ll go shopping. I can’t trust you to buy anything sensible.’

      Sensible? Libby nearly laughed out loud. She couldn’t imagine that what Amy had in mind for her was in any way sensible, but she didn’t have many options and she had even less time. ‘I’m sure the bluey-green one will be fine,’ she said with more confidence than she felt. ‘I’ll wear a minimiser bra.’

      Amy laughed again as if she’d said something hysterically funny. ‘Yeah, right. Just try the dress first and then we’ll worry about the underwear. OK, I’m done here on the ward, I’m going back down to the gym to do my outpatients’ list, and in between I’ll be thinking about your outfits for the weekend. I might have another dress that would do if that one doesn’t fit. I’ll see you later—and don’t forget to come round. I’ll feed you. Half-five—and not a minute later. And bring your shoes and the LBD. Oh, and your jewellery and some bras.’

      ‘Yeah, yeah—you are the most atrocious nag.’

      ‘You’ll love me this weekend when you don’t look silly.’

      ‘I hope so,’ she muttered under her breath, and tugging her quote, dreadful, unquote uniform straight, she went to find Lucas, a fourteen-year-old who’d nearly lost his foot a week ago after a stupid stunt on his bike had gone horribly wrong. Andrew had realigned all the bones using an external fixator, but the surgery had been complicated, his recovery was going to be slow and Lucas was impatient.

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