Thankfully Charlie was there to swoop in and Etta watched in amusement as he completely failed to notice that Max wasn’t alone. She moved around a column so she could earwig on their conversation.
‘Stanhope, old fellow! On the run from Dearest Papa, are we?’
She saw Max grin, as the worthy local squire and his wheat harvest finally sodded off. ‘How on earth did you guess?’
Charlie gestured to a nearby footman to top up their glasses. ‘It was in my waters, Maximillian. In my waters. Don’t worry, there’s always a room for you here in the family quarters. Stay after dinner, play some billiards.’
‘Don’t mind if I do,’ said Max.
Etta stepped forward.
‘Enjoying the champers, old girl? Looking rather snazzy tonight, I must say,’ said Charlie.
Etta simply raised an eyebrow, watching Max finish hisglass. Yes, his suit was smart – he really did have excellent taste – but as ever, all she could focus on was his face. He was smiling at her – a wide, genuine smile that she knew he never showed to anyone else – and any other thoughts just melted away. She just had to be near him.
They were called in for dinner and she gratefully found herself seated next to Max. When her mother winked at her, she knew it was no coincidence.
Max touched her hand gently under the tablecloth as Charlie gave a rambling, completely unprepared speech to the table about welcoming in the New Year – a family tradition, apparently – and leaned towards her subtly.
‘Thank you for the slippers. And the note.’
Etta bit her lip. ‘Did you – did you like them?’
‘Oh yes. They were quite unforgettable.’
Of course they could hardly share any intimate feelings over dinner, especially since half the table seemed to be watching them. They were both delighted, though, to find Lady Bainbridge had served her signature raspberry trifle.
‘The problem with your mother’s trifle,’ Max told Etta wryly, ‘is that there’s never enough of it.’
She laughed. ‘Oh, but I know where Cook keeps her secret extra trifle, so it’s not a problem for me. She always makes an additional bowl or two for the pantry.’
‘I wonder if your mother would consider handing over the family recipe?’ Max watched Etta’s face, and she understood that he was asking if she had changed her mind.
She carefully replied, ‘Yes, I believe she would.’
He raised his glass. ‘Well, cheers to that.’
She merrily clinked her glass against his, her heart soaring, and they drank together.
Lady Bainbridge’s attention was caught from across the crowded table. ‘A toast? What are you toasting to, Etta?’
Max grinned. ‘Your trifle, madam.’
The whole table ended up drunkenly toasting Lady Bainbridge’s trifle, much to her pink-cheeked mock consternation, before the ladies left the gentlemen to their port.
They’d all gone to bed late and drunk. Etta tried to sleep, but she ended up snoring on her back and woke herself up. Groggily, still half-drunk, she stood up to use the chamber pot.
She’d been having a wonderful dream about raspberry trifle. Trifle, and Max. She’d been smearing it on her tits while he sucked it off. She shivered at the thought of it. Etta remembered the look on his face as he’d gently kissed her hand before bed and wondered what he was up to now. She knew he planned to ask Charlie formally for her hand in the morning, so he was probably as asleep as she’d have liked to have been.
Her stomach rumbled loudly, and she went over to her mantelpiece to look for the beautiful, delicate little carriage clock her mother had given her for Christmas. She’d had it etched with the words ‘Time to wake up’ in gorgeous but hard-to-read copperplate lettering and Etta had cried when she’d unwrapped it. She couldn’t deny it – she was undeniably happy here. Life was good, full of family, love, great champagne … She was definitely still rather tipsy.
It was 3 a.m. Everyone would be asleep by now – servants and all.
Etta remembered what she’d told Max about the trifle Cook always squirrelled away in the pantry and made a snapdecision. She might not be able to log onto her smartphone and get a kebab and some cheesy chips delivered, but she sure as hell could put a dressing gown on and find a spoon for that trifle.
Lighting a candle from her dwindling fire, she crept downstairs still thinking about her X-rated dream. She thought back to their illicit encounter after he’d caught her in the garden. About how he’d looked as he moved against her. How he’d felt.
Imagine waking up to that every morning, she thought. To his smile, his ruffled hair, his long, muscled body. As she padded through the moonlit kitchen, she remembered how he’d carried her that first night and wished he was there to carry her again. God, she’d had so much pudding wine with that trifle and it was already drenched with sherry. Oh well, a little more couldn’t hurt.
