From London With Love

09 | the old man and the brie

Andrew had never taken a girl to Cornwall.

He drummed his fingers anxiously on the steering wheel. Not even Eleanora had been invited down to his childhood home for the weekend; she had met his parents at a ritzy hotel in London, popping by in between fashion shows and galas.

This was new territory.

He glanced at Ophelia.

She had insisted on treating their six-hour drive as some sort of mad sightseeing tour, pressing her face up against the window like a child at the zoo. She had actually squealed when they passed by the spires of Exeter cathedral. Squealed.

"Dickens met his wife here," she informed him. "Catherine. I don't suppose you'd want to make a quick stop at Mile End Cottage to see where his parents lived?"

"Absolutely not."

"Please?"

"No."

"It's hardly out of the way."

She looked up at him, her brown eyes hopeful. Which is how Andrew found himself turning the car around and then sitting outside a plain gingerbread building for twenty minutes, listening to Ophelia prattle on about "Nicholas Nickleby" and Dickens' greatest hits, flapping her hands around animatedly.

Andrew wasn't sure what it was about this girl that made him want to do stupid and impractical things, but he made a mental note to put an end to it.

Particularly after last night.

His heartbeat sped up as he thought of the way that Ophelia had felt underneath him. The softness of her body. The intoxicating smell of rose and vanilla. The little gasping noises she made when he kissed her neck, breathy and addicting...

His trousers tightened uncomfortably.

Oh, no. Nope. He wasn't going there.

She was an attractive girl, obviously, and Andrew had wanted her; it was as simple as that. But it was over now. Done and dusted. He had gotten the whole thing out of his system, and now he could focus on what mattered most: proposing to Eleanora.

"Alright," Andrew grunted. "Time to go."

He shifted the car into gear.

It wasn't long before they were turning off the single carriageway and on to a narrow, winding path, snaking through endless green fields. Dozens of chimneys came into view first, followed by a stone façade, hidden like a bride beneath a veil of green ivy and Japanese honeysuckle. The rose gardens — normally his mother's pride and joy — were shriveling in the November frost.

Andrew was so caught up in his thoughts that he almost missed Ophelia's gasp.

"You live here?"

"Well, not anymore," he said dryly.

"Oh, gosh." Ophelia got out of the car, shielding her eyes against the late afternoon glare. "It's like a miniature castle."

"It's called Wisteria Hill, actually."

He felt a sudden jolt of anticipation as her eyes flicked over the stone fountain, the trimmed hedges, the family crest on the door. He wanted her to love it, Andrew realized with some surprise. To love it as much as he did. Why was that?

"Come on," Andrew said. "Mum will be waiting in the Orangerie."

He guided her into the cavernous front hall, throwing their jackets unceremoniously on the antique wooden table. Ophelia smirked at him.