The Englishwoman Trilogy: Box set of: Englishwoman in Paris, Englishwoman in Scotland, Englishwoman in Manhattan Read online

  Englishwoman

  in

  Paris/Scotland/Manhattan

  By Jenny O’Brien

  Copyright © 2017 by Jenny O’Brien

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons,

  living or dead is entirely co-incidental.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  All Rights reserved

  By Jenny O’Brien

  Ideal Girl Trilogy

  Ideal Girl

  Girl Descending

  Unhappy Ever After Girl

  Englishwoman in Trilogy

  Englishwoman in Paris

  Englishwoman in Scotland

  Englishwoman in Manhattan

  Englishman in Blackpool (Prequel)

  Coming soon

  Englishwoman at Christmas

  Short Stories

  Dunkirk - Rescuing Robert

  For children

  Boy Brainy

  Praise for Jenny O’Brien

  “I absolutely adored this story. It was fun, flirty, romantic, tragic, emotionally heart-breaking at times but also very heart-warming.” Adele for “Kraftireader” book blog.

  “Jenny O”Brien did a great job creating a story that will let you go through all sorts of emotions. You will laugh and be shocked but you will also feel the love.” Anniek for “With love for books” book blog.

  “Another wonderful, romantic cosy read beautifully written with warmth love and tenderness.” Michele Turner.

  “She captures the reader from the first paragraph, engrossing them with her heroine”s journey of love and loss, to the very end.” Susan Godenzi, writer.

  Englishwoman

  in

  Paris

  (Second Edition)

  By Jenny O’Brien

  Acknowledgements

  First, thanks most go the builder that inspired this little book. I don’t know his name, or indeed anything about him. In fact, I was writing a very different book when I spotted him swinging off the outside of next door’s extension and had that lightbulb moment.

  Thank you, Beverley Ann Hopper for all your support and for allowing me to borrow your name, I used it gently!

  Thanks also to Simon Cruickshank for letting me include the amazing Ship Inn at Stonehaven; a special place.

  Finally, thanks as always to my ever supportive family for putting up with all the new characters I keep introducing. At least they’re only on paper and don’t hog the bathroom.

  To Maria Claire

  “Wounded by the dart of love.”

  King Henry V111 to Anne Boleyn, 1527.

  Chapter One

  6th May. I still don’t have a date for the weekend. I’ve bought the frock, and the most delightful six inch pale grey stilettoes with diamante heels. But posh frocks aren’t going to appease my parents. I promised them a man. I lied. There is no man and there isn’t going to be unless I can conjure one up over the next couple of days. I’m even prepared to pay. Any idea what the going rate is for a fake boyfriend?

  “”What about him then?”

  “Which one?”

  “What, there’s more than one?”

  The Right Honourable Lady Sarah Cosgrave followed the direction of Cara’s hand. She didn’t need to glance too hard to recognise the familiar sight of the tall stocky builder. She couldn’t really miss him, being as he was a good head taller than the other brickies clambering up and down the scaffolding like trapeze artists.

  “Mmm, which part of him are you looking at exactly? The only parts of interest to my father are the length of his vowels and the size of his…”

  “Prospects?”

  They both burst into a fit of giggles at the thought of the Earl spending even one nano-second in the company of the extremely handsome builder.

  “So I was right. You have noticed what a scenic part of Paris you live in, and I’m not talking about Le Pont Neuf!” she added, waving a hand toward the oldest bridge on the Seine.

  “I’d be blind not to, but just how you think some buff French brickie will help me out of my current difficulty, I can’t imagine,” her voice dry.

  “I can think of many difficulties I’d be more than happy for him to help me out of; my coat, my shoes, my blouse, my skirt, my stockings, my k…”

  “Cara!” she exploded, unable to dampen down her laughter.

  “Okay Okay, I’ll behave myself for once. So your parents are arriving on Friday expecting to meet…”

  “My boyfriend.” Still smiling, she paused on the edge of the kerb to throw a glance at her balcony and the little window box dripping with bright red geraniums. She let her eyes roam over the other balconies, all similarly decked out with an assortment of flowers and sighed again. It might not be much. It might not be a patch on Cosgrave Manor but it was hers, her smile turning to a frown.

  “If I hadn’t lied, they’d have thrown Rupert Reynolds–Smythe in my direction again.”

  “But…”

  “But nothing, Cara. My baguette is well and truly baked on that particular score. I hoped they’d be happy to hear I’m dating but not a bit of it. I’ll be lucky to get a hug before they launch into a pile of awkward questions, like the state of his bank balance. And I don’t even have a boyfriend.” She threw a final glance across at the building site. “So now I go home and marry Rupert.”

  “What, that boring stick in the mud who’s old enough to be your father? You can’t!”

  “Cara, I have no choice. It’s either Rupert, some other jumped up squirt, or…”

  “Or stand up to your parents for once in your life.”

  “You of all people should realise it’s not that easy,” she replied, placing her saxophone on the ground. “I come into my inheritance in a few weeks and that photo of me in the newspaper was the last straw.”

  “But all you were doing was sitting in a café with a…”

  “With a coffee and my sax for company, the way I’m happiest. It was the poor little rich girl by-line that had my parents incensed and then, when the offers of marriage started, they lost it completely. Hopper has been beside himself with all the extra recycling it’s created. Apparently he’s had to make room in one of the outbuildings to store all the additional paper, and as for the bouquets and chocolates… The local florist has been instructed to divert any blooms addressed to me to the local old people’s home but the chocolates are another thing.” She cradled Cara’s hand within hers. “Hopper, between you, me and the gatepost is a chocoholic and, as he said himself in his last text, if it wasn’t for the freebee truffles he’d be well on his way to the job agency.”

  “What, do butlers have to…?”

  “No, silly. Hopper is worth his weight in gold, or should that be chocolate, and boy doesn’t he make sure we know it.”

  She leant across to pull her friend into a brief hug before kissing her on both cheeks. “I’ve had the most amazing year studying music at the Sorbonne, Cara but it’s over now. Don’t worry; I’ll be fine, more than fine,” patting her on the back with more assurance than she felt. “I’ll see you tomorrow in the canteen.”

  With drooping shoulders she stood on the edge
of the pavement waiting for a gap in the traffic, her mind scrolling over the past.

  She was her own worst enemy. She always had been. She’d have thought her parents would have been happy the only thing she was interested in was music, and classical at that. But it seemed not. As soon as the date of her twenty-third birthday loomed, all they were worried about was palming her on to a serious-minded city type. It didn’t matter who it was as long as he carried on looking after the family fortune while they carried on doing what they were best at; abdicating any and all parental responsibility.

  Unless she could come up with a half decent boyfriend by Friday, her parents would pull the rug out from under her and set Rupert on her like a sprat dangling after a mackerel. She was fed up with running away from the future they were so determined for her to have, a future full of false friends and even falser…

  “Mademoiselle. Stop!”

  She’d heard the shout but thought nothing of it until he’d added the stop.

  Turning, the question on her lips died as she found herself looking straight at her builder, or to be exact, his chest. He was taller than she’d imagined; taller, broader and sexier although that didn’t seem possible. Craning her head her eyes finally touched his and the force of what seemed like a thousand watt light bulb exploded inside her stomach.

  She’d thought him handsome before in that cool arrogant way that seemed to be the French trademark. His nose, high-bridged and slightly crooked might be a little too big but it screamed strength and authority. His dark, weather-beaten skin stretched over high cheekbones any model would be proud of. His mouth set, stubborn even but with a sensual bottom lip twitching, just as the corners of his eyes were crinkling up in silent merriment.

  The nervous laugh that welled up in the back of her throat at meeting him face to face died as his gaze pinned itself to hers in an hypnotic trance before starting a lazy trail across her skin. A schoolgirl blush raced across her cheeks and she tilted her chin in the only act of defiance available in light of his visual assault. His eyes, now self-assured and possessive lingered for what seemed like an inordinately long time on her mouth.

  She lifted her chin even higher her eyes taking in the thick dark texture of his hair and the way it curled over the neck of his t-shirt before replying. The fact she’d spent the last three weeks ogling him from the security of her flat was a secret she intended to keep.

  “Monsieur?” She finally managed, her voice clipped in the best representation of hauteur she could muster under the circumstances.

  “Mademoiselle, your bag I believe?”

  Her eyes rounded as she tried to make sense of his words. Struggling to reinstate control over her muscles was difficult enough and now he expected her to follow an actual conversation with sentences and all?

  What bag? She didn’t have a bag with her; she didn’t even bother with a purse at college, only her phone and a few Euros stuffed in her back pocket. Dragging her eyes away she allowed them travel the brief distance to her saxophone strap dangling from his hand.

  Her face, so recently pink, blanched white at the sight of her vintage Selmer, her very expensive reconditioned vintage Selmer. It had been an eighteenth birthday present from her parents and her most treasured possession, a possession she’d abandoned in the middle of the pavement without a thought as she’d gossiped about men and other inconsequential topics.

  This proved her parents were right to be worried about her. In fact she might as well admit defeat and marry Rupert. She could pack up the apartment and hitch a lift back with them next week. Her mother would want to visit that little dressmaker on the Rue de Passy while her father continued sorting out the assaults on his cellars by restocking at the wine merchants along the Rue Daguerre. But, by Monday, they’d be chomping to get back to their Berkshire estate and she should go with them and accept the diamond Rupert assured her he’d been carrying around for months.

  She didn’t notice his sudden look of alarm, her gaze now fixed on the black faded case.

  “Mademoiselle,” concern causing his delicious French accent to elongate the last syllable with undue resonance.

  “Oh, sorry. Thank you, I’m indebted,” stretching out her hand to relieve him of his burden, only to find the case now flung across his shoulders as if it was a sack of spuds and not a near priceless musical instrument.

  “Thanks again monsieur,” she repeated. “But I’m perfectly able to carry my own…”

  “Pascal.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Call me Pascal.” He smiled down at her. “And you are?”

  “And I’m what?”

  She was utterly confused that’s what she was. One minute she’s minding her own business and the next some strange bloke appears out of nowhere and starts interrogating her with the stupidest of questions. It was a bloody cheek that’s what it was as she dismissed the weeks she’d spent staring at him from afar.

  Checking out the view from the comfort of her own apartment was one thing; having him materialise in the form of one hundred percent man was completely different; different and confusing as her heartbeat ratcheted up a couple of notches. She could cope with the likes of Rupert until the cows came home, but sexy strangers accosting her in the street? There was nothing in her repertoire of relationships to give her even an inkling of how she was meant to respond. She wanted to run across the road to the safety of her apartment and probably would have, except for the saxophone strap still hanging across his shoulders.

  “You are called?”

  “Oh I see,” although she didn’t, she didn’t see at all.

  Her gaze flickered up to his, only to be caught in the rays of his stare. Mad, that’s what he was, positively barking. Some mad French builder had hold of her sax and he wouldn’t give it back until she told him her first name. She didn’t know what to do, but if she didn’t tell him, he might make off with the most treasured of her possessions.

  “Sarah.”

  “Ah, Sarah. Très Belle.”

  She blushed again. Whilst far from fluent she could sort of work out he thought her name beautiful although, by the way his gaze barely wavered from her face it wasn’t just her name.

  “Sarah, would you, er...” His voice stalled, his eyes uncertain. She would have said he was nervous although what a man like him had to be nervous about was beyond her. She’d never met such a good looking specimen, and she’d met quite a few at those charity balls her mother liked to frequent. But all the celebrity footballers, polo players and crown princes couldn’t hold a candle to this humble French builder. This humble French builder still in possession of her sax!

  “Would you like to go for a coffee?”

  “J’regret… I have, how do you say - a date?”

  The words were automatic, being as she repeated them on almost a daily basis to an array of men keen to spend time in her company. It was easier to fake a boyfriend than have to explain she wasn’t born yesterday. There was no boyfriend and there wasn’t likely to be with the current media furore over her pending inheritance. Every Smart Alec reporter and eligible male within miles took an undue interest in her private life, which was all the more reason for her to keep it private. So she did what she had to in the circumstances, which was lie. There was no date apart from with a bath and a book but he wasn’t to know that. There was no way she’d go anywhere with him, or any other man, no matter how buff they were. She was in need of a decoy for Friday, but a date with him - no.

  “Naturellement.” He replied with a quirk of his eyebrow. “Another time perhaps.” He lifted the saxophone off his back and set it at her feet.

  “Well goodbye, and thanks again.”

  Reaching up a hand, he went to stroke her cheek only to pause millimetres away from her skin before allowing his hand to drop to his side.

  “Au revoir, ma petite.”

  * * *

  He couldn’t believe how tongue tied he’d been in front of her. A spotty teenager would have done better.


  She’d been indebted to him. She’d been so indebted she’d given him the brush off and, the most surprising part was he’d let her. He’d let her turn him down with little more than a gallant Gallic shrug, his mind full of forever unsaid thoughts and words. All he’d wanted was a chance, a chance to spend five minutes in her company. But, apart from running down the street with her case strapped to his back he had little choice other than to hand it back and walk away.

  He headed to the building site to pick up his own case, his mind still full of the sight of her and not only the sight. He remembered the slight smell of her perfume; something light and flowery that assailed his senses as he’d handed over her instrument. He hadn’t imagined what she’d smell like. He hadn’t given a thought to the rest of her; her voice, soft and melodious as she’d struggled with the French pronunciation. He’d have liked to have touched her, his hand caress her pale English skin. But he knew that would be one sensation too many, even for him. He was only a man; a man madly in love with the image of a woman, the image now a reality beyond his fiercest desire.

  He’d earmarked her as being different that first morning on site, different in a good way. Parisian women were in a class of their own. He was privy every day to just how chic a true Parisian woman could be and yet he’d never met one who could hold a flicker to her flame.

  Was it the way she held her head, or the directness of her gaze? It wasn’t her hair because the three weeks he’d known her he’d never seen it other than dragged off her face in a stern ponytail. She had a good body, or at least he imagined it good underneath the layer upon layer of student garb she housed it in. There were the regimented jeans and leggings and an assortment of sloppy shirts and cardigans that no self-respecting French woman would be seen dead in, and then there was her bag: her black bag, which she had glued to her side, day and night. He’d sort of worked out she was a student at the Sorbonne. It was that or busker on the Metro. It didn’t really matter what she was. All that mattered was she wasn’t his and after their little interlude he didn’t think she ever would be.