Chapter Text
Rupert Campbell-Black is in the bathtub when he gets the call from the PM’s office. Or rather, when Gerald, who had been finishing up paperwork for tomorrow’s morning in London, gets the call. He barges into the bathroom, and Rupert greets him with narrow eyes and a deep frown.
“You can tell I’m in the middle of something,” he says, gesturing to himself with the one hand not coated in bubbles. Unlike some men in Rutshire, Rupert is serious about his baths. He doesn’t just stew in hot water — he lazes in bubbles, salts, and potions. Of course for the benefits to his skin and hair — and to soothe the aching muscles his career in show jumping so blessed him with.
Gerald has never been part of this particular ritual.
“I’m so sorry, sir, but it’s urgent.”
Rupert stands immediately. “What? Is someone hurt? The kids?” He reaches for a towel, but Gerald’s eyes are already wide as saucers. “Is it Taggie?”
“Erm, no, sir, it’s not that sort of urgent.” His eyes find a spot on the floor as Rupert steps over the lip of the clawfoot tub, bringing suds with him onto the checkered marble floor. “But it’s important. That was Prime Minister Thatcher. Personally.”
“What could she possibly need?”
If the rude interruption during his bath wasn’t enough to ruin his night, what Gerald shares with him next certainly is: “She wants to dine at Penscombe. In a week’s time.”
The groan Rupert lets out will surely be heard all the way in Yorkshire. “Why in God’s name does she want to come all the way to Rutshire?” He’s already hunting for the reason she would have to fire him. It would have to be bad for her to do it in person, to embarrass him on his own turf. But Venturer has kept him largely out of mischief as of late — so what could it be?
“Apparently the bid is a concern. So she wants the local MPs and lords to convene — here, obviously — and assure her that everybody will be on their best behavior during the parliamentary session, whether they’re with Corinium or Venturer.”
“Right. And that has to be here because…?”
“She said she was interested in the grounds,” Gerald answers, the lilt to his voice turning it into a question.
“No,” Rupert says slowly, “she just wants to make my life a living hell.” He scrubs a hand down his face, stubble rough against his fingers. Definitely time for a shave. “Fine,” he concedes. “We’ll play her game — but I’m inviting people, too, if I’m hosting”
“Venturer people, sir?”
Rupert nods. “And if this is going to put a thorn in my side, I’d at least like the food to be good.”
“Which caterer shall I call?”
“Nobody,” Rupert says. “I’ll handle it.”
Since Tony’s accident — which is what the papers have been calling it at the behest of the Baddingham estate, no doubt to attempt to keep his affair out of the news — things have been…different. There’s Tony’s renewed lease on life, and his narrow escape from divorce, though word around town is that Monica still wants to leave (and the gossip mill of Rutshire would certainly support her if she did). Neither of these developments have encouraged him to let the franchise go, though. If anything, his contempt for Venturer is at an all-time high.
So it’s a wonder that the papers have left them out of it. The story simply goes: Thank God Cameron Cook happened to be in the office that late and had the good sense to check on her former boss before heading home for the night.
The whole thing has Cameron spooked, which is why she’s currently wooing investors and producers in New York City. It’s a cowardly thing to do, but Rupert’s been using the situation — and the Atlantic Ocean — to let things fizzle. They haven’t seen each other in a month, and while phone calls used to happen a few times a week, it’s been a fortnight since they last spoke. Declan is her main point of contact for all things Venturer now.
And then there’s Taggie. With the accident, and Cameron, and the franchise, they haven’t had the time to talk about…well, anything non-Venturer related. He thinks she might still be seeing Seb. He thinks she thinks he’s still seeing Cameron.
That doesn’t mean she’s not the first thing he thinks about in the morning (waking up hard, remembering that kiss, and that dance on New Year’s Eve, and all of the moments in between that haven’t quite been platonic) and last thing he thinks about at night (looking out across the Bluebell Wood, hoping to catch a glimpse of her light on in the Priory, thinking about how she looks tucked into bed).
They gravitate toward each other during Venturer meetings. Through the yelling, the late nights crowded around the O’Hara dining table, the moments when they’re celebrating a win, Rupert’s eyes and body are drawn to her. When dinners with Freddie and team end, it’s Rupert in the kitchen helping with the washing up. He can only hope the rest of the team doesn’t notice, that they don’t pick up on the something between them like Lizzie and Bas have.
Remarkably, he hasn’t kissed her since the night they got the green light for the franchise bid.
With that in mind, Rupert has no idea if Taggie will accept. It’s a fantastic opportunity, and he’ll see to it that it’s a well-paying one at that. If nothing else, she deserves the acclaim and networking that will surely come from catering for the PM. This could be a step toward getting out of her family’s shadow. Toward living life for herself, instead of waiting on Declan and the Venturer crew hand and foot.
But it’s a huge ask, especially when he couples it with the infinitely more selfish piece, the piece that came to him in the middle of the night when one of the snoring dogs woke him up: He wants her at Penscombe for the week. The whole week. Just the two of them, just this once.
He wants her, and, like they say, opportunity never knocks twice.
Despite Taggie and Declan being the only O’Haras in residence at the Priory, it’s almost foreign to see the estate empty these days. Sure, Caitlin’s back at school, Patrick’s off trying his hand at being a not-quite-starving artist, and Maud is — for better or worse — still in London; but the Venturer crew is always around. Whether it’s Declan, Rupert, and Freddie debating about the purpose and importance of television, Bas and Wesley working out which sporting events get prime-time slots, or Dame Enid toiling away at the piano with ideas for the station’s musical package, there’s always a lot going on. So it’s still shocking to walk through the doors and be met with nobody. Not even Gertrude.
It’s not until he rounds the corner into the living room that he sees why. Taggie’s curled up with Gertrude on the couch while reruns of Four Men Went to Mow play low on the telly.
This is a rare treat and his favorite way to start the day: catching Taggie before she’s had a chance to jump into the kitchen, before she’s so much as put on a pot of tea. She’s in a white terry cloth bathrobe and slouchy, fuzzy socks — the picture of comfort. “Good morning, angel. Daddy lets you watch that rubbish?”
“Oh, shit!” Her head whips around, and Gertrude stands at attention, ready to sound the alarm. “You scared me,” Taggie says. Her cheeks turn a beautiful flushed pink, and while frightening her is the last thing he’d ever do on purpose, he can’t deny the effects are a vision. “Gertrude might have taken your head off.”
He comes around the couch and gives the little beast a scratch behind the ears. “No, this one loves me.”
Taggie stands, and where her robe parts, he sees the same red nightie that’s haunted his dreams for months now. She pulls him into a hug and says a quiet, “Good morning,” that has Rupert thinking about this same scenario happening in an estate across the wood, with a few more dogs in the room. “Can I get you some tea?”
He clears his throat, stepping back. The backs of his knees bump the couch. “No, actually, I just came here to ask a favor.”
She cocks her head to this side and tightens the sash on her robe. “From me?”
“How would you like,” Rupert starts, “to cook for the Prime Minister?”
It’s silent for a beat. And then: “Margaret Thatcher?”
“Only PM I know of at the moment,” Rupert answers. He shifts from one foot to the other and adds, “It’s a week from tomorrow, and I thought — if you’re up for it — that you could stay at Penscombe — which is where dinner will be — until then to get your bearings and have uninterrupted time to prepare. And Gertrude, too, of course,” he adds, giving the pup a quick smile.
She stares at him like he’s grown another head. “For the Prime Minister.”
Rupert nods.
“To eat my cooking.”
“And Paul Stratton, and Tony, and some of ours, too — Freddie, Lord and Lady Hampshire, and your father.”
It’s then that Declan makes an appearance from his study. Hair going in every direction. Yesterday’s button-down stained. Eyes bloodshot. Another late night working through his book draft and franchise work. “What the fuck is this?” he asks, looking between the two of them.
Before Declan has the chance to raise his voice, Taggie shocks him. She nods. “Yes, of course I’ll go.” Wringing her hands, she smiles slowly. “It would be my p-p—p…privilege.”
Rupert’s shit-eating grin is enough to make Declan drag him into the study, the sound of the door thudding behind him all that knocks him out of his Taggie-induced stupor.
“I’m just offering her a job,” Rupert says, shoving his hands into his pockets.
Declan scoffs. “What, to warm your bed? I don’t fucking think so.”
“You really think that little of Taggie?” It’s clear that Declan’s mind is made up about him, no matter how closely they’ve been working together over the past months, nor how well Venturer’s bid is going. Rupert would call them friends, though not close enough to keep a woman — daughter — from coming between them. He expects his business partner to have qualms about his interest in Taggie. But to assume that Taggie would allow herself to be bought?
Even if there’s a kernel of truth to Rupert’s motives, even if he does want to steal her away from the Priory forever and keep her in every sort of comfort a man can offer, this isn’t how he’d do it. This is temporary.
(There would be roses. There would be candles. A family heirloom ring that he never offered Helen. Perhaps a violin player. A four-course meal cooked by a complete stranger, dishes and kitchen scrubbed clean completely out of sight. An announcement in The Times.)
“I thought we agreed that you were going to stay the hell away from her,” Declan says. His voice cuts through the heavy air in his office, stale from days of taking meals at his desk to keep up with deadlines. Taggie says she hardly sees her father on days when there are no meetings, unless she catches him sneaking into the kitchen for a top-up of his whiskey glass.
“And I thought we were fucking past this.” Rupert exhales. He’d love to open the windows and tidy the papers littered across every horizontal surface. “I only need her for a week.”
They both know he’s lying.
“A week for one bloody dinner party?”
“Maggie making the trip makes it a special occasion, wouldn’t you say? Everything has to be perfect, which means Taggie needs time to plan the menu, do the prep, coordinate with the staff — not to mention getting acquainted with the kitchen.”
“And you couldn’t host here?”
Rupert shoots him a sympathetic look. “Frankly, a week wouldn’t be nearly enough time to get the Priory in shape for the PM.”
“Why don’t you hire a real caterer?” Declan prods. “One with a full team, one that can handle this sort of event.”
There’s now a throbbing in Rupert’s temple. If only he could find paracetamol in this mess of an office. Certainly, Declan has some in here. “Taggie’s the best cook in Rutshire. Cotchester, too. And,” he adds, feeling his headache grow, “she’s the only person I trust to handle such a sensitive event.”
For a long moment, the two men stare at each other. This is how arguments about Venturer go, too. Shouting, debating, and, finally, silence — until the loser concedes, and they both move on. But Rupert is short on time and patience.
“I didn’t come here asking for your permission, Declan. Tag’s already agreed, and I shouldn’t have to remind you that she’s grown enough to make her own decisions.”
Declan’s face settles into a deep frown.
“Well,” Rupert says, “I’m off, then.”
Before the heavy door shuts completely behind him, Declan’s voice booms. “Imagine it were your daughter — what would you do?”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
Through the living room and into the kitchen, Rupert spies his angel sitting at the table, changed from her robe into her typical jeans and jumper, methodically writing on a legal pad. “I didn’t hear him throw you through a wall,” she says, putting the pencil down and looking up through her lashes. “So that must have gone okay.”
“Your father’s a reasonable man.” But he says it with a laugh that has Taggie rolling her eyes and smiling up at him.
Imagine it were your daughter.
All but impossible, given the glow of her smile, the way her eyes sparkle. The memory of kissing her mere meters from where they are right now.
Though they haven’t had time for a repeat performance, there’s an encore in his mind most nights before he falls asleep: The curtain rises, and there’s Taggie in that fucking milkmaid dress, pressed so close to him he can feel her tits against his chest. If he’d had the time, he would have slid a knee between her legs, would’ve let her ride him right there until she —
“Did you hear me?” Taggie asks. The memory of that night evaporates, and Rupert clears his throat.
“Sorry, angel. I was just — erm — thinking about something your father said.”
“Oh,” she says, mouth forming a perfect circle. It makes him want to reach down and trace the outline of her lips with his thumb. “Well, I was mentioning that maybe a smoked salmon mousse after the prawn cocktail would be good? Unless that’s too cliche.” Her brow furrows, and she erases something on the pad.
To tell the truth, he doesn’t give a damn if it’s cliche. As long as it’s Taggie cooking, it’ll be a smash hit. “Working out the menu already?”
“I thought getting a head start would be a–a–” — she pauses, takes a breath — “appropriate.”
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Smart girl.” Already, Rupert feels his headache receding. He thinks of her writing out a menu at Penscombe, working through each word on the page slowly and methodically. How easily he’d be able to slip behind her and press a kiss to her cheek. Or neck. Or lower.
She would be a vision at Penscombe. Will be.
“I have a little work to do in London today,” Rupert says. “Some things for our dear friend Maggie, and a few Venturer items. But I’ll be back to pick you up around 8 o’clock. Sounds good?”
Taggie nods. “I’ll pack my bag. And Gertrude’s,” she adds with a smile. “She won’t know what to do with herself when she meets your brood.”
“I’ll tell the chaps to be on their best behavior.” Then, without thinking about his daughter or Declan, he kisses the crown of her head. She sighs in a satisfied answer, and Rupert imagines how a simple kiss could become a habit so ingrained in their day-to-day life that it’d become like breathing.
She’s already like breathing.
From the office, there’s a rustle of paper and a shout. “Tag! D’you know where my Yeats draft went?” More than enough of a cue to leave. So, with a wink and wave, Rupert’s gone.
Just until tonight.