Dancing
Existing
Chapter
4
Summary:
This is turning into an epic! More slow burn with some fun little moments. The
Butler’s Rulebook I owe to Dreamweaver 74. Her great fanfic can be found here.
I hope she doesn’t mind my quoting her! This chapter’s for all of the people
on the Chris
Barrie BBS, especially Symbimorph, who have inspired me to write a lot more
quickly and get this story where it needs to go! Big thanks also to Symbi, who
provided the absolutely stunning icon that now graces the title of this
story-you’re a star!
There
must have been a moment, Lara reflected upon waking the next morning, when she
stopped seeing Hillary as the stolid, dependable, reliable butler and began to
see him as something infinitely more interesting. Stretching luxuriously,
catlike in her sleepiness, she eased back the duvet and stepped onto the plush
carpeted floor. Wandering across her bedroom, long dark hair falling in an
untidy cascade over her shoulders and down her back, she entered her bathroom
and turned on the shower. The warm jets soothed away the last of her tiredness,
and as she turned the dial for a final blast of icy water, she pondered on the
shift in her relationship with Hillary.
To
be fair, she thought, nothing had changed in terms of their physical presence in
the house. Alright, so she’d let a few words slip carelessly past her lips in
an unguarded moment, and had a rather colourful dream about him, but to all
intents and purposes, their relationship should be the same as it ever was. But
was it? And was that what she wanted? Years of etiquette and protocol had taught
her that one didn’t fall in love with the staff; in fact, she could recall the
lightning fast dismissal of a stable boy on the Croft estate after she had been
caught kissing him in one of the loose boxes. Barely fifteen, she had sobbed for
days, but she had had to resign herself to the fact that that was the way it
was. But surely things were different now? She was lady of the manor, and she
could do what she wished. Oh, if only that were true.
Deciding
that a ride across tstatstate was in order, Lara donned black jodhpurs and a
black t-shirt. She strolled downstairs and, rather than disturb Hillary, she
decided to leave breakfast until she returned from her ride. Taking a most
unladylike swig from the milk bottle in the fridge on her way out, she headed
out to the stables.
Some
time later, her previous thoughts seemed a world away as she cantered easily
over the Croft estate. Having been put in the saddle almost before she could
walk, she hadn’t bothered with a hat. Midnight, tallest horse in the stable at
a gigantic 17.5 hands, was also the most responsive and Lara felt his muscles
react to her gentle nudges without too much effort. Kicking him on a little
more, she adjusted her seat as his canter turned to a gallop and he took off.
The wind whipped her hair as she rode, and all she could focus on was the
sensation of the horse’s easy power. If only it was that straightforward to
communicate with the men in her life. A little kick and Midnight was off.
Somehow she knew communicating with Hillary might take a little more than a
nudge to the ribs.
When
Lara returned to the stables, she handed the reins to John, the head groom, but
then spent some time helping him to cool the horse down and get him settled. As
she rubbed down his legs and brushed the knots out of his mane, she chatted away
to the horse, wishing that she knew what to say to Hillary. She’d been out for
a few hours now, and she was getting peckish, so as soon as she’d finished
with Midnight, she wandered back into the house.
“My
Lady,” Hillary, waiting in the entrance hall, greeted her formally, his
features carefully composed, a cross between friendly and efficient; the amiable
mask he usually wore.
“Hilly,”
Lara replied as they walked through to the drawing room. “Any post?”
“Only
the usual requests for you to attend the usual fundraisers for the usual good
causes,” he replied. Was that a teasing twinkle in his eye?
Lara
sighed, then smiled ruefully. “I think I’ve done my bit for the social
calendar after last night,” she said. “The usual thanks-but-no-thanks
response for now will suffice.”
“Would
you care for some lunch, my lady?” Hillary asked. “I noticed that you went
straight out this morning without breakfast.” He was wearing the mother-hen
look now; the chide was evident in his tone.
“Thanks,
Hilly, but I’ll grab a sandwich myself a bit later,” Lara replied. The sight
of her butler had made her previous appetite fade away once more.
“If
I might suggest Lara, I really think that…”
“I
said, I’m fine, Hilly.” The words came out slightly more curtly than Lara
had intended, and she had to turn away quickly before Hillary noticed her
ashamed expression.
Pause.
Almost imperceptibly, the dynamic changed between them.
“Very
well, Lady Croft. I will be in the kitchen if you need me.” Hillary bowed
automatically, although Lara’s back was turned, and left the room.
“Damnit!”
Lara cursed as he left. “What the bloody hell is wrong with me?” She shook
her head in bewilderment. She hadn’t snapped at anyone like that, much less
Hillary, since she was a stroppy teenager. At least back then she could blame
her hormones; what excuse did she have now?
She
spent the afternoon prowling the house like a caged cougar. Having finished her
degree the past summer, she had yet to decide what to do with the rest of her
life. The Archaeology course had been great fun, but she was under no pressure
to make any hard and fast career decisions, mostly due to the trust fund that
had matured that past Christmas. Unfortunately, that did mean she was left with
a lot of time on her hands. On a day like today, when she was beginning to feel
the stirrings of a quite unsuitable emotional turmoil, time was something of
which she had rather too much.
Flitting
from one thing to another, she was guiltily grateful when the clock in Great
Hall struck six. Changing out of her riding clothes and into a pair of silk
pajamas that were still elegant enough to be classed as day wear, she counted
the chimes. As its mournful bell sounded six, Lara went to her small sitting
room and poured herself a generous glass of dry sherry. Taking a sip, she
settled down to await Hillary. The custom, honed to a fine art over the years,
was that she would wait in the drawing room and he would enter at around seven
o’clock and ask her what she wanted for dinner. She would then choose from a
selection of wholesome, nourishing dishes and in an hour, she would go to the
dinner table in the corner of the drawing room and eat. Insanely predictable it
might be, but to Lara, this evening ritual had now taken on a new importance.
There had to be something that was still stable.
At
precisely seven o’clock, Hillary knocked and entered the room. He was calm and
efficient as always, and Lara noticed how the forest green satin waistcoat
complimented his gentle hazel eyes. His long legs were, as usual, encased in
immaculately cut pin striped trousers, and his elegant hands hung loosely, but
neatly, at his sides. His neatly combed hair was also perfect, although Lara
noted that the one time she’d seen it ruffled and unruly, that early morning
all those years ago, she had far preferred it that way. He looked no different
to any other night when she had seen him, and yet, she felt as though she were
looking at him with new eyes.
“Cook
has outdone herself tonight, my Lady,” Hillary began, all efficiency. “She
noted that you had not eaten all day, and so she has prepared a warming chicken
chasseur, complete with creamed mashed potatoes.”
Lara
mock-grimaced. “And who was responsible for telling Mrs Bainbridge that I
hadn’t eaten all day, Hilly?” She took rather large gulp of her sherry, and
spluttered, cursing inwardlyp>
p>
Hillary
smiled slightly. “I promised your father I would attend to your wellbeing,
Lady Croft. I believe that includes ensuring that you get three meals a day.”
Hillary walked to the decanter and brought it over to pour Lara another drink.
She smiled in embarrassment and held out her glass. As she did so, most
uncharacteristically, her hand shook and she spilled the contents of her
half-full glass onto her lap, splashing Hillary’s trousers.
“Bugger!”
Lara exclaimed, swatting at her own cream trousers in irritation. She started as
Hillary’s hand, brandishing an immaculately pressed white handkerchief, mopped
away the sherry from her lap. Was it her imagination, or did his warm hand
linger a little too long on her thigh?
“It’s
OK, Hilly, I’ll sort it out later,” Lara replied, a touch breathlessly.
“Probably a good idea not to have too much more of the sherry!” She grasped
Hillary’s hand where it still lay, ostensibly to return his handkerchief. In
the second it took Lara to speak, in the eternal pause between one action and
another, hazel-green eyes locked with dilated, pleasure seeking velvet brown
ls, ls, and a kind of truth became clear to Lady Lara Croft. “Thank you,
Hilly,” she breathed, all too aware that her hand still held his in place on
her thigh. “I appreciate your kindness.”
Was
that a blush that coloured Hillary’s face as they broke apart? Whatever it
was, Lara reflected, he couldn’t wait to get away from her. “I shall tell
Cook that you’ll have the chasseure sae said hurriedly as he stood back up
and, munchuncharacteristically for Hillary, he did not wait to be dismissed. In
fact, Lara observed, he almost seemed to scuttle from the room. Lara settled
back onto the chaise lounge once more, confused and vaguely guilty. What was she
to do now?
***
If
it was possible to see through walls, Lara d had have seen James Hillary stop
short outside Lara’s private drawing room, and, just for a moment, let his
guard down. He leaned against the cool stone wall, his usually steady hands
trembling. “Remember the Butler’s rulebook,” he muttered to himself as he
paused. “Remember rule number five, for God’s sake man…”