A Villain for Christmas (The Holyoake Christmas Series, Book 2)

Dair Offscreen

Billie made a small step in the requested direction, moving as if under hypnosis.

"Our hosts left early in the morning; a family visitation, I assume," he continued talking, heading inside; and Billie followed him, lured by the irresistible pull of his RP. "I've heard that another snowstorm is expected on Monday," he said. "Is it a common happenstance here in Fleckney?"

The only response Billie could manage was a jerky nod.

"I have to confess I'm rather hoping for it." A velvet chuckle quivered in his throat, and Billie's hands started to shake. "I hadn't had a chance to treat myself to an uninterrupted evening of reading and tea with pudding in ages!" he exclaimed.

He stopped in front of a large table in the centre of the room and pulled a chair out for Billie. Billie thanked Heaven for all the stuffy 'books of manners' she'd read: she would've stomped on Archie Billignsley's foot when he'd stepped to the left of the chair, had she not known the protocol.

"Shall I be mother?" he asked and walked to the table with chafing dishes.

Billie remembered all those Americans gushing about his manners - and mannerisms - online. Any of them would probably give up their life's savings, or even perhaps a kidney, to be in her place at the moment. Meanwhile, Billie felt no joy: she was emotionally uncomfortable, tongue-tied, and painfully embarrassed of every little thing about her.

"Milk? Lemon?" Billingley asked behind her, and Billie twitched.

"J-just tea, thank you."

His long-fingered hand appeared in her field of vision, with a dainty cup on a saucer; and Billie held her breath.

What had Will Holyoake said to her the day he'd run into Bondarenko in Miss Rosa's tearoom? 'Never meet your heroes?' The idea behind the saying was that one would surely be disappointed at how ordinary, human, and flawed their idol was. But what was one to do, if one's hero was just as radiant and well-spoken as in their interviews, and emanated an elegant, woody scent?

"Julia mentioned yesterday that you'd changed her mind about the Hall," the actor said, sitting down and arranging a napkin on his lap. "She mentioned the Ravenscroft manor, and I looked it up. It has got a history most fascinating, hasn't it?"

His wrists resting on the edge of the table, he cut off a small piece of bacon; index fingers pointing down along the necks of his cutlery, of course; and then his left hand pivoted; and the food travelled into his mouth. Billie was starting to perspire excessively.

"As you might know, in 2015 I played a part in a Gothic film," he paused and shot her a quick confirming glimpse.

Billie nodded again, this time trying to express unbound enthusiasm. She had not, however, seen the film. When it came out, she'd checked whether it was an adaptation of a literary work; found out the script was an original; and chosen against wasting her time on it.

"I grew acutely interested in the genre, you see," he continued.

His lips closed gently around the fork; he chewed and swallowed. Billie recalled an article dedicated solely to admiring his strong neck.

"For a while it's all I read," Billingsley said. "I started in the most amateur spot, I have to admit; first, with The Turn of the Screw and The Fall of the House of Usher; then Wilkie Collins, obviously. I reread Rebecca and Wuthering Heights."

Billie was somewhat regaining her composure. She did know the man was well-read. Still, his attempts to impress her were flattering - though, utterly inexplicable. He did know who she was, wasn't he?