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“Please, please, please,” Rupert begs, each word punctuated with a kiss to her sternum. “Please, Agatha O’Hara, put an old man out of his misery and let me take you out.”
“If it’s Agatha you’re asking, then it’s definitely a no,” Taggie laughs, squirming under the ticklish attention of his lips and fingertips. He’s found a spot on her ribs that causes her to kick the way a puppy would when you scratch its belly right. He abuses the knowledge religiously.
“It doesn’t have to be fussy, no big events. Just dinner, Angel.” Rupert pleads before pouting a bit, growing more serious. “Don’t tell me you’re embarrassed to be seen with me, my ego is far too fragile to hear it.”
Taggie lets out a giggle, the exhale breezing past his cheek. Rupert is half sprawled on top of her, chin resting on her chest while Taggie runs her hands through his hair. They’ve already fucked several times tonight, and in the aftermath, Rupert is back to his favorite challenge of the week which involves getting Taggie to agree to go out with him in public.
She sighs softly, settling a bit in thought as they watch each other.
They’ve been together for a month now, but have remained swathed in the privacy that the countryside provides. All of their time has been spent either at Penscombe, the Priory, or walking in the woods in between. In fact, aside from a handful of trusted individuals, like Lizzie and Gerald, the world at large remains relatively in the dark about their change in relationship. Which is not to say that many don’t have their suspicions. Gossip in the Cotswolds spreads faster than wildfire, after all, and they’re certainly not the most discreet with their gazes around the Venturer group.
“Talk to me. Why are you hesitant?” Rupert pushes, nose nuzzling the top of her breast, where her heart is beating steadily beneath the weight of him.
She has to give it a thorough think through. It’s not about the publicity of it all, not really. She’d be naïve to not be overwhelmed by the prospect of being publicly linked to Rupert Campbell-Black. But at the end of the day, it’s not the tabloid slander or the scrutiny of every housewife in the Cotswolds that worries her.
“What is it?” he insists, hand now stroking her side as she bites a lip, big eyes cast down at him.
“I’m happy,” Taggie finally admits quietly. “And I’m worried that once we leave here… what if it proves that this doesn’t make as much sense as we’ve been pretending. What if you realize I don’t make much sense. For you.”
It’s the truth. Hitting her almost at the same time as it leaves her lips. She knows she loves him, and she can see he loves her. But the gaps between them are so vast. At the end of the day, their differences out in the world seem so much greater than these quiet moments they share. And she can’t bear to face him when he comes to the conclusion that Taggie O’Hara simply does not fit in with the life he’s built for himself, a life that looms like a skyscraper beside her own measly beginnings.
She expects him to understand her conclusion. For him to consider what she’s saying, and save them from the mess of pushing boundaries that are best left unaltered. She hopes that he’ll pull back on his insistence, agree they should wait a little while longer, slowly giving up on it altogether. What she doesn’t expect is for him to groan loudly, burying his forehead in her neck. “You’re so…. vexing… woman… have no idea…” are the only words she can catch muffled against her skin. And then he’s popping up, a sound kiss on her lips. “I’m taking you out tomorrow. Seven pm. No arguments.” He seals it with one more kiss, before pushing up and out of bed to grab the few lights remaining on in the room.
“Rupert!” she exclaims, slightly frustrated with him for leaving the conversation unfinished like that.
“No arguments, Agatha,” he tosses cheekily over his shoulder before heading into the en suite.
Taggie flops her body onto the mattress, before calling Beaver up onto Rupert’s abandoned side of the bed. Pressing her nose to his, eyes locked, she mutters, “Infuriating man.” Beaver gives a whine of agreement.
True to his word, Rupert is knocking at the door of the Priory at 7:00 the following night. While Taggie spends a great deal of time at Penscombe, she still technically lives here. It’s all a bit of an illusion, a way to appease her father with the idea that Rupert hasn’t completely swept her away for good. That Taggie’s not being completely, unreasonably foolish in her devotion to him. Though, she fears, that’s exactly what’s going on. Because she is completely unreasonable in her love for Rupert. And she knows in her heart neither of them wants to put up with this façade much longer.
When she swings the door open, he’s standing there, always neat in his suit and tie.
“Oh for the love of all that’s holy,” are the words that grumble through the space.
It’s said before either can speak to the other. They both turn to see Declan, a sulking shadow in the back of the hallway, whiskey in hand.
“Good to see you too, mate,” Rupert waves. “I’d say I’ll have her back by a reasonable hour, but to be honest – “
“Oh, feck off, the both of you!” Declan howls, tossing back his drink and turning down the hall and out of sight.
When his eyes return to Taggie, she can’t hold back her grin, shaking her head. “You’re in… inc-”
“Incorrigible?”
“That.” She says with a laugh, admonishing but in good humor.
“I know, I’m a terrible beast,” he says, grabbing her hand and pulling her from the doorway. “Now, let me see you, Angel.”
He spins her slowly, taking her in. The chill in the autumn air had allowed her to wear the long sleeve dress he’s never seen before. Black velvet hugs her with a white ribbon tying in a bow at the sweetheart neckline. As she spins, the skirt flares out at her calves, her legs ending in a petite black heel.
Then, his arms are snaking around her waist, pulling her to him as his lips at her ear. “Christ, how am I supposed to enjoy dinner when something much tastier is sitting right beside me.”
She can feel her cheeks redden, tucking against his suit jacket. Even though it’s been a month, she’s still not used to his attention. His direct appreciation of her. His overt flirtation. It’s harder when they’ve been apart for a day. When they meet after he’s been to parliament, or she’s been busy with catering preparations, drawing their two worlds back together. It leaves her unbalanced, takes a moment to rediscover her comfort. But she tries not to be too shy with him. Leans up to accept the kiss he’s eager to give.
And then, feeling quite brave, she coyly glances up at him and says, “If you’re good, you’ll get to enjoy both.”
When they arrive at the restaurant, Taggie watches through the windscreen as Rupert tosses his keys to a young valet. The boy, near her own age, stutters out, “I’ll take good care of it, Mr. Campbell-Black.” It’s a reminder. He’s a public figure, known, and she’d be lying if that wasn’t a little bit intimidating. But before she can think on it, he’s at her door, large hand warm in hers as he helps her from the car.
“It’s French," he says in her ear, as they enter the restaurant. “I think you’ll like the food.”
There’s another encounter with the hostess who bats her eyelashes with a “right this way, Minister”, not sparing Taggie a single look despite the way Rupert has entangled an arm lovingly around her waist. And then, they’re at their table, Rupert helping her into her chair before settling into the one that sits kitty corner to hers.
“This place is beautiful,” Taggie remarks, eyes wide and wandering as she takes it all in. “I haven’t been someplace like this since London.”
“Were you out on the town much back then?” Rupert asks curiously.
She gives him a surprised look, realizing what it had sounded like. “Oh no, not much. But once in a while. Daddy took us out somewhere really posh like this for Patrick’s 18th. It was nice.”
She catches the shift in his eyes, and knows instantly that she’s said the wrong thing. Birthdays, her birthday are a sore discussion point. Rupert had knocked her father out when both he and Maud had forgotten Taggie’s not six weeks ago.
She wishes she could defend her family, tell him about how spectacular her 18th had been. But in truth, she recalls baking her own cake because she makes them “better than any bakery”, and only receiving a quick kiss on the forehead from daddy before he was out the door to the studio. Her mother had given her a top which she’d then confiscated for herself three weeks later.
Breaking away from the quiet anger in his eyes, she turns her attention to the menu. Rupert does the same, clearing his throat, but Taggie quickly abandons the effort. On the crisp white cardstock is a small, swirling font, most of which she interprets as French. Instantly she knows it won’t be worth the effort to untangle. Looking around, she figures she’ll just order the chicken, or the special if it sounds good.
Her eyes wander the space. When she notices a woman at a nearby table watching them, and then finds another observer two tables over, she diverts her gaze to the distant bar. As she takes in the chandeliers and décor, Rupert snags her hand up from the table, pressing a kiss to her palm before resting their tangled hands between their plates.
“What sounds good, Angel?” he questions, eyes still roaming the menu. She looks to him, frozen, no response coming. And then, he continues on. “I’ve had the Coq Au Vin, and I can promise you, it’s not as good as yours. The risotto was decent last I was here though.”
He chatters on like that, conversationally sharing the menu with her. He doesn’t explain things to her, doesn’t speak to her as if she’s a child. In fact, he leans into her knowledge of food, asks her if she’s tried foie gras, and whether she consumes duck or veal. When she declines the veal, saying she hasn’t touched it since she was twelve and Patrick told her what it was, Rupert gives her hand a playful squeeze and says, “Don’t worry, I won’t traumatize you by ordering a sample of the escargot for the table.”
When he’s finally given her a fleshed-out idea of the menu, he looks up to her, his eyes warm in the candlelight. “Anything spark your interest, love?” he asks.
And then, overcome by affection for him, Taggie does something she never could have thought conceivable at the beginning of the night. Feeling several eyes still on them, she extricates her hand from his and reaches for his tie. Pulling him towards her, she is the first to kiss him in public, under the scrutiny of an entire dining room. It’s just a soft press of her lips to his, his hand coming up to rest on her cheek. Pulling apart, his nose strokes hers affectionately. “The risotto,” she whispers. “I want to try the risotto.”
He hums. “Wine?” he asks, and she nods.
“Something white, please.”
When they’re leaving the restaurant two hours later, completely stuffed on French cuisine, Rupert spots a small smattering of paparazzi just past the front window. Taking off his jacket, he drapes it around Taggie’s shoulders, pulling her form into his side. “Sorry about this, Angel,” he mutters, pushing through the door and ushering her into a life tied to him.
“Minister! Minister!” the photographers shout, “How was dinner?” “Who’s this?” “Can you introduce us, Minister!”
The questions are loud, and Taggie tucks her face into him as he ushers her to the passenger seat, valet ready with the door open. Rupert maintains a pleasant gaze, giving a small wave but making no comment. With Taggie safely inside, he closes the door and circles round. Without too much fuss, he takes her hand in his, giving a shrug and driving off. “Cat’s out of the bag,” he tells her. Taggie can only laugh.
Rupert wakes up far too early the next morning, dusk barely peeking through his heavy curtains. He’s entirely wrapped around the small form beside him, nose in her hair, palm on her breast, thigh between hers, and cock stiffly pressed to her arse. He desperately wants to wake her for a sleepy fuck, and honestly, he knows she wouldn’t object. But it really is early and she looks incredibly comfortable tucked up on his pillow. Christ knows he’d kept her up late enough. He knows he’ll see her that night, that’s the comfort of this rhythm they’ve fallen into, so with a great deal of regret, he presses a kiss to her temple and gingerly extricates himself from his bed. It feels as if he’s committing a cardinal sin.
When he’s properly dressed he makes his way down to the kitchen, where Mrs. Bodkin is waiting with coffee and breakfast. Taking a cup from her he gives an update that’s becoming more and more regular. “Taggie’s still sleeping. I’m sure she’ll wander down eventually. Try to get her to eat before she leaves?” The woman smiles softly and gives him a tender nod. Mrs. Bodkin, like most, is absolutely smitten with their frequent houseguest, has taken up a quick habit of doting on the girl. And Rupert loves that it’s becoming routine for Taggie to be in his home without him. He’s itching to make it permanent.
Turning, Rupert sits at the table where Gerald is waiting for him, reading the paper. Snatching a piece of toast from a platter, Rupert asks him, “Anything interesting today?”
“It’s a nice picture. Were you ready for this?” Gerald questions, sliding the paper to Rupert across the table. When Rupert looks down, he’s met with a black and white image. He’s seen his person in print countless times. And still, this specific image tugs at something within him, just one of the countless ways that anything involving Taggie is different. In the photograph, she’s folded up against him in the bright flash of the camera. Between the jacket he had wrapped around her, and the way Rupert’s form swallows her, she’s just barely visible. Still, he can see her eyes cast up to him, a small smile on her face. Rupert himself looks the most content he’s ever been, his eyes soft as he looks out to the small crowd, hand raised protectively in a request for space.
“Very ready,” is Rupert’s only response, as he takes in the rest of the page.
The headline reads: Notorious Scoundrel Rupert Campbell-Black, Off the Market?
The article contains the same vague nonsense as always, giving the usual bloody outline of his history, and then briefly mentioning Rupert and Taggie’s previous appearance together in the beginning of summer. There’s then about three paragraphs of fabricated gossip. It ends with the statement, “We’ll believe it when we see it. And by it we of course mean a diamond.”
The words tickle him a bit. No one knows about the tasteful 4-carat ring sitting in his vault. He plans to get it on her finger within the month.
Two hours later, he’s set up on a podium answering questions about the recent rioting crisis. When the Q and A has concluded, Rupert gathers his papers and prepares to exit, when one more voice breaks through.
“Minister! you were seen out last night with a young woman. Any comment about the nature of the relationship.”
Rupert freezes, considering his options, before turning back to the press. Clearing his throat, he speaks resolutely. “The woman I was seen with is very private in nature, a lesson I would do well to learn a great deal about.” There’s muffled laughter from the press. They are, after all, the ones who have been front row for all of the explicit information that’s been released regarding Rupert’s exploits over the years. “Given that I’m hoping to keep her in my life for a very long time, my request is for the press to respect our desire for discretion. Thank you.”
With that, and a smug smile that comes from knowing what’s waiting for him at home, he exits the stage.
The next major headline featuring them includes a long-distance shot of Taggie’s newly accessorized left ring finger.