An Excellent Wife (12 page)

'A Miss Kirby, sir,' Enid said, and James felt dizzy. His ears echoed with the sound of his blood rushing wildly around his veins. He couldn't breathe enough to speak for a second.

When he managed it his voice sounded husky, even to him. 'I'll be down in a minute. Put her in the drawing room and offer her a drink.'

He was only wearing a white towelling robe, totally naked underneath that; he must dress before he went downstairs. Moving towards the long, fitted wardrobe on one wall he abruptly stopped, brow furrowed as his brain finally began working. Until then he had been reacting sexually, his male instincts in turmoil at the thought of her being here—now he started to think.

Why was she here? Why had she come? He would have loved to think she had come because she wanted to see him, but it couldn't be that. With any other woman he would have come to that conclusion—but not Patience. She was different. She was unlike any other woman he had ever known. No, it had to be some sort of emergency. But what? It had to be something to do with him—which meant it had to be something to do with his mother? Had she been taken ill? Patience had kept telling him how frail she was, how little time left she had. What if she...?

He drew a sharp breath, refusing to finish that thought, yet suddenly desperate to hear whatever Patience had come here to tell him. It would take too long to get dressed; he slid his bare feet into black leather slippers and hurried downstairs, almost tripping over his feet on the way in his anxiety.

He found Patience in the drawing room, a glass of white wine in her hand, standing with her back to him in front of a portrait of his father painted fifty years ago.

At the sight of her James felt his whole body jerk as if hit by a bolt of lightning.

With one long look he absorbed every detail of how she looked, as if he was made of blotting paper. It was a warm spring evening and she had put on a dark green cotton sweater which clung to her small breasts and outlined her small waist; with it she wore a short pleated white skirt which just skimmed her knees, leaving most of her slender, shapely legs visible. His mouth went dry and he swallowed. She looked wonderful.

Around her throat she wore the rose-pink scarf he had given her; it had become entangled with the hair tumbling to her shoulders and looked like rose petals among those tight, fiery curls.

'Hallo,' he said thickly, very aware of his body's reaction to seeing her and hoping to God she wouldn't be given any hint of it.

She swung round and did a visible double-take, which reminded him that he was only wearing his bathrobe.

Flushed, he gestured down at himself, muttering, 'Sorry, I only just came out of the shower—I didn't wait to dress in case this was some sort of emergency.'

She lifted her eyes from their contemplation of his bare legs with their faint, dark hair. Her face was gentle, concerned. 'I'm sorry, James, I'm afraid it isn't very good news. Your mother has had a heart attack and is in hospital.'

'Is it serious?' He felt the blood drain from his face and was suddenly cold, shivering.

Patience gave him a searching look, then came over and pushed him down onto a sofa. 'You aren't going to faint, are you?' She knelt on the sofa next to him, touching his face, her small fingers warm against his cold skin.

'No, of course not,' he said impatiently. 'Just tell me. Is my mother going to die?'

'No, James! Don't even think that way. Really, it isn't very serious. They said they would keep her in for a few days, for observation and rest, but it was more of a warning; she's going to have to be more careful in future.'

She bent over him, brushing a floppy strand of dark hair back from his eyes, her fingertips soft and comforting. 'Are you okay now? You went so white.

You obviously care more about her than you want anyone to know.'

He was torn in two directions. He wanted to hold her hand against his face, to lean his head forward against her and feel the warmth of her body, to take comfort from her. But he was at the same time afraid of letting her get too close; he did not want her to know too much about him. He had had a hatred of betraying too much about himself ever since he was a child. He had learnt to hide his feelings then and now it had become an obsession—the necessity for secrecy, for concealment.

'I'll be okay,' he said huskily. 'Could you pour me a brandy? I need a drink.'

She looked around vaguely. 'Where is it kept? Shall I call your housekeeper?'

'No need—it's in that cabinet over there.'

Patience was still kneeling on the sofa; now she stood up, the movement wafting the scent of her towards him. She was wearing the French perfume he had given her for her birthday. Pleasure stung inside him. His perfume, his scarf—it was as if wearing them both marked her as his own.

His heart beat painfully as he watched her walk across the room to the drinks cabinet. She moved quickly, gracefully, her short skirt swinging, and the back of her knees had a young, childlike look that made his mouth curve in tenderness. She was too young for him, he told himself, but couldn't stop watching the way her red hair glittered like fire in the light from the lamps Enid must have switched on when Patience arrived. How easy it was to imagine her living here.

Stop thinking about it. It won't happen. She has a boyfriend her own age and probably thinks I'm almost middle-aged.

He shivered, but it wasn't simply at the thought of being middle-aged. He was in shock. It had devastated him that his mother had come so close to death; it had made him face how much it would matter to him if she died.

Since she came back into his life he had rejected her, told himself he didn't care about her, she was nothing to him. It disturbed him to realise that he had been lying to himself.

Abruptly he said, 'Maybe I'd better not have that drink. I must get to the hospital and see her.'

'They won't let you, not tonight,' Patience said, turning to look at him, the cabinet door open, showing a serried rank of bottles and glasses. 'She's sedated, fast asleep. You can see her tomorrow morning.' She held up a bottle, displaying the label. 'Is this what you want?'

James nodded. 'Fine, thank you.' He paused, then asked flatly, 'When did she have the heart attack? Why didn't*you let me know sooner?'

She was intent on pouring brandy into a glass—far too much; James gave a squawk.

'Hey, stop! That's a triple! If I drink as much as that I won't be able to walk straight.'

She poured some of it back into the bottle, her small hand very steady, then came over with the glass, grimacing. 'Sorry, I wasn't sure how much you drank.'

'Very little, normally.' He took the glass and swallowed some of the deep amber liquid, feeling his tongue sting and his throat turn to fire.

'I'm sorry I didn't call you at once,' Patience said, sitting down beside him on the sofa, smoothing her short skirt down over her knees while she watched his colour return. 'There wasn't time; it all happened so fast. She collapsed a couple of hours ago and we called an ambulance; luckily it arrived quickly and I went with her. They gave her some treatment in the ambulance—she was better before we got into the casualty department—but they sent her up to a specialist ward as soon as the doctor had seen her.'

'Why didn't you call me from the hospital? Did you think I wouldn't want to know? What if she had died?' Had she thought he wouldn't care? Was that what she thought of him—that he was cold and indifferent? Well, maybe he had given her good cause to think that; he had told her he couldn't forgive his mother. Nevertheless hurt jabbed at him; to cover his feelings he drank more of the brandy and coughed at the heat of it in his throat.

Patience patted his back sympathetically. 'I'm sorry, James. But I was so worried at the time that I'm afraid I had nothing else in my head; I just wanted to get her some help quickly.'

'Surely you must have had time for a quick call while she was being dealt with in Casualty?'

She didn't deny that, sighing. 'Yes, I'm sorry. I didn't think of calling you until I was leaving, and then I thought it would be better to break the news in person instead of phoning.'

'Better late than never, I suppose,' he muttered, knowing he was being ungrateful and unfair. He put the empty brandy glass down on a nearby table and looked at the clock, startled to see that it was now nearly seven.

He would be late picking Fiona up. Frowning, he stood up. 'Excuse me a second, I must make a phone call. I'm going to be late for dinner with someone.'

She gave him a quick, narrowed glance, then stood up, too. 'I'd better go, anyway.'

James was already walking across the room towards $ telephone on a small table near the fireplace. As Patience took a step towards the door they collided.

'Sorry,' she said, laughing and clutching at him to stay on her feet.

His towelling robe slipped as her fingers pulled on it, the lapels parting all the way down. James, drew a shaken breath, watching her face burn as, caught unaware, she stared at his naked body only inches away from her.

'Oh...sorry...' she whispered, but kept looking at him, her hazel eyes wide and startled.

'What's the matter? Haven't you ever seen a naked man before?' he asked thickly, and her face burned.

Passion lit up inside him; he bent his head to find her mouth, catching hold of her arms to pull her closer.

Her hands tightened on his robe, her fingers curling into the soft material, and he felt his belt come undone, the white robe falling open from neck to thigh.

'I'm sorry... Ohh...' Patience gasped, her eyes wide open, staring at his body, her face hotly flushed.

Had she ever made love? Or was she a virgin? He would put money on it that she was—he couldn't believe she had ever let that boy make love to her.

Taking hold of her hands, he moved them sideways until they touched his warm flesh, groaning in deep pleasure. 'Touch me.' His arms went round her, imprisoning her, propelling her even closer, capturing her hands between them, her fingers splayed wide across his chest.

She-was staring up at him, her eyes enormous, her lips parted; she looked, James thought, as if she had been hypnotised.

He didn't give her time to recover. His head went down and his mouth finally caught hers, feeling her lips quivering, warm and soft and yielding. Her spread fingers were moving against his naked skin softly, like little mice looking for a way out of a trap, but at the same time she was kissing him back, and she wasn't struggling. His blood beat so fast he was almost giddy.

He felt his flesh hardening, lifting; he wanted her so badly he would have died if he could just push her down onto the carpet and take her there and then.

She had to know what was happening to him; she wasn't that innocent. They were too close for her to miss the fierce pressure of his body towards her, but he didn't want to scare her or ruin this moment. He wouldn't rush anything.

The last thing he wanted to do was frighten her.

She broke off the kiss suddenly, audibly drawing a long breath, as if her lungs needed air. James slid his mouth down her cheek to her neck, kissing each soft inch of her skin, his nostrils full of the scent of her. He felt her body sway backwards slightly, as if she was half fainting, and heat mounted to his head. Hungrily his mouth pushed back the neckline of her sweater and moved against her delicate collarbone, and Patience sighed.

Tentatively, half expecting her to stop him, James inserted his hands under her green sweater and found warm flesh. She was only wearing a tiny silky bra underneath the sweater; he had the fastening undone a moment later, and quickly moved his hands round to cup her escaping breasts. They were so soft and smooth, like round, warm apples.

He heard her mouth form a gasp of what he took to be shock under his kiss and froze, waiting for her to protest or get angry, but she did neither. James quickly moved his mouth back to hers. Her arms slid round his neck and she moved closer, kissing him back.

He felt the small nipples of her breasts hardening; the flesh he was caressing grew heavier, filling his palms. She might look like a very young girl, but her body was that of a woman, and he ached to explore all of it. The very prospect made his temperature rise; he was breathing very fast, and shaking slightly.

How far was she going to let him go? His excitement spiralled, he was dizzy with it, and he pulled her even closer, pressing himself into her, one knee sliding between her legs.

Patience wrenched back her head with a loud, wordless cry, and pushed him away with a force that sent her sprawling backwards. James didn't let go of her; they fell together onto the sofa, with him landing on top. The feel of her underneath him nearly drove him crazy; he groaned, dragging her sweater upwards so that he could bury his face in the warm fullness of her breasts, his mouth searching for one of those hard pink nipples.

'Don't...no, James...I won't let you...' Her voice was shaky and barely audible; he felt her hands thrusting at him, her knees jerking upwards to push him away. 'Stop it!'

It was hard for him to drag himself out of the wild excitement; dark red and shuddering with passion he lifted his head, his eyes half-open and blinking in the sudden light as he looked down at her.

'Sorry,' he muttered thickly. 'I got carried away.'

He stumbled off the sofa, pulled his robe together, tied the belt tightly.

Patience jumped up, too, moved away to a safe distance and hurriedly fumbled with her bra while he broodingly watched.

'I would have stopped any time you asked me to!' he protested, and her greeny hazel eyes slanted sideways as she pulled her sweater down and ran a hand over her tangled red hair.

'Would you? I got the feeling you weren't going to!'

Was she smiling? Even worse...laughing at him? He couldn't deny he would have gone as far as she let him; he had gone out of his head with desire for her—he still felt that terrible, burning urge. Obviously it hadn't been mutual.

He had been kidding himself when he thought she wanted their lovemaking as much as he did. His overheated body cooled down as if someone had flung a bucket of icy water over it. She didn't feel the way he did at all. Why had she let him go so far?