His Convenient Marriage (15 page)

He said quite gently, 'I'm sorry.'

'I should hope you are,' she flung at him. 'You had no right...'

'You don't understand.' He cut across her. 'I'm sorry only for starting something I didn't finish. That was wrong of me.'

'Everything that happened here was wrong.' Her voice was suffocated. 'But it will never happen again—do you hear me? Otherwise I'm leaving, and to hell with four weeks' notice.'

His brows lifted. 'Do you really need to play the out¬raged virgin?' he drawled coldly. 'I can't be the first—'

He stopped abruptly, his eyes narrowing suddenly as they studied her flushed embarrassment. Her averted gaze.

He said in a different voice, 'But I am the first, aren't I, Francesca? So how can that be when you spent a summer with Alastair Markham?'

She lifted her chin. 'Perhaps he had too much respect for me to involve me in casual sex.'

'Is that what you think I was doing just now?' His smile was sardonic. 'Lady, believe me, I was in deadly earnest. And I still am. Because some time soon, despite all your protests, I intend to take you to bed.'

'You flatter me.' Her voice shook, mainly with anger, and that was good. She needed to sustain that anger, use it as a shield against him. Against the knowledge that if he crooked his little finger, she would walk over red-hot coals to him.

And that in spite of the fact that less than twelve hours ago he'd been making love to another woman. Oh, God, how pathetic was it possible to get? And how had she dared censure Jenny when she was equally bad?

She lifted her chin. 'However, I do not intend to be an¬other notch on the bedpost in your—sexual rehabilitation.'

'Meaning?' She'd expected an angry, even explosive re¬sponse, yet Miles sounded almost amused.

She said with emphasis, 'Meaning—I—will—not sleep with you.'

'Ah,' he said softly. 'But who mentioned sleeping?' He looked at her, and smiled, and for one shocked moment she felt as if he'd stripped all the clothes from her body.

Then he turned and went back to his table, and picked up the sheaf of correspondence lying there.

He said, without looking at her, 'If you're back to being the housekeeper, Chessie, then perhaps you should serve tea.'

She said between her teeth, 'Very well,' and marched to the door. She managed not to slam it behind her, then stood for a moment, leaning weakly against the sturdy panels, her mind reeling.

Why, she asked herself in total bewilderment, had it taken her all this time to realise she was in love with him?

Because it was no sudden thing, and she knew it. Even though she would have probably denied it with her last breath, he had been necessary to her for a long time. And she had hidden behind the barrier of their working rela-tionship, and told herself it was enough.

But I lied, she thought desolately. And now there's noth¬ing left for me but to go on lying.

As she straightened she looked down at herself in sudden dismay, recommencing the struggle to force her shirt but-tons back into the relevant holes. She heard a faint noise, and, looking up, saw Steffie poised halfway down the stairs.

'Oh, no,' Chessie moaned under her breath as embar¬rassed heat swamped her again, and her already clumsy fingers turned into thumbs.

'Oh, dear,' Steffie commented with unabashed amuse¬ment. 'I quite forgot to sing.' And, her smile widening, she launched herself into a soft contralto rendering of Marvin Gaye's 'Sexual Healing'.

While Chessie swallowed back the tears threatening to engulf her, nailed on a smile of her own—and tried very hard to share the joke.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Encountering Steffie had probably been the best thing that could have happened to her, Chessie decided that night, when she could at last escape to her own part of the house. Otherwise, she would probably have served tea with very red eyes, thus alerting Miles to her emotional state. Which was the last thing she wanted.

On the other hand, Miles' sister was so friendly, and genuinely eager to welcome her to the family, that Chessie felt even more guilty over the deception she was perpetrating.

But guilt was probably easier to deal with than her agony of confusion over Miles.

No matter how professional she'd intended their relationship to be, and how aloof she'd vowed to remain, there had always been pitfalls to living in the same house with a man as dynamic as Miles Hunter. It hadn't been easy, because he could be tricky, but it had never been less than fascinating, throwing up new challenges all the time.

Proximity, she thought wearily, has a lot to answer for.

And, maybe, at the beginning, gratitude had played its part too. Because there was no denying he'd provided her with a roof, a livelihood, and a form of security, even if it was for his own convenience.

There was also, she supposed, the glamour of his status as a best-selling writer, although she knew in her heart it had always been Miles the man she'd been drawn to—and not for purely intellectual reasons either. Because if she'd merely glimpsed him at some social gathering, with no idea who he was, she knew she would have looked—and looked again.

No amount of scarring could diminish his physical at¬traction in the least, she thought, and Sandie Wells had been worse than an idiot to walk away from him.

All of this an undeniably potent mix for a girl who had as little experience of men as herself.

And small wonder she was lying awake again, wondering what to do next and failing to come up with any answers.

Oh, if I could just turn the clock back, she thought un¬happily. I'd have been happy to go on typing and cooking, and never asked for more.

Yet now it was as if someone had opened a door in a high wall, and shown her paradise, and there was no going back to her earlier innocence. Not when she knew what it was to be in Miles' arms and to discover the ravishment of his hands and lips on her body.

Just the memory of that was enough to send a shiver of longing rippling through her senses.

But it could not reconcile her to the prospect of a mar¬riage without real love in it, she thought sadly. And that was all he'd offered, however practised he might be in the art of giving physical pleasure.

She didn't know what he'd been like before his accident, but now there seemed to be a cold core in Miles that she could not reach, and which might explain why romance had no place in his novels.

He doesn't think it matters, she told herself, and that applies to his life as well as his literature. But it matters to me.

He'd called her his 'sweet love', but that was only the language of seduction. He wanted to take her to bed. He'd said so quite openly. It went no deeper than that and per¬haps Linnet's cynical advice years ago hadn't been so far off the mark after all.

She turned over, burying her face in her pillow. It would be easier tomorrow, she thought. Miles was taking Steffie sightseeing for the day, and although she'd been invited to go with them she'd refused, inventing an endless list of weekend chores. Miles had given her a thoughtful look, but he hadn't pressed her.

And in the evening, she had the ordeal of dinner at the Court to face, and that was something she couldn't get out of.

Steffie had mentioned it over the evening meal. 'Who are these Markhams, love?' she'd asked Miles. 'And will I like them?'

He'd shrugged, his face inscrutable. 'You'd better ask Francesca,' he commented indifferently. 'They're her friends, rather than mine. I've only just made their acquain¬tance. And I've never met Sir Robert Markham, or his son, come to that. At least, not officially.'

'I doubt that you'll meet Sir Robert tomorrow either,' Chessie said, biting her lip. 'He's had a severe stroke,' she added to Steffie. 'And he's now in a wheelchair. I don't think he'll be well enough to see people, or that he'd even want to.'

There was an odd, rather strained silence. Then Steffie said quietly, 'I see. How terrible for him, poor man. And for his family, of course.'

Miles' smile was a little remote. 'I think Lady Markham is bearing up in spite of everything—don't you, darling?'

'She has great strength of character,' Chessie agreed evenly. And not a great deal of choice, she added under her breath. She reached for the serving dish. 'Would anyone like any more beef?'

Looking back, she was faintly bewildered by the exchange. Did Steffie think she'd been tactless, referring to Sir Robert's physical disability in front of Miles? Had she unwittingly revived bitter memories of the way he used to be?

Surely there was no comparison between their two situ¬ations, she thought. Miles might use a walking stick, but he could walk wherever he wanted, drive a car—and make love to any woman who took his fancy, it seemed. Whereas Sir Robert was paralysed, and might remain so.

Besides, Miles could always have refused Linnet's in¬vitation.

Oh, how I wish he had, she thought. For all kinds of reasons.

She was still wishing the same thing the following evening as she changed into one of the new dresses she'd bought in Hurstleigh. It was in a fine silky fabric, patterned with tiny cream daisies on a dark green background, sleeveless and round-necked, with a brief swirl of a skirt falling to just below her knee.

It was the first completely frivolous thing she'd bought in a long time, and she hardly recognised herself as she circled slowly in front of the mirror. But it wasn't just the dress, she thought. Suddenly, she was a girl with secrets in her eyes.

In the back of the wardrobe she found some cream strappy sandals and a matching bag. Relics of her former life. And from the bottom of a drawer, she unearthed a cream shawl with a long fringe, and draped it round her shoulders.

Ready, she told herself, for anything the next few hours might throw at her.

'You look lovely,' Steffie approved herself elegant in black, when she joined brother and sister in the drawing room. 'Doesn't she, Miles?'

'Quite breathtaking. Have I seen that dress before?'

Chessie shook her head. 'I bought it the other day,' she said. In Hurstleigh'

'An eventful trip.' His smile did not reach his eyes.

'And clearly a successful one,' Steffie contributed cheer¬fully. 'There are no decent clothes shops where I live. When I need something I have to trail up to London.'

She carried on the same line of insouciant chatter on the short drive to the Court, and Chessie was glad of it as she sat silently beside Miles, acutely, almost shamingly aware of him.

The big house was lit up like a Christmas tree. They were admitted by Mrs. Cummings, wearing the smart navy uni-form that Linnet had always insisted on. And the lady of the house was waiting in the doorway of the drawing room, all smiles. She was wearing another of her figure-hugging dresses in deep crimson jersey, with lips and nails to match.

She looked, Chessie decided dispassionately, like some exotic jungle flower. One of the poisonous variety.

'Miles—so wonderful to see you.' The words poured out like warm treacle. 'And this is your sister, Mrs. Barnes? Except that's so formal. Do let's make it Stephanie and Linnet. Oh, Chessie,' she added as an afterthought. 'Good evening. If you're looking for Alastair, he's with his father.'

I wasn't, Chessie thought indignantly. Aloud, she said quietly, 'How is Sir Robert?'

'I'm told he's making progress.' Linnet shrugged. I can't see any sign of it, myself. But his nurse seems very good.' She turned to the others. 'The big problem is he's incapable of dealing with his affairs at the moment, and there's no power of attorney. The lawyers are having to set up some emergency procedure, but it takes time, and it's so inconvenient.'

She might have been talking about the cancellation of a hairdressing appointment, Chessie reflected with distaste.

Linnet was targeting her again. 'Why don't you run over to the West Wing, sweetie, and tell Alastair the guests are here? After all, you know the way. You'll find him in the Blue Room.'

Which immediately established her in the same bracket as Mrs. Cummings, whose task it should have been, Chessie realised with shock. For her hostess, her smart new dress and the ring on her finger counted for nothing. She was primarily Miles' housekeeper.

She said in a small stony voice, 'Yes—of course.' And left the room.

She was quivering with temper as she went towards the Blue Room, but she made herself calm down. She'd read

somewhere that stroke patients needed a tranquil atmo¬sphere, so she didn't want to carry her resentment of Linnet's cavalier behaviour into Sir Robert's sick room.

As she reached the door it opened, and a middle-aged woman in a nurse's uniform emerged carrying a tray cov¬ered by a white cloth. She checked when she saw Chessie. 'Can I help you?' She spoke briskly, her eyes shrewd be¬hind her glasses.

'I'm Francesca Lloyd,' Chessie said quietly. 'A—a friend of the family. Lady Markham sent me to fetch her stepson.'

'Chessie?' Alastair's voice was raised questioningly. 'Come in.'

She drew a deep breath, and obeyed.

She was prepared for a shock, but she hadn't bargained for the ruined figure slumped in his wheelchair that con-fronted her. He was, she thought, barely recognisable, and for a moment dismay halted her, then she made herself smile and walk forward.

'Father.' Alastair bent over him. 'Here's Chessie to see you—Chessie Lloyd.'

She said quietly, 'Good evening, Sir Robert. I don't know if you remember me?'

The sunken eyes stared up at her with puzzled fierceness, then a spark of recognition seemed to dawn, and the sag-ging mouth struggled to utter a few guttural sounds. Chessie pulled forward a chair and sat down, putting a hand gently over Sir Robert's flaccid fingers. 'It's good to have you back. The village has missed you.'

She launched into a flow of gentle, almost inconsequen¬tial chat about what had been going on locally while he'd been in Spain, aware that his eyes were fixed on her face painfully, almost angrily.

Eventually Alastair broke in, a note of impatience in his tone. 'Isn't it time we were going in to dinner, Chessie?'