by Anne Mather
Helen knew his anger was justified, but she was at the end of her emotional tether. ‘I’ve said I’ll manage,’ she retorted lightly. ‘Go away, Mr Manning. I don’t need your assistance. Go back to your writing. Playing Sir Galahad is not your scene!’
Jarret stared down at her with cold angry eyes. ‘I could choke you, do you know that?’ he demanded. ‘Scaring me half to death, and then turning on me for trying to help you! I’m not to blame for your unsatisfactory love-life! You should have known better.’
Helen gasped. ‘I don’t know what you mean—’
‘Oh, come on. You don’t imagine I’m blind to that little discourse we interrupted, do you?’
‘How dare you—’
‘Forget it!’ He turned aside, kicking viciously at the tyre that spun uselessly above the ditch. ‘How the hell am I going to get you out of there?’
‘I’ve told you, I don’t need your assistance—’
‘Okay. Okay!’ With a savage oath he bowed his head. ‘Stay there!’ and he strode violently back to where he had left the Mercedes. His door slammed with a definite sound, and seconds later she heard the engine fire. He was leaving her, and Helen, lodged between the seat and the steering wheel, felt like putting her head down and howling. It was all very well facing him with bravado, but it was a hollow victory when she considered the prospect of the night ahead. She couldn’t get the Alfa out of the ditch and she could hardly walk the three or four miles to the nearest garage in this downpour. Besides, it was dark now, and no doubt the garage would be closed. She was going to have to spend the night here, and she simply couldn’t bear it.
It was a struggle to scramble out of her seat and up the ditch, and she guessed her cotton pants would be badly soiled with mud and grass stains. But she didn’t care. She had to stop Jarret before he drove away, and she almost crawled into the road.
The Mercedes hadn’t moved, and she faltered. Jarret’s profile was a shadowy thing in the darkness, and she didn’tknow what his reaction might be after her behaviour. With a sense of humiliation she stood looking at the car, and as if aware of her feelings he opened his door and got out once more.
‘Helen…’ he muttered, and then, as if he couldn’t help himself, he came towards her, jerking her into his arms and finding her damp lips with his own.
It was crazy to stand there in the pouring rain, but Helen had no strength to resist him. Nor did she want to. This was where she belonged, she thought with a sense of despair, this was the man she loved, and she gave herself up to the urgency of his lovemaking like a drowning man losing his last hold on survival. Jarret’s body felt cold, but his mouth was warm, and his kisses deepened and intensified as she began to kiss him back. His lips forced hers apart, and the hunger of his mouth roughened as his passion increased. His kisses sent rivers of fire along her veins and weakened the muscles of her legs, spreading throughout her body in a mounting wave of desire. She was aware of him, of the hard muscles between his thighs, and of the fact that the wetness of their clothes made their embrace that much more revealing, but she longed for a closer intimacy, and she could think of nothing more satisfying than spending the night in his arms.
‘We have to get back,’ he groaned at last, lifting his head to stare down at her. ‘Your mother will be concerned if she rings Ketchley and finds you’re not there. And she might in this storm.’
Helen nodded. ‘I—I know—’
‘Okay.’ With another hard pressure against her lips he released her, tugging open the passenger door with a distinctly unsteady hand, and Helen slid obediently inside. Then he circled the bonnet and got in beside her, turning on the interior light and surveying her with a disturbingly intent appraisal. It made her overwhelmingly aware that the rain had flattened her shirt against her breasts, and their pointed hardness was moulded against the cloth.
Jarret was obviously aware of them, too, and his eyes moved sensually to her mouth. ‘Helen,’ he said, exhaling a shaken breath, ‘do you have any idea how I feel right now?’
‘I—I think so,’ she ventured huskily, moving nearer tohim, and with a gesture of impotence he hauled her up against him, covering her face with urgent kisses.
‘This is madness,’ he muttered against her mouth, his breath mingling with hers. ‘I want you, Helen, but not here—not like this. I love you, and I want to love you, really love you, not seduce you in the back seat of a car.’
Helen’s breathing felt suspended. ‘You—you love me?’ she choked against his throat, and his affirming nod was both eager and impatient.
‘Of course I do,’ he groaned, parting the lapels of her shirt to kiss her throat with heart-stopping tenderness. ‘Don’t you know that? God, it’s been hell trying to keep my hands off you, knowing you’re going to marry that stuffed shirt Connaught! I wanted to kill him every time he touched you, and that night he—well, the night you came home with that mark on your neck, I felt like taking a shotgun to him.’
‘Oh, Jarret—’
‘You love me, don’t you? You don’t feel this way with Connaught, do you? He doesn’t do this to you?’ and he bent his head lower to coax the burgeoning curve of her nipple with his tongue.
‘No—oh, no,’ she moved her head helplessly from side to side. ‘No—no one but you has—has ever touched me as—as you touch me.’
‘Good.’ His voice was lazily satisfied. Then, with a regretful sigh, he drew away from her to rest his head against the misty window behind him, surveying her with possessive eyes. ‘Come on, we have to get back. We’ve plenty of time. All night, in fact.’ His mouth took on a sensual twist. ‘What we both need is a hot bath, preferably together, but if not…’
‘If not?’ she breathed.
‘If not—you can come to my room afterwards,’ he told her huskily. ‘And I promise I won’t lock my door. At least, not until you’re inside.’
‘Jarret!’ Her eyes were wide and vulnerable. ‘I—I can’t—’
‘Don’t stop me,’ he ordered softly. ‘I need you, Helen. I want you with me, and I don’t want anything to stand in our way. The reason Stanford came down here today wasto tell me they want me to go to the States as soon as this book is finished—to sign the contracts for the film, among other things. I want you to come with me. Will you?’
‘Stanford?’ Helen clung on to that name, feeling a little dizzy now. ‘But—but Margo——’
‘Margot means nothing to me,’ he averred gently.
‘Nothing?’
‘Nothing,’ he agreed. ‘Oh, I admit, she may have had some idea of making me husband number four, but she was wasting her time, and she knew it.’
Helen felt everything was moving too fast for her. ‘Did—did you sleep with her?’ she ventured, appalled at her own audacity, but he only shook his head.
‘No.’
‘And—and Vivien Sinclair?’
‘God!’ He stared at her, half in amusement, half in anger. ‘What do you want from me, Helen? A dossier on the women I’ve known, and the extent of that knowledge? What does it matter? I never told Vivien I loved her, and that’s the important thing. I’ve never said that to any girl except you.’
‘You—you mean that?’
Helen gazed at him anxiously, and his eyes closed in mock resignation. ‘I mean it,’ he asserted roughly. ‘I love you, Helen. I’m not fooling. But if you imagine I could have remained a celibate all these years, then you’re impossibly naïve.’
Helen took an unsteady breath. ‘I didn’t say I expected that.’
‘No—’ Jarret raked back his hair with impatient fingers. ‘Well, I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you, but hell, would you want me to come to you as virgin as yourself? Believe me, you wouldn’t like that.’ Helen’s face burned with colour, and with a muffled imprecation, he pulled her close to him again. ‘Helen, until I met you I didn’t know what it was like to care for someone—really care for them, I mean. And believe me, I’ve gone through purgatory believing you hated my guts!’
‘I�
�I never hated you, Jarret—’
‘Didn’t you?’ He cupped her face in his hands. ‘I think you did. But we won’t talk about that now. There’s yourfiancé to be taken care of. And your mother. Do you think she’ll let you come with me?’
Helen drew back from him suddenly, as the whole weight of the problems that faced them loomed before her. Until now it had been enough to know that Jarret loved her, but as the demands of their future cooled her blood, she wondered exactly how her mother would react to this incredible piece of news.
As if sensing her indecision, Jarret turned in his seat and started the engine once more. The rain was easing slightly, but the roads were still treacherous, and he pulled away slowly, passing the disabled Alfa with a wry grimace that Helen echoed as she realised how easily she could have been badly injured.
It didn’t take long to reach King’s Green, and Jarret stopped by the porch to enable her to dash inside without getting any wetter. With the engine running, and Jarret obviously waiting for her to get out, Helen almost lost her nerve.
‘Wh-what will you say—what will we say?’ she demanded jerkily, and saw the mask of impatience slide down over his lean features.
‘What do you want me to say?’ he asked, flexing and unflexing his fingers against the wheel. ‘Let’s see—I love your daughter, Mrs Chase, and I want her to break her engagement and come with me to New York. How does that sound?’
Helen licked her lips. ‘Is that all?’
Jarret frowned. ‘What more do you want?’
Helen gazed at him incredulously. ‘How—how about marriage?’
‘Marriage?’ he repeated blankly.
‘Y-yes, marriage.’ Helen’s tremulous voice gathered a little conviction. ‘You do—want to marry me, don’t you?’
Jarret rested his forehead against the cool steering wheel, and his delay before replying gave her all the answer she needed. With a feeling of sick rejection she groped blindly for the door handle, but before she could press it he reached past and prevented her escape. With the hard muscles of his forearm against her breasts, it was terribly difficult to remain motionless, but somehow she did it, pressing herselfback against the leather upholstery in a chilled state of mortification.
‘Before you go locking your door against me again, let me tell you something,’ he muttered, his grim face only inches from hers. ‘Okay, I didn’t plan to buy a marriage licence before taking you to the States. Such conventionality has not been my style—’
‘Obviously,’ she choked bitterly. ‘All those women! I should have known. They probably believed the same thing I did—’
‘Which is what?’ he grated.
‘That—that you loved them—’
Jarret shook his head. ‘I’ve told you, you’re the only girl I’ve ever—’
‘Oh, spare me the details!’ she gulped. ‘How can I believe you when—’
‘I’ve never lied to you, Helen. You know that.’
‘Do I?’
‘Damn you, you should!’ Jarret’s anger simmered. ‘If I’d wanted to lie to you, I would never have told you the truth about my life, would I?’
Helen pressed her head back, lifting her chin. ‘That doesn’t alter the fact—’
‘God!’ His teeth ground together. ‘I love you, Helen, and if it’s a marriage licence you want, then you shall have one. But don’t imagine that little scrap of paper is going to make the slightest difference to my feelings for you!’
Helen shook her head. ‘No—no! No, thank you. I—I can do without your—your patronage! Per-perhaps you’re wrong. Perhaps I will be happier with Charles. At least he had the decency to offer me a ring before trying to get into my bed!’
‘All right! All right!’ With a savage oath Jarret flung himself back in his seat. ‘I’ve had it. Get out, or I won’t be responsible for my actions. Go back to your fumbling fiancé! He deserves you. I don’t.’
‘Jarret—’
For a moment the enormity of what she was rejecting filled her with despair, but his set face encouraged no appeals, and with trembling fingers she pushed open her door. But standing in the shelter of the porch, a real senseof disaster gripped her. Instead of driving the car into the stable yard as she had expected, Jarret took off down the drive, disappearing into the night, gears grinding and tyres screaming in protest.
Helen hardly slept at all.
Fortunately, Mrs Chase assumed Charles had driven her home, and as she was engrossed in the television as usual, Helen was able to slip away to her room without too many awkward questions. She felt sick and her stomach felt queasy, and although she climbed between the sheets her mind was too active to allow her to rest. Where had Jarret gone? Back to Ketchley? It didn’t seen likely, but where else? He was soaked to the skin. Surely he would find somewhere to get out of those wet clothes, but where?
As the night drew on, other images came to plague her. In his state of mind, where was he likely to go? To some other woman, perhaps? To Margot? To Vivien Sinclair? It would necessitate him driving to London, but as the hours passed she became convinced that that was what he must have done. Lying there in the darkness, she tormented herself with thoughts of him with another woman, and his words about them sharing a bath took on a new and agonising meaning.
She must have dozed before dawn, but she was awake again at seven o’clock, and in the kitchen, making herself a cup of tea, when Mrs Hetherington came yawning into the room. She raised her eyebrows at Helen’s cotton negligee and then said brusquely:
‘I hope you haven’t been helping yourself to my apple pie. I saved that for Mr Manning, and if you’ve eaten it—’
‘I haven’t,’ cut in Helen shortly, indicating the kettle. ‘I—I was just making some tea, that’s all.’
‘Hmm.’ Mrs Hetherington viewed her thoughtfully. ‘It’s not like you to be wanting tea this early in the morning. I thought you preferred coffee. Would you like some coffee? I can easily grind—’
‘No, thanks.’ Once again Helen interrupted her. ‘Tea is fine, honestly. The kettle has boiled. Do you want a cup?’
‘When have I ever been known to refuse a cup of tea?’ demanded the housekeeper dryly, and then her brows drewtogether in some concern as she watched the girl. ‘Is something the matter?’ she ventured, setting two cups in their saucers, as Helen brought the milk from the fridge. ‘You look mighty pasty to me. Are you sickening for something?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Helen added sugar to the cups. ‘Two spoons, is that right?’
‘If you don’t know by now, you never will,’ responded the housekeeper goodhumouredly, and then returned to her earlier enquiry. ‘Didn’t you sleep well?’
‘Not very.’ Helen poured the tea and handed Mrs Hetherington her cup. ‘Mmm,’ she sipped hers gratefully. ‘This is just what I needed.’
The housekeeper frowned. ‘There’s nothing wrong, is there?’ she persisted. ‘I mean, you haven’t been—sick or anything?’
Helen’s half smile was rueful. ‘I’m not pregnant, if that’s what you’re implying,’ she assured her.
Mrs Hetherington looked a little flustered at her plain speaking. ‘I wasn’t suggesting that you were,’ she protested, but Helen only shook her head.
‘It doesn’t matter.’ She carried her cup across to the table and sat down on one of the wooden chairs beside it. ‘Perhaps it would be simpler if that was what was wrong with me,’ she mused, and then grimaced at the housekeeper’s shocked face. ‘Well!’ she justified herself. ‘At least then I’d know what I had to do.’
Mrs Hetherington frowned. ‘And don’t you now?’
Helen bent her head. ‘No.’
‘But you’re going to marry Mr Connaught.’ She made a sound of understanding. ‘Oh, I see. You’re worried because the wedding’s getting nearer, and you’re having second thoughts. Well, that’s common enough, my dear—’
‘It’s not that, Mrs Hetherington.’ Helen lifted her head as if it was too heavy for the slenderness of he
r neck. ‘I—Charles and I—it’s just the same as it ever was. Only more so.’
‘Whatever do you mean?’
Helen hesitated. ‘Tell me, Mrs Hetherington, did—did you and your husband ever—well, anticipate your wedding night?’
The housekeeper looked shocked. ‘Well, I never!’ she exclaimed. ‘What a thing to ask!’
‘I’m sorry.’ Helen moved her shoulders in an offhand gesture. ‘I didn’t mean to—offend you, but—well, I just wondered.’
‘Ah,’ the housekeeper nodded, ‘that’s what’s troubling you. You getting married in white, and all.’
‘No!’ Helen sighed. ‘I—we haven’t.’
The housekeeper shook her head. ‘And you want to know if you should?’
‘No. That is—oh, Mrs Hetherington, what am I going to do?’ Helen folded her arms upon the table and burying her face upon them, burst into tears.
The housekeeper hesitated only a moment before coming round to her, encircling her shaking shoulders with a reassuring arm, cuddling her close in an effort to comfort her. ‘There, there,’ she whispered, smoothing Helen’s silky swathe of hair with a gentle hand. ‘It’s Mr Manning, isn’t it? He can charm the birds off the trees with that blather of his, and I knew your mother should have never let him into the house!’
Helen lifted her tear-stained face in amazement. ‘How—how do you know?’
Mrs Hetherington shook her head. ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? If it’s not Mr Connaught, it has to be Mr Manning.’
‘But—but you like him—’ Helen protested.
‘Of course I do. I’m no different from anyone else. But I can see he could be a whale of trouble where you’re concerned.
Helen nodded. ‘I love him,’ she confessed, feeling almost relieved to be admitting it to someone else. ‘I love him. So what am I going to do?’
Mrs Hetherington eased herself into the chair beside her. ‘What about him?’ she said gently. ‘How does he feel? Does Mr Connaught know?’
‘Heaven’s, no! No one does,’ exclaimed Helen, horrified.
