Deceived (Harlequin Presents)

by Sara Craven

  Lydie lifted her face, laughing at their feather-like touch against her skin, too excited to feel cold.

  He’s mine, she thought exultantly as the snow pearled to moisture on her face. Mine at last—and for ever.

  There were other drops on her face now, in this predawn hush, salt and scalding as they rolled down her cheeks, unbidden and unchecked, reminding her once more, with cruel emphasis; just how wrong she’d been.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘YOU must be quite mad,’ Debra Benedict said angrily, ‘turning down an opportunity like that.’

  Lydie noted wryly that her mother had referred to Hugh as an opportunity rather than a person. She said patiently, ‘I wasn’t in love with him.’

  Debra laughed harshly. ‘A fine time to discover that.’

  ‘Better now, surely, than after we were married?’ Lydie felt weary. Austin might have taken her mother to task the previous night, but she’d had time to build up her resentment all over again.

  ‘Hugh could have made you happy,’ Debra said intensely. ‘You’d have had everything—money, social position, the Wingate name...’ She cast her eyes to heaven. ‘And you drivel on about sentimental rubbish. I doubt now whether he’ll ever speak to you again.’

  ‘Then I shall miss his friendship,’ Lydie said quietly.

  ‘And Jon’s almost as bad.’ Debra petulantly hitched up a pillow. ‘Both of you—throwing your futures away with both hands. You know he passed out last night, I suppose? That—creature took charge—made sure he was put to bed. He must be laughing up his sleeve this morning.’

  ‘I presume the “creature” is Marius,’ Lydie remarked evenly. ‘I think you’ll have to make up your mind that he’s back for good, Mama, and learn to be civil.’

  Debra’s hands picked restlessly at the tissue she was holding, reducing it to shreds. ‘I can’t believe it’s happened—that Austin’s actually allowed him back here. I thought we were rid of him for good. But it’s all been for nothing ’

  Lydie stared at her in shock. There was real venom in her mother’s voice. It was like watching a veneer being peeled back, she thought, and finding something corrupt and corrosive underneath.

  She said levelly, ‘It might be wiser to try and be glad for Austin that they’ve made up their—quarrel.’ She paused painfully. ‘That he’s decided to forgive and forget after all.’

  ‘Don’t talk like a fool.’ Debra dealt forcefully with the voice of reason. ‘I haven’t sacrificed the past few years to this dead-and-alive hole just to see my plans fall to pieces now.’

  She dusted the remains of the tissue off her hands with a fastidious grimace. ‘But there’s no point in talking to you. Aren’t you supposed to be at your pathetic little gallery?’

  ‘I am indeed,’ Lydie agreed.

  Her thoughts were sombre as she went downstairs. Lack of sleep had left her feeling hollow, and her eyes felt bruised.

  She was also seriously disturbed and alarmed by the way her mother had spoken. She’d always thought that Debra Benedict’s eye to the main chance had been leavened by genuine affection for Austin, but now she wasn’t so sure.

  I don’t understand any of it, she thought. I don’t know what’s going on any more—if I ever did.

  She could hear the rumble of Austin’s bass coming from the dining room, interspersed with Marius’s lighter drawl. She’d have sold her soul for a cup of coffee but she couldn’t risk another confrontation, not when she was physically and emotionally at such a low ebb.

  She’d wept last night until her eyes and throat had felt raw, but it had exorcised none of her demons.

  She was beginning to realise the implications of sharing a roof with Marius again—of lying alone and awake each night, aching for him.

  And it was useless to tell herself that she was a fool who should have more self-respect. She had to deal with matters as they were, and not as how she might prefer them to be.

  Marius had returned, so she would have to leave. It was as simple as that.

  It was a day brilliant with sunshine, and the tourists were out in force, including a heaven-sent bus-load of Americans. Business at the gallery was brisk, leaving Lydie only enough time to give Nell a heavily edited rundown on events at the party, and no opportunity to lose herself in more painful reverie. For which she could only be grateful.

  During a brief lull, Lydie dashed to the local sandwich shop for their lunch. On her return, she found Nell on her knees, looking through a portfolio.

  ‘What have you got there?’

  ‘The most extraordinary thing.’ Nell’s face was rapt. ‘A girl just walked in off the street and asked if we could sell these watercolours for her. Look.’

  Lydie looked, her lips pursing into a whistle of astonished delight. ‘My God, she’s good. Is she from round here? Why haven’t we heard about her before?’

  ‘I wish I knew. She’s young and a bit aggressive, with traces of a local accent.’ Nell examined the label attached to the portfolio. ‘Darrell Corbin,’ she read. ‘Quarry Row. I don’t even know where that is.’

  ‘I do.’ Lydie frowned faintly. ‘But I didn’t know anyone still lived there. The quarry’s been closed for years.’

  ‘Maybe you could call in there,’ Nell suggested. ‘Tell her we’d love to handle her work. See what you can find out about her. She wasn’t very forthcoming with me.’

  ‘I’ll pop in this evening on my way home.’

  Anything that kept her away from Greystones at the moment was a bonus, Lydie thought ruefully. And this new artist was a find worth cultivating.

  The portfolio contained mainly local scenes, using the watercolour medium with a strong, sure touch. Darrell Corbin seemed particularly drawn to the high moors, revealing how sunlight and the play of cloud could change the landscape from windswept romanticism to a brooding, almost sinister intensity.

  While Nell made coffee to go with their sandwiches, Lydie hunted round the till area.

  ‘Have you seen the local paper?’

  ‘I used it to wrap those ceramic goblets,’ Nell admitted. ‘They were going all the way to Ohio. Did you want it for anything special?’

  Lydie bit her lip. ‘I was going to see what was available under “Flats to Rent”,’ she returned with studied lightness.

  Nell nearly choked on her coffee. ‘You’re leaving Greystones?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  Lydie shrugged. ‘We all have to move on some time’

  ‘Some of us do,’ Nell agreed drily. ‘Some don’t.’

  Lydie knew that she meant Jon. She hadn’t told her about his behaviour at the party, because Nell thought he drank too much anyway.

  Nell eyed her. ‘Could this surge of independence have anything to do with yesterday’s return of the native?’

  ‘It might.’ Lydie avoided her look.

  Nell blessedly didn’t probe any further, merely handing her a beaker of coffee. ‘Well, you can always move in with me,’ she offered matter-of-factly.

  ‘I know.’ Lydie was genuinely touched. Nell’s living space comprised barely enough room to swing a gerbil. ‘But where would you put me?’

  ‘I could always empty the fridge.’ Nell patted her shoulder. ‘Anyway, the offer’s there.’ She glanced towards the gallery door. ‘And here come some more customers. They must have smelt the coffee.’

  By the end of the afternoon, they’d sold four of Darrell Corbin’s unframed watercolours, all at good prices. ‘An investment,’ Nell had told the buyers, and meant it. ‘She’s a name of the future.’

  Nell looked at her watch. ‘I need to pop to the supermarket before it closes. Can you close up here?’ She handed Lydie a slip of paper. ‘That’s what we owe Darrell Corbin already. Maybe you could take her a chequespur her to more activity?’

  ‘Glad to.’ Lydie wondered if Nell would be seeing Jon over the weekend, but decided it was more tactful not to ask. They had to work out their own problems, she thought with a sigh. And so did she.
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  She lingered after Nell’s precipitate departure, relishing the quiet of the gallery after the day’s bustle. She wrote the cheque for Darrell Corbin, and had paused briefly on her way out, to tidy a display of wooden figures, when the jangle of the shop bell made her jump.

  ‘I’m sorry, we’re closed—’ she began, and stopped as she realised who the late caller was.

  ‘I realise that.’ Marius strolled forward. He was wearing light trousers and a shirt the colour of old copper. They looked Italian and expensive, Lydie thought, her throat tightening uncontrollably at the sight of him.

  He took a long, slow look around. ‘You have some good stuff here,’ he remarked. ‘Austin liked his present.’

  She said tautly, ‘I’m glad.’ Then, ‘I didn’t know you were interested in arts and crafts.’

  ‘I’m not as a general rule.’ He paused. ‘But I’ve spent the day going through some of the financial statements with Austin, and I regard this place almost as a Benco subsidiary.’

  He spoke pleasantly, but the words found their target.

  Faint colour rose in Lydie’s face, and warning bells sounded. She said quietly, ‘I understood the loan was a private matter between Austin and myself.’

  ‘It was, but I shall be handling the family finances from now on, as well as the company business.’

  ‘I—see. I—I didn’t know that.’ She tried to keep her dismay out of her voice, imagining her mother’s reaction.

  ‘No one else does,’ he said. ‘Austin’s decided to take his retirement very seriously indeed.’

  ‘I’m glad about that too. But you didn’t have to make a special journey to tell me.’

  ‘True.’ The grey eyes met hers without expression.

  ‘Actually, I thought we might have dinner together.’

  Lydie replaced the last wooden figure with infinite care. ‘Now, why should I want to do that?’ Her heart was bumping against her ribs, but she kept her voice steady.

  ‘Because you might find it marginally preferable to eating at home.’ He paused. ‘Your mother has invited Hugh Wingate.’

  ‘What?’ She almost shrieked the word. ‘Oh, I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Ring home. Check.’

  ‘What’s the point?’ Lydie raised clenched fists towards the ceiling. ‘She knows the score—I told her this morning. How could she do such a thing?’

  ‘Your mother takes the single-minded viewpoint—her own.’ Marius sounded cool and faintly bored. ‘I hear there’s a good Italian place opened on the other side of the valley.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s always heaving on Saturday. You need to book,’ she said curtly, still fuming over Debra’s high-handedness.

  ‘I already have,’ he said.

  That arrested her attention. She lifted her chin. ‘You were so sure I’d come with you?’

  ‘Not at all.’ A faint smile softened the harsh lines of his mouth. ‘You may well prefer to go back to Greystones and listen to Wingate being magnanimous. Forgive me if I don’t join you.’

  She’d rather be boiled in oil and they both knew it, but even if she refused he wouldn’t be short of company at his table for two, she thought. Nadine Winton was probably sitting by the phone at that very moment, willing it to ring.

  She squashed down a shaft of ignoble triumph. She had nothing at all to be pleased about. She was simply risking more heartbreak, more torment by allowing herself to be even marginally involved with Marius again. She would have done far better to have invented an alternative engagement. But his comments about the gallery were still niggling in her mind. Maybe it was better not to antagonise him unnecessarily.

  She picked up her bag, stuffing Darrell Corbin’s cheque into its side-pocket. That would have to wait.

  ‘I’ll have to get my car from the yard or it’ll be locked up for the rest of the weekend,’ she said as she fastened the gallery door.

  ‘Leave it at the mill instead.’

  ‘I’m honoured,’ she threw over her shoulder. ‘Can I use the managing director’s spot?’

  He shrugged. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because in the past the mill’s always seemed like hallowed ground. I’ve never felt welcome to set foot there.’

  ‘Perhaps you’ve never convinced anyone that you’re interested in doing a serious job. It’s not a playground.’

  Ouch, Lydie thought grimly. That puts me in my place.

  She said with a touch of acid, ‘Is that how you see the gallery—as a kind of toy?’

  ‘I need to see your time sheets before judging your level of commitment,’ Marius said softly. ‘But few people trying to get a business off the ground in its first year can allow themselves nearly three weeks’ holiday.’

  He’d learned a lot during his day with the financial statements, she thought shakily.

  She said, ‘The arrangements had all been made in advance. I couldn’t really get out of them—and Nell understood.’

  He nodded. ‘Does she get much time to do her own painting these days?’ he asked. ‘I hear she used to be good.’

  What hadn’t he heard?

  Lydie lifted her chin. ‘As far as I’m aware, she still is,’ she said.

  Why didn’t he come straight out with it and call her a spoiled, selfish bitch? she asked herself angrily. But that had never been Marius’s way. He simply cast his line and left you wriggling on the hook.

  And Nell had never complained about the amount of time she’d had off. But then Nell wouldn’t, she acknowledged ruefully.

  She said tartly, ‘I hope you’re not going to walk into Benco and start making snap judgements.’

  ‘I don’t need to,’ he said. ‘I’m already well aware of the problems. I thought long and hard before coming back here, believe me.’ He flicked a glance at her. ‘Although there were personal incentives,’ he added silkily.

  There was a tingling silence. For a moment, she was tempted to cancel dinner, go back to Greystones and face whatever music was playing there.

  She heard him laugh softly. His hand took her arm, gently but very firmly. He said calmly, as if she’d spoken aloud, ‘Forget it, Lydie. You’re better off where you are. Now, let’s get your car.’

  His own vehicle was just as amazing as Jon had implied—sleek, streamlined and reeking of concealed power. Lydie sank into the passenger seat, breathing in the fragrance of the leather upholstery. Her workaday skirt and shirt felt positively shabby in contrast, she thought with vexation.

  ‘I didn’t realise we’d be travelling in such style.’ She stole a sideways glance at him. ‘I’m glad to know you haven’t been begging in the streets.’

  ‘Begging isn’t my scene,’ he said.

  No, she thought. It never had been. Marius reached out and took what he wanted—and suffered the consequences...

  She drew a deep breath. ‘Where did you go?’ ‘Here and there.’ He didn’t prevaricate by asking what she meant, but he wasn’t giving much away either. ‘I’d had a number of feelers from other companies during my Benco days. I decided to see which were genuine.’

  ‘And they all were?’

  ‘Most of them.’

  She didn’t doubt it. He’d always been the lad with the golden touch. Even the hard-headed local businessmen had agreed as much.

  ‘So, where were you head-hunted to?’ She kept her tone light, casually interested. ‘Another textile firm?’

  ‘No, the Kent subsidiary of an American company,’ he said. ‘After six months I was transferred to Boston. I travelled a lot after that—Mexico, South America. Last year I spent in Australia.’

  Not just an ocean away, she thought, but the other side of the world. No wonder he hadn’t responded when she’d tried to reach out to him during all those sleepless nights.

  ‘And now you’re here again.’ She looked out at the steep street lined with terraced houses as the car climbed its way smoothly. ‘This valley must seem very small and cramped after all those wide open spaces.’

  ‘It’s a que
stion of belonging.’

  So, where does that leave me? she wondered. In a furnished flat in some London suburb?

  ‘And that’s why you came back?’

  ‘Partly.’ She saw his mouth tighten. ‘I didn’t actually leave of my own accord, if you recall.’

  I wish I could forget. She bit the words back, leaning forward as they came out onto the high road above the town. ‘I think Topo Gigio’s the other way.’

  ‘Our table’s booked for eight. I thought we’d have a drink first.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said.

  ‘Is there anywhere you want to avoid?’ His smile was pleasant. ‘Did you use a particular pub with Hugh?’

  Her mind went blank. Offhand, to her shame, she couldn’t remember a single place where Hugh had taken her. ‘Er—not really.’

  The Three Horseshoes was old, and almost as rugged as the hillside it was built out from.

  She remembered it at once as the place where Marius used to bring her after their walks over the moors.

  She’d never been back since, but she could recall with mouth-watering accuracy the taste of the home-roast ham and the freshly baked teacakes he’d ordered—‘to keep your strength up’, he’d told her, laughing. But nothing stronger than orange juice to drink, in spite of her wheedling.

  Inside, it was like stepping into a time-warp. There were a few more horse brasses on the dark beams and chimney breast, but everything else seemed unchanged. It was even the same landlord, albeit rather more grizzled.

  While Marius ordered the drinks, Lydie did some frenzied repairs with comb, blusher and lipstick in the ladies’ cloakroom. Her eyes were enormous, she thought with dissatisfaction, and her cheekbones looked like razor blades.

  Her mother had thought that she was crazy for breaking up with Hugh. But this—this was real insanity, she told herself, stroking the fragrance of Dior’s Dune on the pulse-points at her throat and wrists.

  She thought, I should not be here.

  When she arrived back in the bar, Marius handed her a glass of orange juice. ‘For old times’ sake,’ he told her laconically. ‘You can have a real drink later.’