by Anne Mather
The evening was better.
To her relief neither Richard nor Alex joined them for dinner, and as Bella chose not to intervene, they ate alone. It was a cold repast—an iced vichyssoise, followed by a lobster salad, with meringues glacés to finish. Bella left them to serve themselves, and Olivia felt her tension easing in the relaxed atmosphere. It was only when Jules returned to the topic they had discussed that afternoon that she felt the hardening core of uncertainty inside her, and he had to be content with her promise to give the matter serious thought.
But after Jules had driven away and she was in bed, Olivia found sleep as elusive as her emotions. It was impossible to think of Jules without the image of Richard getting in the way, and she half wished she could confess her weakness to the Frenchman. There was no one to whom she could turn, no one with whom to share the unacknowledged awareness of her own sensuality, no one to reassure her that the feelings Richard aroused inside her were anything more than a wholly physical reaction to a purely sexual assault.
Perhaps she was a fool to hesitate over Jules’s proposal. Perhaps that was what she needed. A permanent home, a permanent relationship, the security which somehow she no longer possessed …
CHAPTER NINE
OLIVIA stroked a darkening mascara on to the length of her lashes, noticing as she did so how the sun had bleached the tips. It had been a particularly hot day, and she had spent most of the afternoon by the pool, summoning the energy to face the evening to come.
The Rotary Club Ball, she thought gloomily, liking the sound of it no more now than she had done before. It struck a chord of unease inside her, and she had waited all day for something drastic to happen to prevent her from having to attend. She had even drunk more wine than usual at lunchtime, in the hope that she might develop a headache and have some legitimate reason to avoid the inevitable, but she was as clear-headed as ever, and Richard would see through any lie she tried to offer.
She sighed. She had not wanted to go when Shelley first mooted the idea. She would much have preferred an evening spent exclusively in Jules’s company to the unavoidable grouping which took place at these events, and the awareness of Richard’s presence was bound to inhibit her behaviour.
Why had he chosen to join them, when in the past he had always avoided such occasions? She didn’t believe Shelley had persuaded him, although obviously the other girl would see this as something of a victory. Richard’s intentions were much less honourable, she was sure, and she dreaded the possibility that he might take this opportunity to hurt and humiliate her. He could—she knew that only too well. And her hand trembled as she set the mascara brush down on the tray.
Zipping herself into her gown, she studied her reflection critically. At least she looked composed, she thought shakily, realising that the amber folds of chiffon gave a glow of good health to her golden skin. It was a beautiful gown, and one which she had been saving for a special occasion. Her reasons for wearing it this evening were obscure, except perhaps that it gave her an added confidence, and confidence was what she needed right now.
Seating herself before her vanity unit, she ran an exploring tongue over her parted lips. The bodice of her gown was low-cut and revealing, and she leant forward slightly and examined her cleavage. Was it too daring? No, it was all right. The cut of the gown was cleverly designed to provoke but not satisfy, and the fashionable draping of the ankle-length skirt only parted to reveal her slender legs to a modest degree.
A tap at her door as she was about to get to her feet again riveted her to the stool. ‘Yes?’ she called, a hand pressed to her midriff, and then felt the dryness of her tongue in her mouth as the door opened to admit her stepbrother. She had not really expected it to be him, even though there was always that possibility, but she was glad she was still seated as Richard surveyed her with darkly brooding eyes.
‘Are you ready?’ he asked, closing the door behind him and leaning back against it for a moment. ‘I like your gown. Is it new?’
‘Yes, thank you, and yes,’ she said tautly, deliberately attempting to divert his mood. ‘Are you?’ She turned back to the mirror. ‘I’m thirsty. Make me a drink when you go downstairs, will you?’
‘When,’ he agreed dryly, leaving the door to cross the room towards her. ‘I—er—I’ve got something for you first.’
‘For me?’ She swallowed hard, trying to sound casual. ‘I wonder what that could be.’
‘This,’ he declared, withdrawing a long black jewel case from the pocket of his dark blue corded velvet dinner jacket. ‘I got it at Tiffanys. When have I ever gone away without bringing you something?’
Olivia drew a trembling breath. ‘There—there was no need. I mean, I’m not a child now——’
‘I know you’re not,’ he agreed sparely. ‘Go on, open it. You might decide to wear it.’
Olivia’s fingers fumbled over the catch, very much aware of him standing right behind her. She had not turned, but his reflection loomed over her, dark and disturbing.
Inside, on a bed of black velvet, lay an emerald bracelet. Links of gold networked a row of perfect stones, glittering with green fire, and Olivia’s breath caught in her throat at its beauty. Without doubt, it was the most valuable piece of jewellery he had ever given her, and only the small nagging voice inside her questioned his reasons for giving it now, and mocked the connotations of slavery.
‘I—I don’t know what to say,’ she murmured at last, looking up at him through the mirror. ‘I—why did you do it? It—it’s too much! In—in the circumstances, I—I shouldn’t accept it.’
‘But you will,’ he declared firmly, lifting it from its resting place and clasping it about her slim wrist. ‘There. Don’t you like it? You should.’ His tone was dry suddenly. ‘As you say, it’s a pretty bauble.’
Olivia caught her lip between her teeth. ‘It’s beautiful, but …’
‘So are you,’ he interposed huskily.
‘… I can’t accept it.’
‘Why not?’ His voice had hardened instantly.
‘Because—oh, because I can’t!’
‘Because of Merignac?’
She hesitated. ‘Perhaps.’
‘This has nothing to do with him.’
‘You don’t understand, Richard——’
‘What don’t I understand?’ His nostrils dilated, and his hands moved from hanging loosely at his sides, to grip the vulnerable flesh of her shoulders. ‘I understand very well, believe me. It’s you who do not yet—comprehend the situation.’
Olivia shivered, the ripple of coldness down her spine a physical rejection of his influence. Turning her head, she could see the long brown fingers closed on the bones of her shoulders, the short nails that nevertheless retained a definite shape and sensitivity. There was possessiveness in those hands, possessiveness and possession, and a certain selfish determination to win at all costs.
‘Don’t you like me to touch you?’ he demanded suddenly, and her eyes darted up to meet his with revealing candour.
‘You—you’re hurting me,’ she said, although the sensations he was arousing owed less to pain than to a kind of painful anticipation.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and then, before she could prevent him, he bent his head and caressed her nape with his lips.
At once she tore herself away from him, getting to her feet and moving round the end of the vanity unit, putting a breathing space between them. However, when she turned to protest his behaviour he was already moving towards the door, a curiously defeated weight to his step.
‘Richard …’
His name sprang to her lips, and he looked back at her resignedly, over his shoulder. ‘Yes?’
‘Wait …’ She licked her dry lips, her fingers fidgeting with the heavy bracelet on her wrist. ‘I—Jules has asked me to go back to Paris with him when he returns next week.’
It was impossible to read the expression in Richard’s eyes. Apart from the fact that he was a master at concealing his feelings, the narrowi
ng lids provided a more than adequate screen of their own. But he turned on his heels, sliding his hands into his trousers pockets as he did so.
‘I see,’ he said at last. ‘And what did you tell him?’
Olivia hesitated. ‘I—haven’t decided.’
‘Why not?’ His tone was clipped. ‘Either you want to go or you don’t.’
She caught her breath. ‘You mean—you wouldn’t stop me?’
Richard shrugged, but he made no answer to that particular question. Instead he said: ‘What’s happened to that terrific urge for independence? Or is Merignac not demanding that kind of commitment? No doubt he’s prepared to sacrifice his virtue for yours!’
Olivia’s cheeks burned. ‘That’s a foul suggestion to make!’
‘But relevant,’ retorted Richard grimly. ‘Grow up, Olivia. Men like Merignac feed on girls like you!’
Olivia held up her head. ‘As—as a matter of fact, he’s asked me to marry him.’
‘Has he?’ Richard’s lips thinned. ‘But of course you disabused him of that ambition.’
‘I—no. Why should I?’
Richard’s hands balled into fists within the confines of his pockets. ‘You certainly choose your times, don’t you, Olivia?’ he muttered savagely. ‘We can’t discuss this now. There’s no time. But later. Later …’
‘What is there to discuss?’ Olivia grew braver at the realisation that Richard could hardly hurt her now, not with Jules arriving at any moment. ‘It’s my decision, not yours. I—I shall decide what I’m going to do.’
Richard pulled his hands out of his pockets to rake back his hair with impatient fingers. ‘Oh, Olivia!’ he said, and his tone was driven. Then: ‘Come on! I can hear a car. No doubt it’s your preux chevalier! Riding to the rescue!’ His eyes glinted suddenly. ‘Perhaps we should find out what he’s really made of, hmm? Shall I challenge him?’ He mocked her now. ‘That’s what knights are for, isn’t it?’
‘What do you mean?’ Olivia’s nerves tightened. ‘You—you wouldn’t——’
‘Wouldn’t what?’ Richard swung open her door. ‘The way I feel right now, I most certainly would, whatever it is.’ He smiled but there was no humour in it. ‘Come along, Olivia, your swain is waiting. And like you said earlier, I think a drink would be in order.’
He left the door open, but Olivia did not immediately follow him from the room. She was trembling too much to face Jules with any degree of composure, and she waited a few minutes until her heart slowed its palpitating beat.
Then she fumbled for the clasp of the bracelet. She would not wear it now. Let him think what he liked, she would not be bought like the child he had accused her of being.
But the fastening was stiff, and one-handed and anxious she was no match for the safety catch. With a feeling of helplessness, she knew she could not get it off, and with a deep sigh she resigned herself to wearing it.
In spite of her inner upheaval, her face looked amazingly normal, and with a final flick of the comb to the aureole of red-gold curls that framed her forehead, she picked up her velvet cape. Draping its black folds over her arm, she left her bedroom, and went, with reluctance, along the landing.
She could hear voices as she descended the stairs, but not wholly masculine tones. With a feeling of reprieve, she recognised Shelley’s voice, and that of her brother David.
They were in the study, and Olivia paused in the doorway, unconsciously awaiting their notice before making her entrance. Almost automatically her eyes searched for those of her stepbrother, and then, as Richard returned that hostile challenge with his mocking green gaze, Shelley came forward to admire her gown.
The older girl was wearing red, a shade that complemented her vivid colouring, and Olivia, who had been concerned about the décolletage of her gown, thought how much less anxious Shelley must be to wear such a revealing neckline. Her full breasts burgeoned above the deeply defined bodice, and the gold pendant suspended between drew attention to that dusky hollow. She looked good, and she knew it, and because of this she could afford to be generous to Olivia, who looked pale by comparison.
‘What would you like, Olivia?’ asked Richard, studying the tray of drinks. ‘A cocktail—sherry? Or something stronger?’
‘I’ll have a gin and tonic,’ declared Olivia, smiling at David Foster. ‘I—er—I feel reckless this evening.’
‘Do you?’ David grinned, but Richard did not take her up on her statement, merely exchanging a smile with Shelley which had all the sympathy of two adults indulging the immaturity of a teenager.
The sound of thick tyres crunching on the gravel of the drive saved Olivia from the temptation of finding some means of retaliation, and with a defiant look in Richard’s direction she went to greet Jules. Forestalling Bella, she opened the door herself, and her welcome was that much warmer because of her indignation towards the others.
‘Am I late?’ he exclaimed, after responding to her breathless kiss. ‘I thought I was in good time.’
Olivia gave a shaky laugh. ‘Your timing is perfect,’ she assured him warmly, and took his arm as they crossed the hall.
She observed, with relief, that he was wearing a dinner suit this evening. It was the first time she had seen him in anything so formal, but the dark mohair suited his fair colouring. Only his shirt of pale pink brocade could be considered in any way flamboyant, but she doubted anyone would object. Outside their circle of friends, he was unlikely to be recognised.
Richard was standing beside Shelley when they entered the study, looking down into her upturned face, listening to what she had to say with an intentness that bordered on intimacy. Their closeness was not lost on Olivia, and in spite of her declared hostility towards her stepbrother she felt an unwarranted surge of frustration. What was Richard playing at? she wondered. What plot was he hatching now? And what kind of challenge was this he was throwing down?
Yet there was nothing but urbane courtesy in the greeting he offered their guest. After shaking hands with the newcomer, he suggested a drink before leaving, and the three men moved together to the table. It left Olivia alone with Shelley for the first time since that morning she had called unannounced, and she was not slow to take the advantage.
‘So you didn’t meet anyone exciting in Paris!’ she chided, the sharpness of her eyes belying the silkiness of her tone. ‘I knew something had happened to you since you went away, and it’s almost always a man.’
‘Jules and I are—friends,’ replied Olivia, deploring the cliché, but unable to avoid it. ‘That’s all—friends. Besides,’ she forced a smile, ‘I didn’t know you were a fan.’
‘I’m not.’ Shelley’s denial was fervent. ‘I prefer my men with a little more—depth, shall we say?’ She paused. ‘Are you seeing him again, after he goes back to Paris?’
Olivia opened her mouth to respond, and then closed it again. She had to remember, Shelley’s main interest centred on Richard. What she really wanted to know was how her stepbrother had reacted, and Olivia refused to satisfy the older girl’s curiosity.
‘That depends,’ she said now, and turned away to join the others.
They drove to the Royal Hotel in Chelmsbury in three cars, Richard taking Shelley, David driving himself and Olivia following with Jules. It was a warm evening, and although Olivia had taken her cape, she doubted she would need to wear it. There was a pungent smell of cut hay, and the hedges were sweet with honeysuckle, scenting the air with its night-blooming perfume. Already scores of insects were caught in the light of the headlamps as dusk brought shadows to the lanes, and almost unwillingly Olivia accepted that there was nowhere like England on a summer evening She loved her home, she always had, and a pain twisted in her stomach at the realisation that if she went with Jules she would be leaving all this behind.
The Royal was Chelmsbury’s biggest hotel, and although it had recently been taken over by one of the larger chains, it still maintained its air of quiet dignity. Built in the latter half of Queen Victoria’s reign, it was c
onstantly being modernised, but the generous proportions of its rooms, and their heavy ornamentation, could not be denied.
There was a throng of people in the foyer, milling about, greeting friends and relations, exchanging local gossip. The Gerrards were there, and the Fosters, as well as the usual crowd of young people Olivia had known since her youth. Leaving Jules on the pretext of checking her cape, she edged away to the powder room, glad to escape into its less crowded surroundings. Spraying perfume from the tiny flask she kept in her evening bag on to her wrists, she surveyed her flushed cheeks with impatience. That was Shelley’s doing, she thought irritably, ignoring the fact that she was unused to drinking strong spirits. Combined with the wine she had had at lunchtime, the gin had made her feel quite lightheaded, and she hoped the buffet they were serving would not be too long in making its appearance.
Making her way back to Jules, she realised she had not considered Janice when assuming that few people would recognise him. He was already surrounded by a group of young girls, all asking for his autograph, with Janice as their leader, standing boldly at his side.
‘What it is to be famous!’ remarked David, in her ear, and she relaxed as he took her arm. ‘Come on, let’s go and dance. I’m sure your Frenchman knows how to handle himself. You can rescue him later.’
Olivia hesitated, but the idea of running the gauntlet of that crowd to reach Jules’s side was not appealing, and with a sigh she gave in, allowing David to forge a path for them through to the ballroom.
The influence of decoration here was almost baroque, but the mirror-lined walls were attractive, their gilt surrounds echoing an earlier era.
The music was provided by a group on a platform at the far end of the room. Already the room was quite full, although most people lingered beside the tables that flanked the floor, each one illuminated by a single candle in a globe. It was quite effective, and left most of the dance floor in shadow. Wall-lamps gave an added illumination, but the huge chandeliers overhead were not in use this evening.
