‘You can dance, I presume?’ he asked as he put his arm about her waist. ‘I could wait to find out, but I wouldn’t want to tread on your toes or embarrass you.’ The small band was playing an old Glenn Miller tune—irresistible to dance to.
‘Why are you so rude?’ she asked him candidly as he led her in the first rhythmic steps.
His eyes widened with feigned innocence. ‘I merely asked because I know that most of you youngsters don’t know ballroom dancing and do only beat.’
She could have kicked his shins. ‘I am not a youngster! I’m well over twenty-one.’ She was actually twenty-two.
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. And for your information, my father taught me ballroom dancing. Anyway, we always have all kinds of dancing here. But perhaps you don’t know how to do beat—as you’re so old.’
At this he threw back his head and laughed. ‘Well done!’ he said, as though he were praising a child. ‘Now let’s dance, shall we, and leave the talking until later.’
For two pins Ruth would have left the floor and rendered him just standing there partnerless, but she found herself swung around to the music. He was quite an expert, and in the sheer enjoyment of dancing with a good partner, she temporarily forgot her annoyance with this man. But at the same time, after their verbal battles it seemed odd to be held at the waist by him, to have her hand on his shoulder, his hand clasped around hers. She caught a faint, pleasant smell of his after-shave and was strongly aware of his masculinity in a way she never was when dancing with Gareth. Perhaps it was because she was more accustomed to Gareth. Ross Hamilton did not hold her too closely. He was too good a dancer for that.
‘Your father has taught you well,’ Ross observed when they stood and applauded during a break from the music.
It would have been asking too much for him to compliment her directly, she thought ironically.
‘And who taught you?’ she came back.
To her surprise he laughed. ‘I suppose I asked for that. I taught myself, actually.’
‘I see. And how many toes did you tread on in the process?’
‘A few, I imagine.’
All at once he sounded reasonable, and somehow she did not like it. She would rather hit out at him for some extraordinary reason. The music started again, and this time it was a dreamy waltz. The band had obviously decided to play a Glenn Miller medley. Ruth was just wondering whether to excuse herself and look around for Gareth, but willy-nilly Ross Hamilton took command and they were dancing again. This time he held her more closely and she found it a most disturbing experience. To create an even more romantic atmosphere, the lights were dimmed, and all around them couples were dancing cheek to cheek or had their arms about each other in the intimate way her father had said they never did in his day. In case Ross Hamilton should attempt any such intimacy, Ruth arched back a little, but this only seemed to amuse her partner.
‘What’s the matter? Afraid I shall get too romantic?’ he asked mockingly.
She felt she hated him. ‘You’d better not try it,’ she warned him.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said smoothly. ‘It would be like trying to get romantic with a prickly pear.’
She tried to wrench herself away from him, but he held her too firmly. Then as if to tantalise her she felt his cheek touch hers.
‘You would look so silly, rushing away from the dance floor in this crowd,’ he murmured, his lips close to her ear.
‘I don’t care!’
‘Come now.’
His hand left the conventional position of her waist and crept up until it reached her bare flesh. There was a caress in his touch and she wished in a sort of panic that she had not chosen to wear this stupid dress.
‘Mm,’ he murmured in a sensuous sort of way, as if he were obtaining all the satisfaction in the world by the touch.
She closed her eyes resignedly, then felt a tremor run through her. It was ridiculous, but she wanted to put her arms around his neck, to draw him even more closely to her. Whether it was the effort of restraining herself, she could not tell, but a great shudder took possession of her.
He moved back his head and looked at her. ‘What’s this? Are you cold? But you can’t be, unless you have a fever.’
She stared at him, a feeling of helplessness swamping her. Was this the kind of power he had over women, the reason he had such a reputation? She gritted her teeth. She was going to resist him. She was going to resist him with everything she had.
Obviously seeing her expression change, his eyes widened. ‘Ah! I see the light of battle in your eyes again. Let’s call a truce to whatever you’ve got on your mind and just enjoy the rest of the dance.’
Ruth made no reply. She had never before met a man who could evoke in her such a variety of strong emotions. Did he have this effect on other women? she wondered again. Or was it something wrong within herself?
But in spite of his injunction to enjoy the rest of the dance, this proved impossible as the floor was so crowded.
She was not sorry when it was over and he led her back to their table. Gareth glanced at her keenly.
‘Are you all right?’ he murmured.
‘Yes, of course. Why do you ask?’
‘You look—sort of put out, that’s all.’
She put her lips close to his ear. ‘I don’t want to dance with him any more.’
Jill’s voice came from across the table. ‘What are you whispering about, you two? Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to whisper in company?’
Gareth put his arm across Ruth’s shoulders and smoothed her bare arm.
‘You don’t suppose we’re going to tell you, do you? It’s our secret, isn’t it, Ruthie?’
She nodded. Gareth could play up very well at times. She was aware of his hand smoothing the roundness of her upper arm, and though it was a pleasant sensation, she felt no other emotion.
‘Let’s dance, shall we?’ he said as soon as the music started again.
Ruth should have been pleased that Ross Hamilton did not ask her to dance again for the rest of the evening. Indeed, she had quite made up her mind that if he did, she would refuse him, so it was quite aggravating when he did not. He danced with Linda most of the time and with Jill once or twice. Jill, Ruth noted, looked predictably pink-cheeked and excited after her dances with him and exclaimed, out of his hearing, what a wonderful dancer he was. Linda Appleton managed to keep cool and aloof when she was sitting at the table with them all, but when she was dancing it was a different matter. Then, she looked pliable, and once Ruth saw her hand caress the back of Ross’s neck. Perhaps that was what he liked, Ruth thought contemptuously—women to make a fuss over him.
She was not really sorry when the last, sentimental waltz had been played and she was on her way home. Jill asked her back to her home for a coffee and a sandwich, but Ruth pleaded tiredness. Yet afterwards, she wished she had accepted, the house was so quiet and empty when she arrived home. But she told herself that whatever time she came home it would be the same. She sighed. How tempting it was to marry Gareth! She did not think she could stick this loneliness much longer. Or did one become accustomed to it in time? She supposed she would marry some day. Most people did. But to Gareth? Not at the moment, anyhow.
She slept late the next morning, and decided to have a lazy day—something like the ones she and her father used to have when things were normal. The Sunday papers, some music, maybe a little gardening—that sort of thing.
First, she played some cassettes, drank several cups of tea and had a glance at the papers. Then she had a long, leisurely bath, and still clad in a long white bathrobe, she went downstairs, discovered it was a lovely spring morning, opened wide the patio windows and sat down just as she was and began playing the piano. She must have been playing for about ten minutes and had just brought down her hands on a series of final fortissimo chords when a voice said:
‘Bravo—very well done!’
She swung round to the window to see Ro
ss Hamilton standing there giving her a little applause.
She drew in a sharp breath and clutched the neck of her robe with one hand and drawing it back over a long bare leg with the other.
‘Do you usually sneak up on people like that?’ she demanded.
He grinned. ‘You told me to come any time—that the door was always open,’ he reminded her.
‘Have you come to see over the house?’ she asked, rising to her feet and still clutching her robe.
He inclined his dark head. ‘It seemed like a good idea—lovely morning and all that. But don’t let me disturb you. Do go on playing. I can quite easily wander around on my own. That is, if you have no objections.’
His lean figure was silhouetted against the morning sun. How on earth could she be expected to play with this man wandering around the house? She would play all the wrong notes, she knew it. Not being a professional pianist, or anything like as good a player as her father, she always fumbled if there was someone around who did not really like music or whose presence she found disturbing.
‘There’s no need,’ she told him. ‘I’ll show you round myself. If you’d care to wait in here or in the garden while I dress—’
He gave her a cool, speculative look and that mocking smile curved the corner of his mouth again. He looked her up and down as if he would dearly love to snatch the robe away from her. She stepped back in alarm and almost fell, bringing her hand crashing down on to the keyboard of the piano in a clash of discords.
‘Don’t be alarmed,’ he told her. ‘You’re perfectly safe from me, I assure you. Charming as you look—and white suits you far better than that red creation you wore last night—I wouldn’t dream of touching you.’
Her cheeks flamed again. He said it as though he meant he wouldn’t touch her with a barge pole.
‘Let me tell you, you wouldn’t get the chance,’ she flung out at him.
‘No?’ He advanced towards her. ‘And you think you would stop me if I really wanted to?’
She had never heard anything so outrageous in her entire life. She stared at him, for once at a loss for words in the face of his effrontery.
‘Do you talk to every woman you meet like this?’ she demanded.
‘No,’ he answered briefly, as though considering the matter. ‘Only those who provoke me.’
‘Really?’ she questioned sarcastically. ‘I should think, Mr. Hamilton, you’re very easily provoked.’
‘On the contrary.’
Ruth gave an impatient sigh. This conversation was getting nowhere. She assumed as much dignity as she could possibly muster under the circumstances and changed the subject.
‘This, as you can see, is the music room,’ she told him. And before he could come back with a rude reply, she added: ‘It was meant, of course, as the dining room. Now, if you will follow me, I’ll show you the rest of the house.’
She flicked her long dark hair over her shoulders and preceded him into the wide hall and crossed to the living room. As he glanced swiftly around the room she wished she had tidied it the night before, and when she turned and saw his expression, she wished it even more. She thought, fleetingly, that he must have been born with that sardonic smile on his rugged face.
‘It looks—comfortable,’ he said, obviously deciding, for once, to be polite.
‘And lived in?’ she added significantly.
He cocked up one eyebrow. ‘It’s certainly that. But it’s no more than I would have expected.’
This was more like it. ‘Well, you’re not disappointed, then, are you?’ she retaliated.
‘Oh, I knew I wouldn’t be,’ he answered smoothly. For the moment she did not know how to answer that, but he went on: ‘It’s a nice size. I like large rooms.’
Involuntarily, she smiled and was going to turn and say how glad she was he felt that way, but she pulled herself up. He would only reply with something sarcastic.
Next she showed him the bedrooms, lifting up her robe carefully as she went up the stairs before him. The last thing she wanted to do was trip over it.
There were three fair sized bedrooms, quite enough for the averaged sized family, Ruth supposed.
‘You and your father certainly had room to spread yourselves,’ Ross Hamilton observed as she showed him the guest room with its twin beds with ample space on either side of them and in between.
‘Well, it’s supposed to be a family house,’ she answered, then recalling his remark about getting married and wanting a family, couldn’t help adding: ‘Of course, it depends on how large a family you’re thinking of having.’
He glanced up the step-ladder she had not bothered to fold away after coming down from her studio. ‘There’s plenty of room up there, I imagine, for any overspill. Or one could always have a caravan in the garden.’
She gave him a swift look. Was he serious—or simply being sarcastic again?
‘That’s your studio up there, is it?’
Ruth nodded, hoping he would not want to go up. On the other hand, there was still one more bedroom to see—her own. And the bed was still unmade with various kinds of underwear scattered around.
‘May I see?’ he asked. ‘Or is it forbidden territory?’
Perhaps if she allowed him to go up, she could slip on some clothes and tidy her room, she thought swiftly. Or he might even forget about the other room entirely.
‘Go ahead,’ she told him. ‘There’s a light switch just on the left as you reach the top stair. I’ll join you in just a moment. I—think I can smell something burning,’ she added for good measure.
His hand on the rail and one foot on the bottom stair he half turned and gave her a disbelieving look. Nevertheless, he proceeded upwards, and Ruth disappeared swiftly into her room. She knew she would not have time to tidy up the chaos completely, but she stuffed a few articles of clothing into a drawer and pulled up the bed cover, then cast around frantically for something suitable to wear. Sometimes on Sundays she wore a long skirt in which to relax, but if she were going up the step-ladder she would probably trip over it. Jeans—no. At least, not the ones she wore for work. On the other hand, she didn’t want to dress up too much. She really must buy some more clothes, she thought desperately, as she heard him moving about up above.
At last she snatched up a patchwork skirt she had made for fun and which she wore a lot at one time but had grown rather tired of. It would have to do. The red sweater she usually wore with it was too shabby for words. Her mind raced from a half formed idea of not wearing red because he had said he thought white suited her better, and deliberately choosing another red top simply because of what he had said. In the end she compromised by wearing a white blouse topped by a scarlet waistcoat. She looked vaguely like a Swiss or Norwegian peasant, but if she did not put in an appearance soon goodness knew what he might start thinking. He might even come and find her.
Only having time to put on the minimum amount of underwear, she made her way barefoot up to her studio. She hoped he had seen all he wanted to see—which was presumably the size and possibilities of the attic for the hoards of children he seemingly wanted to have, because she was reasonably certain that he did not really appreciate art.
She had several canvases on the go, and he stood before one which was nearing completion. It showed a forest glade and a group of deer which were one of the main species in the New Forest—the Japanese Sika, a dark-coated animal with white spots which became lost in the winter coat. Not very original in the opinion of some people, but Ruth preferred to paint from nature rather than indulge in what she called ‘splurges of the imagination’ which sometimes, she suspected, showed a sick mind.
She wondered what Ross Hamilton’s taste was in art, if indeed he had any, and waited for his opinion, steeling herself against almost certain criticism. She switched off the artificial light. There were two windows in the gable of the north side which made it ideal for the artist. Those on the south side she had blacked out.
As she flicked off the light he glanc
ed at her swiftly, then back to her painting, but not before he had noted her appearance.
‘You’ve changed, I see,’ he remarked.
She paddled towards him, and he glanced at her bare feet, but Ruth ignored his interest in her appearance. She was more concerned with what he thought of her work, though why this should worry her, she didn’t know.
‘Well?’ she prompted, as the aggravating man still did not offer his opinion.
‘It’s good,’ he said decisively, and she nearly fell over. ‘I like it. You have a real eye for detail. Those are the Japanese Sika deer, aren’t they?’
She nodded. ‘I’ve—rather specialised in forest scenes.’
‘And who buys your work?’ he asked.
She told him, and waited for the nine-times-out-of-ten derogative remark the information brought forward. She was not disappointed in one sense at least.
‘I see. You’re what’s known as a chocolate box artist?’
She fought down her anger. ‘I thought you’d say that,’ she said tartly. ‘It’s typical of the kind of remark made by—’ she was going to say, ‘ignorant people like you’, but felt this a little too strong to come out with. She continued: ‘by people who know nothing about an artist’s work.’
He looked at her calculatingly. ‘You’re angry again. If you’re so sensitive about being called a commercial artist—’
‘That’s not what you said.’
He shrugged. ‘What’s in a name? It’s the same thing. As I was saying, if you’re so sensitive about being considered that kind of artist, why do you do it?’
‘I do it because I have to live.’
‘But you could do better. You’d make more money if you sold your pictures privately.’
Knowing from experience that this was only true of the very few and the famous and that it took years and years to become famous—indeed, one often had to die—Ruth felt it was time to end the fruitless conversation, but she could not resist one more jibe.
Man of the Trees Page 4
