Mistress for a Night

by Diana Hamilton

  Boy, was he in for a surprise!

  The muted yet full-throated growl of an unfamiliar engine broke the deep silence of Lytham’s isolation. Jason gathered the sheaf of papers together and pushed them back into the wall safe, locked it and pocketed the key, then walked to the open study door.

  A couple of hours, she’d said. A glance at his watch confirmed she’d made it in ten minutes under. He waited. Made a conscious effort to relax coiled shoulder muscles. Waited and wondered.

  Wondered if he’d manage to discuss tomorrow’s funeral arrangements, and how she could best handle the huge fortune that would come into her possession after probate, without displaying the bitter contempt he felt for her.

  Wondered if she would still have the nerve to look at him with big, limpid eyes. Wondered yet again how he could ever have been fooled by such a seemingly malleable sweet innocence.

  Waited and wondered if she’d walk right in—this house was hers, or as good as, after all. Or would she ring the bell, as timid and self-effacing as ever, on the surface at least, yet self-seeking underneath, doing what suited her and hang the consequences?

  She walked right in. She stood in the open doorway and stared at him.

  He stared right back through narrowed grey eyes, unable to release the almost arrogance of her glittering golden gaze, unable to believe what he was actually seeing.

  CHAPTER TWO

  MEETING his eyes, Georgia sucked in her breath. Seven years had stamped authority on those harshly handsome features, on the wide-shouldered, lithe male body. And although she never looked back, not ever, there was nothing she could do now to stop her mind flying to the hollow echoes of the past. Just seeing him again made it happen…

  She was eighteen years old and besottedly in love. Had loved him ever since she’d first set eyes on him at her mother’s marriage to his adoptive father, Harold Harcourt, three years before.

  He liked her; she knew that. On his occasional visits to Lytham Court, the luxurious family home, he made a point of spending time with her, unfailingly interested in her, always kind. And what gave her hope that liking her might develop into something more was the snippet of information that Mrs Moody, the battleaxe housekeeper, had let slip: Jason never visited Lytham while she was away at the boarding school her mother had packed her off to as soon as she’d married money.

  So here she was, a naive, plump eighteen-year-old, sitting up in bed long after her mother and Harold had retired for the night, screwing up her courage to go to Jason’s room and talk to him, tell him about the job offer in New York, ask him if he’d miss her—because if he said he would, she wouldn’t go.

  Since she’d been back at Lytham, after finishing her A levels in the early summer, Harold had been making her feel horribly uncomfortable, asking her about her boyfriends, his hot blue eyes undressing her—especially when Vivienne, her mother, wasn’t around. And her mother didn’t want her around; she never had. If it hadn’t been for Jason’s occasional visits Georgia wouldn’t have spent any time here this summer, would have accepted the standing invitation to stay with her friend Sue, would have been making plans to go to New York with the family in November, making a firm decision to accept the exciting offer of a job in the new advertising agency Sue’s father was setting up over there.

  But how could she leave Jason? How could she go if there was even the smallest hope that he could come to love her as she loved him?

  Sue’s phone calls, begging her to make up her mind to go with them, were becoming more frantic. She had to reach a decision, and the only person who could help her do that was Jason.

  But sitting up in bed in the thick darkness, chewing it over, wasn’t going to achieve a thing! She threw back the light counterpane and slid her legs out of bed. When he’d arrived for his eagerly awaited weekend visit he’d declined the evening meal and gone to his room.

  ‘I think I’m coming down with flu,’ he’d told them. ‘The symptoms started on the way here. So I’ll dose myself with aspirin and whisky and keep out of everyone’s way.’

  ‘You do that.’ Vivienne had taken herself to the far side of the room, flapping her hands in front of her as if to get rid of some unspeakable contamination. ‘I don’t want your nasty virus! And neither does Harold!’

  Harold had merely shrugged, and Georgia could have smacked the pair of them. Couldn’t they see that Jason looked far from well? Didn’t they care?

  ‘I’ll make a hot drink and bring it up for you, shall I?’ Georgia had volunteered, determined to let him know that she, at least, cared about his state of health. ‘Some soup, perhaps?’

  ‘Thanks, poppet.’ He’d smiled for the first time, his eyes brightening momentarily as they rested on her. ‘But I really couldn’t face it. See you in the morning.’ He’d taken the whisky bottle from the drinks tray and walked out of the room, so she hadn’t been able to talk to him then. But she could now.

  She wouldn’t disturb him for long, just explain about the job offer and tell him how she felt about him. She couldn’t put the width of the Atlantic between them if there was the slightest chance he could one day return her feelings.

  If he couldn’t, if friendship was all he could ever offer her, then she’d make a new life for herself in America. The thought of baring her soul to him was scary, but she had to do it. Sue’s parents wouldn’t wait for her decision for ever.

  She was shaking with nervous tension as she slipped down the corridor and into his room.

  He’d fallen asleep with the bedside light on. The coward in her recognised it as a reprieve and she felt herself begin to relax, her breath coming more easily. She knew she should walk out and leave him to his healing sleep, but couldn’t make herself.

  She padded over to the bed, her bare feet soundless on the thick carpet, only now realising that the in-depth discussion she’d intended they have should have demanded at least the sobriety of a robe to cover the too voluptuous curves which were barely hidden by her short, thin cotton nightie.

  But the night was hot and she hadn’t been thinking straight, her mind rehearsing what she had to say to him over and over again. In any case, it didn’t matter now. He was asleep and she wouldn’t wake him.

  Very carefully, her heart in her mouth, she sat on the edge of the bed. He still looked feverish, sweat gleaming on his olive-toned skin, the sheet tangled around his hips. She could smell the whisky he’d dosed himself with and realised hopelessly that she had to be grateful for the virus, for the alcohol that had knocked him out.

  He was so beautiful. He could have any woman he wanted. So how could she have been crazy enough to hope for one moment that he would want her?

  The sudden film of tears made her eyes sting. She blinked them away and told herself to be grateful for having been saved from a huge humiliation.

  If he’d been awake and she’d come out with all that stuff she would have embarrassed them both; she could see that very clearly now. His past friendship and kindnesses meant only one thing—that he was compassionate enough to care about the plain, over-plump teenager who was like a fish out of water in the opulence of Lytham Court, whose mother plainly showed she didn’t want her around.

  So she would go to New York and make something of her life, but first she would give herself this quiet, secret time with the man she loved with an emotion so intense it made her heart feel heavy and sharp inside her. Just a few more minutes to say her silent goodbyes.

  Tears shimmering on her lashes, she softly, oh, so softly, touched his naked shoulder. The last thing she wanted to do was wake him, but she needed to have the memory of how his skin felt beneath her loving fingers.

  He was burning, feverish. She lifted her hand and laid the backs of her fingers against his brow, where strands of damp, dark hair tumbled onto his forehead, then feathered them gently over his jagged cheekbones, down to the corner of his mouth, and then, because she simply couldn’t stop herself, trailed her hand over the taut muscles of his arm, down to the loosely clenched
long bones of his hand, completely absorbed in him.

  And then, in the space of time it took to draw a breath, his eyes opened, his fingers tightened convulsively around hers, drawing her hand up until her palm was splayed against his wide chest and she could feel the rapid, heavy beats of his heart.

  After that there was no time to explain what she was doing in his room as his mouth descended in a bone-melting kiss. No time to think as she drowned giddily in a vortex of passion, his passion and hers, the driven need taking them both by storm.

  She didn’t have to ask if he could ever love her. He had given her the answer.

  She woke in her own bed, but couldn’t remember climbing back into it. Had Jason carried her here? She was filled with the scatty kind of happiness that made her heart soar up to the skies and dance around the sun. Jason’s lovemaking had been more beautiful than anything she could ever have imagined. He couldn’t have been so passionate if he didn’t love her.

  She floated down to breakfast, her head spinning. Today they would talk. There were decisions to be made about New York, although what had happened last night made them academic. Her future was here with the man she loved.

  The elegantly furnished dining room was empty. A glance at her watch told her she was too early. Mrs Moody didn’t serve breakfast before nine-thirty. Her mother and stepfather weren’t early risers.

  She smiled softly, her amber eyes jewel-bright. She would take Jason’s breakfast up on a tray. Juice, toast, honey and coffee. They could talk in privacy. And when she told him she loved him he would tell her he felt the same, and kiss her, and maybe invite her to share his bed, and undress her slowly, and then…

  Her heart was beating so fast she thought she might suffocate, and the heat of desire scorched her skin. She turned quickly, heading for the door and the kitchen. And Jason walked in.

  She couldn’t speak, could only look at him with drowning, love-drenched eyes, one hand flying to her breast to still the wild clamouring of her heart. He looked pale, as if the night had taken the colour from his skin, making his slate-grey eyes darker by contrast, emphasising the lines of strain at the side of his beautiful male mouth.

  He raked his fingers through his soft dark hair, a track Georgia longed to follow with her own fingers. But she knew she shouldn’t be thinking of things like that when he obviously wasn’t well.

  ‘Let me get you something,’ she said, concern in her eyes. ‘Coffee, juice, eggs—anything.’

  But he shook his head, briefly closing his eyes so that the thick dark sweep of his lashes laid sooty crescents above his jutting, harshly masculine cheekbones.

  Then he looked at her, and she saw regret in his eyes, heard it in his voice when he told her, ‘About last night. I’m more sorry than I can say for what happened. I’m fond of you; you know that, Georgia. The last thing I want to do is hurt you.’

  ‘You didn’t!’ she gasped. ‘How could you think that? Last night—’ Her face flamed at the wholly erotic memory, at the vision of the new and totally unexpected world he’d opened up for her. She swallowed convulsively. ‘Last night was the most beautiful thing that has ever happened to me.’

  She ached to go to him, to lean her head against the broad expanse of his chest, but there was something forbidding about his hard features that kept her feet rooted to the carpet. She felt emotional tears sting her eyes again as she protested, ‘Please don’t be sorry about what happened. I can’t bear it. It was all my fault; you know it was.’ And it was her fault; of course it was. She shouldn’t have let it happen. She’d taken advantage of him while he was at his most vulnerable.

  ‘No.’ He turned away from her, his hands bunched into the pockets of his narrow-fitting jeans, his shoulders rigid beneath the stone-coloured sweatshirt he was wearing. ‘The blame is mine entirely. I’m eight years older. I should have had more control, dammit! Packed you back to your own room and your teddy bears!’

  ‘Don’t say that—I’m not a child!’ The words were torn from her heart. She was losing everything she’d dared to believe she’d gained. Losing him. It couldn’t happen. She wouldn’t let it happen! ‘Jason—I love you! Don’t you understand?’

  He swung round to face her then, slowly, on the balls of his feet, his features less harsh, some softer emotion hazing his eyes so that for a tiny moment her heart lifted with hope, only to be shot down again when he countered gently, ‘Believe me, you only think you do. Last night—it was your first time.’

  Dull colour flared briefly over his broad, ruggedly defined cheekbones, but his eyes didn’t waver, holding hers intently as if by his will alone he could force her to accept what he wanted her to believe.

  ‘That being so, it’s only natural that you should imagine—’

  ‘I don’t “imagine”! Give me some credit!’ The sheer vehemence of her interruption wiped the unhappy mixture of shame and compassion from his face. And his eyes narrowed watchfully as she went on, ‘I fell in love with you the first time I ever saw you, and I’ve loved you ever since!’ He had to know how real it was, how true and strong her love for him. He mustn’t think she’d made love with him on a whim.

  Her chin jutting out, she defied him to say she was lying. He didn’t, just sounded drained and weary as he told her gently, ‘You’re eighteen years old, Georgia. And for this day and age incredibly innocent. If you feel anything for me at all it can’t be anything other than infatuation.’ He reached out a hand as if to touch her, then withdrew it, thrust it back in his pocket. ‘Believe me, my dear, you’re still too young to really understand your own feelings. And I’m not prepared to take any more advantage of your innocence than I already have. Try to forget it ever happened. You have the whole of your life ahead of you, and if it’s worth anything at all to you, I’ll be around for you if you ever need me. You know that.’

  He left the room without another word, without a backward glance, and left Lytham an hour later.

  The pain of his going was unspeakable.

  She spent the next few weeks in a pit of misery, moping around the house, irritating her mother, making Harold give her knowing little winks and leers.

  ‘Don’t nag her, Vivvie. She’s pining for some boy; it’s obvious! Did he dump you, sweetheart? He’s a fool if he did—a curvy little handful like you!’

  And still she couldn’t bring herself to get away. She’d told Sue and her parents that she’d decided to take up their offer, but hadn’t bothered to obey her friend’s telephoned command to, ‘Get your butt over to our place and we can make plans about what we’re going to do when we hit the Big Apple—provided Dad gives us any time off from our dogsbody jobs at the agency!’

  For the first time ever, giggly girl-talk with the bubbly Sue held no appeal whatsoever.

  She was waiting for Jason. Hoping he’d rethink his rejection, telling herself that he wasn’t trying to avoid her, that he might have had another disagreement with Harold. They’d never seemed close—just as she and her mother weren’t. Or maybe he was just too busy to come. Recently accepted as a junior partner in a prestigious firm of London solicitors which specialised in fraud in high places, he could be too focused on his work to find time to visit.

  But in her heart she knew the excuses she made were futile. He didn’t come because he just didn’t want to have to see her again.

  On the point of capitulating to Sue’s demands, telling her mother of her future plans and packing her bags, she made a discovery that shook her out of her torpor.

  She was pregnant!

  She panicked. She didn’t know what to do. Vivienne would show her no sympathy or understanding whatsoever, and would almost certainly urge her to have an abortion. And as for Harold, she couldn’t bear to encounter his knowing, hot eyes.

  Jason was the only one she could turn to, because hadn’t he said he’d be there for her if she needed him? And hadn’t he helped to create this new life she was carrying inside her?

  She phoned his London number late at night, when she was su
re he’d be at his apartment. It took every ounce of courage she possessed. After she’d told him she held her breath, feeling her pulse-rate rise.

  But all he said was, ‘I take it you’re sure?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be phoning—’

  ‘OK. Calm down. I’ll be with you first thing in the morning. We’ll make plans. And Georgia—don’t worry.’

  As if she could help it!

  She lay awake all night, wondering if his plans would include a discreet abortion, and knew that she would never, ever be pressured into ending the life of her unborn child. He or she would be a part of Jason she would have for ever. And she’d think about the practicalities of raising a child on her own when the dust had settled.

  Jason arrived at Lytham at eight the next morning, well before Harold and Vivienne were up, declining Mrs Moody’s stiffly formal offer of breakfast. The housekeeper never spoke unless it was necessary, and Georgia had never seen her smile, but the look she shot between the two of them now spoke volumes.

  So Jason took her arm and walked her out of the impressive house and into the garden, which was manicured to within an inch of its life.

  ‘We’ll marry just as soon as it can be arranged.’ Marriage to Jason was all she had ever yearned for. Her heart skittered around like a wild thing, then settled down to a heavy, solemn beat. She sat down abruptly on an over-ornate cast-iron bench seat, sweat breaking out on her short upper lip as she forced out, ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘I know I don’t have to. No one’s holding a gun to my head.’

  He was standing over her, his back to the morning sun, his face in shadow so she couldn’t read his expression. Yet she knew it would be as bleak and emotionless as his voice.

  ‘It’s the only option,’ he told her tonelessly. ‘A termination’s out of the question, so don’t even think about it. I’m the father, and I’m responsible for both you and the baby. My child will have the best possible start in life, and a stable background with both parents as permanent fixtures. And that means marriage.’