Roberta Leigh - Cinderella in Mink

by Roberta Leigh

  "What have you got?"

  "Come and see."

  Reluctantly she went to stand beside him, tumultuously aware of the warmth emanating from him. It was an essentially masculine warmth, compounded of after-shave lotion, hair cream - not that he appeared to use any - and pipe tobacco. Hurriedly she looked through the records, surprised at how many there were. "You've got a big selection."

  "I've been collecting for years."

  "Is this house your home?"

  "It is now. I used to have a flat the other side of Chelsea, but I spend so much time here it was a waste of money keeping it on."

  Aware of Joanna watching them, she bent over the records again and then handed him one.

  He looked at it and smiled. "Feeling in that sort of mood?"

  She nodded and sat down without answering. But as the strains of Tchaikovsky's Romeo and Juliet Overture filled the air, she regretted her choice, for the haunting sadness of the violins brought tears to her eyes.

  Only as the music came to an end did Joanna shatter the mood by saying she had stopped being a Tchaikovsky fan from the age of fourteen. "He's so sentimental," she asserted.

  "There's nothing wrong with sentiment," Barnaby replied, lounging back in his chair. "It's your choice now, Joanna."

  "I think I'll go home."

  At once he stood up and made for the door. "There's no need for you to go, Nicky," he said over his shoulder. "Stay here and play some more music."

  The door closed behind him and Joanna, and Nicola jumped up, too angry and humiliated to sit still. It was hopeless to try and make Barnaby notice her while she was living here, and again she toyed with the idea of leaving. She moved across to the chair he had just vacated and stretched out in it. A. standard lamp was the only illumination and the bulk of the room was in shadow, apart from the gentle flicker of flames in the grate. She flexed fingers still aching from peeling potatoes, and made herself more comfortable, too tired to get up and put on another record, too tired even to find the energy to go to bed. With a sigh she closed her eyes.

  An instinctive awareness of being watched brought her back to consciousness. Slowly she lifted her lids and beneath the tangle of lashes saw Barnaby watching her. She struggled into a sitting position, aware that the ribbon confining her hair had worked loose, and that the dark strands lay like a silky cloud around her shoulders. Half-heartedly she pushed it off her face and sat up even straighter. "I fell asleep," she said unnecessarily.

  "You're tired from cooking."

  "It was rather much," she admitted.

  "Because you were determined to show off."

  "I wanted to make something nice," she said, stung to tears by his remark.

  "Even though it meant exhausting yourself? A stew would have gone down just as well and not left you looking as pale as an unlit candle."

  "I'm sorry my looks don't please you," she muttered.

  "Come now," he chided, "you know your looks please me very much. I just don't like to see you working unnecessarily hard."

  "I did it for you," she said without thinking.

  "I know."

  She was glad the room was in shadow. "What else do you know?"

  "That you're a tired little girl who should be in bed."

  "I'm not a-"

  "Little girl," he finished for her, and leaning forward drew her to her feet. From his expression, tender and teasing, she knew the gesture was prompted by kindness, but as his hands touched hers her own emotion communicated itself to him, and his grip tightened. "Don't look at me like that," he said huskily.

  "Like what?"

  "Like Circe. It's those big grey-green eyes of yours. They're more green than grey tonight - that's because there's more of the witch in you."

  "It's the witching hour," she said.

  "Time for good little girls to be in bed."

  "And bad little girls?"

  "They're in bed too."

  "Not on their own."

  The smile left his face and momentarily it looked blank. "But you're a good little girl now," he said.

  "I always have been."

  He did not answer and, aware of his doubt, she grew angry. "Don't you know the sort of person I am?" she cried. "I thought you prided yourself on being a good judge of character."

  "I'm sorry."

  His apology was not what she had expected, and as though realising it, he forced himself to continue. "We weren't going to talk about your past any more, remember ? We're only going to think of your future."

  "What future do you see for me?"

  "A happy one."

  "With whom? " she whispered.

  "A young man who'll come into your life one day."

  Angry that he did not know that the man was already standing beside her, she turned sharply away from him. Her foot caught in a threadbare patch of the carpet and she stumbled. His hand came out to save her and she fell against him, her slight weight resting in the curve of his arm. She turned to free herself, but he moved too, and unwittingly she found herself facing him again, but much closer to him this time. Without being able to stop herself she put her arms around his neck. For an instant he resisted, then with a stifled sound he pulled her close and buried his head in her hair. His lips were warm on her scalp and her heart began to thump heavily, so that she trembled and clung to him the more.

  "Kiss me," she cried, and raised her face to his.

  Silently he did so. For so big and assured a man, his kiss astonished her by its gentleness, and she wound her arm about his neck and pulled his head lower. She felt him tremble and I only then realised that his gentleness was caused by his control. "Kiss me properly," she whispered, and pressed closer.

  In her long search for someone to love she had found herself wrong many times, but so sure was she of Barnaby's character that she felt no embarrassment with him. Here at last was someone she could love without wondering if he was holding her in his arms because she was Nicola Rosten, heiress, and this knowledge filled her with such exultation that it swept away her reserve and she nestled against him like a homing pigeon.

  "For God's sake, Nicky, don't!" The thudding of his heart belied his actions as he tried to push her away.

  "Why not? You want to kiss me. You know you do!"

  "I mustn't."

  "Why not? I'm not a patient of yours."

  "But you're staying here… it's wrong. Nicky, please!"

  "I'm the one to say please," she murmured, and raising herself on tiptoe, pulled his head down again..

  "You can't say you're not asking for it," he said huskily, and this time made no effort to hold his desire in check.

  His kiss was one of unleashed passion, his lips forcing hers apart. Her trembling body aroused him to an even greater desire and the kiss deepened, drawing a response from her she had not known she possessed.

  His hands twined themselves through her hair and then moved on to encircle her waist, coming up beneath her sweater to caress her curving breasts. They swelled beneath his touch and she clung to him more tightly, longing to surrender completely but knowing she could not do so while there were still secrets between them.

  "Barnaby," she breathed. "Darling…"

  He jerked at the sound of her voice, and with the movements of an automaton pulled her hands away from his neck and forced them down to her sides.

  "No, Nicky, this is madness." His voice was low. "We'll regret it in the morning."

  "I won't!" she cried passionately.

  "You will," he asserted, and stepped away from her. "Nicky, stop it!"

  Tears blinded her eyes. "Don't you want me?"

  "That question shows a basic ignorance of biology!"

  "Stop teasing," she cried. "Can't you be serious about anything?"

  "Not this," he replied. "It's too dangerous."

  "Don't you ever let yourself go?"

  "At the right time and the right place."

  "And with the right girl, I suppose. You've made it pretty obvious it wouldn't be m
e."

  "Now you're talking like the child you're always telling me you're not. You know very well why I stopped kissing you - and you wouldn't have respected me very much if I hadn't stopped."

  "I don't want respect," she whispered. "I want you. You know how I feel about you."

  "I know what you think you feel." He put out a hand as though to touch her cheek, then gave a half smile and moved over to the far side of the fireplace. "Don't confuse being grateful with being in love. At the moment you see me as your saviour and you're reacting accordingly. But when you've made another life for yourself - with people of your own age - you'll feel quite different."

  "You talk as if you're Methuselah!"

  "I'm thirty-four. Young when compared with your Marty, of course, but -"

  "No!" she cried, and stopped. It was ridiculous to let Barnaby go on believing she had been in love with a man old enough to be her grandfather - and a butler, to boot. Unable to stop herself, she smiled, though she was unaware of it until she saw the puzzlement on Barnaby's face.

  "What's the joke, Nicky?"

  "That you should believe I was in love with Marty. None of it's true," she blurted out. "He isn't -"

  "I know you didn't love him," Barnaby interrupted. "You wanted a good time and he was able to give it to you. You don't need to apologise for it."

  Helplessly she stared at him. Did he really see her as a girl who would sell herself for a good time? Anger against him welled up in her, made more bitter by knowing how desperately she wanted him to believe in her despite all evidence to the contrary. "I'm a fool," she thought ironically. As Nicola Rosten she had wanted to be loved regardless of her wealth, and as Nicky Rose she wanted to be loved regardless of the life she was supposed to have led. Somehow she seemed to find it impossible to put herself in a situation where she could be judged for what she was.

  "You told me to forget my past and think only of my future," she reminded him. "Why can't you do the same?"

  "I'm trying."

  "I'm surprised you find it so hard."

  "I'm surprised too," he said enigmatically, and went to the door. "Good night, Nicky. Sleep well."

  She followed him out and slowly climbed the stairs, puzzled by his last remark and wishing with all her heart that she could read his mind.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  For several days Barnaby went out of his way to avoid being alone with Nicola. At first she saw his behaviour as regret for having kissed her, but gradually she sensed a different motivation behind it; sensed it not so much through his avoidance of her but through his obvious tension when they were in the same room.

  In his position of father-figure to a constant stream of neurotic girls, several of them must have thrown themselves at his head in order to gain his attention. This being so, it was surprising that he should display symptoms of acute embarrassment whenever she was near him. Had he not been emotionally aroused by her, he would not surely have done so. She gained comfort from this; as she also did from the knowledge that from their very first meeting he had shown an interest in her far beyond his normal one. Joanna's antagonism towards her was additional proof of this.

  Convinced that Barnaby's aloofness was a covering to protect himself, she was happier than she had been in her life, and spurred on by this, tackled all her chores with unusual willingness. The much-disliked ironing was dispensed with speed, if not efficiency, and she would stand blithely at the sink wallowing in sudsy water and a welter of dishes.

  It was here, in a steamy kitchen, with foam up to her elbows, that Barnaby finally faced her alone. He had spent the day at hospital, and as always when he did so, he liked to have an hour to himself to marshal his thoughts. Usually he remained in his sitting room or bedroom for an hour, and she could not hide her surprise at seeing him in front of her now.

  "I didn't expect to find you washing up so late." His voice was normal and easy.

  "One of the boys had an epileptic fit and it upset the lunch hour. Joanna's taken him to the hospital."

  "So that's why she isn't here."

  Nicola nodded. "She rang through to say she wouldn't be back till later this evening."

  "I'll call and tell her not to come back at all." He frowned. "It's ridiculous for her to spend so much time here. She has no life of her own."

  "The hostel's her life - the way it's yours." Nicola took her hands out of the suds. "Would you like some tea?"

  "I can make it myself." His smile robbed the words of terseness. "I'll make you a cup too. You look as though you need one."

  Aware of the sudden light in his eyes, her heart started to race and she hurriedly dried the plates while he made the tea.

  "For heaven's sake leave the dishes and come and sit down," he said with an irritability she had never before heard from him.

  "Someone has to do them," she pointed out.

  "What about the other girls? Whenever I see you, you're working." He pushed a cup towards her. "Why do you let them use you?" he said furiously. "You're so little, I suppose they think they can take advantage of you."

  "Of course not. The trouble is, I'm so slow, everything I do takes me twice as long as it should."

  "I'd have thought you'd be used to washing-up and housework."

  "I never did any before I came here."

  "Are you telling me that ladies' maids are treated like ladies too?" he asked humorously.

  "I was."

  "Must have been as good as being Miss Rosten herself."

  "It was."

  He put two lumps of sugar in his tea and stirred it thoughtfully. "Not hankering to go back there, are you?"

  "I'd give anything to be back in my own bed," she said truthfully, then added: "It was extremely comfortable, living there. No expense spared, and all that sort of thing."

  "Spare me the details," he said drily. "I couldn't care less how the other half lives. I've enough trouble coping with my own half."

  "You cope very well. Too well. That's why you do too much."

  "Don't start telling me again how tired look! Remember what happened the last time you did."

  Warmth suffused her body. "I was wondering if you'd forgotten. You've tried to give me that impression."

  "From self-defence. You've a habit of getting under a man's skin."

  "You make me sound like a disease."

  "You could easily become one with me."

  "I'd like that."

  "Stop it," he said in rough but kindly tones. "You've got to go out and make a life for yourself. You can't spend it here washing and ironing."

  "I certainly can't," she said fervently.

  "What I mean is, you're intelligent enough to do something worthwhile; take a training course, learn shorthand and typing perhaps."

  "That costs money."

  "We've a few Trusts who give us funds. I'm pretty certain I

  can get some help for you."

  She looked at her teacup, intensely aware of him sprawled in the chair opposite, his thick hair falling across his forehead in the way she knew so well, his eyebrows lowered over those piercing grey eyes. "You talk as if you'd like to get rid of me, Barnaby."

  "It isn't good for you to remain here."

  "Do you want me to go?"

  "I want what's best for you."

  She looked him full in the face. "What would you say if I told you you were best for me? "

  "I'd say you were too young to know your own mind."

  "I'm twenty-one," she retorted, "and I bet I've seen more of the world than you!"

  "Travelling as Miss Rosten's maid, I suppose? That's not seeing the world, Nicky. Nor will it help you develop as a person."

  "What about sitting at a desk typing? The only thing that will develop is my rear end!"

  He smiled. "There's other work. Or you can study at night school or a polytechnic."

  Irritated by his determination to get rid of her, she lashed out at him, "If those are your best suggestions I'd rather go back to Marty!"

  With
an exclamation Barnaby stood up. His anger was unmistakable and she thrilled to it, knowing she had hit him where he was most vulnerable. Poor darling, she thought tenderly, if only he would stop fighting his attraction to her. With silent steps she reached his side and placed herself between him and the door.

  "Don't you like me a little bit, Barnaby?"

  "More than a little bit," he said roughly.

  "Then why are you afraid to say so?"

  "We've already discussed why. Things haven't changed since then."

  "You're very hard."

  Her lips trembled and he reached out and caught her shoulder. "Don't cry, Nicky. You're such a little thing, I can see why men want to protect you. But you must learn to depend on yourself - not use your beauty to…"

  He withdrew his hand and put it into the pocket of his jacket, moving slightly back as though afraid to come too close to her. But she pressed forward, refusing to let him get away.

  "Did you mean what you just said - that you think I'm beautiful?"

  Hearing herself pose the question she wanted to laugh; that she, Nicola Rosten, who had never lacked admirers ready to heap praise on her, should be asking such a thing of a tired, overworked doctor who was doing everything he could to send her away from him.

  "I never answer leading questions," he replied.

  "One day I'll make you."

  There were footsteps behind them and Frank came in. "Carole's asking for you," he said to Barnaby.

  "I'll go up and see her."

  He hurried out and Frank poured himself a cup of tea.

  "You seemed pretty involved with Barnaby. Fancy him, do you?"

  "Yes - just like all the other girls here!" She put the dirty cups in the sink, noticing how rough her hands were. Next time she went to a fancy dress party she'd go as Madame Pompadour. It was certain to lead to more interesting experiences than the ones she was having here.

  "What you grinning at?" Frank asked.

  "Just deciding I hate being Cinderella."

  "Who's the Ugly Sister - Joanna?" Without waiting for a reply, he went on: "Now there's a girl I'd fancy. I'm sure there's fire beneath that icy surface."

  "I doubt it. She's ice to the core."