Desirable Property

by Catherine George

'No, please.' She sprang up and put a detaining hand on his arm. 'Let me explain.' She smiled up into his taut face persuasively, and after a moment's hesitation he sat in the chair opposite, where he could watch her face. 'I don't want to get married, Ben,' she went on. 'At least not at the moment. And when I do I feel it should be for reasons other than those you put forward. I don't want to be asked because I'm sensible and capable and look as though I'll breed easily. No—please let me go on.' Ben stirred restlessly but let her continue, his eyes brooding. 'I love my work,' explained Verity, 'and I like being my own mistress—no innuendo intended. Not only that, I don't really match up to you socially. My father was a chartered surveyor, like me, and in her youth my mother was a teacher, so my pedigree is rather more plebeian than yours.'

  'Rubbish,' interrupted Ben rudely. 'As if it mattered two hoots these days!'

  'But you'll have a title one day—'

  'So what! I'm still the same man. Me, Benedict Dysart, ex-Marine, more fitted for wargames than anything else, I grant you. Oh to hell with this.' He jumped to his feet and strode to the door. 'Just forget the whole thing, Verity. It seemed like a good idea to me. I'm only sorry you don't agree. Good night.'

  Verity ran after him into the hall. 'Don't go off like this, Ben.'

  Scowling he shook off the hand she laid on his arm, for once shaken out of his usual impassivity.

  'There's no point in my hanging on. I'm just wasting my time—and yours.'

  'Oh very well,' she snapped, eyes flashing. 'If you're set on being so childish and unreasonable it's best you do go.'

  They glared at each other in silence, until a corner of Ben's mouth unexpectedly began to twitch, the look in his eyes gradually changing from fury to laughter. Unwillingly Verity's mouth curved in an answering smile.

  'We sound like a couple of schoolkids,' he said. 'Who the hell would want to marry a morose swine like me anyway!'

  'Nearly every other female of my acquaintance I should think.' Verity put out a hand to touch his and his own closed round it instantly. 'There are hundreds of girls who would stampede into your arms if you gave them the slightest encouragement as you very well know.'

  'But not you, Verity?' The laughter faded, and slowly something more electric took its place, charging the atmosphere between them. Ben released her hand and held out his arms. 'Why not make the experiment yourself, Verity—if only in the interest of research?'

  Verity's eyes dropped to hide the unsuspected spark that ignited deep within her at the caressing note in the normally abrasive voice. Ben's hands remained a hair's breadth away as she leaned against the banister, and unbidden her body moved the necessary fraction to make contact with the long, hard fingers that closed on her bare arms and pulled her towards him, giving her all the time in the world to draw away. Curiosity, and some other less-defined emotion, took her forward into his embrace, directing her mouth upwards as his came down to meet it. As Ben's mouth touched hers his arms closed around her, and the option to stay or retreat was no longer open. There was no sudden assault as on that other time. None was necessary. Verity was as eager for the embrace as Ben, her body yielding gladly to the pressure that brought her close against six foot of thinly clad flesh, bone and muscle. Several minutes ticked by on the grandfather clock in the hall while they gave themselves up to the sheer pleasure of contact, mouth to mouth and body to body in the vibrating silence, until Ben eventually raised his head to stare down into her face, his breathing uneven.

  'You see?' An audible tremor in his voice matched the vibration deep inside Verity. 'The arrangement would not be entirely businesslike, would it?'

  'No.' Her eyes were honest as they met his. 'That doesn't mean I've changed my mind though, Ben.'

  He gave her an odd, indulgent little smile as he stood back and held out his hand. 'Walk me to the gate, Verity.'

  'Rephrase your request,' she said bluntly and stayed where she was.

  'Please walk me to the gate, Verity,' he said promptly and pounced, catching her hand. 'Come on, do as you're told!'

  Laughing together they strolled down the path, meeting a weary Henrietta on her way home from the theatre. Introductions were made, Henrietta's curious eyes examining Ben in the light from the street lamp as they exchanged pleasantries for a short while before she took herself indoors.

  'Pretty girl, from what I could see,' commented Ben as he opened the gate. 'Tactful, too.'

  'Why?' asked Verity.

  'She went off in a hurry,' he explained with exaggerated patience, 'because she thought I wanted to kiss you good night. And she was right.'

  Verity deftly avoided his seeking arms, her eyes dancing.

  'One swallow doesn't make a summer, Mr Dysart!'

  Ben sighed regretfully, his teeth showing white as he smiled, but he made no attempt to dissuade her.

  'Pity! Good night, Verity.' With a casual wave he folded himself into the Morgan and departed.

  Henrietta was waiting in the kitchen, her face bright with curiosity. 'I say, Vee, was that your pedigree chum?'

  Verity chuckled. 'You could put it more gracefully, but yes, that was Benedict Dysart in the flesh.'

  'More like sheer muscle to me, darling, and from what I could see not in the least aristocratic!' Henrietta gave a little wriggle and perched on the kitchen table while Verity made coffee. 'I mean, he's not exactly effete and chinless, is he? That knee-trembling glimpse I had of him having his wicked way with you in that earthy looking get-up wasn't misleading a bit.' To her surprise Verity flushed bright scarlet.

  'He was not having his way with me,' stated Verity firmly and took a gulp of coffee. 'And no doubt his physique is due to his training in the Marines—in a Commando Brigade I think.'

  'Oh don't go on,' implored Henrietta. 'There's you with all that overdose of machismo on your hands, and the bloke who brought me home was only interested in his new haircut and the fit of his tights in the play tonight!'

  'Go to bed,' ordered Verity, grinning. 'You look tired, Hett.'

  Henrietta obediently slid off the table and made for the door. She turned with a sly gleam in her big blue eyes.

  'Whereas you, darling landlady, look positively blooming. Can it be love?' She sank in a graceful obeisance somewhat at odds with her faded jeans, and made her exit with all the eclat of a budding Peggy Ashcroft.

  Laughing, Verity washed coffee mugs, then wandered into the garden to put the loungers in the garage. Henrietta was fun to have around, she would miss her at the end of the season. By then Jenny would be married, and new tenants for the rooms upstairs would have to be found. The scent of newly cut grass hung in the air as Verity went slowly back across the lawn; she felt restless and wide-awake, leaning against the open kitchen door for some time, gazing at the stars, unwilling to admit that Henrietta's last sally had raised a question Verity found difficult to answer. Ben's proposal had been unsatisfactory because she wanted something couched in more romantic terms, if she were honest. Love-songs and deeds of derring do, or even physical attentions pressed on her at every turn were all unnecessary. But a proposal made merely because she was attractive and sensible and likely to prove fertile was rather like a rub down with a wet sponge.

  The more Verity considered it the less easy she found it to define her feelings towards Ben. At first she'd despised him, then learned to tolerate him, and for the past couple of weeks she had enjoyed his company without reservation. Well, perhaps one reservation, namely Gussie. No one ever described Gussie as merely attractive or sensible. Beautiful, luscious, stunning, perhaps, but girls who looked like Gussie weren't expected to be sensible. Verity frowned and bit her lip. Perhaps she herself wasn't quite as level-headed as she imagined—the very thought of Ben's kiss was enough to shake her faith in her own immunity. She rather suspected good old-fashioned lust had caught up with her at last—certainly not love.

  This thought remained with her all through a busy Sunday taken up with household chores and gardening, right up to mid-day on Monday when she
emerged from John Randall's office to run straight into Ben.

  'Come and have lunch,' he said, and smiled straight into her startled eyes, reviving the sensations in her midriff first experienced two nights before.

  'No,' said Verity bluntly, and promptly bolted for her office, to the surprise of both receptionists, who were looking on with interest. With a lazy, conspiratorial look at the two girls Ben strolled after Verity, his indolence dropping from him like a cloak as he wrenched open her office door, closing it behind him with a quiet care that affected Verity more than if he'd slammed it shut.

  Verity sat bolt upright in her swivel chair, looking at him with a mixture of resentment and apprehension. He put his weight on the palms of his hands on her desk and leaned across it, his face coldly questioning.

  'Why the hell did you scuttle away like that? We provided a very interesting spectacle.'

  Verity shrugged. 'I don't want to have lunch with you.'

  'Fine. It's a free country. But why dash off as though I was about to attack you?'

  - 'I have work to do,' she said pointedly and took up her pen.

  Ben's face relaxed and he straightened. 'What's the matter, Verity? Afraid of the big bad wolf?'

  'No. I just think it better if we don't see each other any more.'

  'Are you. afraid I'll keep on proposing?' he asked dryly.

  Verity's fear was more that she'd accept, and for all the wrong reasons. 'Something like that, Ben.'

  'I see.' Ben ran a hand through his hair, frowning. 'If I promise never to mention marriage again, would that make things better?'

  To Verity's dismay it made things infinitely worse. 'To me you're still Gussie's property,' she said with brutal frankness. 'You'd be better off with someone who doesn't know her, or know what relationship you both enjoyed when you were younger. No woman likes to feel she's a substitute.'

  'You make it sound more like a football match than a marriage.' To Verity's surprise Ben took her statement with unexpected equanimity. 'Why not lunch with me, Verity, and let's talk this over. After that I promise I'll leave you in peace. If you want me to.'

  With misgivings Verity consented, and preceded Ben through the back corridor to the car park, glad to avoid the interested faces in the front reception area. She got in the Morgan silently and sat staring ahead of her, hardly noticing where they were going until she realised they were on the road for Priorsford.

  'Where are you taking me?' she demanded.

  'Home.'

  'Temple Priors?' Verity squeaked. 'Why for heaven's sake! Your parents will hardly be pleased to have a lunch guest unexpectedly, and in any case I'm not dressed for visiting. Please take me back.'

  'If you'll just be quiet for a second,' he said calmly, 'my parents went to Stowe earlier, and I told Martha, the cook, to make sandwiches for us. I just want to show you over the house.' He gave a glance at her pink shirt and pleated brown linen skirt. 'You look fine to me.'

  Verity was not consoled. She fumed in silence as the car skirted the village of Priorsford and followed the road for three miles before turning through gates to wind down a drive that led through pastures full of sleek Jersey cows before a dip in the road brought the house into view. Seeming to grow out of its surrounding landscape, its steep gables and chimneys rose weathered and beautiful to command the eye even before the building came fully into view. As Ben stopped the car Verity gazed at the lichened stone tiles of a roof that had sheltered Dysarts for four centuries, impressed as she'd known she would be, yet drawn irresistibly by the charm of many-paned windows that reflected the sunlight and the arched, weathered door that stood open in welcome.

  Ben said nothing as he helped her out of the car, merely taking her hand to lead her through the doorway into a square, sizeable hall, its dark floor gleaming with the lustre of well-polished wood. Verity had no eyes for the floor. The entire hall was dominated by a great stone fireplace over which hung a portrait of a man in the clothes of the early seventeenth century. She walked slowly towards it, other portraits on the panelled walls fading into insignificance beside the impact of the man staring down at her from the great gilded frame on the chimney breast. The black, curling hair was longer, a gold ring glinted in one ear and a great emerald on the hand that caressed the head of an Irish wolfhound, but otherwise it was Ben.

  'A relation of yours?' asked Verity, without turning her head.

  'Nicholas Dysart. He built the place.'

  Verity continued to gaze at the portrait, a slight frown creasing her forehead.

  'What is it?' asked Ben, watching her.

  She turned to look at him, a withdrawn little smile on her lips, and gestured at their surroundings, then up at the portrait.

  'All this, especially him, rather point up the difference between us. The most I could produce in the same line would be a few sepia-tinted photographs of my great-grandparents in the albums Mother left at home.'

  Ben took her elbow and drew her down beside him on the settle beside the fireplace. 'Everyone has to start somewhere, Verity.' He jerked a finger towards the portrait. 'His only claim to aristocracy was sheer audacity. He managed to seduce the daughter of a wealthy wool merchant, who with reluctance handed both the lady and her dowry to the wily Nick, enabling him to build this house, and put up the necessary money to buy a baronetcy from James I. The going rate at the time in 1611 was the cost of thirty soldiers to serve in Ireland for three years, and not only did the social-climbing Nick provide the ready, but he sent off his younger brother—Benedict, of course, of whom he was less than fond—to serve with them, in the hope that he'd be bumped off.'

  Verity stared at him suspiciously. 'You're pulling my leg!'

  Ben shook his head, grinning. 'Not a bit of it. The joke was that by 1618 King James was so chronically hard up he dropped the asking price for a baronetcy to £220, and any old riff-raff could buy one, which caused no end of an outcry among Sir Nick and his ilk, as you can imagine.'

  'Nevertheless, I am deeply impressed,' insisted Verity.

  'Because we've been here a long time! What I'm trying to stress is that there was precious little breeding or merit in that ruffian up there,' Ben said persistently.

  'You look just like him,' said Verity dryly.

  'A vulgar ruffian, you mean. Thanks!' Ben stood up, pulling her with him as an elderly woman in a flowered overall emerged from a door at the back of the hall. Two dogs came hurtling after her, skidding on the polished boards to greet Ben with as much fuss as though it were days, instead of hours, since parted from him.

  'Martha,' said Ben. 'This is Miss Verity Marsh, from Lockhart & Welch. Verity, this is Mrs Baines—head cook and bottle washer.'

  The woman's plump face creased in a smile of welcome. 'Pleased to meet you, Miss Verity.'

  'How do you do, Mrs Baines.' Verity smiled warmly and held out her hand. The woman took it, pleased.

  'Just Martha, Miss. Now where do you want your lunch, Mr Ben?'

  'In the morning room, Martha, please. I'll take Verity on a tour of the house, so give us half an hour.' Ben took Verity's arm, shooing away the two retrievers.

  'I'll be late getting back—' began Verity.

  'I cleared it with John beforehand.'

  An eyebrow raised at his high-handedness, Verity followed Ben up the wide staircase at the end of the hall, privately thinking he looked very much in keeping with his surroundings as he led her through a series of surprisingly comfortable bedrooms, only one possessing the expected fourposter.

  'This room is kept for show, everything in it dating from when the house was built.' Ben flicked at the bedhangings. 'Nothing would induce my mother to sleep in a fourposter bed, she's always convinced the top will collapse in on her in the night.'

  Oddly reassured by this snippet of information, Verity peeped into several more rooms, the smallest and most spartan of which she found belonged to Ben.

  'Do you ever open the house to the public?' she asked as they returned downstairs.

  'To
o small. There'd be no place for us to go.'

  On the ground floor the hall took up a great deal of the space, the rest given to a formal drawing-room with brocade-covered furniture, more pictures, and pieces of fragile porcelain scattered round on inlaid tables, a surprisingly functional dining-room with quantities of silver on the massive oak sideboard, a book-lined study, hearteningly untidy, and finally a small, cheerful sitting-room cosy with chintz and flower prints, where lunch awaited them on a low table.

  'We'll leave the kitchen and the outbuildings to another day,' said Ben, to Verity's relief, and waved her to a seat at the tray, where she poured hot fragrant coffee from a silver pot and accepted wafer-thin sandwiches of rare roast beef from the plate Ben proffered.

  'Well?' he demanded.

  'Are you asking if I like your home?' Verity took an experimental bite of her sandwich without looking at him.

  'And do you?'

  'It's very beautiful—much more lived-in than I expected.'

  'We do live in it.'

  'But with only your parents to occupy such a large house, why should you need another for yourself?' she asked curiously.

  Ben was quiet for a time. 'Nick's health was never good,' he said at last. 'I always knew that I was the one expected to marry and produce an heir, archaic as it sounds, but since Nick died I agree with my parents. It's time I found a wife.'

  'A pity the lady of your choice had married someone else in the meantime.' It was out before Verity could stop herself, but Ben merely gave her rather an austere look and ignored her comment, not even troubling to deny it.

  'When I do marry,' he went on, 'I'd prefer a place of my own to start with—wouldn't you agree?'

  'Then what was the object of showing me all this?' Verity waved an arm towards the open French windows and the view of the terrace and gardens beyond.

  'My intention was to introduce you by degrees to my background, as you insist on considering it so different from yours. I thought I'd show you the house first, introduce you to my parents some other time and finally come round to the basics. In other words, could you contemplate living in Tern Cottage with me, knowing it had once belonged to Gussie.' Ben sat back in his chair and waited for Verity to answer, his face expressionless. Deliberately Verity poured herself more coffee and drank most of it before answering.