‘You’re not putting a responsibility on me, John,’ she said, her lips still close to his. ‘I don’t see it that way. I see it as a sharing of control.’ She gave him a serious look, and saw him get the message immediately. ‘And I’ll get tested too. I’ve only ever done safe sex, but if you’re getting tests, I want to. It’s only fair.’
He kissed her long and sweetly. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘If we hurry, we might get some tea. Otherwise, it’ll be time to change for dinner.’
A sporty open-top Mercedes stood on the gravel drive in front of the main entrance as they approached, giving Lizzie a momentary qualm. More visitors. Or more family? She told herself not to be silly. She could hack it; she had John by her side.
‘Whose car is that? Have your brother and his wife come back? Or your niece?’
John frowned. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what they’re all driving these days. Doesn’t look like George’s style, though. He’s very much a Range Rover man. Could be Helen’s, I suppose.’ His hand tightened around Lizzie’s. It was only infinitesimal, but there was a tension there. Out of all proportion to the idea of meeting his relations.
In the entrance hall, Brewster intercepted them. Had he actually been waiting for them? Lizzie had the strongest impression that he might have been, although there was no question of such a dignified figure simply loitering about.
‘Excuse me, your lordship, your mother asked me to let you know that two new guests have arrived.’ The man paused delicately; a face that Lizzie guessed was almost always a picture of impassivity showed faint signs of discomposure. What the hell was going on?
‘Guests, Brewster … Who?’
John didn’t look impassive either. In fact, he looked worryingly rattled in a way Lizzie had never really seen before, as if that weird sixth sense of his was pinging out of control.
What is it? Who is it?
She suddenly had the most awful premonition, as if she too had John’s almost prescient powers. Her chest felt tight, her whole body unsettled.
‘It’s the Condesa Sanchez de la Villareal, milord, and her son. The Marchioness thought you’d probably prefer to know immediately on your return. They’re taking tea in the Red Salon.’
Oh hell! Oh bloody hell! It was Clara.
23
Clara … and Son
John’s face was like a mask.
Shocked as she felt herself, Lizzie feared for him. He looked vaguely ill, and she grasped his hand in both of hers, holding it tight. His eyes flashed to hers, a torment of shadows, but just as quickly as the dark moment had arrived, he got control again. She could see him bracing up, straightening his spine, regaining composure.
Does he still care for her? Even now? the demons of doubt whispered in her ear.
‘You know, I had a feeling something like this might happen,’ he said quietly, twisting his wrist so he could hold Lizzie’s hands in his. ‘But I thought I was just being alarmist, and idiotic, so I didn’t say anything.’ He sighed. ‘But it seems my premonitions were spot on after all. Unfortunately …’ His eyes darkened again, scanning her face. ‘Are you all right, sweetheart, you look a bit pale?’
Lizzie laughed; pure nerves. She sounded like a hysteric. ‘I was just thinking the same about you. Bloody hell, aren’t we a pair?’ Her heart was bashing. She tried to calm it. John loved her, not this woman from his past.
And still the butler was standing a few feet away, silently waiting for some kind of answer.
‘Thank you, Brewster,’ John said, his armour of self-assurance fully returned. ‘Thank you for letting us know. We’ll join them presently.’
‘Very well, milord.’ The butler strode silently away, something in the stiffness of his back telling Lizzie that he wasn’t all that pleased by Clara’s arrival either.
‘I think I need a few minutes to “freshen up”, as they say, before we join them.’
What a massive understatement. Perhaps a week spent ‘freshening up’ would be better, and hopefully by then, her bête noire would have upped sticks and moved on, with any luck to an entirely different continent.
‘Me too.’ John mustered a grin. ‘I can’t say that I’m pleased she’s here, but we were planning to meet her sooner or later, with Caroline. She must be massively curious about you, and Clara’s never taken kindly to having to wait for anything. Perhaps it’s better to get it over with now.’ He shrugged. ‘Like ripping off a sticking plaster. Grin through the pain and feel better afterwards.’
‘Yes, you’re right.’ John’s attempt at a joke cheered Lizzie up. You didn’t call someone you still loved a sticking plaster!
John gave her a hug. ‘You’ll be fine, darling. We’re together. You’re my fiancée and before long you’ll be my bride. And she’s just a woman not a ten-headed monster.’
Lizzie let out a shaky laugh. ‘That’s what I’m trying to tell myself.’
‘Come on, let’s tidy ourselves up, and then we’ll make a grand entrance together,’ said John, leading her towards the staircase and shrugging as they ascended. ‘I’m being fucking ridiculous, aren’t I? I’m a man, not a mouse!’ He grinned at her, boyish for a moment. Shamefaced.
‘Oh, yes, you are a man, Lord Jonathan. I can vouch for that.’ Thoughts of the folly stirred Lizzie’s spirits, a delicious intimacy that shot strength through her veins.
Ten minutes later, nominally freshened, and managing to keep calm by not really thinking too much, Lizzie emerged onto the landing to find John leaning on the opposite wall waiting for her, posed between two ancestral portraits that both looked a bit like him, despite the unfamiliarity of the costumes. As she closed the door, he pushed himself off the wall and came to her, reaching for her hand. Had he been practising biofeedback? He seemed completely composed now.
‘Ready?’ he said, taking her hand. ‘Concerted front, eh?’
Lizzie’s heart turned over. He knew her anxiety, and probably still felt it himself, but together, they were stronger. A team. She followed along, feeling stronger.
Their footsteps were soft on the thick carpet runner, and as they approached the gallery, the sound of conversational voices drifted up from the salon below, their owners as yet unaware they were being approached. As one, John and Lizzie slowed down, like a pair of covert operatives on a recce.
The conversation seemed to be about school fees.
‘They’re absolutely exorbitant. I really don’t know where they get the figures from, especially the so-called “extras”,’ said a low, beautifully modulated female voice. ‘But, it’s the school Jonathan went to, so it must be first class. I want the very best for Charlie, and I think he could be really happy there if we can secure a place for him.’
That’s her. Clara. The ex from hell. My arch enemy. Oh fuck her, if she looks as good as she sounds, she must be ten times as bloody gorgeous as in her photos!
The Marchioness made some reply, but Lizzie barely heard it. Hanging back, she stole a peek over the rail, moving slowly, as stealthy as John at her side.
Two women sat on either side of each other, on one of the wide red sofas, with tea things on a tray before them. The Marchioness was sipping hers, and to Lizzie’s eyes, the grey-haired woman looked tense, and very far from the joyously happy mother she’d seemed earlier, almost giddy at her favourite son’s news.
The cool, collected creature at her side had suddenly thrown a massive spanner in everyone’s works.
And Clara was cool. A relaxed figure, slim and elegant, she wore what Lizzie recognised, even from her high vantage point, as a powder blue, distinctively braided Chanel suit. Couture, no doubt, too. Made especially for her, not like the single prêt-à-porter item that had fleetingly passed through the hands of New Again last week, only to be snapped up the same day it had arrived.
A glossy cap of dark, nut-brown hair nodded in time to a remark from the Marchioness, the cut immaculately styled. Lizzie couldn’t see Clara’s face from this
angle, but everything about the woman’s bearing and the graceful movements of her hands suggested supreme confidence in her own good looks.
‘Come on,’ mimed John, with a shrug. They had to go. They couldn’t hide like naughty schoolchildren up here.
What did you expect, nitwit? Some sexy siren loaded down with bling and clad in skimpy, low-cut tightness? Of course she doesn’t look like a chav. She’s an aristocrat, just like John. She belongs in a place like this.
Perfect marchioness material.
Lizzie’s feet faltered. She suddenly saw a mental image of herself. Who was she kidding that she’d got her own look right for today? Wearing a dress she’d made herself, and all done up to look like a 1950s pin-up star?
Ridiculous nincompoop. You look like exactly what you are: a total outsider in this world.
‘I love you,’ whispered John as they reached the head of the stairs, and both the Marchioness and her companion twisted in their direction.
‘Ah, there you are,’ said the Marchioness, her lined face troubled.
‘Jonathan,’ said Clara, her face tranquil and composed, her eyes solely on John, as if no one but him existed.
Not sure quite how her legs were working, Lizzie descended, one hand on the banister, the other a bit sweaty in John’s. She could see nothing but that face.
In the flesh, Clara was beautiful, utterly beautiful, there was no two ways about it. Not flashy, not what Lizzie would have termed drop-dead gorgeous, but just as quietly and classically lovely as the Googled pix had suggested, with large, lustrous eyes, a straight, elegant nose and a soft pink mouth, barely made up. She had to be at least forty, but she didn’t look it at all; she was an archetypal English rose, ageless, and a perfect product of the privileged upper class.
Not rising from her seat, Clara put out her hand, as if unshakably confident that John would take it as she angled her flawless face for a kiss on the cheek. Which John gave her.
Atavistic jealousy surged in Lizzie’s middle, but just as quickly, she got a hold of herself. Of course John would greet Clara that way; that was the way they did things here. It would look weird if he shunned his former lover’s touch completely.
‘And you must be Elizabeth? How lovely to meet you.’
As John retreated, it seemed almost as if Clara expected another kiss of fealty, but Lizzie was a frozen doll, and couldn’t bend. She did manage to put out her hand, though, and from somewhere, she found herself smiling, perhaps even looking calm.
‘Yes … I’m Elizabeth Aitchison, very pleased to meet you. You must be Clara.’
The words I’ve heard so much about you, and all of it bad seemed to hang in the air as Lizzie managed to shake the cool, slender hand in hers quite firmly.
‘Yes, for my sins.’ Clara’s smile was pleasant and natural. There was nothing in it that Lizzie could interpret as antagonistic, yet still she experienced an edge. ‘I’m sure Jonathan has told you all sorts of tall tales about when we were impetuous youngsters together, but you mustn’t believe half or even three-quarters of it.’
I know it all, you bitch. You hurt him. How can you be so blasé?
‘Oh no, John has been the soul of discretion. You mustn’t worry.’ She managed another smile. God, even a grin! How the hell was she going to keep this up? It was going to need the performance of a lifetime.
Lizzie allowed herself to be guided to the settee opposite, where John took his place at her side. They exchanged the most fleeting of glances, intel passing between them, and as it did, Lizzie recalled certain conversations. Neither the Marquess or the Marchioness really knew quite how Clara and John had parted, that first time, when he’d been to prison. John had shouldered the blame, and given people to believe that the split had been mutually agreed, and any fault was his, in his fall from grace. Lizzie wasn’t sure if his parents knew that he and Clara had been together again later; but even if they did, they didn’t know details. John would have been chivalrous, yet again, taking on the black mark of being seen to be in the wrong.
For a few moments, there was a bit of breathing space, a welcome to and fro over teacups and milk and sugar that gave Lizzie time to regroup. Time to observe John, beside her, as well as the woman he’d once loved.
Although he smiled, and seemed easy and urbane, Lizzie could see clues. A faint tension in John’s jaw; a pinch at the corner of his eyes. He wasn’t comfortable, although he too was putting on a bravura performance, projecting a relaxed aura. An aura for her, she sensed, and for his mother, who Lizzie suspected was also masterfully controlling a state of anxiety.
The only person who seemed serenely unruffled was Clara, who chatted as if she visited Montcalm every day, praising the home-made biscuits and cake, admiring a painting on the wall that had been apparently newly acquired, and waxing lyrical over how wonderful the garden was looking, in late summer bloom.
But into a lull in the conversation, John suddenly said:
‘So, Clara, were you just passing today? It seems odd that you should arrive at Montcalm on the very day that Lizzie and I are here. Especially as I’m not exactly what you’d call a regular visitor.’
There was a beat of silence. Was that a slight pucker of a frown on Clara’s smooth, white brow?
‘Actually, I’m here because you’re here, Jonathan. I’m travelling around a bit now I’m back home for good, calling on a few friends with Charlie, before his new term starts. I was planning to drop in and visit you at Dalethwaite Manor, but when I rang up, the fabulous Thursgood told me you were here.’
‘Really?’
Lizzie couldn’t help herself. Out of Clara’s sight-line, she touched John’s hand. The tension in him was more palpable now. She knew he could control it – a poker face was second nature to him when negotiating, and it was what made him so formidable a businessman – but it hurt her to know that he was so troubled. Clara did still get to him, and Lizzie did not really want to dissect the reason why.
‘Yes, it’s all worked out beautifully, hasn’t it?’ Clara smiled, unfazed. Or apparently so. She was either the coolest of cool customers, or a world-class actress. Lizzie tried to control her own surging resentment, and smiled back.
‘Yes, indeed,’ she said.
‘Especially on such an auspicious day.’ The other woman’s clear grey eyes flicked to Lizzie’s left hand. ‘I’ve always admired that ring and it looks wonderful on you, Elizabeth.’
Fucking hell! The bitch, she’s rattled me so much I’d almost forgotten why John and I are here!
‘Congratulations, Elizabeth … and Jonathan, dear. I hope you’ll be very happy.’ Clara went on, turning to Jane and still smiling: ‘Such wonderful news. Both you and the Marquess must be absolutely thrilled.’
‘Yes … Oh yes,’ said the Marchioness, with a good deal of feeling. Lizzie could see that the older woman’s fingers were tight in the handle of her teacup, and she feared for the pretty porcelain. ‘Augustus is delighted. Perfectly delighted.’
Lizzie had always thought the expression ‘you could cut the atmosphere with a knife’ was an exaggeration, but now, she wasn’t so sure. The air in the lofty, spacious room suddenly seemed thick and oppressive, laden with the weight of questions, relationships and personal histories bearing down on them. What had passed between this beautiful, aristocratic woman and John was such a tangle, not only because of the tortuous on and off and on again love affairs they’d shared, but with the added bizarre ness of John being married, at one time, to Clara’s mother. To Caroline, who was Jane Wyngarde Smith’s great friend.
Fighting to find some innocuous, happy, non-contentious remark to make, when there were probably none to be found, Lizzie almost welcomed the sound of hurrying feet along the gallery above them. Someone young was running along the magnificent Aubusson carpet runner that John had probably paid handsomely to be restored; someone was heading their way.
It could only be Charlie, Clara’s son. Obviously he and his mother had been invited to stay over too, and the l
ad had been up in his room.
But, as the newcomer descended the grand staircase, two steps at a time, the air that had been oppressive seemed to turn to ice around them – and a cold claw of a hand gripped at Lizzie’s heart.
‘Oh … hi!’ said Charlie, rushing across to the grouped settees with a grin on his face, and a look of eager interest in the two people who’d appeared in his absence.
‘Hi,’ said Lizzie, mustering her own smile, even though her face felt paralysed. As if in slow motion, she turned to John, and saw the identical shock writ large on his beloved features. For the second time in an hour, he actually looked thunder-struck, completely taken aback, his poker face undone.
Charlie was a sunny, handsome youngster, not tall, but lithe and lean and wiry in his baggy jeans and equally baggy white T-shirt. Lizzie wasn’t good at guessing ages, especially of children, but she judged that he could be about eleven, or twelve, or thereabouts.
What she did know was that one day, this boy would be a breath-taking stunner, and set female hearts racing wherever he went. His smile was a wonder and he had brilliant flashing eyes. Familiar eyes.
Eyes just as blue and jewel-like as the stricken man sitting at Lizzie’s side, coupled with the very same angel’s halo of curly blond hair.
Oh no …
‘He could be mine. I don’t know.’
John sat cross-legged on Lizzie’s bed, in open shirt and old jeans and barefoot. It was about eleven o’clock, and even though they’d nominally turned in early, each to the separate rooms his mother had assigned them, he’d knocked on her door just a few minutes ago.
Lizzie had never been more glad to see him. Even though it was a council of war he’d arrived for, rather than passionate lovemaking.
‘Is he the right age? I mean … could he have been conceived when you and she were together the second time?’ It all seemed to be about timing.
The Accidental Bride (Black Lace) Page 28
