A Baby in His In-Tray

by Michelle Douglas

  She glanced over her shoulder. Why hadn’t Seb come back?

  She frowned, going over their lunchtime conversation—what little there’d been of it. Something had changed in him and it took a while for her to pinpoint the exact moment it had happened. It wasn’t when she’d started quizzing him about selling the farmland as she’d first thought. It was when she’d told him he had to go first—to bring her up to date on Jemima’s situation.

  ‘Oh!’ She stiffened. Had he thought she’d been unwilling to confide in him?

  It wasn’t that at all! But she’d needed to remind herself what they were doing here, what their priority was—Jemima. She’d been playing for time. She’d love to confide in him, but... How on earth could she and Liz maintain their charade if she did?

  But she hadn’t meant him to feel excluded, or think she thought him an unworthy confidant.

  The bad stuff is easier to believe.

  She glanced up at the house. He’d grown up with those vile parents who must’ve made him feel excluded and unwanted every single day of his childhood. He’d been honestly interested in what had happened to her this morning. Mystified too, and curious, but interested in a way a friend would be interested—perhaps even a little invested as this was his home and he’d been the one to bring her here. He’d sensed it was a big thing, a turning point, a personal miracle. And so much else here at Tyrell Hall obviously had hateful associations. Rather than sharing her good fortune with him, her excitement and gratitude, she’d dragged him back to ugly realities.

  ‘Oh!’ She shot to her feet. She hadn’t meant to be mean-spirited! No wonder he hadn’t come back.

  She raced their two bowls back into the kitchen.

  ‘Don’t you wake her,’ Mrs Brown ordered when she peered into the pram. ‘She’s only just gone off.’

  Liv picked up the empty tray sitting on the table. ‘You have yourself a deal as long as you let me clear away the rest of the lunch things.’ When she returned with a laden tray, she said, ‘Do you know where Seb went?’

  Mrs Brown pointed upstairs. ‘I think you’ll find him in the drawing room.’

  With a swift smile she headed upstairs.

  Seb stood by one of the tall windows, staring out at the park, his tall frame silhouetted in all its lean, hard glory. A pulse in her throat kicked to life. She had to swallow before she could speak. ‘Seb?’

  He swung around. ‘Yes?’

  The word was clipped out, all the lines about his mouth tight and firm and yet that couldn’t hide the natural sensuality of those lips. Not completely.

  She moistened her lips and stared at that mouth. She couldn’t help wondering—fantasising—how would it feel on hers? How—?

  She dragged her gaze back to the fire, her heart pounding. The fire was totally unnecessary in this weather, but she had to admit that it was pleasant. It was the fire flaring to powerful life inside her that was both unnecessary and unpleasant.

  No, not unpleasant so much as inconvenient.

  ‘You didn’t come back to finish your lunch.’

  He waved a hand towards his laptop, open on a nearby coffee table—one of those ridiculous pieces of frivolous nonsense. ‘There were several very unhappy people when I sold off that farming land. I kept a record.’ His face didn’t change by the movement of a single muscle and yet she could sense the tension coiling through him. ‘Unfortunately, when you’re in a position like mine, you do receive the occasionally threatening and, or, unpleasant letter or email.’

  She could imagine. And delving into these particular ones had forced the lid on unpleasant memories.

  ‘I’ve sent the information to Jack, but...’ He shook his head, a frown burrowing into his brow. ‘I know it’s a legitimate lead, but I can’t help feeling we’ll have no joy from that area.’

  Good. She glanced down at her hands then back up at him. ‘Remember my plan to gossip with the estate workers and anyone else I thought might be of use?’

  His head swung up. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I hadn’t been up at the co-op for two minutes before I realised how totally fruitless that would be. You’re held in the very highest of regard there.’

  He waved that off as if it was of no concern. ‘It doesn’t change the fact that selling off the farmland left people unemployed. I should’ve found a different way to deal with it! It’s my fault those—’

  ‘Rubbish! You’re not the spendthrift here. Whose debts were they? Your parents’? If anyone’s to blame, they are. Holding yourself responsible is crazy, Seb. I imagine you were lucky to save what you did.’

  But she could tell her words barely touched him. She moved across and shook his arm. ‘You’ve nothing to beat yourself up for. What you’ve done with the co-op is amazing. Why can’t you focus on that?’

  He raised a mocking eyebrow, detaching himself from her grip. ‘If you tell me I take my responsibilities too seriously, I’ll tell you that you sound like my father.’

  She took a step back from him.

  ‘And if you claim I take my sense of duty too far, I’ll tell you that you sound like my mother.’

  She took another step back and nodded, swallowed back the lump that wanted to lodge in her throat. ‘Right. Well. I know you must be busy so...’

  She turned to leave.

  ‘No! Stop! I’m sorry.’

  She turned back to find him dragging a hand down his face. He looked so momentarily haggard that her heart went out to him.

  ‘That wasn’t fair of me. I...’ He lifted a sheaf of paper he’d dropped to the window seat and rustled it in her direction, his lips twisting. ‘I’ve just been rereading the last correspondence between my father and myself. I thought there might be some clue in it that I’d missed.’

  She took in the expression on his face, the shadows in his eyes, and in that moment she hated his parents.

  ‘Being confronted with one’s shortcomings is far from edifying. Let’s see...’ He glanced down at the page. ‘Now, it’s after the piece about the Cresley-Throckmortons being “frightful prigs”. Ah, yes, here we go. Apparently I’m a “dreadfully dull dog who wouldn’t know how to have fun if it jumped up and bit me on the nose...” I have “a lamentable lack of charm...” and I’m apparently “the death of any party”—which, they believe, is the worst insult that could be levelled at anyone.’ He glanced back down at the letter and shrugged. ‘I could “cast a pall over Christmas and they’re so very pleased never to have to clap eyes on me again.”’ He folded the letter and pushed it back into its envelope. ‘It’s put me out of...temper.’

  She stared at him in growing horror. ‘But that’s...it’s nothing but mean-spirited spite! Because you bailed them from financial ruin and then refused to continue financing their high living.’

  ‘It is indeed.’

  But it seemed their attitude still had the power to hurt him.

  ‘And it’s no excuse for my shortness to you just now. You didn’t deserve it. I apologise.’

  ‘Apology accepted.’ She moistened suddenly dry lips. After three beats she said, ‘They’re wrong, you know.’

  Both of his eyebrows shot up towards his hairline. ‘But, my dear, the Cresley-Throckmortons are frightful prigs.’

  She choked back a sudden and entirely inappropriate laugh. ‘You know what I mean.’

  He sobered, with a shrug. ‘It’s also true I don’t like parties.’ He strode across to the fireplace. ‘I’ve no talent for them. They bore me silly.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘That just means you haven’t been to the right kind of party.’

  He stirred the fire with the poker and sparks shot up the chimney.

  She stared at him. She planted her hands on her hips. ‘It’s possible to be honourable, responsible and fun, you know? And you are.’ Or, at least, she was pretty certain he could be.

  ‘Thank you for
the vote of confidence.’ His lips lifted but his smile held no real warmth and she could see that he didn’t believe her.

  Damn and blast and damn!

  He glanced up, paralysing her to the spot with those piercing grey eyes. ‘Was there something you wanted to talk to me about? Is that why you came looking for me?’

  Her first instinct was to deny it, to give him some space, but the words took too long in coming.

  He straightened. ‘There was.’

  ‘It’s nothing that can’t keep.’

  ‘And yet there’s no time like the present.’

  Being the sole focus of those intense grey eyes did seriously unsettling things to her insides. She swallowed and tried to appear unaffected. ‘It’s just that we didn’t finish our lunchtime conversation and I didn’t want you thinking I was trying to put you off or deflecting you from asking about what happened this morning at the co-op...with the painting and stuff,’ she added in a rush.

  He seemed to wrestle with himself for a moment and suddenly she felt like a prize idiot. It could be that he hadn’t pursued the topic because he simply wasn’t all that interested, and now here she was making a big thing about it and—

  ‘I didn’t want to pry into out-of-bounds territory.’

  Her heart started to thump. It should be out of bounds.

  ‘But I’d love to know what happened this morning. It seemed...momentous.’

  Oh, but he has such awful parents.

  She swallowed and then lifted her chin. ‘It was. It’s hard to describe.’

  She couldn’t just keep standing here when he stared at her like that—with such intensity. It was too... She just couldn’t do it! ‘Does Tyrell Hall have one of those wonderfully long galleries lined with portraits of ancestors that one sees in period films?’

  ‘Follow me.’

  He took her to a wing at the other end of the house. They passed dim rooms where dustcovers enveloped the furniture. They went up a flight of stairs and she sensed that she stood at one end of a long space, but it wasn’t until Seb went along and opened the shutters at the multitude of tall windows that the gallery’s glory came to life.

  ‘Oh, my,’ she murmured as she moved further into the gallery and glanced up at the first couple of portraits. ‘This is splendid.’ She pointed along the wall. ‘I recognise some of these painters.’

  ‘Would you like a potted history of the Tyrell family?’

  She smiled. ‘I would, but not today.’ She didn’t need him to treat her like a child and create an atmosphere where she’d feel comfortable confiding in him. He looked after enough people. He didn’t need to look after her too.

  She needed to be careful. She needed to keep these details as general as possible. Nothing she told him could conflict with Liz’s CV. She pulled in a breath and pointed at the painting above them. ‘I can’t remember a time when I haven’t loved to paint and draw.’

  The truth was she’d attended a prestigious art college in London. Big things had been expected of her. Dropping out in her second year hadn’t been one of them. Her parents had paid a great deal of money to make sure she’d had a chance to follow her dream. Money they could’ve spent on Liz’s education. Money they could’ve spent on themselves!

  They moved along to the next portrait. She stared at the painting, not at him. ‘After I finished secondary school I took some art classes...night classes.’ That wasn’t a complete lie. Some of her classes had been scheduled in the evening.

  ‘You have an exceptional talent. You should’ve gone to art school.’

  She tried not to wince. ‘I wanted job security. And being an artist is not a proper job.’ Liar.

  ‘So, you took some art classes...?’

  She moistened her lips. Now came the difficult part.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I loved them.’

  ‘But?’ he prompted when she faltered.

  She’d wanted to confide in him because she wanted him to know that she saw him as someone worth confiding in, that she valued him, because she wanted him to feel good about himself. Oh, but her confession was so shameful!

  He was no longer pretending to gaze at the portraits. He was staring at her, and she could no longer ignore his silent demand that she meet his gaze. The very air about her seemed to throb. ‘But I had a torrid affair with my teacher.’

  He stilled. ‘How old were you?’

  She swallowed. ‘Nineteen.’

  His nostrils flared and his eyes grew hard and flinty. ‘How old was this teacher?’

  She nodded. ‘He was more than twice my age, but very good-looking and suave.’ She pulled in a breath and sent him an apologetic smile. ‘He seemed so...sophisticated. I can see now how he took advantage of my relative inexperience, but at the time I was smitten.’

  He reached out and seized her shoulders. ‘You’ve nothing to feel guilty about. Do you understand me? There are men out there that prey on young women and—’

  He released her to pace to the window. He stalked back, his hands clenched. ‘What was his name? He should be exposed...punished...horsewhipped.’

  At that moment he looked more than capable of doing exactly that. The momentary heat from his hands continued to burn through her, and the thought of him exacting revenge on her behalf had her tingling all over. She moistened her lips, suddenly thirsty for a taste him.

  She had to stop thinking of him like this!

  As if aware of the direction of her wayward thoughts, he stilled and then his gaze lowered to her lips. They darkened with a barely disguised hunger, and wind roared in her ears. She had to fight the urge to run her tongue over her lips again, to taunt him into action. At the last moment she wrenched herself away and moved to stare unseeingly out of the window.

  It was a moment before he spoke again. ‘Do you still care for him?’

  She swung around at that. ‘No!’

  ‘But he hurt you.’

  She couldn’t deny it. She tried to control the pounding of her heart, tried to keep the conversation on track. ‘At the time I was convinced he’d broken my heart and that I’d never recover.’ She twisted her hands together, fighting the shame that wanted to devour her. ‘But he did something far worse than break off our affair. He poked fun at my paintings, undermined my confidence, told me I’d never amount to...to anything.’ And she’d been stupid enough to believe him. ‘Why would he do that?’ She still didn’t understand it.

  She watched in fascination as his hands clenched into fists. ‘He sounds as small-minded and contemptible as my parents. I suspect he was jealous of your work, probably felt like a failure when he compared it to yours.’

  ‘Oh, surely not! He was successful and I... I was a nobody.’

  She suddenly wanted to smash something. ‘I should’ve kicked up the biggest fuss! But at the time I felt too ashamed and...and I just fled with my tail between my legs.’

  ‘Have you not picked up a paintbrush in all of this time?’

  ‘Of course I have! I’ve tried many, many times, but my efforts were appalling—so clumsy and awkward...that...’ That she’d lost heart.

  ‘His words were still in your head.’

  They’d been all she could hear.

  Until today.

  ‘And that’s why you thought you’d lost your talent.’

  ‘Until today,’ she whispered.

  ‘And now you’re going to follow your passion and continue painting?’

  Yes! Except she couldn’t forget that at this moment she was supposed to be Liz, not Liv. ‘I mean to take great pleasure in a much-loved hobby again.’

  He started to laugh. ‘Hobby, huh? I have a feeling that in the not too distant future I’ll be losing the services of my favourite office manager.’

  She froze. Dear God! ‘No!’ When had the conversation taken such a drastic turn?
Where had she gone so wrong? She had to make things right again.

  Swallowing, she pursed her lips and channelled Liz at her primmest. ‘Office work suits me just fine, thank you very much.’

  Seb just laughed again. ‘You heard what that man was prepared to pay for your painting this morning. All it’s going to take is one good exhibition and your name will be made.’

  Everything inside her crunched up tight. ‘Nonsense. Painting is a hobby, nothing more.’

  His eyes never wavered from hers. ‘I saw you paint, Eliza. We both know that’s a lie.’ He moved to stand in front of her, those compelling eyes piercing the depths of hers, and her heart seemed to stop...to hang between beats. ‘You’ve been denying your talent for what...four years?’ He cupped her face in his hands. ‘Don’t you think it’s time to follow your dreams?’

  His words, his touch, unbalanced her, robbing her of breath. Her hands shot out to grip the sides of his waist, to stop herself from falling into him. The life she’d thought closed to her—the one she’d thought she’d ruined—had magically opened up again at her feet and anything, everything, seemed possible.

  Heat burned her palms through the thin material of his shirt. Her pulse thrashed and fluttered. It was all she could do not to press closer to that warmth and the intriguing lean firmness of him. She’d bet she’d fit inside the circle of his arms as if she’d been made for them—as if he’d been made for her.

  He stared down at her for a long moment. His eyes darkened, but very gently he released her and stepped back. She swallowed and told herself that she was glad.

  His phone rang, and he excused himself to answer it. She watched him as he strode away from her down the length of the gallery, phone pressed to his ear. When he disappeared from view she closed her eyes and tried to douse the crazy burning in her blood. He might be the most tempting man she’d met in a long, long time, but she was lying to him. To kiss him would be unforgivable.