by Penny Jordan
Her stomach muscles were already tensed in anticipation of his return; her bones almost brittle with stress. She hadn’t touched the gingerbread; she had barely eaten any of her dinner. If she wasn’t careful she was going to lose even more weight, and she would begin to look like a bag of bones; she was lucky that her body was small-boned, which meant that she merely looked slightly frail rather than angular, but tonight, contrasting her own shape with Charlotte’s, she had been all too conscious of the other girl’s almost lush softness. When she had pressed up against James, the softness of her breast had been cushioned against his arm, her action almost a provocative statement of her femininity.
Lark pushed aside her coffee-cup impatiently. It was no good sitting here meekly waiting for the blow to fall, trying to anticipate just what James was going to say or do; she might as well confront him and have done with it.
Inaction had never suited her; impetuous was how her aunt had disparagingly described her, and now that her mind was made up her tension started to evaporate.
If she didn’t allow herself to think about James and Charlotte, she might just be able to get some work done, after all.
She was just congratulating herself on succeeding when she heard the sound of a car purring past the study window and then stopping.
Her stomach twisted in tight knots of anticipation and dread, fine shivers of nervous tension drying her mouth and raising the soft hair on her arms. She rubbed them defensively, refusing to allow herself to give in to her emotions.
It was several minutes before she heard James walk into the hall. There was no accompanying feminine set of footsteps, so he must be on his own, she realised.
It was now or never; she could either confront him, and take the consequences, or she could cower away and wait for the blow to fall, every second until it did an agony of tension and dread.
CHAPTER FIVE
LARK was on her feet and across the room before she had even realised she had made a conscious decision.
She opened the door just as James drew level with it. If he was surprised to see her he masked it well, but then he was an expert at disguising his feelings, she acknowledged bitterly, remembering the way he had remained remote and withdrawn all through her ordeal in court, and yet how at the same time she had known how bitterly furious he was when the case was dismissed.
‘Still working?’
Had she imagined that sardonic inflection to the question? Not giving herself time to dwell on it, she said curtly, ‘I wanted to have a word with you.’
He looked surprised, as well he might, she reflected, recognising too late the almost peremptory way she had framed her request; her curtness was a result of the tension building up inside her, although she hoped that he would not realise it.
She stepped back into the study, anticipating that he would follow her, and then stopped abruptly when she heard him say, ‘Not in there, if you don’t mind. As I recall, that room only possesses one comfortable chair, and after just spending three hours perched on one of the most uncomfortable seats it has ever been my misfortune to come across, I’d prefer to conduct our—er—discussion in comfort. Not in there,’ he added, when Lark turned to walk across to his mother’s small sitting-room. ‘Every time I walk into Ma’s room I’m terrified I’ll dislodge one of her treasures.’
It was true that every surface in his mother’s room was filled with keepsakes and photographs covering almost every aspect of her life; although there was no photograph of him there, Lark realised.
‘This way.’
She flinched as he touched her arm, directing her towards the stairs; so desperate was she to avoid the physical contact that she was half-way up the stairs before she realised she had no idea where she was going.
‘Turn left…third door along,’ James instructed her when she hesitated.
Lark stared at him, and then blurted out, ‘But these are bedrooms.’
The smile he gave her made her skin burn scarlet in anger and embarrassment.
‘Most of them are,’ he agreed drily. ‘But that particular door happens to belong to my sitting-room.’
He walked past her as she hesitated, and opened the door, standing back so that she could see inside the room.
It was in darkness, but before he flipped on the light switch she saw the outline of a couple of deep, comfortable-looking chairs and a desk similar to the one downstairs in the study.
‘Satisfied?’ he mocked, standing to one side so that she could precede him inside.
There was no reason at all why she should feel as though she had been deliberately coaxed into a trap—after all, she was the one who had demanded the confrontation—but as the door closed quietly behind her Lark had an insane impulse to turn and run.
‘You’re quite safe. I’m no Count Dracula hungry for the blood of young virgins.’
He was taunting her because he had recognised her nervousness, nothing more, but his words made Lark flinch and say huskily, ‘If you were, you’d be out of luck. Virgins are a rare commodity these days.’
At university she had quickly realised how out of step with the rest of her peer group her upbringing had made her, and out of self-defence she had learned to conceal her lack of sexual experience behind a wall of pseudo-sophistication. It was that instinctive defensiveness that made her speak now.
She felt James look at her, the quick flick of his intense glance like fire against her skin. ‘Oh, I don’t know. They’re around—provided you know where to find them.’
He was talking about Charlotte, of course. For all the other girl’s open sensuality, she came from the sort of background where she would have been pampered and protected all her life; a gift for the man who would eventually be her husband. Like a goose fattened for Christmas, Lark derided mentally. That kind of attitude was as distasteful to her as promiscuity.
She allowed her mouth to twist scornfully as she looked James in the eye and said acidly, ‘I thought that kind of thing went out with the Victorians.’
‘It’s coming in again,’ James told her, not at all fazed by her contempt. ‘But this time it’s not just the male sex who want to be assured of their partner’s purity. In fact, I believe there’s an agency in London that specialises in supplying the needs of a certain group of extremely wealthy women who can afford their fees. It makes sense, I suppose, on health grounds, if nothing else.’
He heard Lark’s shocked gasp and turned to look at her, one eyebrow lifting questioningly.
‘Shocked?’
‘Disgusted,’ Lark told him roundly, adding bitterly, ‘You wouldn’t say anything like that to Charlotte, but…’
‘You’re right, I wouldn’t,’ he agreed blandly, ruthlessly interrupting her. ‘But as a matter of fact, it was Charlotte who told me.’
Lark was stupefied. She couldn’t think of anything to say.
‘Are you always so naïve that you take everything in life at face value?’
‘Why shouldn’t I?’ Lark demanded, firing up instantly. ‘I suppose you think that because I…because of what happened to Gary—’ She was trembling now, wrought up both by anger and shock; the years of her aunt’s harsh control of her personality were slipping away as nature reasserted itself. ‘I suppose you think that because I slept with my cousin…because I blackmailed him into stealing from his company, I’m intimately aware of every vice that exists, is that it?’ she demanded.
‘Not necessarily.’ The mild response stopped her in her tracks. ‘Besides, you claimed that you and your cousin weren’t lovers, and that you weren’t responsible for the thefts—remember?’
‘But you didn’t believe me, did you?’ Lark countered. She was literally trembling with the intensity of her feelings. She had forgotten that she had promised herself that she would be cool and controlled; that she would argue logically and clinically as he had done in court; that she would not lose her temper or her self-control. ‘And that’s why you want to get rid of me, isn’t it? Because you don’t believe
I’m a fit person to work for your mother. I’ll bet you just can’t wait to get me out of here. I’ll bet you’re just dying to throw me out on to the street, because that’s where you think I belong… There or in prison. Well, believe me, I’d like to oblige you. In fact, there’s nothing I’d like more than to walk out of here right now, because that way I’d never have to set eyes on you again, but I can’t.’
She stopped to take a shaky breath of air, dismayed to realise how overwrought she was. Tears weren’t far away; she could feel them burning behind her eyes, clogging her throat. She wanted to shout and cry; she wanted to pummel her fists against that broad, unfeeling chest and to make him feel what he was doing to her, what he had done to her with his savage cross-examination. But she could only stand there, shivering, fighting for self-control as she finished hoarsely, ‘Your mother needs me. I can understand how furious you must be that I’m here, but no matter what you think of me, I promise you this,’ she lifted her head and looked bravely at him, ‘your mother is the kindest, most compassionate person I’ve ever met, and rather than hurt her I’d…’
‘Put up with my unwanted presence?’
She stared at him, her impassioned outburst halted by his wry interjection.
‘I agree with you. At least, as far as your description of my mother is concerned. I also agree with you that she needs you, and in fact, if you’d allowed me to speak first, I was going to tell you as much. My mother isn’t well. She needs someone she can rely on. She seems to have found that someone in you. Like you, I don’t want to upset her.’
His quiet, calm words, so directly in contrast to her own, maddened her. How did he always manage to get the better of her?
‘It’s called experience,’ he told her, reading the angry question in her eyes. ‘And besides, it’s what I’ve been trained to do. I think we should call a truce. Forget the past.’
Lark blinked, too astounded to make any comment.
‘I think we should also talk about getting my mother a computer. She tells me you’ve been working every evening since you arrived. I’ve been on at her for some time to get one, but she hates the idea.’
It was all too much for her. She had spent the whole evening since he arrived bolstering up her courage, trying to anticipate what he would do, trying to prepare herself for the fact that he was bound to find a way of making her leave; and to hear him say calmly and casually that he felt they should call a truce, that he wasn’t going to even attempt to make her leave, was so much an anti-climax that instead of being relieved she was intensely angry.
How dared he let her get herself worked up like that and then calmly dismiss the whole subject with one brief sentence? Did he imagine she was as cold and emotionless as he must be himself? Did he think she could simply switch off and start discussing computers, when she had spent the last five or six hours imagining that the happiest days she had known in a very, very long time were about to be brought to an abrupt end?
She wanted to launch herself at him and claw that calm, superior look from his face; she wanted to see him raw and bleeding the way she was bleeding inside, but instead all she could do was stand there and shiver while huge tears filled her eyes and rolled down her face. She knew she should turn away, hide herself from him, but she simply couldn’t move.
She heard him call her name, but it was a distant sound, barely penetrating her anguish.
‘Lark.’
He said it again, and this time she tried to focus on him, but his image was too blurred, shifting rapidly, and then oddly obliterated by the stark whiteness of his shirt.
‘Oh, my God, Lark. Come on, now. It’s all right. It’s all right.’
She was aware of the words being spoken, of being lifted, carried, held against something warm and comforting while she wept silent, agonised tears for all that she had endured.
A hand touched her hair, stroking it away from her face, its partner gently caressing her back. Against her breast she could feel a steady, comforting thump. Instinctively she burrowed deeper into the warmth surrounding her, protecting her; she was still shivering in bursts of violent but silent tremors that made the man holding her frown and curse himself with equal violence, while he kept on murmuring soft words of comfort and wondering how long he was going to be able to hang on to his self-control.
Gradually the tears stopped; gradually the tremors subsided and Lark returned to normal.
It was a shock to find herself in James’s arms, lying against him as he sat in one of the armchairs. Her face was pressed against something warm and damp, and it was several seconds before she realised it was his throat and that it was damp because she had been crying, and then only because her tears ran down his skin and on to her own. She tasted them uncertainly with her tongue, her mind confused and fogged by the intensity of what she had experienced.
James felt her tongue brush his throat and froze, unable to believe that she had actually touched him. He looked down into her eyes and saw that they were huge and dazed, and realised that she had no awareness at all of the provocation she was offering.
If he had any sense at all he would get up right now and take her to her own room.
He shifted her weight slightly in his arms and saw her frown slightly, her tongue tip searching her lips as though it missed the contact with his flesh. Without further thought, his head bent, his mouth capturing her tongue tip.
Heat shot through her like sheets of fierce sensation—no, like pulsing waves that washed higher and higher, Lark thought bemusedly. She was having the most delicious dream, full of physical sensations so intense and so unfamiliar that she couldn’t do anything other than concentrate on the wonder of them.
And then the bubble burst. She heard James speaking to her, urgently and angrily; she felt the bite of his fingers in the soft flesh of her upper arms and the dream was destroyed. She focused on him and realised in shock that he was far too close. She could feel the warmth of his breath against her mouth, her whole body seemed to be throbbing with a strange urgency.
‘Lark…’
What was he saying to her? What did it matter? What mattered was that she had to get away from him. She shouldn’t be here with him like this. In fact, she couldn’t understand how she came to be in his arms at all.
She started to struggle, filled with panic and shock. Immediately James let her go.
So suddenly, in fact, that she almost fell on to the floor, and would have done so if his hands hadn’t restrained her, but the moment she regained her balance she pushed him away, standing up on legs that trembled.
‘Lark…’
‘Don’t come near me.’
Her voice trembled almost as much as her legs.
‘Very well. But don’t forget, will you, Lark, that you’ve promised you’ll stay with my mother? And I wouldn’t try breaking that promise if I were you,’ he threatened her softly.
* * *
In the morning, Lark couldn’t believe that she had actually gone to bed and immediately fallen asleep after what had happened. She hadn’t even dreamed, or at least, not dreams which she could remember. Emotional exhaustion, a more detached part of her brain told her, but even that made her wince and almost cower back under the bedclothes.
How could she have behaved the way she had? How could she have actually cried all over James Wolfe then clung to him like a lost child?
It was the shock, she excused herself; the shock of discovering that she had put herself through hell, and all for nothing. He had never intended to make her leave; he actually wanted her to stay…
Because his mother needed her.
What did it matter why? she asked herself impatiently, trying to dismiss her idiotic need to believe that he had actually somehow come to realise that she was innocent and that he had been wrong.
A man like James Wolfe would never admit to being wrong; it wasn’t in his nature. He was cold and remote.
And then she remembered the way he had kissed her, and this time there was nothing t
o blur her awareness or to hide behind.
And she had kissed him back. She actually remembered winding her arms around his neck. She could still feel the softness of his hair against her fingers.
She made a sharp sound of distress and buried her hot face in her pillow. How on earth was she ever going to be able to face him?
She had abandoned herself to him like a…like a…
She sat bolt upright in bed as someone knocked on her door.
Dear God, please don’t let this be him. She didn’t think she could bear it.
And yet, when the door opened and Cora came in, carrying a breakfast tray, her first feeling was one of almost sharp disappointment.
‘James said you were up last night working. Still at it when he came in. He said to let you have a lie in this morning, and for you to have your breakfast in bed.’
‘Oh, no!’ Lark was appalled, as much by what the housekeeper must be thinking of her as by her own mixed reaction of guilt and shock. And James’s instructions were so out of character, his concern for her so at odds with the kind of man she knew him to be… Or thought she knew him to be.
It was odd how easily the doubt slipped into her mind; almost as though, at heart, she wanted to believe that he had another side to him.
In a panic, she dismissed her truant thoughts and said, ‘But Mrs Mayers will be expecting me downstairs…’
‘Not yet. She’s resting today, so you needn’t rush. Oh, and James said to tell you that he’s arranging for someone to come and see you about a computer.’
‘He’s…he’s gone, then? James…I mean, Mr Wolfe? Why is his surname different from Mrs Mayers?’ Lark added impetuously, flushing a little at the look the housekeeper gave her.
‘Well, Mrs Mayers has always used her first husband’s name for her charity work. Mrs Mayers-Wolfe she is really, but hardly anyone uses her full name, and of course James uses his own father’s surname. Sometimes it causes a bit of confusion,’ she added. ‘He’s a barrister, you know,’ she told Lark chattily, apparently unaware of Lark’s sudden pallor and tension. ‘Works far too hard too, just like his mother; forever worrying about folks who don’t deserve to be worried about,’ she added darkly. ‘Now, mind you eat all your breakfast,’ she warned Lark, as she opened the door.
