by Penny Jordan
In fact, she didn’t answer it for the rest of the afternoon, an action which she knew was irresponsible, but she knew she didn’t have the courage to speak to him again.
When he burst into her office at five-thirty, she knew she ought to have been prepared, but she wasn’t. He looked like a man in the grip of a furious temper, and she shrank back instinctively.
‘I never expected you to be a sulker, Lark,’ he told her pithily as he crossed the space between them. ‘Or to hold a grudge…’
A sulker? A grudge? She opened her mouth, but the hot words of denial and justification never came out; they weren’t given the opportunity to do so, because James didn’t give it to her.
‘All right, so we didn’t part on the best of terms yesterday…’
Lark couldn’t believe what she was hearing; he actually had the gall to pretend that that was the reason she had refused to see him.
She started to tell him as much, but he wouldn’t let her speak, saying harshly instead, ‘You aren’t going out at all, are you?’
He had trapped her and Lark knew it. She floundered for words, and was rescued by someone tapping on the door.
‘There’s a gentleman to see you, Miss Cummings,’ Cora announced, standing to one side, as Hunter Cabot walked into the room.
He didn’t see James at first, exclaiming to Lark, ‘At last! I’ve been trying to reach you all afternoon. I only landed a few hours ago. An unexpected business trip, and I couldn’t miss out on the chance…’
‘Of taking me to dinner,’ Lark supplied rashly, praying that Hunter wouldn’t betray her. ‘You’re earlier than I expected. I haven’t even had a chance to get ready yet. Shall I meet you at your hotel? I’ve forgotten where you said you were staying.’
‘The Connaught,’ Hunter told her equably. He had realised now that they weren’t the only two people in the room, and he turned to James and smiled easily at him. ‘Sorry to barge in when you were working, but I’ve been trying to ring Lark all afternoon to let her know I’d arrived. I just wanted to check that our dinner date was still on. If you’ll tell me when you’ll be ready, I’ll drop by and pick you up.’
‘Oh, about half-past eight,’ Lark told him, trying to convey her gratitude with her smile, while at the same time unbearably conscious of James’s furious stance.
Hunter didn’t stay long, probably because he could sense the overheated atmosphere in the study; and of course he must have guessed there was some reason why she had fibbed about them having a date. She wasn’t even sure now whether he intended to come back for her or not. She would have to get ready, just in case. At the very least he deserved an explanation for the way she had involved him, Lark decided, as she stood up as calmly as she could and tidied her desk.
‘I see,’ she heard James say tightly behind her. ‘So he doesn’t mean a thing to you, does he? My God! And to think I believed you…’
‘When I lied?’ Lark shot at him. ‘Well, I’m not surprised. After all, you didn’t when I told the truth.’ She felt the bitter sting of tears behind her eyes. ‘Perhaps you’re not as good as you like to think about differentiating between what’s true and what isn’t,’ she taunted.
A little to her surprise, he went quite pale; a dark, lonely look in his eyes that could only have been a trick of the light, almost making her reach out to him, but she resisted the impulse by thinking of Charlotte.
‘No, I don’t think I am,’ he agreed slowly. He walked toward the door, his movements uncoordinated and jerky.
There was a huge lump in her throat and she longed to call him back, but what good would it do? It was better this way. Better letting him think that she had lied to him all along. At least it would salve her pride.
‘You’d better let my mother know if you don’t intend coming home tonight,’ he told her derisively as he turned at the door, his glance raking her with contempt and dislike, just as he had done once before.
She shivered in the blighting impact of that look for a long time after he had gone. It had underlined to her as nothing else could the vast gulf that lay between reality and what she now saw had been no more than idiotic, romantic daydreams.
Of course he didn’t love her—and never would. No man could love a woman at whom he looked the way James had just looked at her.
And it was her own fault. She should have remembered that look, that contempt, and held on to it, instead of allowing herself to be deceived by her own emotions.
All the doubts she had had before returned to grow and crystallise as she went upstairs to get ready to meet Hunter.
Defiantly she put on the silk dress she had worn on the night she and James had made love, refusing to remember how he had looked at her, how he had touched her.
Let him suffer tonight what she had suffered last night, she thought savagely, knowing that his jealousy of Hunter had, like his physical desire for her, been real; but it had only been a male sexual jealousy, that was all. Even so, let him torment himself with mental images of her in Hunter’s arms, let him… She put down her hairbrush, catching back a sob. What was the use? She didn’t want to make him jealous; what she wanted was for the door to open and for him to walk in and tell her that he loved her.
But even if he did say those words, would she believe them after what Charlotte had told her?
Hunter arrived just after eight o’clock. Lark went downstairs to find him talking to Mrs Mayers.
‘Ah, Lark! Hunter was just telling me that he’s taking you out to dinner.’
Was she imagining it, Lark wondered, or was there really just a hint of coolness in her employer’s voice?
She noticed that Mrs Mayers wasn’t looking directly at her, and her misery increased. She had gained the impression that Mrs Mayers would have welcomed her as a daughter-in-law, but she must obviously have misunderstood her comments, for she must surely be aware of the truth.
And yet that momentary coolness in her voice seemed to suggest that she did not approve of Lark going out with Hunter.
The moment they were outside, Lark turned to Hunter to explain and apologise, but he refused to let her say a word.
‘You don’t have to explain a thing,’ he assured her. ‘I’m just delighted to be having dinner with you.’
He’d booked a table at one of London’s more famous restaurants, and Lark recognised several familiar faces from TV and films as they walked in.
Although not normally a drinker, she ordered the champagne cocktail Hunter urged her to try. Perhaps the alcohol might help her to relax.
It must have been stronger than she had anticipated, she decided hazily later on; either that or it hadn’t mixed well with the glasses of wine she had consumed.
She looked across the candlelit table at Hunter, reflecting guiltily that she had spent almost the entire evening unburdening herself to him. He had listened in grave silence, intervening only to ask her if she was sure that James and Charlotte were to marry.
‘She told me so herself,’ she had assured him.
He had frowned a little at that, but had made no comment.
Now she felt absolutely exhausted, even though it was barely eleven o’clock.
‘If you don’t mind, Hunter, I think I’d like to leave,’ she said a little unsteadily.
‘Of course. I’ll organise a cab.’
He insisted on taking her right to the door, and then asked diffidently if he might take her out again. Much as she liked him, Lark knew that it wasn’t fair to either of them for her to agree. Hunter was far too nice a person to be used as a prop for her bruised ego. She shook her head, softening her refusal as best she could by explaining to him how she felt.
What a pity human beings couldn’t fall in and out of love to order, she reflected cynically as she went inside and closed the door gently behind her.
CHAPTER TEN
‘LARK, there’s been a change of plan,’ Mrs Mayers came into the study saying a week later. ‘We’re leaving for Abbotsfield this afternoon. I’ve organised
everything with the caterers and the marquee people. James will be there, too. We’ll be staying on for a few days. He wants my advice on some refurbishing he wants carried out, so you’ll need to pack a case.’
The crisp tones of her employer’s voice surprised Lark as much as her announcement.
When had all this taken place? She had been sitting at her desk all morning and she had had no contact with anyone to suggest that the original date needed to be changed.
Feeling as though she had been derelict in her duties in some way, Lark wanted to ask when these alterations had taken place, but Mrs Mayers had already gone.
She would need the file she had organised for the ball. Where was it? Feeling thoroughly flustered, Lark searched through her desk, finally finding it in its correct place in the filing cabinet. It was already almost lunch time. What time were they actually going to leave? She had attended to the morning post, there was nothing of importance outstanding, so perhaps she ought to go upstairs now and pack.
She refused to allow herself to dwell on what the intimacy of sharing the same house with James was going to do to her.
She would just have to try to keep out of his way.
It shouldn’t be too difficult, she thought grimly. He must have spoken with Charlotte by now, and surely must be as anxious to avoid her as she was to avoid him.
On the drive down to James’s house, Mrs Mayers was quieter than Lark had ever known her to be, giving no explanation as to why the date of their meeting had been changed.
Oxford and its environs wasn’t familiar to Lark, and she would have liked to know a little more about the area, if only to keep her mind off James, but Mrs Mayers’ silence made her feel reluctant to ask any questions.
They didn’t pass through Oxford itself, and Lark soon lost all sense of direction as they traversed country lanes bordered by hedgerows thick with summer green and the froth of creamy-white cow parsley, and then abruptly the house was there, perched on an incline so that it could survey its surroundings. Two Jacobean wings enclosed the original Tudor hall, reaching out like welcoming arms, or at least that was how they appeared to Lark as the car stopped in front of the main entrance.
A plump, smiling woman came out to greet them.
‘Lark, this is Mrs Middleton, James’s housekeeper,’ Mrs Mayers introduced. ‘She and her husband look after the house in James’s absence.’
Mrs Middleton was in her early forties, with a brisk air that promised efficiency.
‘James said he’d be here in time for dinner. I’ve put you in your usual rooms, Mrs Mayers. James said to put you in the King James room, Miss Cummings,’ she told Lark. ‘He is reputed to have stayed here once,’ she added in explanation, leading the way indoors.
As she followed her, Lark wondered if the whole house had the same air of warmth and welcome that permeated the room she was in.
It must have once been the most important room in the house, she reflected, looking upwards and seeing the minstrels’ gallery at one end. Set into the panelling above the huge fireplace was a crest and a Latin motto.
‘It’s the crest of the family who originally built the house,’ Mrs Mayers told her, obviously anticipating her question. ‘James’s father’s family bought it from them during the reign of Queen Victoria…I’m rather tired, Lark. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go up to my room and rest.’
She was half-way towards the stairs when Lark asked her urgently, ‘The caterers… When are they due to arrive?’
It was Mrs Middleton who answered, assuring her, ‘Oh, not for several days yet. You’ll have plenty of time to relax and find your feet.’
It seemed an odd comment to make, and equally odd was Mrs Mayers’ sudden decision to travel down here, especially when it seemed that their appointments weren’t for some time.
Having assured herself that there was nothing Mrs Mayers required, Mrs Middleton turned her attention to Lark, asking her to follow her up the stairs and along a narrow corridor, off which were seven oak doors.
‘Here we are,’ she announced, turning to open the last one.
She stood back so that Lark could precede her into the room.
It was dominated by a vast four-poster bed, but that was not the reason for Lark’s gasp of delight.
Her fingers itched to touch the rich fabric that hung at the windows and covered the bed; polished floorboards glowed with centuries of beeswax; the afternoon sun shone in through the leaded window. A huge armoire stood against one wall, and there was a faint scent of roses in the air. It came, Lark realised, from a bowl of pot pourri standing on the oak chest at the bottom of the bed.
‘It’s magnificent,’ she said softly.
Mrs Middleton smiled.
‘I’m glad you like it. James wanted you to have it. It’s really the master bedroom, but James has never used it. He says this bed was designed to be shared, not slept in alone.’ She laughed and then checked herself uncomfortably. ‘I’ll go down and make you a pot of tea.’
‘I’ll come down with you,’ Lark told her, adding quietly, ‘I am here to work, after all.’
She thought the housekeeper gave her a rather odd look, but she decided she must have imagined it.
James didn’t arrive in time for dinner and, despite the fact that she had been dreading seeing him, Lark suffered a sharp stab of disappointment.
Neither she nor Mrs Mayers did justice to the excellent meal Mrs Middleton had provided, and Lark could not blame the housekeeper for frowning slightly when she came in to remove their plates.
‘Lark, I’m feeling rather tired. I’m going to have an early night,’ murmured Mrs Mayers after the housekeeper had gone.
She would follow suit, Lark decided. That way, she could put off seeing James for almost another day.
She took upstairs with her some papers which showed the number of people who had attended previous fund-raising events organised by the charity.
She had a bath in the luxurious bathroom attached to her bedroom, acknowledging that at another time she would have enjoyed wallowing in the huge Victorian tub which held pride of place in the room, although now it was far less austere than it must have been when it was originally built.
The windowseat was comfortably padded with a fabric to match that in the bedroom; the floor was warmly carpeted; above the custom-made cupboards were mirrors to reflect the light, and the Victorian basin was set into an elegant marble slab.
She dried herself wearily on a thick warm towel, and then pulled on one of her old cotton nightdresses, pulling a wry face at her reflection. She looked all of sixteen years old, with her face free of make-up and her hair curling from the damp heat.
Her white cotton nightdress had a demure bodice threaded with faded blue ribbon. There was a terry-towelling robe hanging up behind the bathroom door and she put it on, letting her bare feet curl into the softness of the carpet as she went back into her bedroom.
The figures she had brought upstairs to study suggested that it should be possible to increase the attendance at the larger events, such as the forthcoming ball, and Lark was just mulling over whether or not it might pay them to advertise the event in some of the glossies, when someone rapped briefly on her bedroom door.
It opened before she was out of her chair, and the sight of James striding determinedly towards her made her grab at the chair itself to stop herself from stumbling.
‘James! What…what are you doing in here?’
She knew it was an idiotic question the moment she uttered it, and was not surprised to hear him reply sardonically, ‘It does happen to be my home, and since you’ve spent the last few days determinedly refusing to see or speak to me, I decided the only way I was going to get to find out exactly what’s going on was to get you down here.’
Get her down here! All her suspicions about the suddenness with which the existing arrangements had been changed coalesced, and she demanded disbelievingly, ‘Are you trying to tell me that you went to all the trouble of changing thos
e appointments, of upsetting your mother’s arrangements, just to speak to me?’
His mouth twisted slightly. ‘You didn’t leave me much alternative.’
Lark started to tremble. This was the last thing she had expected. After Charlotte’s disclosures, she had expected James to accept that, since she knew the truth, there could be no continuation of their relationship.
In Boston he had told her he was in love with her. And she had believed him—almost. But how could he be in love with her, and yet intending to marry Charlotte?
‘Besides,’ she heard him add, as though he had picked up on her train of thought, ‘you still owe me two weeks.’
‘Two weeks?’
‘You promised me two months,’ he reminded her softly, his expression suddenly savagely bitter as he caught hold of her, gripping her arms through the thick terry-towelling so hard that she flinched. ‘You also told me that Cabot meant nothing to you.’
‘So we both lied.’ Lark lifted her chin.
His anger was dangerously exciting, because beneath it she could sense his pent-up desire. He still wanted her. Another woman in her shoes might have felt triumph, she reflected, but all she could feel was a sick bewilderment that he was not the man she had thought, after all.
She ought to have stuck to her original assessment of him, instead of letting her judgement become clouded with emotion.
‘I think you’d better leave, James,’ she told him, struggling to overcome both the imprisoning grip of his fingers and the treacherous awareness of him that was stealing over her own senses.
Another few seconds of being close to him like this, able to breathe in the unique male scent of his skin, to see the dark arousal of his eyes, and she would be clinging unashamedly to him, begging him to make love to her.
‘Surely you aren’t afraid of being alone with me,’ he taunted, deliberately misunderstanding.
Lark stood her ground. ‘Why should I be?’ she countered.
She ought to have remembered how skilled he was with words, because the next thing she knew her prison had tightened around her, and she could feel the quick, heavy beat of his heart against her body as he said softly, ‘Because of this…’
