Conflict Of Hearts

by Liz Fielding

  “We’ll have to go to the register office tomorrow morning to make the arrangements.”

  About the Author

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  Copyright

  “We’ll have to go to the register office tomorrow morning to make the arrangements.”

  “Noah, you’re not listening to me. I have absolutely no intention of marrying you on Wednesday or—”

  “Thursday might be better,” Noah agreed.

  “Or any other day,” Lizzie insisted.

  “I’ve got an appointment first thing, but after that I’m free until the evening,” he continued, disregarding her objection.

  “I am busy on Thursday.”

  “You see, the great thing about having the ceremony on Thursday, Elizabeth, is that Francesca and Peter will be back from Stratford. We can... No, you can invite them to be our witnesses. What could be more perfect?”

  He was serious. He really meant it....

  Liz Fielding was born in Berkshire, England, and educated at a convent school in Maidenhead. At twenty she took off for Africa to work as a secretary in Lusaka, where she met her civil-engineer husband, John. They spent the following ten years working in Africa and the Middle East. She began writing during the long evenings when her husband was working away on contract. Liz and her husband are now settled in Wales with their children, Amy and William.

  Conflict of Hearts

  Liz Fielding

  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

  AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

  STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN

  MADRID • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

  CHAPTER ONE

  LIZZIE FRENCH jumped involuntarily as the church door clanged noisily behind a latecomer. Had he come? She had almost given up hope, but now, heart-in-mouth, she turned.

  Too late. Whoever had entered the church had slipped into one of the pews at the back and was already hidden from sight.

  ‘It was a middle-aged lady in a puce hat that perfectly matches her complexion.’ Startled by this wickedly telling description of the vicar’s wife, Lizzie involuntarily glanced at the man standing beside her.

  Noah Jordan’s dark brows were lifted just a fraction, his mouth turned down slightly at the corners in a mocking expression that might just have been an apology that he was the bearer of such disappointing news. But somehow she didn’t think so.

  She jerked her eyes back to the page in front of her, determined to shut the man out of her mind. But Noah Jordan refused to be shut out. Even as she stared at the order of service the grey sleeve of his morning coat brushed against the smooth golden skin of her shoulder while he turned the page for her, silently indicating the place with the tip of one long finger.

  She could almost hear him laughing at her. And her father actually expected her to go and stay with the wretched man while he was away on his honeymoon... If only Peter would come!

  She shifted, uncomfortably aware that she was being assessed by a pair of hawkish grey eyes that would miss nothing—certainly not the angry flush that coloured her cheeks. It was all too easy to imagine him examining a painting from a dubious source with just that look. The signature might be right, the provenance perfect, and yet...

  Well, let him look. She didn’t care one jot what he thought. Noah Jordan might have a reputation as a man with an infinite capacity to charm, but he hadn’t charmed her. Not one bit.

  Lizzie made a determined effort to concentrate on the service, and there were no more late arrivals to set her heart jangling. Only the unexpectedly disturbing touch of Noah’s cool hand against her skin as he took her arm and they followed her father and his new bride into the vestry to sign the register.

  ‘You don’t much approve of this, do you?’ Amidst the congratulations and kisses, Noah’s words jolted her back to reality.

  “I...” What could she say—Your sister is going to break my father’s heart, and I know what that will do to him because I’ve been there before?

  Her father hadn’t believed her, so why should Noah Jordan? And so, for today, to make her father happy, she had smiled and played bridesmaid. But those probing, eagle-sharp eyes hadn’t been fooled. Was that what puzzled him? Did he find it so impossible to believe that anyone would not welcome his dazzling sister as a stepmother?

  Her eyes fell upon the laughing bride. She looked so happy, so radiant, so totally in love. But then she was a supremely gifted actress. ‘Does it matter?’ Lizzie asked. She made no further effort to pretend. The man could apparently see straight through her.

  ‘Not to me. To your father... to Olivia it might,’ he drawled, his voice making her skin tingle as if he were rubbing velvet the wrong way. ‘What do you object to particularly?’

  She raised her chin a little. ‘She’s a lot younger than Dad,’ she said. ‘It seems an odd match.’ But if she’d hoped to divert him with the kind of gossip she overheard in the village shop she was mistaken.

  ‘A lot younger?’ he repeated thoughtfully, but he was unimpressed by this argument. ‘She’s thirty-four, Elizabeth. Hardly a girl.’ His mouth compressed into a thin line. ‘She won’t run off and leave him for a younger man, if that’s what is on that devious little mind of yours.’

  Elizabeth. How she hated that. No one but her mother had ever called her that, except when she was in deep trouble. But then she was—in the deepest trouble. ‘My father is nearly fifty,’ she responded frostily.

  His eyes creased to betray his wry, exasperated amusement at this remark. ‘Olivia told me that he was a little over forty-five. I wonder which James would agree with?’

  Oh, she knew that. Her father was as susceptible to flattery as the next man. But he would still be forty-nine next birthday. And, having nailed her objection so firmly to the mast, she wasn’t about to back down just because Noah Jordan thought it was ridiculous. Besides, it served as well as anything else to cover the anger. That was private. Not for public consumption.

  Her public face had smiled and smiled, and no one had suspected her true feelings. Why should they? Olivia was such an accomplished actress; who would ever guess what she was really like? But somehow this man knew the smile that Lizzie had painted on was only a mask.

  ‘The age difference is still—’ she pressed on, then stopped abruptly at the derision that momentarily twisted his mouth.

  ‘Too great?’ He completed her objection with the faintest touch of ridicule in his voice. ‘Perhaps you think your father should have settled for some comfortable widow-lady and be content with carpet slippers and cocoa at bedtime?’

  Under his taunting eyes she felt the colour rise again to her cheeks. Her father was an attractive man and it had been five years since her mother’s death; he deserved a second chance at happiness. She had been glad for him that Olivia was beautiful, desirable. It was no more than he deserved after all the unhappiness since his first wife had died. That wasn’t the reason for the cold anger that sat like a lump of lead in her stomach. But she was saved from the necessity of answering by the cause of her misery.

  ‘Noah, darling, what on earth have you said to Lizzie to make the child blush so?’ Olivia chided, with a soft laugh as she turned on her new husband’s arm.

  ‘This is a wedding, Olivia,’ he responded, with a smile that creased his cheeks—a smile that came all too readily for his beautiful sister. ‘Making the bridesmaid blush is all part of the fun.’

  ‘Is it, indeed?’ Olivia rea
ched up and tapped his cheek warningly. ‘Well, my dear, just make sure that’s the only tradition involving bridesmaids and fun that you keep alive on this occasion.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Lizzie breathed, with feeling, as Olivia turned away.

  ‘She has no need.’ Noah Jordan’s voice was as low as hers. ‘My duty was done when I gave away the bride. It’s the best man’s responsibility to see that the bridesmaid...has fun.’

  The hateful blush deepened, but Noah was regarding the portly figure of her father’s business manager, who had been conscripted to this duty. And for once genuine amusement unexpectedly lit the depths of those probing eyes as he considered what fun was likely to be had in that direction.

  This totally unexpected betrayal of a sense of humour somehow irritated Lizzie even more than his attitude to her. ‘I compliment you on your hearing, Mr Jordan,’ she snapped.

  ‘All my senses are in perfect working order, Elizabeth,’ he replied gravely. ‘Including the most important.’

  ‘Which is?’ she enquired, a little archly, then sincerely wished she hadn’t as his brow rose a fraction higher.

  The pause before he replied was infinitesimally brief. Yet it was there. ‘Common sense, of course,’ he said abruptly. ‘And, since people will think it a little odd if you continue to refer to me as “Mr Jordan”, you’d better get used to calling me Noah.’

  ‘Maybe I would, if you’d stop calling me Elizabeth in quite that tone of voice.’

  ‘And what “tone of voice” is that?’ he asked softly.

  Disapproving. As if she had been summoned by the headmistress for breaking a window. But he didn’t need to be told. He knew exactly what tone of voice he was using. He reserved it especially for her.

  But the organ had struck up. ‘We’ll resume this discussion on the drive to London, shall we?’ Noah said, and, before she could tell him exactly what he could do with his drive to London, he had taken a firm grip on her arm and was leading her back down the aisle behind the bride and groom.

  Toasts had been drunk and speeches made, and the guests were helping themselves from the buffet laid out in the marquee. But Lizzie wasn’t hungry, despite the long hours that had elapsed since breakfast. Peter had not come, and all she wanted was the opportunity to escape the almost unbearable bonhomie. Her unhappiness was private. It had no place at a wedding. She lowered herself onto her favourite seat, half-hidden in an arbour that overlooked the rose garden.

  ‘Lizzie...’ She heard Olivia’s voice calling from a little way off and stayed very still, hoping to remain unnoticed. But the voice came nearer, and she dashed a tear from her cheek and stood up to reveal herself rather than submit to the ignominy of being found hiding. ‘Lizzie, my dear, there you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I wanted to have a word...just the two of us before—’

  ‘Are you going now?’ Lizzie asked, a little stiffly.

  Olivia’s brow wrinkled slightly at the chill in her voice. ‘No, darling.’ Lizzie almost winced at the theatricality of the endearment. It would be so easy to be fooled, especially when you wanted to be, and for a while she had been... ‘You’d better come and sit down, darling. There’s something I have to tell you. Perhaps you’ve guessed...’ Lizzie made no reply. ‘James should have done it,’ she pressed on. ‘He’s really been very naughty...’

  Naughty! Lizzie thought she might just throw up. But whatever it was that Olivia wanted to say would have to wait as, beyond the fragile beauty of the bride, Lizzie at last saw her heart’s desire.

  ‘Peter!’ Abandoning her new stepmother, she scooped up her long skirts and ran across the lawn towards the tall, slender figure of Peter Hallam. He stopped and turned as he heard her voice, and she flung herself into his arms. ‘Oh, Peter!’ And she was not sure whether to laugh or cry. ‘You came. I knew you would.’

  He didn’t hold her close to him, but put her down and stood back, lifting his shoulder a little awkwardly. ‘I was coming home anyway,’ he said, looking around anywhere not to meet her eyes. ‘I can’t wait to meet the bride. I saw her in Camille last year. You must be very happy, Lizzie.’

  He was still angry with her. Hiding the hurt at this cool reception, she told herself that a little reserve was to be expected. Nevertheless, if he hadn’t cared he wouldn’t have flown the Atlantic just to come to her father’s wedding. But her smile was a little hesitant as she put her hand on his arm. ‘It’s good to see you, Peter.’

  ‘Is it?’

  He wanted her to grovel a little. A spark of resentment took her by surprise, but she took a deep breath and swallowed her pride. ‘If the invitation to come to New York is still open, I’ve got all the time in the world now...’

  She faltered as he stiffened. ‘Lizzie... I’ve got something to tell you... It was all rather sudden...’ Then something like relief swept across his features. ‘Fran!’ he called, and waved. ‘We’re over here.’

  Lizzie watched, at first with confusion and then with a growing sense of impending disaster, as a pretty dark-haired young woman crossed the lawn towards them.

  ‘Peter, honey, I’ve been looking for you. I don’t know a soul here, and your parents didn’t exactly roll out the red carpet—’

  ‘Well, here’s someone for you to meet,’ he said quickly.

  ‘I told you all about little Lizzie French, what a great cook she is...’ He attempted a light-hearted laugh. ‘Perhaps you should ask her how she does it... Lizzie, this is Francesca.’ He took the girl’s hand, and his mouth tightened briefly before he added, ‘My wife. I just know you two are going to love one another.’

  In the small, hollow silence that followed Fran extended a slender hand. ‘You are little Lizzie?’ she queried. Five feet and nine inches tall, Lizzie hadn’t been ‘little’ for a very long time, and she was a good three inches taller than the young woman before her.

  ‘It’s just a silly joke,’ Peter said immediately. One that she and Peter had shared, as they had once shared everything. But shock had done something to her vocal cords, and her words were scarcely audible. His wife. The word echoed like the clang of doom. Wife... Wife... Wife...

  ‘Have you known Peter long?’ she managed, although her tongue was like a lump of wood in her mouth. Anything to stop that word...

  ‘About six months. We work together at the bank.’

  ‘Fran is an investment analyst,’ Peter said. ‘A graduate of Harvard Business School,’ he added, as if it mattered.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘What do you do, Lizzie?’ Fran asked.

  ‘Nothing much.’ She wasn’t prepared to compete.

  ‘Lizzie keeps house for her father, Fran,’ Peter interposed.

  Fran glanced around, taking in the rambling red-brick house that had been extended through the centuries until it had become an impossible hotchpotch of styles—a nightmare to run, the bane and the love of Lizzie’s life. ‘Well, that must be a full-time job,’ she said. ‘Although I imagine your stepmother will take over now?’

  Peter spoke before she could say something stupid, betray herself. ‘Of course she will. Now that your father doesn’t need you, Lizzie, you’ll be able to leave home and get on with your life.’ And Lizzie flinched at this jarring reminder that when Peter had needed her she had put her father first. But he didn’t need her any more. Neither of them did. ‘Perhaps you should get a job,’ he advised, and she caught the harsh note of bitterness in the words.

  ‘Like Fran?’ she asked, still too shell-shocked to make her excuses and walk away.

  ‘You wouldn’t make much of an investment analyst, Lizzie,’ he said. ‘You never could weigh up the risks.’ Did he have to rub in the fact that he believed she had made the wrong choice? How deeply she must have hurt him to make him so cruel. ‘You’re just too much of a home body, I guess.’

  A home body! A flash of anger dulled the pain. He had never complained in the past. He had always enjoyed coming to the house, eating the food she cooked for him no matter what time of the day or
night he arrived. ‘Maybe you should look for something in catering,’ he suggested, his memory clearly running along the same lines as hers.

  ‘I’ll certainly think about it.’ Lizzie was smiling so hard that she thought her face must crack in half. But under the tense, searching eyes of his new wife she sought for something witty to say—a disguise for her broken heart. If only her head wasn’t stuffed with cotton wool. Rescue came from an unexpected source.

  ‘Elizabeth, I’m sorry to rush you, but we have to leave quite soon.’ Noah’s hand on her shoulder made her jump.

  ‘Leave?’ she repeated, still too dazed for anything to make much sense.

  He didn’t answer her. ‘It’s Hallam, isn’t it? Noah Jordan. I’ve just been talking to your parents. I understand congratulations are in order.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, clearly relieved to break the tension. ‘May I introduce my wife Francesca?’

  Noah transferred his gaze to Peter’s new wife and took her hand, holding it, it seemed to Lizzie, for ever. Then he seemed to recollect himself. ‘I apologise for dragging Elizabeth away, but I’m taking her to see Tosca tonight—a treat for all the hard work she’s put into organising the wedding for Olivia.’ He glanced at Lizzie. His heavy-lidded eyes gave no hint of his intention, but there was something about the determined cut of his mouth that suggested she would be wise to follow his lead.

  ‘Tosca?’ Fran repeated. ‘That is absolutely my favourite opera,’ she declared, obviously relieved to have a topic of conversation that had nothing to do with the unknown politics of a small village. ‘I have a recording of my mother singing—’

  ‘Your mother is a singer?’ Lizzie felt Noah’s long fingers tighten against her shoulder as he asked the question.

  ‘Was. Not professional, of course, although she was very good. I have a recording of her singing and my father playing the piano.’ She gave an awkward little smile. ‘It’s about all I have of them. They died when I was very young.’