by Penny Jordan
His calm, ‘Ready?’ was cool and free of any inflexion at all. She told herself she ought to feel relieved that any compliment from him would surely only have reinforced her own doubts and apprehensions, but instead what she did feel was an unmistakable sense of disappointment, of being let down.
‘Are you all right?’ Silas asked her curtly when she didn’t move, his voice striking a cold chill through her body, making her shiver involuntarily.
‘Yes,’ she responded crisply, and as she followed him out to the car, and waited for him to unlock its doors she asked wryly, ‘Is there anything specific I ought to know about this evening, apart from the fact that Lord Redvers doesn’t believe women have a place in the business world?’
‘Nothing that I can think of. Ostensibly this evening is simply an invitation to dinner and an opportunity to discuss certain matters appertaining to the redevelopment of Padley. As I’ve already mentioned, such discussions are likely to take place after dinner.’
‘When I will be relegated to the drawing-room and the company of Lady Redvers,’ Hannah said challengingly. Just how challengingly she only realised when Silas stopped what he was doing and looked sharply at her.
‘I’m sorry if that offends you,’ he said silkily, ‘but I’m afraid I can’t change Lord Redvers’ view of the world and women’s place in it—nor do I believe I should be held responsible for it,’ he added in a deceptively mild tone that told Hannah he had all too clearly read the rebellion of her thoughts.
He had finished unlocking the car, and before he could come round and open her door for her Hannah pulled it open herself, wincing a little as she felt its unexpected weight. It was on the tip of her tongue to suggest that it might be as well if she stayed behind, and that her usefulness this evening as his personal assistant was likely to be nonexistent, but because she knew her real reasons for wanting to wriggle out of the evening ahead had nothing to do with her apparent chagrin over Lord Redvers’ attitude towards her sex she kept grimly silent.
Her reactions to Silas both angered and confused her. No matter how much she tried to analyse them, to step aside from them and put them in their proper perspective, the moment she saw him all her defences came tumbling down.
She leaned back in her seat, her head on the headrest, closing her eyes, and then wished immediately that she hadn’t, because Silas’s face formed in minute detail behind her shuttered eyelids and she had a compulsive suicidal urge to turn to him and touch him. Luckily, she managed to control it.
She opened her eyes and tried to concentrate on more businesslike matters, wishing the evening was already at an end and she was safe in the solitude of her bed, where her renegade emotions were not likely to betray her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
LORD AND LADY REDVERS lived in a rambling, uncoordinated house which had been in his family since the time of the Reformation, and which had been built on the site of a convent which Henry the Eighth had caused to be razed to the ground.
Local rumour had it that the intense ferocity with which Lord Redvers’ ancestor had set about the destruction of the original building had more to do with the fact that an heiress he had been desperate to marry had escaped him by entering the convent than with any real zeal for Henry’s new religion. Whatever the case, he had certainly profited from that zeal; Henry had granted him the lands on which the convent had originally stood, and the oldest part of the house was said to be built from stones actually taken from the sacked building.
During Charles the Second’s time a disciple of Inigo Jones had added a new façade, behind which the original Tudor rooms remained cramped and low-ceilinged. He had also added half a dozen new reception rooms with expensive panelling and even more expensive plasterwork ceilings, and that grandeur had contented the family until the Prince Regent’s time, when the then incumbent of the title had married a woman who had decided that the place could only be improved by incorporating some of the Prince Regent’s more outré ideas; so it was that several of the rooms were decorated in the Regency fad for chinoiserie with expensive silks and delicately carved and gilded furniture.
A Victorian Lord Redvers had added an extra wing, and the result was the jumbled sprawl of buildings lining the skyline as Silas turned into the drive past the now unoccupied lodge houses.
Hannah shifted tensely in her seat. She wasn’t looking forward to the evening ahead. Silas parked his car next to a very large BMW and commented unemotionally, ‘Looks as if we shan’t be the only dinner guests.’
It was a statement and didn’t invite any comment. Hannah ducked her head as he assisted her out of the car, wishing that she didn’t have to touch him, but he had already extended his hand to her and to refuse to take it would have initiated exactly the kind of speculation she had no wish for him to embark on. Even so, she shivered a little at the brief physical contact, causing his mouth to harden abruptly and his fingers to tighten around her so that when she tried to release herself she found that she could not.
From feeling cold she went hot; a kind of heat that began in the pit of her stomach and spread to every part of her body, a melting, yielding heat that made her legs tremble and her heart turn over slowly within her body.
How long they would have stayed there like that in the soft darkness of the autumn evening if the door hadn’t opened, trapping them both in a beam of harsh light, she had no idea.
As it was, the shock of that intrusive light, of someone else’s unwanted presence, made her panic and pull away, half surprised to find that Silas had already released her. She was facing the house, and as Silas stood to one side she could see into the brilliantly illuminated hallway.
A butler stood imposingly, waiting for them, formidably correct and very aloof. Hannah blinked a little. Given the much publicised new poverty of so many members of the peerage, she had not expected such evidence of wealth.
Someone had transformed—if indeed that was the correct word to describe the desecration of the elegant austerity of the Carolinian hall with its panelled walls, cream stuccoed ceiling and lozenge-tiled floor, hanging the stone-mullioned windows with acres of pastel chintz and befrilled curtains, so out of keeping with the heavy majesty of the house that they made Hannah wince.
As he gave their names to the butler, Silas became aware of her expression and bent his head to whisper warningly, ‘Lord Redvers apparently gave his wife carte blanche with the décor.’ He didn’t need to say any more, but Hannah couldn’t help giving him a startled glance of distaste for the inappropriateness of the delicate, over-pretty chintz in a room that cried out for worn, heavy damask, for rich scarlets and faded golds.
They were left standing in the large hall while the butler disappeared between a massive set of double doors, presumably to announce their arrival.
It was warm in the hall, too warm, Hannah reflected, looking a little sadly at the huge empty fireplace and then at the none too discreetly placed radiators that were heating the room to an almost stifling temperature.
A staircase similar to the one in Padley Court, and carved with all manner of mystical creatures and emblems, rose upwards to a galleried landing. While Hannah was studying the carving, the double doors opened again and a small, portly man hurried towards them, greeting Silas warmly.
‘Can’t think what Pearson was about, leaving you out here,’ he apologised brusquely, ushering them through the doors as Silas paused to introduce Hannah to him.
‘Hannah Maitland, my assistant, Lord Redvers.’
The peer shook Hannah’s hand and peered a little myopically at her. He had kind eyes, Hannah thought, and a rather quizzical-cum-sad, almost canine cast of feature.
‘Can’t think why we need a butler, anyway, but Fiona seemed to think it necessary. Know my wife at all, do you?’ he asked Hannah abruptly.
She shook her head, deeming it unpolitic to tell him that, although she didn’t know Lady Redvers personally, she had heard all the local gossip about her.
‘Half-American, you know,�
� he announced, and then shook his head.
Lord Redvers ushered them into a large drawing-room, which Hannah realised instantly must be one of the rooms designed and decorated by his wife. Here again the pretty-pretty chintzes did not do justice to the room, but they were a perfect foil to the woman standing up to greet them. Or rather, not them, but Silas, Hannah recognised bleakly, noting the way Fiona Redvers’ eyes flicked over her and then dismissed her.
‘Silas, darling! At last. I was beginning to wonder what had happened to you.’
To Hannah she said nothing at all. Not a woman’s woman, Hannah acknowledged wryly.
From her position slightly behind Silas, Hannah studied the other woman. She was a little older than Hannah, somewhere in her mid-thirties, Hannah guessed although she adopted the girlish, trilling voice of a much younger woman, and her skilfully applied make-up did much to heighten the onlooker’s impression that she was still only in her mid-twenties. This, combined with the cooing voice and fragile, dainty mannerisms, conjured up a vision of delicate, blonde loveliness and fragility which Hannah was pretty sure was totally at variance with the woman’s true nature. She was as brittle as overspun glass, and twice as cold, Hannah suspected.
There was a certain obvious hardness in those round, baby-blue eyes, a certain dispassionate and dismissing assessment in the way she studied Hannah from top to toe and then, ignoring her, turned her attention to Silas.
No, she didn’t like her, Hannah reflected inwardly. She wasn’t the kind of woman she could ever warm to. She wasn’t the type of woman who considered her own sex important enough to be worthy of cultivating. And as for female friends…this was a woman to whom every other member of her sex could only be seen as a foil or an enemy.
‘Silas, come and meet some friends of ours,’ she invited, tucking her arm cleverly through Silas’s and deliberately drawing him away from Hannah, leaving her standing in the middle of the over-decorated, sugary-sweet room, having neglected to introduce her to anyone else, and having effectively seen to it that Hannah was totally isolated from everyone else, since Lord Redvers had gone in search of a drink for them both, and the only other two guests were seated on an overstuffed, pretty, pastel-pink rose-strewn sofa, which Hannah decided nastily they had been deliberately invited to occupy as the roses contrasted disastrously with the female half of the couple’s pale gingery hair.
Fiona, in contrast, looked all blonde delicateness against the backdrop of rose-patterned chintz. The white dress she was wearing was surely far too dressy for a simple sixsome dinner party and showed off a tan that was far too even to have been acquired on any beach.
Hannah’s chin tilted firmly in defiance as she saw the nervous, pitying glance the ginger-haired woman gave her, almost as though she was used to the bad manners their hostess displayed to the female section of her guests, and, deliberately turning her back on all of them, Hannah walked slowly across to where a group of paintings were displayed on the wall.
Vaguely reminiscent of Canaletto’s style, they had a pleasing amateurishness about them that, combined with the dates on them, made Hannah wonder if they had perhaps been painted by some member of Lord Redvers’ family, after the fashion of the time.
She was musing on this when Lord Redvers coughed apologetically behind her. She swung round, flushing a little. She had been too engrossed in the paintings to be aware of his presence. He handed her her drink, and said in the abrupt style she was becoming accustomed to, ‘Painted by a spinster aunt of the family. Quite good, I thought. Found ’em in the attic and had ’em reframed. Fiona doesn’t care for them.’
‘I think they’re lovely,’ Hannah assured him warmly. As she turned towards him, she saw that Silas was standing chatting to the male occupant of the sofa who had now stood up, leaving his wife, if indeed that was their relationship, sitting forlornly on her own, while Fiona stood between the two men, leaning provocatively against Silas, her trilling laughter ringing out every now and again.
Hannah wondered cynically if she and Silas were having an affair. She had recognised her immediately as being the woman she had seen in Silas’s car and, whatever Silas’s feelings toward her, there was little doubt about hers towards him. Beneath all the sugary sweetness, she was watching him with all the eager sexual hunger of a female praying mantis.
Was it because she herself loved him that she found it so easy to recognise her own need in others? She went rigid abruptly, totally unaware of what Lord Redvers was saying to her. She didn’t love him. How could she? Love was something that grew slowly. It needed nourishing, cherishing; it wasn’t something that materialised out of nowhere like ectoplasm.
But it had done. She loved him. She loved Silas…
The words rang hollowly through her like a death knell. She actually shivered, despite the almost tropical heat of the room, not wanting to admit the truth, not wanting to acknowledge what had happened.
She looked across at Silas wildly, as though desperate to find a denial of her feelings, to look at him and discover that he was after all just another man, but by some unlucky chance, as she looked at him, he looked back at her, and desire, need…love itself arced through her like lightning, unmistakable and unchangeable.
Fiona was still talking to him, and he lifted his hand as though commanding her silence. For one heart-stopping moment Hannah actually thought he intended to cross the room and come to her, but then Fiona reached out and touched him as she had done that day in the car, slender, beautifully manicured nails against his sleeves…nails that to Hannah were more like claws.
She closed her eyes and shivered, and in the distance heard Fiona’s tinkling, unmelodious voice announcing dinner.
The other couple turned out to be one of Lord Redvers’ business associates—an architect, whom he wanted Silas to meet, and his wife.
The husband paid more attention to Fiona than his wife, flattering her with such fulsome compliments that Hannah knew if she had been on the receiving end of them she would have instantly put him down. Couldn’t he see what he was doing to his wife?
All through dinner Hannah felt her anger grow: against Fiona for being so vainly selfish that she cared not one whit about the misery of the little mousy, ginger-haired wife; the husband, George Mercer, for his lack of consideration for his wife, and for his total and obvious belief that women were the lesser species and that they came in two varieties—those one married and kept domestically at home, and those like Fiona, whom one flirted with and lusted after. She was also angry with Lord Redvers because he seemed not to notice his wife’s bad manners. But most of all she was angry with Silas.
Silas, who every now and again detached himself from Fiona’s predatory attentions and looked across the table at her, not as George Mercer looked at his wife, but questioningly, affectionately, thoughtfully.
How ironic that she should be forced to acknowledge that she loved him tonight of all nights, when she was forced to witness everything she detested about woman’s portion of the marital state.
She looked briefly at Anne Mercer. The woman seemed to have literally shrunk before her eyes. She was huddled over her plate, barely touching her food, her blue-white skin unpleasantly pale with tension and misery. She was avoiding looking at anyone, and Hannah noticed with irritated compassion that her hand shook as she lifted a forkful of food to her mouth.
Her husband, who should have been the one to notice these symptoms of his wife’s distress, was totally oblivious to her. He had reached across the table to squeeze Fiona’s hand, and Hannah felt pretty sure that the heavy thigh she had felt pressing exploratively against her own belonged to him, and that its contact had not been intended for her at all. She had retaliated by stabbing the instep of his foot with her high heel, and then apologising sweetly and falsely.
Silas, whom she had thought too engrossed in his conversation with Fiona to notice what was going on, had broken off what he was saying to give her an extremely sharp look which she had returned with rebellious pride.<
br />
Now, thank heaven, the meal was almost over. How on earth she was going to endure spending an hour or so closeted with Anne Mercer and Fiona while the men talked business she really had no idea.
When Fiona gave the signal for the ladies to leave, treating Silas to a gurgle of laughter and clinging provocatively to his jacket as she whispered something in his ear, Hannah thought with distaste that this must be the worst dinner party she had endured.
It was, she thought with vehement mental bitterness an hour later; seated opposite Fiona on what had to be the most uncomfortable chair she had ever been invited to occupy, gritting her teeth against the explosion she could feel building up inside her as Fiona alternately toyed with Anne Mercer with all the refined cruelty of a hunting cat, and tried to question Hannah about the exact nature of her relationship with Silas. There was a good deal of innuendo in her questions, and an almost open prurience that made Hannah feel physically sick.
She had stated already that she was Silas’s personal assistant and that she knew nothing about his personal life and was most certainly not involved in it, but to her astonishment Fiona refused to let the matter rest there.
She had mentioned the fact that Hannah would be spending the night under the same roof as Silas, and had even had the gall to question her about her past and present lovers. Hannah had remained grim-lipped and uninformative, mentally acknowledging that she had wrongly accused Silas on one subject at least. He was obviously not sexually involved with Fiona—at least, not yet—since the other woman was making it plain exactly how she felt about him.
Hannah had been stunned when Fiona had casually mentioned that she believed a marriage benefited from both partners having lovers; she had gone on to say speculatively that she supposed Silas must have many women in his life. Hannah had replied frigidly that she had no idea. Now Fiona, very obviously furious at her refusal to give her any information, was trying a different tack.
