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Saturday arrived far too quickly. The moment she woke up, Beatrice felt burdened by an acute awareness of apprehension. A childish desire to burrow beneath her quilt and put off the evil hour by going back to sleep made her wriggle guiltily in the warmth of her bed. It was sheer luxury not to have to get up and race downstairs in order to start preparing everyone's breakfasts.
Elliott had introduced a new rule that anyone wanting an early breakfast on weekend mornings had to prepare their own, adding smoothly, before anyone could object, that Henrietta was not as young as she had been and deserved a weekend rest.
Much to Beatrice's amazement, no one had pointed out that Beatrice was there to take over from their new housekeeper. Elliott had the knack of making her family toe the line, she admitted resentfully, while inwardly acknowledging that, with EUiott as a father, her brothers, especially Benedict, would have benefited a great deal from his calm firmness.
Elliott as a father? What dangerous byways were her thoughts leading her down now?
She jumped out of bed and discovered that the sun was shining from a perfect cloudless sky. The impropriety of leaning out of her bedroom window wearing nothing other than her fine cotton nightdress was forcibly imposed on her when she happened to glance down into the garden and saw that Elliott was standing there looking up at her.
To her chagrin she blushed furiously and stepped back from the window. As she dressed, she prayed
that no one else had observed or heard his soft laughter. What was he trying to do to her?
Trying to do? an inner voice demanded scornfully. He had already done it. He had made her conscious of him as a very male man in a way she had previously never beUeved possible. It was a Une of thought she didn't want to pursue, so instead she brushed her hair vigorously and wondered rather grimly how he would like taking out a woman who looked as plain and uninteresting as she did.
She had no idea where he was taking her for lunch and certainly had no intention of asking him, but her wardrobe was woefully short of smart clothes, and she was most certainly not going to wear the yellow and navy again.
Her only other 'expensive' and suitable outfit was a dull silk dress she had bought for a friend's wedding. The dark cream fabric did absolutely nothing for her colouring, while its shapeless fit chosen to conceal her shape had the effect of making her look distinctly matronly, she decided critically.
Mirry came in while she was studying herself, and confirmed her opinion by saying, 'Where on earth did you get that? It's dreadful!'
'It's silk, and it was expensive,' protested Beatrice.
She saw that her sister was carrying a small tissue-wrapped parcel which she put down on the bed.
'Look, why don't I lend you something,' Mirry began, but Beatrice shook her head.
*We both know Fd never get into anything of yours. What's that?' she asked, looking at the small parcel.
*Oh, it's something one of the other girls made. She wanted that red dress I made—remember?— so I swapped her this for it, but it isn't really me; it's too big, so I thought I'd give it to you. What do you thmk?'
Miranda shook out the tissue and Beatrice stared at the wisp of peach silk she held up in her hands.
*It's a pair of camiknickers,' Mirry explained when she didn't make any comment. *Don't you Uke it? I thought it was very you.'
Beatrice could see what it was, but she had been lost for words at the thought of wearing anything quite so provocative. Tiny thin straps supported the ethereal garment, satin buttons with loops marched all the way down the front; delicate butterflies ap-pliqu^d in slightly darker silk formed the cups which Beatrice felt sure would never support her too generous breasts, and when Mirry swirled it round so that she could see the back she gasped to see how low it dipped. Another silky butterfly formed all that there was of the bottom half of the back, and Beatrice blinked bemusedly as she realised how exceedingly provocative it would look when worn.
'You'll need to wear stockings with it, of course,' Mirry told her, showing her where the tiny deUcate suspenders were concealed, talking as matter-of-factly as though her wearing of such a garment was an everyday event.
'Mirry, I can't wear anything like that. Fd... I'd look ridiculous,' she protested uncertainly, feeling as hurt as a small child.
*No, you wouldn't, you'd look... sexy,' Mirry told her stalwartly, adding with a quickly surprised grin, *I bet Elliott would think so!'
To Mirry it was all a game; she didn't mean to hurt. She was so confident of her own allure that it never occurred to her that others might feel less secure. And what could she say without risking betraying herself?
'I...' Beatrice could see that Mirry was disappointed by her response, and realised guiltily that her sister had quite genuinely hoped to please her with her gift. *It's ... lovely,' she said at last, reaching out to touch the shimmering fabric.
*I knew you'd love it. That's why...'
Beatrice saw Mirry bite her lip, and realised that the story of the *swap' had possibly been an invention and that Mirry had intended all along for the camiknickers to belong to her. How could she refuse them and hurt her sister's feelings?
*Look, I've even got you a pair of stockings, because I know you never wear them.' She produced them from within the folds of the tissue with a flourish. 'Real silk!'
A lump solidified in Beatrice's throat. *I...' she began.
Mirry hugged her impulsively, and whispered,
*Don't let Ben get you down. He can be a menace at times... God, is that the time? I've got to run, I'm meeting Jane and Susie at eleven. Have a nice day!'
She was alone, and there was no one to see her or laugh at her as she reached out and tremulously touched the soft silk. It felt alive and warm beneath her fingertips, and she had a momentary traitorous desire to know what such a fabric would feel like against her skin.
She looked at the garment and then glanced away, as though trying to avoid temptation, and then looked back again. She would look ridiculous in it, of course, but there could be no harm in just trying it on. Mirry had meant what she said about it suiting her, and, whatever else she might not have, when it came to clothes, Mirry had a definite *eye
Her bedroom had its own bathroom, and quite ridiculously she took the precaution of locking its door behind her as she went inside.
Her fingers actually trembled as she unfastened her dress, and out of habit she avoided looking at her reflection as she stripped off her clothes. All her adult life she had been conditioned to think of her body as ugly because it did not fit into the accepted Bellaire mode.
It wasn't particularly that she was fat, just that her overall shape was wrong ... her breasts too full, her waist ludicrously narrow for such fullness, the curve of her hips too lush, too rounded. Her legs were all right, she acknowledged grudgingly, but they weren't long enough.. .even if her ankles were slinmier than Lucilla's.
That thought amazed her. When had she noticed that, despite her overall slendemess, Lucilla had rather thick ankles?
Somehow, in the midst of thinking all this, she had slipped on the peach silk. She fastened the buttons tremulously, surprised to discover that discreetly inserted beneath the butterflies was just sufficient underwiring to support the fullness of her breasts. And not just to support, she acknowledged, catching sight of herself and expelling her breath in a noisy rush as she saw how the peach silk enhanced her skin tones, and how that discreet underwiring flagrantly emphasised the full curves of her breasts in such a way that instead of seeming over-full they merely appeared to be tantalisingly rounded.
Completely bemused, she turned round and peered at her back view. A small *oh' of shocked astonishment surprised from her mouth as she saw how provocatively the butterfly wings spanned the curve of her bottom and how indiscreetly they revealed it feminine roundness.
Scarcely knowing what she was doing, she sat down and slipped on the stockings. They were a soft natural shade that went with everything and which, after she
had fastened the suspenders tucked discreetly under the edge of the camiknicker legs, exposed just the right amount of silky-skinned thigh.
Her appearance was a total revelation, and she kept on staring at herself as though she was looking at a stranger. There was no doubt in her mind that Mirry's friend had been given exact and correct measurements, because the garment fitted as though it had been made for her, right down to skimming the contours of her waist. And Mirry had been
right, it did suit her. But that didn't mean that she was going to wear it, she decided firmly.
Her hand was on the top button when she heard someone banging on her bedroom door. Without thinking she unlocked and opened her bathroom door and snatched up a robe.
*Who is it?' she called.
*It's me, Elliott. You've got exactly five minutes to get downstairs; otherwise Vm coming in to get you, or had you forgotten we're having lunch together today?'
Five minutes! Beatrice stared in appalled horror at the closed but unlocked door. Five minutes...
Toiu minutes,' Elliott intoned outside, and she knew he wasn't making idle threats. Foiu: minutes! She started to panic. She'd never get out of this and dressed again in that time.
'Three minutes...'
In a fever of dread she snatched up her cream silk dress and tugged it on, her fingers fumbUng with the buttons. At last it was fastened. The belt, where was the belt? She found it and heard Elliott saying outside. Two minutes...'
Her hair... She had to brush her hair, and where were her Upstick and her bag?
She made it with thirty seconds to spare, opening the door to find Elliott leaning on the wall outside. She blinked and stared as she saw that he was wearing jeans and a soft cotton shirt with the neck unfastened and the sleeves rolled up, but before she could speak, he said softly,
'Well done! You made it—just.' And then he was taking her arm and guiding her downstairs, even
though every atom of common sense she had was shrieking at her to make some excuse and tell him she had changed her mind, that she wasn't going anywhere with him. Where on earth was he taking her, anyway, dressed like that? Another man would have seemed more approachable, more...more homely, dressed so casually, but with Elliott it only seemed to increase his air of dangerous masculinity.
Somehow she found that she was in his car and that the time for sane objections was gone. He got in beside her and started the engine, swinging the large car out into the late Saturday morning traffic with aplomb.
As she sat there at his side, Beatrice was beyond conversation... beyond anything apart from wondering bitterly how on earth she had allowed herself to be manoeuvred into such a situation.
They were well out of London before she came to sufficiently to ask where they were going.
Turning his head, Elliott smiled at her.
The effect of that totally natural and totally unexpected smile was devastating. Her heart flipped right over, her throat closing, a wave of knowledge washing over her that she knew would change her life for ever. She did love him. She blinked, but he was still there and so was the way she felt about him. Why had she never realised it before? Because she had dehberately hidden away behind her protective front of antipathy, she recognised; because she had firmly refused to allow herself to think of him as anything other than Lucilla's half-brother; because somewhere deep inside she had known all along that if she let her guard down, if she didn't
protect herself... She couldn't love him; it was ridiculous. She would have realised it years ago. But the knowledge refused to go away. She did love him.
'There's something I want to show you. It will take us a while to get there, so you just sit back and relax.'
'You said you wanted to take me out to lunch.' Thank God he couldn't read her thoughts!
That's right,' he agreed urbanely. 'Now just relax, there's a good girl.'
Beatrice had to bite down on her tongue to stop herself from saying churUshly that she wasn't a girl... and from demanding that he turn the car round and take her back to Wimbledon.
If she had fallen in love with him, why on earth couldn't she have realised it before now? Nothing would have induced her to spend time alone with him if she had known before how she felt. And now it was too late. She swallowed tensely. Whatever else happened, she must not let him see how she felt.
CHAPTER SEVEN
They were on the motorway, the M4, Beatrice observed. The miles sped by in a confused jumble of greenery and other cars, then Elliott took a turn-off. They were somewhere near the Cotswolds, Beatrice recognised numbly. It seemed rather a long way to come for lunch.
EUiott turned off the main road, and opened the sun roof; amazingly Beatrice could hear birdsong. They drove through several small villages. Her stomach rumbled protestingly, reminding her that she hadn't had any breakfast. She felt very on edge.
^Nearly there.'
She refused to look at Elliott; she dared not look at him, she admitted, knowing that the quivers in her lower body had nothing to do with any hunger for food.
They drove through yet another picturesque village, ducks swimming placidly on the river that ran alongside the road, and then Elliott turned abruptly into what was little more than a narrow lane, banked by high hedges. The lane ended abruptly in front of a pair of closed wrought-iron gates attached to brick pillars, and Beatrice winced at the thought of Elhott having to reverse all the way back. There was certainly no room to turn round anywhere, but, to her surprise, he stopped the car and got out.
As she watched he strode over to the gates and unlocked them, tucking the key back in his pocket after he had pushed them open.
^Elliott.. / she began.
'It's all right, we're almost there.'
He seemed to be too busy concentrating on manoeuvring the car through the gates and down the narrow drive to pay any attention to the rising note of concern in her voice, and Beatrice sighed in frustration, forced to sit and wonder where on earth he was taking her.
The drive curved sharply, and she caught her breath on a soft sound of delight as she saw the house in front of them. It lay against the backdrop of rolling fields, basking in the sun. It looked late Tudor, she decided, glancing enviously at the mullioned windows set into their stone surrounds.
It was the sort of house one expected to see full of children and dogs, a family home much loved and lived in, but as they drove up it was oddly quiet.
Beatrice turned in her seat questioningly, wondering why on earth Elliott had brought her here. There were no signs anywhere to say that it was a hotel or restaurant. No other cars... no other human beings... nothing but birdsong in the distance, and the soft sigh of the summer breeze in the ivy that clung to the walls.
*Elliott,' she began questioningly.
'Come on, out you get. All will be revealed in time. What do you want to do first?' he asked lazily, stretching as he opened her door for her. He was like a big jungle cat, she thought dizzily, watching him turn his face up to the sun, visualising the sleek
ripple of muscle beneath the smoothness of his skin. 'Eat or explore?'
'Elliott, what is this place?' she demanded shakily. 'What are we doing here?' A horrid thought struck her. 'We're... we're not trespassing, are we? Who does this place belong to?'
He looked at her and smiled.
'Me, Beatrice. It belongs to me.'
Elliott owned this house! It gave her a jolt to realise there was so much about his life she did not know. This wasn't a bachelor's house; it was a family home. EUiott lived and worked in London. What could he possibly want with a house like this?
'You mean as...as an investment?' she questioned cautiously.
He shook his head.
'No, as a home. I've had enough of living in London. Oh, I shall keep the apartment—it has its uses—but I've decided it's time I started thinking about the future... about a family.'
She had the feeling that he was laughing at her, and she swallowed hard, suddenly tormented by a mental picture of
him surrounded by dark-haired, grey-eyed children...
'I... I didn't know,' she said weakly. 'I... You said you were taking me out for lunch.' Her bewilderment showed in her voice, and he laughed.
'What's the matter? Frightened that I might forget to feed you? It's all taken care of. There's a picnic hamper in the boot—Henrietta packed it for me. Come and have a look inside.'
Why was he showing this house to her? Thoroughly confused... too confused to argue or
object... Beatrice followed him, waiting as he unlocked the door and then ushered her inside.
The touch of his fingers on her arm made her quiver, or was it the coolness of the hallway after the heat of the sun?
The house was still furnished; it smelled of wax and pot-pourri, and she felt as though she ought to tiptoe around in case she disturbed someone. It had that air about it of being lived in which instantly appealed to her.
*The man who inherited it lives and works abroad. He didn't want to be bothered getting rid of all the furniture, so I bought the house as it stood. It belonged to his grandparents.'
He pushed open a door, and Beatrice stared into a prettily furnished drawing-room. There were three other rooms downstairs, including a small Ubrary which Elliott told her he intended to use as his study.
*I can work from here just as well as I can from London, and besides, it will give me plenty of time to spend with the children.'
Beatrice swallowed, and said faintly,
*Er, you intend to have a family, then?'
Again, he seemed to be laughing at her, and she wondered if he had guessed how unutterably miserable the thought of him married with a family had suddenly made her feel.
*Oh, I think so, don't you?' His hand on her arm guided her up the worn stairs. *And it's close enough to Stratford for your family to come and visit us, as they will undoubtedly wish to do, if only to assure themselves that I'm not ill-treating you.'
Her head spun and she grabbed hold of the closest support, which just happened to be Elliott's arm. They were at the top of the stairs now, on a pleasantly square landing with several doors leading off it.
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