The Longest Pleasure

by Anne Mather

  ‘He’s coming,’ said Helen tensely. ‘I—goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  Helen didn’t wait to see if Rafe indeed followed her indoors. She thought she had heard the engine of the Range Rover as she stumbled up the steps into the house, but she had been too relieved at reaching her destination unmolested to pay it a great deal of attention. Tomorrow, she thought, closing her door behind her, tomorrow she would have to force herself to deal with her grandmother’s personal effects and on Sunday she would leave here—for ever. It was a daunting prospect, even if she would be glad to see the back of Rafe Fleming. But, once she left the gates of Castle Howarth behind, she was on her own, and no amount of money could replace the security it had always provided.

  It was cold in her room, and she glanced disconsolately at her watch. It was only a little after nine, and she was tempted to seek the comfort of the fire in the sitting room. But Miss Paget was there, and probably Rafe, too, at this moment, and she had no strength left to indulge in any further argument with him. Much better to take a bath, she decided. The water would warm her up, and it might relax her and help her to sleep.

  She had taken off her shirt and waistcoat when someone knocked at her door. Snatching up the discarded items of clothing, as if whoever was outside could see through the panelling, Helen swallowed once and then said tautly: ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s only me, dear.’ Mrs Pride’s voice was reassuringly familiar and, breathing more easily, Helen opened the door a crack and peered out. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Where were you at dinner-time?’ Mrs Pride regarded the little she could see of the girl with some impatience. ‘Don’t tell me I’ve got you out of bed. It’s barely time for supper!’

  ‘I’ve been out,’ admitted Helen, keeping an anxious eye alert for any sign of Rafe. ‘And now I’m going to take a bath. I’m sorry about dinner, but I just wasn’t hungry.’

  ‘No, well—that’s not unexpected,’ remarked the housekeeper flatly. ‘Been quite a day for all of us, hasn’t it? One way and another.’

  ‘Yes.’ Helen shivered.

  ‘So, how about a nice omelette for supper?’ suggested Mrs Pride gently. ‘Or some soup? I’ve got a pan of chicken broth simmering on the stove. Just what you want on a night——’

  ‘Mrs Pride——’

  ‘I’m not going to take no for an answer,’ declared the housekeeper firmly. ‘It doesn’t do to starve yourself, you mark my words. You’ll feel as different again with a bowl of my soup inside you. And it will warm you up. I can see you shivering.’

  ‘Oh, all right.’ Helen gave in. It was easier to accept the broth and pour it away later than stand here arguing. ‘Thanks. I’d appreciate it.’

  Mrs Pride smiled. ‘All right. You go and get your bath, and I’ll heat up the soup. You can drink it in bed, all snug and cosy, like when you were a little girl, hmm?’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Just like when Lady Elizabeth first brought you here.’

  She turned away, blotting her eyes with a handkerchief, and Helen closed the door and leaned against it. Her own eyes were damp, too, and in spite of everything that had happened, she could only remember the love she and her grandmother had shared. Oh, Nan, she sobbed, pressing the silken folds of her shirt to her cheek, how could you imagine I would ever betray your trust?

  For once the water was piping hot and, loosening her hair from its chignon, Helen wound it around her palm and then secured it with a handful of pins on top of her head. She squeezed a lavish amount of scented bath gel into the water, inhaling the fragrant vapours as she stepped into the tub. It was wonderfully soothing to sink down into the sudsy water and allow its warmth to invade every inch of her body. It gave her a feeling of reassurance, a womblike protection between herself and the cold world outside.

  She lay for some time contemplating the soapy bubbles that tipped her breasts and then, as reality again forced its way into her consciousness, she sat up and used a sponge to cleanse her arms and shoulders.

  She had stepped out of the bath and was towelling herself dry when she heard Mrs Pride’s voice. ‘I’ll just leave the tray,’ she called, and Helen answered her.

  ‘Thanks,’ she returned, pulling on the pink towelling bathrobe she had last worn when she was eighteen years old. But at least it was warmer than the negligee she had brought with her, she reflected, pulling the plug and folding the wet towel on to the radiator. The hem didn’t quite reach her ankles and the panels didn’t wrap about her quite so securely as they had done when her chest was less developed, but the colour was as flattering as ever. She didn’t look eighteen either, she corrected, with a less than enthusiastic grimace at the steamed image looking out at her from the glass of the bathroom cabinet. She looked her age, and perhaps a little bit more.

  Pushing her feet into the pair of fluffy white mules she had brought from London, Helen went back into the bedroom. Sure enough, a tray of soup and coffee resided on the chest at the foot of the bed, and lifting a silver lid, she discovered a selection of sandwiches, all neatly quartered and secured with tiny wooden skewers.

  A small smile lifting the corners of her mouth, Helen regarded the evidence of Mrs Pride’s affection with some emotion. She would miss having people like Mrs Pride and Miss Paget in her life. But, she told herself practically, once she was gone and Rafe found someone he wanted to marry, his wife would receive just as much attention. She wondered who he would marry. In spite of the fact that he was thirty-one and unmarried, she was sure he would not remain that way. Apart from his physical attributes, he was now financially attractive, too, and she had no doubt that once the news of his inheritance was made public, he would have no shortage of offers.

  An unpleasant pain curled in her stomach at this thought. She told herself it was because he had gauged her reactions so accurately, and by so doing had assured his own future at the expense of hers—but it wasn’t just that. The truth was, she didn’t want some strange woman becoming the mistress of the house. The idea was distasteful to her. The thought of some fortune-hunter—Antonia Markham perhaps—living at Castle Howarth with Rafe, sharing his life and sharing his bed, filled her with anger; and loathing.

  Her anger having successfully disposed of what small appetite her bath had given her, Helen turned abruptly away from the tray. There was nothing else for it—she would have to go to bed. Perhaps, if she read for a while, she would begin to feel sleepy. And then, she remembered. She hadn’t brought a book with her in her haste to leave London, and she had no intention of venturing into the library tonight and possibly encountering Rafe on her travels.

  A tentative scratching at her door gave her a moment’s pause. For a second, she thought she must be hearing a mouse in the wainscoting, but then the sound was repeated, and she realised it was someone trying to attract her attention. But who? Rate?

  ‘Who is it?’ she called warily, not willing to open the door unprepared, and then sighed with a mixture of feelings when Miss Paget answered her.

  ‘It’s me,’ she responded in a stage whisper. ‘May I speak to you for a moment?’

  Helen circled the bed and opened the door. ‘Yes,’ she said, aware that her tone was not entirely friendly, but unable to do anything about it. ‘Is something wrong?’

  The curiosity behind the question was not unfounded. Miss Paget looked distinctly anxious, and Helen wondered with a sinking heart if the old lady was hoping to argue Rafe’s case for him. But she was wrong.

  ‘Did I—did I understand you correctly earlier on?’ Miss Paget began. ‘You said—at least I thought you said—Rafe was following you.’ She moved her thin shoulders worriedly. ‘Well—he didn’t.’

  Helen frowned. ‘What do you mean?’ She gazed at her old nurse in some confusion. ‘Of course Rafe followed me home. That is—he was only a—a few yards from the house when I left him.’

  Miss Paget shook her head. ‘Well, he didn’t come in. Oh, the Range Rover’s there, I grant you that. But I did wonder whether …’ she broke o
ff and looked discomfited ‘… I did wonder if you had perhaps driven yourself home.’

  Helen gasped. ‘And left Rafe at the pub, you mean?’

  ‘Well …’ Miss Paget shifted a little nervously. ‘We—we all know what you think about Rafe, don’t we?’

  Helen was hurt, but she refused to show it. ‘You’re wrong,’ she said stiffly. ‘I did not drive the Range Rover home—Rafe did. And … and if he hasn’t come in, it’s not my fault!’

  Afraid of disgracing herself by bursting into tears, Helen closed the door in the old lady’s face. That Paget should think that she … She sniffed indignantly. And only a few moments ago, she had been mourning the loss of friends like her and Mrs Pride! Well, Mrs Pride might still care about her, but it was obvious who had taken her place in Miss Paget’s affections.

  All the same, as her indignation subsided, she had to admit to some curiosity as to why Rafe hadn’t come home. Where could he be? If the Range Rover was out front it was not because he was still stuck in the snow-drift. So where was he? What could he be doing?

  She could not entirely dispel the thought that her words might have something to do with it. In spite of being a liar and an opportunist, he still had feelings, and maybe her accusation had rekindled doubts of his own. After all, she argued defensively, what she had said was true. They did only have his mother’s word that he was Gilbert Sinclair’s son. What if she had engineered the whole plan after her husband was dead? What if Rafe was her child, and not Gilbert Sinclair’s? What if they had had a child, but that child had died? That would account for the birth certificate.

  But no. There were too many: What ifs! Maria Sinclair had had nothing to gain from writing to Helen’s grandparents. She had given up her son, it was true, but she could have done that just as easily in Australia. And besides, her grandfather had had the documentary evidence checked out. If there had been any fraud, he would have found it.

  Helen lifted her hands and loosened the pins from her hair, allowing it to fall in a thick silken curtain almost to her waist. Then, she threaded her fingers into the ebony strands, resting her hands at the nape of her neck as she considered her part in Rafe’s apparent disappearance. She was to blame, she was almost convinced of it. One more burden to add to all the others, she thought, with an aching throat. Oh, God! she had better get dressed again and try to find him.

  She was rummaging through a drawer for her underwear when another knock sounded at the door. Now what? she wondered apprehensively, darting across the room to fling the door open, and then felt all the strength drain out of her at the sight of her Nemesis.

  ‘Paget says she might have upset you by suggesting you were to blame for my absence,’ remarked Rafe flatly, as Helen clung weakly to the handle of the door. His mouth twisted. ‘So—I was persuaded to let you know I’m back. Just like a bad penny!’

  Helen trembled. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘I went for a walk. Don’t tell me you were worried!’

  Helen shook her head. ‘I was—concerned.’ She shivered a little as the draught from the hall outside chilled her newly-bathed flesh. ‘I—I didn’t know where you could be. I didn’t know what to think.’

  ‘Why?’ He was sardonic. ‘Because you were afraid your bitterness might have driven me to desperate ends?’ He paused. ‘Oh, I admit, you did get under my skin. Just for a minute there, I wanted to choke you! But I guess my skin’s pretty thick, after all. I can handle it. I’ll have to, won’t I?’

  Helen tried to hang on to her dignity, even though the sweeping glance Rafe had given her skimpy robe and loosened hair did not make it easy. ‘I—didn’t mean what I said,’ she declared stiffly. ‘I spoke—without thinking.’

  ‘Is that an apology?’ Rafe regarded her from under narrowed lids. ‘Well, well! And I thought nothing else could surprise me. It just shows how wrong you can be.’

  Helen swayed. She felt light-headed, as much from not eating all day as anything, although the hot bath hadn’t helped. Her face was flushed, but she felt cold, and she wished that he would leave her so that she could gain the comparative security of her bed.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Rafe had noticed the film of moisture on her upper lip, and as she moved forward to attempt to close the door, he stepped into the room. In consequence, for a few unnerving seconds, Helen was brought up against the lean hard strength of his body. Then, as she wrenched backwards, she lost her balance altogether, and the base of her spine hit the floor with a sickening jolt.

  ‘For God’s sake!’

  The harsh expletive Rafe uttered was followed by an automatic response to her predicament. With half-impatient hands he reached for her, but when his long fingers closed about the flesh of her upper arms to lift her to her feet, Helen lost her reason. Beating at him with her balled fists, she fought his efforts to help her, the panic she had felt when she brushed against his muscled frame combining with the guilt she had felt earlier to create an emotional reaction she did not want to admit.

  ‘Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!’ she choked, but he hauled her to her feet anyway, and when she still continued to fight him, he pulled her into his arms and overcame her struggles by the simple means of imprisoning her hands between them.

  ‘Calm down!’ he exclaimed roughly, his hand at the back of her head, pressing her face into the hollow of his throat. ‘For pity’s sake, Paget will think I’m assaulting you! What did I do, for God’s sake? I was only trying to help.’

  ‘Aren’t you always?’ muttered Helen raggedly, but her struggles were getting feebler, and the effort to skirmish with him was becoming too great.

  ‘So it seems,’ agreed Rafe with a grunt and, using his foot, he pushed the door closed. ‘Relax,’ he added, as this caused a fresh outbreak of panic. ‘It’s not very warm in here, but it’s a damn sight colder out there. D’you want to catch your death?’

  ‘Do you care?’ Helen mumbled tearfully, and without really being aware of doing so, she leaned against him.

  ‘Do you want me to care?’ he countered huskily, and the arms imprisoning her so securely against him relaxed their stifling hold.

  ‘I don’t know what I want,’ she conceded, giving in to the realisation that the warmth of his body was very comforting. His leather jacket was open, and all that was between her and his heated flesh was the thin silk of his shirt. Her face was pressed against the buttons of his shirt, and although he was wearing a tie, it had been twisted aside during their struggle.

  ‘I guess we’re both suffering from the same malady,’ he said after a moment, and then, with a stifled oath, he took his hand from the back of her head and used it to loosen his tie and the top two buttons of his shirt. ‘God, you’re choking me!’

  ‘I’m sorry——’

  Her instinctive withdrawal was thwarted when he used his free hand to stroke abrasively along the curve of her cheek, turning her confused gaze up to his. Caught as she was in the web of emotions heightened to fever pitch by the events of the evening, Helen did not have the will to go on resisting the spell he seemed to be casting over her.

  ‘You know, I think I do know what I want,’ he said, his green gaze disturbingly sensual, and she twisted anxiously under his hands.

  ‘Not—me,’ she got out unevenly, but his tongue at the corner of her mouth silenced her tremulous protest.

  ‘Why not?’ he demanded against her parted lips, and then covered her mouth with his own.

  It was not like the other times he had kissed her. Then, she had been fighting with him for one reason or another. This time, although she knew she ought to fight, she couldn’t. She didn’t have the strength. And, being honest with herself, she had to admit Rafe’s mouth was very attractive, the way he kissed her gratifyingly different from Adam’s so-controlled caresses. She was distraught, no doubt; she must be, to allow what was happening to go on. She would probably despise herself tomorrow. But right now, she needed to feel close to somebody, and Rafe just happened to be here. />
  The only thing was, it was all getting a little out of hand. When his hands skimmed her shoulders and then slid beneath the soft neckline of her robe, she shivered uncontrollably, the intimacy of his touch sending frissons of pure pleasure along her spine. His questing hands loosened the always-precarious cord that held the two sides of her robe together, and she felt it slipping away with a feeling of helplessness. She was naked under the robe, her warmly-tinted body fully exposed to his gaze, and Rafe was not indifferent to the temptations of her flesh.

  ‘God!’ The choked oath was uttered as the rounded swell of her breasts nudged his chest. ‘Helen, you’re beautiful!’ he muttered, his hands moving to cradle their creamy fullness, his thumbs brushing urgently over nipples that burgeoned to his touch.

  But when he bent his head to take one swollen peak into his mouth, Helen took an involuntary step backwards. The hungry tugging of his tongue and lips was causing a moist ache between her legs, and in spite of her inexperience, she knew what was happening to her.

  ‘No. No—you can’t,’ she got out unsteadily, closing her eyes against the picture of his ash-fair head against her white skin. But there was something inexplicably erotic in feeling him suckling with such evident enjoyment, and she had to steel her hands to prevent them from clutching at his hair.

  ‘Why not?’ he countered now, going after her and imprisoning her against the door with his taut body. This time his lips when they found hers were harder, more passionate, and his hands cupped her buttocks and brought her arching against him.

  Helen’s senses swam. With a feeling almost of relief, she wound her arms around his neck, and gave herself up to the needs he was creating inside her. She stopped trying to rationalise her feelings; she abandoned any attempt to keep Adam’s wavering image in front of her. She simply let her body feel, and in so doing lost her only chance of redemption.

  Rafe was covering her face with kisses now, his lips probing the delicacy of her eyelids and the hidden contours of her ears. His breath fanned her cheek, warm and clean, and only lightly tinged with alcohol. His breathing matched hers: swift and shallow, and she could feel the rapid rhythm of his heart thudding through his pulses. If she opened her eyes, she could see the tiny pores in his skin, and the way his hair grew away from his scalp, streaked with silver and slightly darker at the roots. She could feel the heat of his skin, even through his clothes. And the thrusting pressure between his legs …