First-Class Seduction

by Lee Wilkinson

  As he picked it up, guessing his intention, Bel cried in horror, ‘Oh, no! Please don’t!’

  But, ignoring her appeal, he hurled it savagely against the wall, shattering it into a dozen pieces.

  Covering her face with her hands, Bel burst into tears just as the door slammed shut behind him.

  As though it was the most natural thing in the world, Andrew took her in his arms and held her close, cradling her head against his broad chest while she wept unrestrainedly.

  For a while her response to his tenderness, to the strength of his arms and the soothing murmur of his low, attractive voice, was total.

  Then, horrified by the dawning realisation that she was accepting comfort from the man who, by taking advantage of her stupidity, was largely responsible for the situation, she managed to choke back the tears and wrench herself free.

  Her pounding head protesting at the violence of the movement, she moaned, pressing slim fingers to her temples.

  ‘You need something for that hangover.’

  When Andrew swung his feet to the floor and reached for his clothes, even through her distress and discomfort Bel saw that his naked, bronzed body was lithe and graceful, with a masculine beauty that drew and held her attention and made her oddly breathless.

  Pulling on his trousers and tucking his unbuttoned shirt into the waistband, he headed for the door, saying over his shoulder, ‘I’ll only be a minute.’

  As if he’d had the remedy to hand, he reappeared almost immediately, shaking a sachet of something that looked like sugar granules into a tooth glass half full of water.

  ‘Drink that,’ he instructed. ‘It’s not particularly palatable but it will lift your head and settle your stomach in no time at all.’

  She obeyed, grimacing at the revoltingly bittersweet saltiness of the effervescent concoction.

  Taking the empty glass, he added briskly, ‘Now I suggest you shower and dress. I’ll go and do the same, then we’ll get the hell out of here. We can stop for some breakfast on the way.’

  The very thought of food made Bel’s stomach turn over sickeningly.

  His glance knowing, sympathetic, he assured her, ‘In an hour or so you’ll be able to tackle a plateful of bacon and eggs.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ she muttered. ‘I don’t have that kind of breakfast normally.’

  ‘Then you’ll need to get into training,’ he said quizzically. ‘I love bacon and eggs, and sharing pleasures is part of the fun of living.’

  Before she had time to take in and react to the mocking arrogance of that statement, the door had closed quietly behind him.

  She stifled a groan. How could he seem so lighthearted in such an intolerable situation? Being caught in bed with his host’s fiancée and ordered out of the house was hardly something to be proud of.

  Yet he seemed positively triumphant.

  Feeling like death, shaken to the core by the backlash of Roderick’s anger and her own culpability, Bel stared into space with sightless eyes.

  It hardly seemed possible that a weekend she’d looked forward to with such pleasure could have ended so ignominiously.

  For a while she stayed where she was, her head in her hands, her mind in utter confusion, unable to untangle and deal with the immediate problems, let alone the wider implications.

  Then, knowing some action was needed, she got out of bed and, on legs that seemed unwilling to support her, made her groggy way to the bathroom.

  By the time she had cleaned her teeth and showered the potion was working and, physically at least, she was starting to feel somewhat better.

  She had donned a cotton dress and sandals and was pinning her hair into a smooth coil when, with a perfunctory knock, Andrew returned.

  He had showered and shaved and his crisp dark hair was a little damp. He was dressed in well-cut casual clothes and carrying an overnight grip.

  ‘About ready to go, Bel?’ he asked as she pushed in the last hairpin.

  ‘I still have to pack,’ she said helplessly. ‘And I can’t just walk out without seeing Roderick’s parents and trying to explain…to explain how…’ She faltered to a halt.

  ‘How you came to sleep with one of their guests?’ Dropping his grip by the door, he watched the hot colour pour into her face before adding wryly, ‘I hardly think an explanation will help matters.’

  He was right, of course.

  Her voice sounding flat, beaten, she said with what composure she could muster, ‘In any case I won’t be leaving with you. I’ve got my own car here.’

  ‘My dear girl, you’re in no fit state to drive. I’ll take you back to town and arrange to have your car picked up.’

  As he spoke he was opening drawers and tossing her belongings into her small suitcase with cool efficiency.

  Zipping it shut, he put a hand at her waist and urged her towards the door, sidestepping neatly to avoid a shard of porcelain.

  ‘Why did the fact that Bentinck vented his anger on the figurine upset you so much?’ he queried, glancing down at the broken pieces.

  Swallowing past the lump in her throat, she told him, ‘It was a Jesse Harland original I’d bought for his parents. I thought it was beautiful.’

  Andrew nodded without comment, then, taking both bags in one hand, he closed the door behind them and, an arm around Bel’s waist, propelled her along the corridor.

  Ignoring the back stairs, he turned towards the main staircase, saying firmly, ‘Keep your head high. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of.’

  If only that were true!

  Her chin up, a flag of bright colour flying in each cheek, she allowed herself to be escorted down the stairs, across the hall and out of the front door.

  To her very great relief they met nobody.

  Andrew’s sleek blue Jaguar was parked in front of the stable block, and in less than a minute they were purring through the pleasant Kent countryside.

  Bel took in nothing of the scenery. Gazing blindly through the windscreen, all she could see in her mind’s eye was a replay of her wakening to find him beside her, and the ugly little scene that had followed.

  As though giving her a chance to come to terms with what had happened and regain her equilibrium, apart from an occasional glance at her pale, set face, her companion drove without speaking.

  Just outside Mitford he stopped at the King’s Head for something to eat. It was still quite early, and the clean, comfortable bar was empty. Bel took a seat on an upholstered bench in front of the open casement windows.

  When he’d slipped off his corduroy jacket, Andrew sat down beside her. He was wearing a short-sleeved navy silk shirt, and his tanned arms were smoothly muscular, with just a sprinkling of dark hair.

  He was much too close for comfort and, her breathing already impeded, Bel was careful not to let her own arm brush against his as they drank the excellent coffee.

  Neither spoke, and, though conscious that Andrew watched her every move, as though trying to deny his existence, Bel avoided looking at him.

  When breakfast arrived, Bel averted her eyes from the plateful of food set in front of her, her appetite nonexistent

  ‘Try to eat a little,’ her companion urged. ‘You won’t feel yourself again until you’ve got something inside you.’

  She was doubtful if she would ever feel herself again. But, realising he was probably right, she picked up her knife and fork and cut into a piece of crisply grilled bacon.

  Some twenty minutes later her plate was empty, and she was finishing a slice of crisp golden toast and tangy marmalade while Andrew poured fresh coffee for them both.

  Young, fit and resilient, physically she was almost herself again, but her thoughts were still in chaos.

  Watching her face, he observed, ‘What’s happened must still seem something of a nightmare?’ His voice was low and husky and sounded genuinely sympathetic.

  But, unwilling to be dissected for what she told herself was his idle amusement, she said curtly, ‘As it’s a nightmare of my own makin
g—’

  He broke in swiftly, ‘Don’t blame yourself too much, Bel.’

  ‘So who should I blame?’ she demanded.

  ‘Me, if it makes you feel any better.’

  ‘It doesn’t. If I hadn’t drunk too much champagne in the first place…’

  He frowned a little. ‘Drinking too much isn’t a crime. Nor is sleeping with someone.’

  ‘It may not be a crime, but it’s ruined Roderick’s life as well as my own.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ Andrew said decidedly. ‘My guess is that in less than six months he’ll have forgotten about you. The possessive redhead will make sure he does.’

  ‘She’ll certainly do her best,’ Bel agreed bleakly. And for the first time found herself wondering how Suzy had become involved.

  Had the redhead seen Andrew accompany her into her room the previous night? If so, why hadn’t she alerted Roderick then, instead of waiting until Saturday morning?

  There seemed to be only one answer. Suzy had wanted them to spend the night together, wanted to be sure there would be no grounds for forgiveness or reconciliation…

  And in that she had succeeded admirably, Bel thought bitterly. Not only would Roderick never forgive her, but she would never forgive herself.

  Watching her expressive face, Andrew asked quietly, ‘I suppose you must hate the girl?’

  Bel shook her head wearily. ‘No, I don’t hate her. I can’t even blame her for seizing the opportunity. Suzy’s in love with Roderick and—’ She broke off abruptly as tears threatened.

  Andrew made as if to put his arm around her, but she flinched away, frightened of his touch, muttering, ‘Keep your hands off me. You’ve done enough harm.’

  His voice soothing, reasonable, he said, ‘When you’ve got over the shock, and had time to think, you’ll be willing to admit you’ve had a lucky escape.’

  ‘A lucky escape! I happen to love Roderick.’

  ‘Not passionately.’

  ‘Enough to want to spend the rest of my life with him.’

  ‘He’s not the man for you, Bel.’

  ‘In a minute you’ll be telling me you are!’

  ‘I don’t need to tell you. Your subconscious already knows. When we bumped into each other in that restaurant it was like a spark set to dynamite. Then when we met for a second time that same spark was there, burning fiercer than ever. That’s why you’re scared to let me touch you…why our night together was—’

  Alarmed by the undoubted truth of his words, and the feeling that she was being relentlessly taken over, she broke in derisively, ‘Don’t tell me…our night together was wonderful!’

  Eyes gleaming, he murmured, ‘So you do remember?’

  ‘I don’t remember a thing,’ she denied, her cheeks growing pink. ‘For all I know you could have raped me.’

  ‘I didn’t rape you,’ he said quietly.

  ‘But you did take advantage of me,’ she accused

  ‘I didn’t do anything you didn’t want me to do…’

  Knowing the strength of her reaction to him when her barriers were up, and guessing what it must have been like with all her inhibitions gone, she found herself reluctantly believing him.

  ‘As I said before, you’re a very passionate woman…’

  Bel had never thought of herself that way. She’d had boyfriends since her schooldays, but a certain inborn reserve, a natural self-respect, had prevented her from indulging in casual relationships.

  Throughout college, having decided on a career in business rather than art, a determination to succeed had kept her mind on her work when most of her contemporaries were paying more attention to their love life.

  ‘How did you manage to hold out against Bentinck?’ Andrew pursued. ‘Or wasn’t he that pressing?’

  ‘Of course he was pressing!’ she exclaimed. ‘He’s a red-blooded man.’

  Andrew raised a dark brow. ‘So in this day and age how come you didn’t sleep together?’

  ‘We wanted to wait until after we were married.’

  ‘Both of you? I get the feeling that you were the one who held back. That you were never seriously tempted…’

  It was the truth, and she was unable to deny it. Perhaps, on her side at least, that vital spark Andrew had talked about had been missing from their relationship.

  ‘Isn’t that so?’ he persisted.

  Cornered, she cried wrathfully, ‘I don’t want to discuss it.’

  In no way fooled, Andrew smiled sardonically and observed, ‘It would have been a very dull marriage.’

  ‘How dare you presume that?’

  Unruffled, he said, ‘As well as being one of the pleasures of life, good sex is an important part of any complete and happy relationship.’

  ‘It would have been good. We loved each other.’

  ‘I doubt if Bentinck ever took your breath away and made your heart beat faster. He would never have been able to lift you to the heights—’

  ‘I’ve already told you I don’t want to talk about Roderick,’ she broke in jerkily. ‘And I won’t sit here any longer and let you belittle our relationship!’

  Only the damage was done.

  Already Andrew had raised doubts, and Bel was even more furious to find herself wondering if she might have missed out had she gone ahead and married Roderick.

  Contemplating Andrew’s long, lean and no doubt skilful hands, and his mouth—a mouth that sent shivers down her spine—with a strange pang, she realised that she’d also missed out on what would almost certainly have been the most exciting night of her life.

  But what was she thinking of? She ought to be mourning the loss of her virginity to a total stranger rather than the inability to remember the experience!

  Oh, but she had been right to put him down as dangerous, she thought agitatedly. In less than twenty-four hours he had taken her virginity, wrecked her engagement, dragged her pride in the dust and, worse, made her doubt her own wishes and desires.

  Confused, angry both with him and with herself, she said raggedly, ‘Now we’ve had breakfast perhaps we can get on our way?’

  ‘Is there any reason to hurry back? We could spend a pleasant day in the country.’

  He must be joking!

  As she began to shake her head he added quizzically, ‘I’ll do my best to keep my hands off you.’

  With a flash of her old spirit, she retorted, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll help you.’

  He laughed. ‘Then the answer’s yes?’

  ‘The answer’s no!’ The last thing she wanted was to spend any more time with him. She needed to be alone, to think. More moderately, but no less determinedly, she added, ‘I want to get home.’

  Appearing in no way put out, he rose to his feet, tall and broad-shouldered, overpoweringly male, and agreed, ‘Very well…Would you like to freshen up before we start?’

  As they headed into London, mingling with the Saturday morning traffic, he made conversation, forcing her to talk rather than relapse into a brooding silence as she would have preferred.

  Avoiding anything too personal, he asked her opinion on a variety of subjects and listened to her answers with intelligent interest, sometimes agreeing with her comments, sometimes putting forward a different point of view that provided grounds for argument.

  Roderick had never been one for debating issues, valuing women for their beauty rather than their brains, and Bel found the no-quarter cut and thrust of the present discussion invigorating and absorbing. She was surprised when she realised they had reached Clones Place and were drawing up outside number ten.

  But how had Andrew known where she lived? He hadn’t asked, and she was sure she hadn’t mentioned it.

  Roderick must have told him.

  Her exact address?

  Unlikely as it seemed, it appeared to be the only explanation.

  Or was there another, more threatening one? she wondered as, having surveyed the narrow, whitestuccoed, three-storey building, he slid from behind the wheel and came round to open her door.
Was knowing where she lived part of some campaign?

  Shaken by the notion, Bel was telling herself not to be a fool when all at once she recalled their conversation while they were dancing.

  She’d said, ‘Your being here is too much of a coincidence…’

  And he’d answered, ‘Our meeting in the restaurant was a coincidence. This one was carefully planned…’

  Bel took a deep, uneven breath while every nerve in her body tightened in panic. Though she didn’t understand how he could possibly have planned it, or what his motives were, she knew beyond all shadow of a doubt that he was stalking her, intent on taking her over.

  All at once she became aware that he was standing holding open the car door, waiting for her to make a move. Avoiding his proffered hand, she scrambled out and headed for the wrought-iron steps.

  By the time he had taken her case from the boot and followed her down she had opened the black-painted door and turned, at bay.

  His smile slightly mocking, he asked, ‘I take it you don’t intend to invite me in?’

  Ignoring what she recognised as a ploy, she said with cool civility, ‘Thank you for bringing me home.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ he returned formally. Stooping to set her case down just inside the doorway, he added, ‘I’ll have Bridges pick up your car later this afternoon.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Remembering how she’d been welcomed on her arrival at the Bentincks’, Bel’s voice sounded hollow, and her face mirrored her desolation.

  Watching her with his usual piercing regard, his voice casual but edged with an unmistakable concern, Andrew asked, ‘You’re sure you’ll be all right on your own?’

  ‘Don’t worry, suicide isn’t on the agenda.’

  Hearing the bleakness beneath the flippancy, he frowned ‘In time things won’t seem so bad.’

  ‘You can save the platitudes!’ she snapped.

  Unruffled, he observed, ‘It may seem a trite remark, but that doesn’t prevent it being the truth, Bel.’

  At the end of her tether, she starred to close the door.

  Holding it with his foot, he said, ‘I’ll drop by tomorrow and take you out to lunch.’

  ‘You needn’t bother,’ she told him sharply, too harassed to be gracious. ‘I don’t want to see you again.’