She moved to open the door for him but Caradoc’s hand on it stilled her. He stood before her, his large frame blocking hers from the cool wind. “How far are we from Bagleyhurst?”
He saw her neck knot as she swallowed. “About an hour.”
“Good.” He didn’t touch her, though he wanted to very badly. “I will have to attend to my step-mother and step-sister when we arrive.” His face was briefly pained. “But I would like to speak to you. Alone.”
“We’re alone now,” she reminded him, her voice barely a whisper.
“Mmm,” he agreed, and his eyes dropped to her mouth. “But here is not appropriate for what I have in mind.”
Again, she swallowed, her slim neck visibly moving with the action. “What do you have in mind?”
“Come to me later and I will show you.”
His meaning was abundantly clear. But Finn’s heart was not.
She pulled the door open, not remotely apologetic when it clipped him on the side. He shot her a look of amusement and slid into the back seat.
Finn wished as she took her seat and flared the engine to life that she’d let this booking go to someone else. Only she’d wanted to get out of London and, at the time, the country had sounded sublime.
Now?
She felt claustrophobic and trapped.
And her body was vibrating with pleasure and hope. Was this man really suggesting what she thought he was? Was it possible that Caradoc found her as desirable as he was suggesting?
Seraphina had dated a few men. She was twenty three, not thirteen. She knew that she was passably pretty. But she’d never been the kind of woman men crossed rooms for. She was the mate. The friend. The buddy. The girl who was more at home playing pool and darts, drinking cider and watching rugby than she was pulling on fancy dresses and makeup. She was certainly not the kind of woman this man usually went for. She didn’t know how she knew that with such confidence, but she did. He was far too masculine. Too powerful and commanding. He would gravitate towards women who were happy to be dominated and used.
Used?
Where had that come from? Her eyes beetled together but she didn’t look in the mirror, as she was tempted to.
And what of Finn? Her boyfriends had all been kind, gentle, average men. Guys she’d got to know first as friends and then felt something more develop. These relationships had ended as softly as they’d begun.
None had filled her with this swamp of feeling.
So what did she want?
And more importantly, was she imagining this? Was it all in her head? Wishful thinking?
She expelled a soft breath and tried to put it out of her mind. But how could she? He was less than a metre away from her. She could hear his breathing and smell his swarthy masculine fragrance. And without looking at him, she could see him clearly.
She almost groaned in frustration, but stopped herself just in time. Her on-board navigation system flared at her and she followed its directions, turning into yet another laneway, this one without lighting. She brightened her headlamps and followed the map, taking two more turns before reaching the large imposing hedge that skirted Bagleyhurst.
It ran for miles to one side of the car before a pair of closed wrought iron gates loomed straight ahead. She swung towards them and lowered her window, so that she could announce Caradoc Moore’s arrival. Cold air blasted into the car and Finn was glad for it. It was a wake up call. A sense of reality breaking through the sensual warmth she’d been enjoying.
The gates opened with a small grunt of complaint. Finn drove through them slowly. The path was wide, and pale, and elegant gardens met it on either side, before opening up to wide sprawling lawn.
A lake came out of nowhere as she turned a gentle corner, and then the house loomed large, like something from a gothic novel.
Only it didn’t loom. It glowed. It smiled. It welcomed.
“Oh,” she couldn’t help exclaiming, as her eyes landed on it with an appreciative thud. She slowed the car to a stop, unable to help her curiosity from brimming forth.
Bagleyhurst was enormous. Her eyes roamed from end to end, and she imagined it had to be at least two hundred metres long, with thousands of windows overlooking the lake. It was three stories high, and fronted in stone, with turrets and acorns emerging at regular intervals at the very top. There were plane trees on either side, and every window appeared to be lit, sending milky warm shadows out over the lake.
“Not a bad pile, huh?” He said, his own eyes mirroring her exploration with considerably less wonderment.
Finn shook her head to clear the web of admiration and pushed the car forward. She stopped at the entrance way, and then stepped from the vehicle with every intention of opening the rear passenger door.
But Caradoc was there first, swinging his legs out and standing so that their bodies almost touched.
“Don’t open the door for me,” he said darkly.
Her smile was weak. “It’s my job.”
“Not now.” He closed the door, but didn’t move away from her. “You’ll come and see me tonight.”
“I …” She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Caradoc?” A very fine, brittle voice interrupted the words he’d been about to speak. Or had he been about to kiss her? To show her how amazing their connection would be?
His eyes were flecked with annoyance. “Later,” he promised, and he made do with reaching down and squeezing her hand. “You can’t fight this.”
Then he turned, just as the woman in possession of the voice appeared from the house, like a dark wraith from the reeds of the lake. She was tall and slender – so slim she looked like she might snap with a heavy gust of wind. She was dressed in head to toe black, and her long blonde hair was loose around her shoulders. Her face, free of makeup, was beautiful. Her eyes were red-rimmed.
“Thank God you’re here.” She addressed him without paying any heed to Seraphina. Then again, she was used to that. Her job was, for the most part, to be unseen. She slipped back into the driver’s seat and gently shut the door. The engine was still running. She checked her mirror to be sure they were several feet away from the car, and then she nudged it forward, towards the garages at the rear of the property, per her instructions.
Was that Caradoc’s step-mother? She barely looked older than him. He must have been in his early thirties; she might have been late thirties. Possibly early forties. Certainly not in the same age bracket as Caradoc’s father must have been.
What did it matter to her?
She couldn’t pursue this fascination. It was dangerous. So, so dangerous for her. She shivered as she remembered how it had felt when his fingers had gripped hers. How his hands had felt on her shoulders?
It was too good.
In the solitude of the car, she let out a groan now.
The garage was easy enough to find. The building was separate to the house, and had several wide timber gates along its frontage. One had been left open, and as she approached, a young man wearing jeans and a grey anorak appeared.
He strolled to the driver’s window with an easy athleticism and made a motion for her to wind it down. She pressed the button and he propped his elbows against it. “Heya,” he said, his smile broad, crinkling his cheeks with dimples. “You just come up from London?” His accent was Irish.
“Yeah,” she nodded, trying to put Caradoc from her mind. “I’m Finn.”
“Finn, pleasure. I’m Dougal. I run the cars here at Bagleyhurst.” He nodded towards the garage. “You made good time.”
“Did we?” It had felt like it, but perhaps that was because she’d been so pleasurably distracted. “I got a flat on the way out; had to pull over to swap it. I presume you’ve got a mending kit?”
“Yeah, I’ll give you a hand with it on the ‘morrow.”
“That’s okay,” she said with a shrug. “I can do it.”
“Okay then, I’ll watch.” He pushed up from the window. “Head her into this bay then I’l
l show you your room.”
“Thanks.” She felt better instantly. Safer. This was much more familiar ground. This man – Dougal – was like her. He worked for the family and he was setting up clear boundaries that she was happy to keep to.
She cut the engine and stepped out, grateful to be at their destination. Dougal was at the boot, lifting her bag out. “I can get that,” she said, reaching for it.
“It’s no trouble.” His smile was gentle. “I live upstairs,” he nodded above the garage. “It’s real nice. Old Gower had it fitted out years ago for my predecessor. An old family friend, I think. In any event, when he retired, I took over. Best quarters any mechanic in the country’s got, I’ll wager.”
“It must be nice to have your own space.”
“Absolutely. My job before this was at a smaller house and I was in a flat attached to the main building. My wall abutted the kids’ room. And boy, were they little devils.” He grimaced. “Up all night screaming like drunken banshees.” He shuddered. “Put me off ever having me own, that’s for sure.”
She smothered her smile by angling her head towards the house.
“This place is something else.”
“Yeah, sure is,” he agreed, following the direction of her gaze. “Been in the Moore family for centuries.”
Her curiosity was more than piqued. “I wonder if there’s any books on it.”
“Oh, sure there is. In the library. I’ll grab some for you if you’re interested.”
“Yeah,” she nodded. “That’d be great.”
The gravel crunched underfoot. He stopped by a bright green door with Ivy trailing over either side. “This is the servants’ entrance.” He pushed the door inwards, and an inviting little service corridor appeared. Boots and coats hung happily on either side, and there was a table with mail and papers. Beyond it, there was a narrow, highly-sheened staircase. “It’s one of the features of the old home that old Gower decided to stick with. Didn’t see any reason to break with tradition and let the servants go.”
“How many … servants … work here?” She wondered curiously.
Dougal frowned and rubbed his chin in thought. “Well, there’s three housekeepers who work around the clock. Then about …” He paused to count properly, “I’d say about nineteen or twenty domestics, and three gardeners, then me.”
“That’s … a lot of staff,” she said with lifted brows.
“Well, did you see the size of the place?” He teased, placing her bag down so that he could take her coat and hang it over a vacant hook. “It’s a palace. There’s thirty seven bedrooms, forty nine bathrooms, a ball room, a banquet hall, dozens of casual living spaces, three kitchens, and the biggest library you’ve likely ever seen.”
Her mind was numbed by the numbers he was quoting.
“Gower insisted that the whole house be kept maintained at all times. Unlike most of these grand old estates, where big portions remain covered over and closed off around the year, or get leased out to National Trust, Gower saw it as a matter of family pride that the house be operational.
“So there are cleaners and cooks who run around preparing bedrooms that never get slept in, dusting surfaces just so that they’re empty to accumulate more dust over the next few days.” His smile made his whole face glow. “Not that I’m complaining. He also kept a fleet of seventeen gorgeous old cars, and my job’s to tinker with ‘me until they purr like new.”
“That sounds like heaven to me,” Finn agreed, her words tinged with jealousy.
“You like to tinker?” He asked, his interest genuine.
“Oh, I love it.” She ran a hand over the front of her pants, easing out the crinkles that had formed in the long drive west. “My dad’s a mechanic. Well, he used to be. Now it’s a bit beyond him. But I grew up under cars. I know them as well as I know people.”
“Then you’ll have to come check out the old Daimler I’m working on now.”
“I’d love that,” she promised genuinely.
“Tomorrow.” He grinned. “I can see you’d happily bring a torch down now if I suggested it.”
“Yeah.” Anything to keep Caradoc from her mind.
“Come on. You’re up this way.” He took the stairs two at a time, his shoes making slight scuffing noises as he moved upstairs.
“You’re going to have to polish that, lad,” A frail voice called, but it was thick with amusement.
He paused and rolled his eyes, then lowered his voice to a whisper. “That’s Mavis Owen. The main housekeeper, she’s been here since she was fourteen, and her mother before her. You’d swear she was deaf as a doornail but when it comes to this place. She hears every squeak and groan, any broken plate or dish. Heaven forbid a window gets let up when the heating’s on.”
He began to move again, but this time more slowly and with greater care. For her part, Finn stepped gently so that her heels didn’t divot the timber.
At the landing he swept a hand down a carpeted corridor. “Fourteen rooms along here. These are where most of the domestics live. You’re this way.” He pushed through another door, into a different corridor, and led her along it.
There were paintings on the walls, mostly still-life works that reminded her of the impressionists. He paused outside a timber door and then pushed it inwards, stepping back to allow her entry ahead of him.
“This is one of the family’s guest rooms,” he explained. At her look of consternation, he shook his head. “We use it whenever we’ve got extra help in the house. The usual rooms are full, and this is still far enough away to feel like you’re not in anyone’s way.” He crinkled his eyes together. “In fact, apart from my apartment, this is probably the most private room in the place. You’ve got only a store cupboard on one side and a never-used study on the other. Plus, you’ve got your own bathroom, and a nice view over the lake and Italian garden,” he said, following her into the room and placing her bag at the foot of the bed. “See?” He nodded toward the grounds.
It was too dark to make much out besides the pointed shapes of what would turn out to be lavender and rosemary bushes.
“It’s great. But I like to be near my car,” she said weakly.
“Ah, I know how you feel,” he agreed in his lilting way. “Here,” he led her to a small black phone. “This links right to my apartment. I fitted in meself yesterday. You can pick it up anytime you need the car, and I’ll get it running.”
“What about if Cara – Mr Moore – needs me?”
“He’ll call the garage and I’ll call you.” He lifted the handset and unplugged it. “This is portable. You can take it out if you’re in the house, or within a few hundred metres of the house. They’ve got a great range.”
“Oh.”
“But don’t worry. If His Nibs needs to go out and you’re not around, I can take him. I drove for Gower for years. I’m hoping Caradoc’ll keep me ‘round still.”
She nodded distractedly.
“Did ‘e give you any impression on his plans?”
“His plans?” Her heart raced, thinking of what he’d suggested by the car.
“With the place?” He shoved his hands in his pocket, but Finn suspected that was from coldness rather than nerves. Dougal had an open and unaffected manner. He seemed unlikely to be affected by anxiety. “Some of the girls was asking, is all.”
“Right,” she nodded. “I’m sorry, he didn’t say. Then again, why would he? I just met him today, after all.”
“Yeah, and a man like him’s hardly likely to deign to chat to us underlings, eh.”
She smiled awkwardly and turned away on the pretence of studying the view with renewed enthusiasm.
“I suspect ‘e’ll go back to New York just as soon as the funeral’s dealt with. Got too much of a life there to leave, or so they say.”
“Does he?” She despised herself for asking. But how could she not be curious?
“Caradoc Moore? Yeah. He’ll never leave the states permanently. Makes you wonder what he’ll make of all thi
s.”
“Why do you say that?” She tried her hardest to sound idly interested, but couldn’t have said that she achieved any measure of success.
“Come on. He’s like a God of Wall Street. You must have heard of him.”
“That seems to be a common assumption today,” she said with a shake of her head. A God of Wall Street?
“Caradoc Moore! He’s a devil or a saint, depending on who you listen to. One man’s saviour is another’s saboteur.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s made a fortune by running down bad companies. I don’t understand the way it works, for my part. Somehow he picks a mob that’re not doin’ too well and makes a fortune from it.”
“Does he really?” What the heck did that even entail?
“Don’t ask me to explain it to you,” he chortled. “It’s all Greek so far as I care. But he’s made a killing. An absolute slaughter. That much I get.”
“Yeah. Cause he was so in need of money,” she responded with a droll shake of her head, waving her hand to gesture towards the house.
“Actually, until recently, Gower had cut him from the will. Not sure what changed his heart, but about three years ago, Caradoc started coming up in conversation all the time.”
“Gower talked to you?”
“Nah. He talked around me,” Dougal shrugged. “He was always on his phone in the car. I got the impression he had begun to think the sun shone out of his son’s arse.”
She didn’t want to hear anymore. None of this was her business. Caradoc was her boss. He’d hired her to do a job. That was all.
Whatever madness had been brewing in the car would likely be forgotten – by both of them. At least, it ought to be.
“Well,” she said distractedly. “I’m tired after the drive. I’m just going to freshen up and unpack.”
“Right-o. Dinner’s served in about an hour, down in the kitchen.”
“Where’s that?”
He grinned. “Back the way we came, but turn right at the bottom of the stairs. You won’t be able to miss it. Our noise’ll call to you.”
“Okay. I might see you then.”
The Terms of Their Affair Page 3