Mistress by Agreement

by Helen Brooks

  ‘You wish.’

  ‘Oh, I do, Rosie, I do. I wish for all sorts of things, things that would make your hair curl.’

  The heat in his eyes left her in no doubt as to what form these wishes took and she grabbed for her orange juice, swallowing it hastily. When she nerved herself to look at him again he was calmly eating his food, a twist to the firm mouth telling her he had loved every moment of the little skirmish.

  Breakfast set the tone for the day. For the first time in years Rosalie found herself being looked after. They had a lazy morning in the garden with the Saturday papers, and it was Kingsley who saw to elevenses, bringing out the most delicious whipped-cream coffee and shortbread fingers to her where she sat reclining in one of Beth’s deckchairs. For lunch he took her off to a nearby riverside pub, where they sat in the shade of a huge red and blue striped umbrella, drinking velvety smooth, cold draught Guinness and eating chicken in the basket, whilst watching a pair of swans teaching their new signets the tricks of the trade and marshalling them into order every now and again.

  Rosalie had phoned Beth’s mobile three times during the morning, and just before they had left for lunch her aunt had got back to her informing her that Jeff had a bad attack of flu but that was all. ‘I feel I want to stay the night up here, though, if that’s okay with you?’ Beth had said anxiously. ‘I just want to be with him for a while, after the shock and everything. Will you and Kingsley cope all right? There’s steaks in the fridge I’d got in for tonight, and salad and baby new potatoes, and a whole stack of frozen desserts in the freezer. Don’t go hungry, will you?’

  There was no chance of that. After a drive in the afternoon Kingsley stopped at a cottage advertising cream teas, and the mouth-watering homemade scones brim full with jam and cream and cream cakes melted in the mouth. Kingsley won the heart of the elderly owner by asking for a second round, and by the time they left they had had the older woman’s life story, including the account of the giddy affair she’d had in the war with a visiting GI. ‘Spoke just like you, he did,’ the rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed lady—who wasn’t an inch over four feet ten inches—said confidingly to Kingsley. ‘And with the accent and his charm, the local lads didn’t stand a chance. Course, everyone told me it’d come to nothing, but I loved him and he loved me. No doubt about that. But he got killed, see. Just a week before the war ended. I’ve had three husbands since then. Divorced one and buried two but there was still no one like my Hank.’

  Rosalie hadn’t known whether she’d wanted to laugh or cry. The little woman was a born comic and she had known it too, regaling them with one story after another about her life, which had been a fruitful one to say the least, but there had been something in her eyes when she’d spoken about her Hank that had gripped Rosalie’s heart and made it ache. It hadn’t helped that as they’d been leaving the lady had grabbed Rosalie’s arm, forcing her to bend her head closer to the lavender-scented little body, whereupon the woman had whispered, ‘Don’t you let him get away, dear; you’ll regret it the rest of your life if you do. And I know. Oh, yes, I know all right.’

  ‘What did she say to you?’

  Kingsley had gone ahead and was waiting on the threshold, holding open the door for her, and as Rosalie edged through the narrow aperture with her crutches she said quietly, ‘Nothing really. Just that she still misses Hank.’

  He shook his head as they walked towards the car. ‘That’s a real shame after all these years.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, it is.’ She glanced at him as he walked beside her, so attractive he made her head spin. He smelled nice. A clean, sharp aftershave with a faint scent of lemons, she thought distractedly, suddenly aware she would remember this moment—the bright sunshine, the man at her side, the smells and colours—for the rest of her life. It produced a feeling so poignant it was physically painful.

  She was getting in too deep here. Panic had her heart beating a tattoo. This seductive feeling of being enclosed in his aura, of being safe from the buffeting of the storms of life, was an illusion. At the moment he wanted her in his bed and so everything was hunky-dory. All that could change with the wind.

  He opened the car door for her, taking the crutches as she lowered herself into the seat and slinging them in the back before he walked round to the driver’s side. She watched him, the little old lady’s words ringing in her ears. But the woman hadn’t known that they were just ships passing in the night, that Kingsley wouldn’t want it any other way and neither would she. She wouldn’t, she reiterated fiercely when her heart lurched. He wanted a brief affair; she didn’t even want that.

  Home again, Kingsley saw to the two cats who met them on the drive as though they hadn’t been fed in years and were starving. Stiff tall tails expressed feline disapproval at the lateness of the hour—eight o’clock just wasn’t an acceptable dinner time in their opinion.

  ‘Steak, salad and new potatoes okay for you?’ Rosalie asked when she joined him in the kitchen after checking the answer machine for messages. ‘Beth’s left us well provided for.’

  ‘Sounds great.’ On the way to the cottage the evening before he had insisted on stopping at an off-licence and buying several bottles of—what was to Rosalie—frighteningly expensive wine, and now he said, ‘Which wine would you prefer: red, white or rosé?’

  ‘Rosé, please.’ They’d had a bottle of Kingsley’s wine the night before as well as one Beth had provided, and she had to admit—wine connoisseur that her aunt was— Kingsley’s had had the edge. Of course he wasn’t supporting three children all doing their own thing at university or whatever, she qualified hastily, as though the thought had been disloyal to her aunt in some way. ‘And while I get underway with the food, you could set the dining table if you like,’ she added. The dining room was much more formal than the way they’d eaten breakfast, close together at the kitchen table, with his shoulder seeming to brush against her every so often, and she needed the distance between them—mentally as well as geographically. It might be weak and pathetic but that was the way she felt.

  ‘It’s a beautiful evening, why not alfresco?’ Kingsley suggested lazily. ‘I believe in making the most of summer.’

  ‘If you like.’ Beth’s round wooden patio table was an enormous one with eight chairs—bought in mind for when the children and their partners descended—and again was less cosy than the kitchen.

  After opening the wine Kingsley left a glass at her elbow before wandering off. Rosalie was determined to make the fairly plain meal as good as she could, and after seasoning the steaks she put them under the grill on a very low heat, and with the potatoes bubbling away she set to work preparing the salad. The beauty of Beth being such an accomplished cook was that she usually had every ingredient you could imagine somewhere in the kitchen, along with plenty of fresh vegetables and fruit.

  Tomatoes, avocado, baby spinach, celeriac, apple, walnuts—that should be enough. Rosalie cut and grated, and was just mixing a creamy dressing—one of her aunt’s recipes—consisting of double cream, dry mustard, lemon thyme, black pepper and nutmeg, the juice of an orange and lemon, and a teaspoon of Barbados sugar, when Kingsley reappeared, dipping his finger in the mixture and licking it. ‘Mmm, gorgeous.’ He eyed her wickedly. ‘And the dressing tastes great too.’

  She couldn’t help but smile, even as she said warningly, ‘No tasting until I say so.’

  ‘Promises, promises…’

  He refilled their glasses before coming to stand near as she mixed a pinch of coriander and parsley with garlic butter for the potatoes once they were cooked. He gently brushed a wisp of hair from her forehead, his touch feather-light, and Rosalie felt the contact shudder through her body.

  ‘Could you check how the steaks are doing?’ Her voice was breathless and she heard it with a dart of despair. She had to get a handle on all this. The trouble was she was a bunch of contradictions where Kingsley was concerned, she admitted silently. Part of her wished she had never met him, and the other part was beginning to wonder how sh
e had managed for so long without him in her life. And that was dangerous.

  She pounded the butter to within an inch of its life before she became aware that Kingsley was looking at her thoughtfully. ‘Is that better?’ he asked softly.

  ‘Is what better?’ she prevaricated carefully, the tell-tale burning in her cheeks causing a feeling of acute irritation with both Kingsley and herself. Why did she have to blush so easily? It was such a give-away.

  ‘Now you’ve worked off some of that excess frustration, do you feel more relaxed?’ he asked with aggravating composure.

  She glared at him. ‘How are the steaks?’

  ‘Well and happy and demanding to be eaten.’ He walked over to her. ‘So why don’t you hobble off like a good girl and sit down and I’ll bring everything through?’

  The glare intensified. ‘I’ve got to drain the potatoes and—’

  ‘I am more than capable of doing that. You’ve done all the hard work, now it’s my turn.’ He handed her her glass of wine. ‘Concentrate on getting to the patio with that without spilling it, okay?’ He picked up the salad bowl and then the smaller one holding the dressing. ‘Vamoose, woman!’

  She really couldn’t do anything else. By the time she had limped through to the sitting room, which led to the patio area, Kingsley was already on his way back to the kitchen, smiling at her with an unsettling blend of amusement and softness as he passed.

  She was glad he wasn’t with her when she walked onto the patio because she groaned out loud. He had set a corner of the table intimately for two, two candles burning in small star-shaped crystal holders and a vase of richly perfumed white roses between them. A small scalloped tablecloth covered the area of the table they were sitting at, and he’d used Beth’s best plates—white china edged with platinum—and silver cutlery.

  The sky had provided its own magnificent backdrop to the scene, its dusky blue streaked with tumescent crimson and violet and enriched with bands of gold, and the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle vied with the heavy perfume of the roses to create a riot on the senses.

  She stood staring for a moment or two, the soft indigo dusk beyond the table warm and fragrant, and then slowly made her way to her seat. So much for distance.

  Kingsley reappeared in the next moment with the potatoes and wine, looking at her with shadowed eyes. He refilled her wineglass, which had been almost empty, before he went back to the kitchen with the plates for the steaks, but he didn’t speak and neither did Rosalie. Not until he was back and sitting beside her. Then she said, ‘This is the way summer evenings should always be,’ raising her wineglass as she added, ‘To the new hotel and the continuing success of Ward Enterprises.’

  He gave a phantom of a smile as he lifted his own glass. ‘To the most beautiful quantity surveyor I’ve ever seen and getting to know each other.’

  He noticed the withdrawal in her eyes his words brought forth but he didn’t comment on it, gentling his voice still further as he said, ‘Let me serve you.’ And then he released her gaze, reaching out and picking up the bowl holding the succulently coated potatoes.

  They talked of inconsequential things as the meal progressed and within minutes Rosalie was wrapped in his easy mood. He set out to make her laugh and he succeeded, creating a lazy, relaxed atmosphere enhanced by the sleeping garden and the whispering stillness of the velvet night. The moon rose, the sky becoming a dark canopy pierced with tiny flickering lights, and the rest of the world outside the garden melted away.

  It was Kingsley who cleared away the dishes, returning after a while with a board containing a selection of cheeses and crackers, and another holding green and red grapes, after they’d agreed they were too full for one of Beth’s rich desserts.

  He handed her a cup of coffee with thick whipped cream floating on top, similar to the one he’d made earlier in the day, but this time there was the taste of orange liqueur along with the fragrant spices.

  ‘This is delicious,’ Rosalie murmured as he sat down beside her again, one arm draped casually on the back of her chair. ‘Where did you learn to make coffee like this?’

  He shrugged ‘I don’t remember.’

  She stared at him. There had been something, just the faintest something that told her he was lying. He remembered all too well. Rosalie straightened in her chair. ‘It was her, wasn’t it?’ she said flatly. ‘The woman you mentioned last night, the one where you got your fingers burnt?’

  He didn’t prevaricate further. ‘Yes, it was.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say so?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Because I didn’t think mentioning another woman would add to the evening,’ he said bluntly.

  ‘Do you mind talking about her?’

  He removed his arm from the back of her chair, settling back in his seat and folding his arms as he looked at her quizzically. ‘Which means you think I do,’ he observed softly. Then he shrugged. ‘The answer is no, not now. Not for a long time.’

  She knew it wasn’t fair to ask because she wasn’t prepared to reciprocate regarding Miles, but she couldn’t help herself. ‘What happened?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Maria was Italian and worked at one of my father’s hotels. We were in love, or so I thought. What I didn’t know was that I was one of many. She liked nice things, you see, and where she had come from—in a particularly poor area of Naples—a beautiful girl could make a lot of money very quickly in the age-old way. Shocked?’ he asked softly.

  ‘No,’ she lied quickly. ‘Of course I’m not shocked.’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘So…so you finished with her?’ she said carefully.

  ‘Not exactly.’ He drained the cup of coffee. ‘The way I found out about all the others was when she ran off with some rich oil baron she’d forgotten to mention when we got engaged. She obviously considered him a better bet than a hotel owner’s son. I’m not complaining. It was the spur I needed to take hold of the business by the throat and shake it into shape. It also taught me a salutary lesson that I’ve never forgotten. Women lie best when they’re in the horizontal position.’

  She blinked. ‘Some women don’t lie at all.’

  He smiled, coldly. ‘I told you mentioning another woman wouldn’t add anything to the evening.’

  ‘It’s not mentioning her, it’s that last statement,’ she returned heatedly. ‘Lumping all women under the same banner.’

  ‘Something you would never do with regard to the male sex,’ he agreed smoothly. ‘Right?’

  She stared at him, her face reflecting her shock, and such was the expression in the dove-grey eyes that Kingsley felt like the biggest heel in the world.

  She didn’t try to deny the sudden self-awareness or make excuses, thus heaping—unwittingly—coals of fire on his head. What she did say was, and in a shaking voice, ‘You’re right, I suppose I am guilty of the same crime, but I do have my reasons.’

  This was not the finish to the day he had envisaged. Damn it. And certainly not the way to penetrate that inch-thick steel armour of hers. He didn’t want to make her feel bad.

  He nodded. There was nothing else he could do. ‘I’m sure you have,’ he said flatly.

  Why was it important to make him see? Rosalie sat motionless, her head whirling. And then to her absolute amazement she found herself saying, ‘My mother didn’t altogether die of natural causes.’ She looked at him to see his reaction.

  Her mother? What the hell did her mother have to do with any of this? They were talking about this Miles guy, weren’t they? ‘I don’t understand,’ he said evenly.

  ‘My father…he…’ She didn’t know how to say it because she had never spoken it out in the whole of her life. And then she found herself telling him, clearly and almost matter-of-factly, about the night when her life had been changed for ever. How she had sat on the stairs in the dark, not daring to move, but knowing something was terribly wrong. The overwhelming sickness she’d experienced, born of fright and panic, and the vomiting. But still she hadn’t moved.


  When she finished speaking she looked into Kingsley’s face and saw the horror there. She shouldn’t have told him, she thought desperately. He was disgusted, repulsed…

  ‘Hell.’ It was deep in his throat. And then he reached out for her, pulling her into his arms and holding her tight as he said, ‘I don’t know what to say, Rosie,’ and such was the tone of his voice that she relaxed against him. He wasn’t disgusted, she thought tremblingly. And that was enough for now.

  He held her close for some time, his hands warm and strong, and then, with one hand, he tilted back her head and made her look at him. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, sincerely and softly. ‘No child should have to go through something like that.’

  She swallowed hard. This was too much; it was happening too fast. She was giving too much of herself.

  Something of her panic must have shown in her face because he kissed her lightly on the mouth, a non-demanding, easy kind of kiss, before lowering her into her seat as he said quietly, ‘Your coffee’s cold and I could do with another cup before I turn in. Won’t be a minute.’

  She stared after him as he left, and in spite of the heat redolent in the air and stone slabs of the patio after the hot June day, she shivered. Kingsley was the most exciting man she had ever met, the most attractive, the funniest—oh, she could go on for ever, but he was also the most lethal. He wanted a light-hearted little affair. He’d spelled it out for her just in case there had been any doubt. He wanted to make love to her, he’d told her. And what about her? Did she want to make love with him?

  She swept back the hair from her face helplessly. Yes, she did, but that only showed how crazy she was and what foolishness it had been to get involved with him thus far. She had told him something she’d never told another living soul, not even Miles. Her family—her grandparents, and her mother’s sisters—had never discussed the true facts about her mother’s death and her father’s suicide after the one time they had spelled out for her what she had to say as a child. It had been a dark and shameful secret, something to be hidden at all costs, that was what they’d all intimated. Perhaps it hadn’t been intentional, but that was what she’d grown up with. And it had added to the feeling that what had happened was in some way her fault. If she hadn’t been around, if she hadn’t been born, her father would have had her mother all to himself and she might still be alive.