by Liz Fielding
‘Order it now,’ she advised.
The ring was beautiful.
He’d called in on his way back from town to give it to her. She’d only just got in from work when the doorbell rang, and she’d assumed that it was a neighbour calling to pick up a box of oddments she’d promised for the church bring-and-buy sale. But it had been Fergus. Distinguished, handsome, in a long dark overcoat, his hair and shoulders sparkling with fine rain, the early promise of summer having disappeared quite as quickly as it had arrived.
‘You’re going out,’ he said, seeing her jacket.
‘No. No, I’ve just got home.’ And she stood back. ‘Come in, Fergus.’ He’d dropped her at her door on Friday night. Walked her right up to it, kissed her cheek and seen her inside. But he hadn’t stepped over the threshold. Now he did, and never before had the hall of her cottage seemed quite so small. ‘Would you like a coffee? A drink, perhaps?’ she offered.
‘I’m driving, but a coffee would be most welcome.’ He followed her through to the kitchen, where she discarded her jacket on a stool and filled the kettle.
It was odd, but she felt embarrassed. No, not embarrassed; that was the wrong word. Awkward. A little breathless and tongue-tied. Like a teenager with a boy she is desperate to date, but doesn’t know how because she hasn’t got the vocabulary to start up a conversation, bridge the yawning gulf between them. Nearly thirty years old, with a successful career to which communication was the key, and she couldn’t think of a thing to say.
She set out the cups on a tray. Poured milk into a jug. ‘Do you take sugar?’ she asked. Oh, brilliant.
‘No.’
‘Actually, that’s just as well, because I don’t think I have—’
‘I’ve brought the ring,’ he said, cutting short the stilted conversation. Now that was communication.
Her head came up. ‘So soon? I mean …’ She wasn’t entirely sure what she meant.
‘I thought you might like to wear it on Wednesday, and I wanted to be sure it was a good fit.’
‘Oh, heavens, yes. I wouldn’t want to risk losing it.’
As she was speaking he took a small leather-covered box from his pocket, opened it, took out the ring and the words dried in her mouth.
‘It’s very simple, but I thought you would prefer that.’
He held the circle of gold between his fingers, the diamond flashing back the light from the spotlights over the island unit, and waited for her to hold out her hand so that he could slide it on to her finger. But her fingers were shaking so much that she had them balled up into a fist.
Deep breath. Nick had called her the ice queen. She could do with a little of that ice right now.
‘This is silly,’ she admitted finally, ‘but my hand is shaking. I’ve never done this before.’
‘Not even with the earl?’
‘We never got that far. It was a family heirloom and he was a cautious man … ’
Dark eyes seemed to flash like the diamond as he looked down into her face. ‘Would you believe me if I told you that mine is shaking, too?’ He extended his left hand so that she could see the faintest of tremors for herself, then he reached out and grasped hers, held it for a moment so that they steadied one another as they stared at the ring. ‘It seems we’re both firsttimers at this.’
‘I suppose, if you get it right, once is all it takes.’
She looked up, and for a moment their gazes locked and held. Then he slipped the ring on to her finger and bent to brush her lips with his own. The briefest of touches, a formality, over before she had quite registered it.
‘It’s quite lovely,’ she said, on a little catch of breath. And it was. A perfect solitaire. Exactly what she would have chosen if this had been for real. And she felt a tiny clench of regret that it wasn’t. Which was ridiculous. This was just a game, a little conspiracy, and she raised her head and looked him right in the face. ‘I’ll look after it. Give it back.’
‘Give it back?’ He shrugged, as if he hadn’t thought about that. ‘Why don’t you throw it back,’ he suggested, ‘very publicly?’
‘Is that how we’re going to play it?’
‘Why not? We could go to some fashionable London restaurant, the kind of place where you can guarantee anything that happens will be in the newspapers before breakfast time.’ He offered a smile. ‘I really couldn’t put your mother through the nightmare of having to call everyone and explain.’
‘That’s kinder than she deserves.’
‘It’s also more likely to be reported,’ he pointed out.
‘Yes, I suppose it is.’ She gave a little sigh. ‘Then I’m glad I chose a diamond. It will make a far more satisfactory flash.’ She turned the ring again, and it did indeed flash most spectacularly. ‘But I’ll hate to part with it.’
‘There’s no particular rush, Veronica.’
‘Dora’s wedding is less than two weeks away. After that—’
‘After that there’ll be other weddings. Other family parties. We might as well make the most of it.’
‘We mustn’t let things go too far. My mother will be organising invitations, getting quotes from caterers—’
‘I’ll call a halt the moment you say the word, Veronica. I’ll book a table at one of those restaurants staked out by the paparazzi and we’ll stage a breakup that will make the all the papers—’
‘That sounds perfectly dreadful.’
‘Well, there’s no rush.’
‘No, I suppose not.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
VERONICA, who had been turning the ring on her finger, glanced up at him, caught the smile on his face. ‘If I didn’t know better, Fergus, I would think you’re actually enjoying this,’ she said rather crossly.
‘Would you?’ He eased himself out of his coat and hooked it behind the kitchen door before crossing to the kettle, which had just come to the boil and switched itself off. He poured the water on the coffee, perfectly at ease in her kitchen. ‘There’s no reason why we shouldn’t enjoy ourselves, is there?’
‘Well, no, but—’
‘Good, because I’ve reserved a box for the new play that’s opening at the theatre this Friday.’
‘You’ve done what?’
‘If you’re free, that is?’
‘I’d better not have a date with anyone else, had I?’ she said, torn between irritation at his highhandedness and the knowledge that an evening in his company was something she would enjoy. ‘Come to think of it, neither had you,’ she said. And there were no mixed feelings about that. In fact, the thought gave her a whole lot of pleasure.
‘I’m glad you see it that way. Perhaps we could take in a concert too.’
She discovered she was finding it hard not to smile. ‘As a sponsor of the local orchestra, it would seem to be your duty.’
‘On Saturday, then. After the Cup Final.’
‘My social life is looking up.’ And she quite suddenly laughed. He always made her want to laugh. ‘Why don’t we make a weekend of it, spend Sunday afternoon strolling around the museum? I haven’t actually seen your mother’s potsherds. I ought to, don’t you think?’
‘Everyone should see them once,’ he agreed solemnly, pushing down the strainer on the cafetière and pouring the coffee into two cups.
‘Like Venice?’
‘As in “see Venice and die”? Don’t you think we should save Venice for our honeymoon?’
‘My parents went to Venice for their honeymoon.’
‘Annette told me. In fact, she thoroughly recommended it. Where would you like to stay? The Danielli?’
This was a game, Veronica reminded herself as she considered his choice of hotel. Just a game. ‘Too many marble cherubs,’ she objected. ‘Besides, I like to ride when I’m on holiday. Venice is a mite short of bridle paths.’
‘That’s true. What about Tuscany?’
‘In November? Don’t they get thunderstorms there?’
He grinned at her. ‘Are you going to be terribly difficu
lt to please?’
‘Terribly,’ she assured him. ‘We’ll probably fight about it.’
‘In that case I’ll give the matter some thought before making any further suggestions,’ he promised, sliding on to a stool. ‘But if you like to ride, why don’t we make a day of it on Sunday? Come back to Marlowe Court for supper after the concert and we can ride first thing, swim if it’s warm enough, have lunch … and, speaking of food,’ he continued, without waiting for her to accept or decline his invitation, ‘what had you planned for dinner this evening?’
‘I’m sorry?’ The pace of the conversation was going a little quickly for her. Stay at Marlowe Court on Saturday night? Just what exactly did he have in mind?
‘Had you planned anything? Or are you one of those working women who doesn’t bother much about food?’
She stared at him. ‘Are you checking out my qualifications as a wife, by any chance?’ she asked sharply.
‘Why would I do that?’ he enquired easily, as if he hadn’t noticed her sudden loss of cool. ‘I have a housekeeper who is quite capable of dealing with any domestic chore you care to name. I was simply going to offer to scramble some eggs for us both. With truffles. What do you say?’
Say? ‘If you want to know the honest truth, Fergus, I’m lost for words.’
‘I’ll take that as a yes, then, shall I?’ He swallowed a mouthful of coffee and slid off the stool. ‘I’ve got some eggs in the car.’
‘I’ve got plenty of eggs,’ she protested.
‘Free range eggs from Marlowe Court’s home farm?’ She lifted her shoulders in a gesture of resignation. ‘I thought not. And I picked up the truffles at Fortnum’s this afternoon. So why don’t you go and put your feet up while I prepare our supper?’
‘But …’ Veronica was confused. She had preconceived ideas about how men were supposed to behave. This did not even come close.
‘Yes?’
‘You don’t know where anything is,’ she said lamely.
Fergus paused in the doorway. ‘Is your kitchen so very different from everyone else’s?’ he enquired.
‘Well, no, but—’
‘You know, Veronica, I have the strongest feeling that if I even suggested you needed my help to read a balance sheet, you’d snap my head off. Am I right?’
‘Probably,’ she admitted.
‘Equal is as equal does, partner.’ Then he grinned. ‘You can wash up.’
Veronica didn’t put her feet up. Instead, she went upstairs and changed from her business suit into a pair of softly pleated trousers and a toning tunic top. Freshened her lipstick. Brushed out her hair. By the time she came downstairs, her supper was ready. Creamy scrambled eggs, dotted with truffles, were heaped up on two warm plates. A third contained a pile of toast triangles. ‘You don’t mind eating in the kitchen, do you?’ he asked.
‘I usually do.’ She slipped on to a stool at the breakfast bar on the centre island while Fergus poured her a glass of wine and himself a glass of mineral water.
‘This is a real treat. Thank you, Fergus.’
‘Any time. Although why you should sound so surprised … ’
‘Natural scepticism, I suppose. Nick Jefferson once offered to cook for me,’ Veronica said, as they ate their way slowly through the toast and the eggs, savouring every mouthful. ‘He had a cook hiding in the kitchen all the time.’
Fergus frowned. ‘I thought Nick Jefferson was married.’
‘Oh, he is,’ she said, and turned to smile at him. ‘He married the cook.’ She bit into the last piece of buttered toast. ‘I’m beginning to see the attraction.’
‘If that’s an attempt to wriggle out of the washing up,’ he said, gathering the plates and dumping them into the sink, ‘I have to tell you that flattery will do it every time.’
‘Oh, no, Fergus—’
But he had unfastened his cufflinks and begun to roll up his sleeves. Then he picked up the drying cloth and offered it to her. ‘Diamonds and dishes don’t mix.’
‘No, I suppose not.’ She held out her hand to admire the diamond sparkling on her finger, oddly reluctant to remove it, the smallest of sighs giving her away. But, before she could slip it off, Fergus reached out and caught her hand.
‘Leave it.’ For a moment it was as if time had stopped. Just a moment when his hand covered hers, when the darkness of his eyes, the silver of hers, seemed to collide and lock, the electricity arcing between them like summer lightning. Even her pulse missed its constant beat.
Then it was over. Her hand was her own once more, he was offering her the drying cloth and it might have been nothing but imagination. ‘Leave it, Veronica. I’ll wash, you dry.’
They worked in silence. The kind of silence that was heavy with meaning, a silence that a wrong word—or the right one—could fracture, and change lives for ever. She glanced at him as he rinsed off a plate and placed it in the rack. What was it about the man that seemed to stir something deep, almost primitive inside her? Something that she didn’t recognise or understand. Something that frightened her just a little. He turned, caught her watching him. ‘All done,’ he said briskly. Then, ‘I’d better go.’
‘You won’t stay for coffee?’ She knew she’d said that too quickly, had sounded too eager. Eager? What on earth was happening to her?
‘I’ve work to do,’ he replied. And he’d said that too quickly as well. Whatever was happening, it wasn’t just her. Then, ‘I spent the afternoon in Bond Street instead of at my desk.’
Confusion and just a little disappointment made her sharp. ‘I’m sorry to have been so much bother.’
‘Did I say it was a bother?’ He reached out as if to touch her, reassure her, but didn’t quite bridge the space between them. ‘I have a report to write for my stockholders, and you know stockholders; they think they own you.’ She smiled politely, but was painfully aware that the smile didn’t make it past her mouth.
Fergus unrolled his sleeves and picked up one of his cufflinks. His report, and his stockholders, could have waited until the morning, but he had to get out of this kitchen, and quickly, before he did something stupid, like reaching out and taking her hand, pulling her into his arms in a prelude to making slow, sweet love. Not because he thought she would object. On the contrary, the air was rich, heavy with tension, mute longing. They were two adults in a situation tailor-made for an affair, and her invitation to stay had included more than coffee, whether she had known it at the moment of utterance or not.
All he had to do was reach out, touch her silver-blonde hair and she would be in his arms, and he wouldn’t be going anywhere for a very long time.
The temptation was like a fire; it had come from a spark, the idea to call and surprise her this evening with a ring, with supper. Now it was an inferno, burning him from the inside out.
He was resisting for only one reason. Making love with her, delightful though it might be, was not enough. It would never be enough. He’d set out from his home on Friday morning with nothing more on his mind than a determination to avoid matrimony. By Friday night he hadn’t been able to think of anything else. He wanted her there beside him when he woke up every morning for the rest of his life. And for that he would have to wait until she wanted it too.
He glanced down at his cuff. Fastening his cufflinks was something he did on automatic every morning of his life, he’d never had to think about it, but suddenly his fingers were refusing to co-operate.
The knowledge that Veronica was watching his fumbling efforts was not helping. ‘Are you ready to give up, Fergus?’ she asked after a moment.
The cufflink shot from his fingers and flew across the kitchen floor. She picked it up, offered it to him, but his hands were shaking too much to take the wretched thing from her. He was pretty sure she knew that too.
‘Give up?’ he repeated, stalling for time.
‘Give up and admit that your sisters are right.’ She folded his cuff back and bent to slip the link through the buttonholes. Her hair slid across his ar
m and her scent seemed to envelop him. More than just the gardenias in her perfume, this was much more, something that was Veronica: the essence of her skin, her hair, her entire body, calling to something deep, something untouched within him. It invaded him with its drugging sweetness and he was ready to admit anything …
She glanced up, her silvered eyes dark and lustrous, and held out her hand for the other one. It was as steady as a rock and he resented that. He wanted her trembling, incoherent, as he was at that moment, with desire. He wanted to take her hand, cradle it in his so that she would know; he wanted to kiss her palm, the pale skin at her wrist, the delicate skin of her inner arm as he drew her into the warmth of his body. Once there, she would feel his need of her. Once there, he would hold her and never let her go.
Instead, he dropped the other link into her palm. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ he asked.
For a moment her hand closed on the plain gold link. Then she essayed the smallest of shrugs. ‘I thought we had agreed, Fergus, that when a man can’t handle his own cufflinks, he needs a wife to take care of him.’
He didn’t answer. His sisters knew nothing.
After a moment she folded back the other cuff and fastened it for him. As she leaned across him her hair brushed his cheek, sensuous as silk; the temptation to touch it, lift it and let it fall through his fingers, to stroke the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck, was an exquisite torture. His body stirred, needing her so desperately that he wanted to shout it loud, roar like some savage before he burst, certain that if he didn’t take her into his arms that very moment he would go mad.
‘Veronica …’ But her name was little more than a breath as he whispered it. For a moment she was quite still, as if she was not certain that she had heard, then she looked up and his senses reeled with a raw need to make love with her. To tell her how he felt, that this was it, a once and for ever love—
But somewhere, deep inside him, a klaxon was clamouring a warning that it was too soon. That, even if it was possible that she had fallen in love with him as he had with her she wouldn’t believe it. Worse. She wouldn’t want to believe it. Her bed might be his tonight for the asking, but he wanted her heart, her soul, her very being … and he wanted them for ever.