Rachel Lindsay - Love in Disguise

by Rachel Lindsay

  Anthea swallowed hard. This was the last thing she had expected to hear. 'Me?'

  'Can you suggest anyone better?' His tone was dry. 'Whatever your reasons for taking the job, Miss Wilmot, you are my housekeeper.'

  'Only at Bartham Manor.'

  'If Miss Evans were here, I would expect her to look after me wherever I five.'

  He said nothing further and Anthea knew he was waiting for her comment. There was no reply she could give other than to agree with him, and if she wanted to see Betsy Evans safely installed here, then agree with him she must. Yet the thought of living in his London home and seeing him every day filled her with dread. It was going to be difficult enough to forget him as it was; how much more difficult it would be if she became used to daily encounters.

  'Would you like me to see if I can engage a temporary for you?' she asked.

  'Why the reluctance to leave here?' he grated. 'London is only an hour away from Reading. I'm sure your boy-friend won't consider it a deterrent.'

  She lowered her eyes, glad that he assumed her reluctance stemmed from being away from Roger. As if she cared if he lived in Tibet!

  'Well,' Mark Allen pursued, 'are you worried that absence will make the heart grow wander instead of fonder?'

  'It's only an hour away,' she shrugged. 'He won't wander far. Do you want me to leave for London with you in the morning, sir?'

  'Yes, please. And don't call me sir!' he flared suddenly.

  She stood up, her knees trembling. 'I'll be ready to leave at seven o'clock. That's your usual time, I believe.'

  'Eight o'clock will be time enough.' As she turned to the door, he stopped her with a gesture of his hand. 'What were you and Mrs. Goderick talking about upstairs in the corridor?'

  Not sure if the question was an innocent one, or if knowledge lay behind it, Anthea forced her tone to one of casualness. 'We were discussing Mr. Pollard. I understand he'll be taking over the Manor for a couple of months.'

  'Yes. That's the best way. Do you approve of his schemes?'

  'It isn't my business to approve them or not.'

  'I know that!' The thin mouth widened in a mocking smile. 'But I would still like an answer.'

  'Mr. Pollard is a good decorator,' she said evenly, 'but when the house is finished it might be more of a setting for Mrs. Goderick's personality than yours.'

  The smile was wider this time. 'You're very frank.'

  'That's what Mrs. Goderick said.'

  'Then you were quarrelling?' His glasses glinted as he moved his head sharply. 'That is the sort of remark Claudine would make if someone was getting the better of her!'

  'Then I should think she makes it rarely!'

  He chuckled, then stopped abruptly as though annoyed with himself. 'I'll see you in the morning, Miss Wilmot.'

  'Yes, Mr. Allen. Will that be all?' she asked in a toneless voice.

  'Except for your salary,' he said coolly. 'While you're in London, you'll receive an increase.'

  'That won't be necessary.'

  ‘I am the judge of what's necessary, Miss Wilmot. As long as you're in London, you will receive the same salary as Mrs. Roberts.'

  Goaded, she asked: 'What are my off-duty times, sir?'

  'I don't know. Whenever I'm not there, I suppose.' He moved away from the desk. It brought him closer to her and she took a step backwards. 'But you're quite welcome to invite your boy-friend to visit you. I don't stop my staff from entertaining their men friends, providing it's done with discretion.'

  Her cheeks flamed, but she made her voice deliberately deferential. 'I appreciate your kindness, sir. Roger isn't the type to wait outside the servants' entrance.'

  Again glasses glinted. 'Is he special?'

  'For the moment,' she said lightly.

  'Until a new one comes along, I suppose? People of your generation don't go in for long relationships.'

  'But they mean something while they last,' she retorted. 'And at least my boy-friends aren't married 1'

  His nostrils flared. 'What's that supposed to mean?'

  'Nothing,' she said hastily. 'I was just making a casual remark.'

  'You're backtracking fast, Miss Wilmot. Your remarks are never casual. I would like you to explain yourself.'

  'I shouldn't have said it,' she replied hastily.

  'But you have. And I insist on an explanation.' He came closer still, blocking her escape to the door. Dressed in black, with his tanned skin and dark hair, he could almost have passed for the devil, and though she knew the thought to be fanciful, she could not restrain a shiver.

  'Your pr-private life is your own,' she stammered, 'but it doesn't give you the right to be critical of mine. Just because—because Roger is fond of me that doesn't mean you should make snide remarks about the way I behave. How would you like it if I blamed you because Mrs. Goderick flings herself at your head?'

  'Don't you blame me?' he asked. 'I have the impression you do. That you disapprove of my relationship with her.'

  'I know nothing about your relationship with her!'

  'That hasn't stopped you from making wild conjectures about it! Your imagination has been working overtime. I can see it in the way you glare at me. Are Claudine and I lovers, do you think? Are we having an affair beneath the eyes of her unsuspecting husband?'

  'I couldn't care less if you are!' Anthea stormed. 'As long as you don't expect your housekeeper to be party to it!'

  'I doubt if I'll ever need to enlist your aid with my love affairs, Miss Wilmot.'

  'Thank heaven for that. I don't mind looking after your board, but I'm darned if I'll look after your bed!'

  'Wouldn't you?' he said savagely, and reaching out, caught her roughly by her shoulders. 'Wouldn't you like to look after my bed? Sometimes I have the feeling that you would!'

  'How dare you?' she cried, and tried to pull away from him. 'You're crazy!'

  'Am I?' His face was so close that it blocked out the rest of the room. Then his mouth came down on hers, hard and demanding, a physical reiteration of his taunting remarks.

  There was no tenderness in his kiss, only a desire for satisfaction. He wanted her and he was going to have her. She tried to struggle, but he was so close she could not move, and he pinned her back against the wall, his chest crushing her breasts, his thighs hard on her hips. Because it was impossible to push him away, she tried to turn her head. But he pulled her even closer and kissed her again; the kiss deepened, arousing her to a passion she did not want to feel but which she could not prevent. A wave of desire ran through her and she felt him respond to it. His body trembled and his hands moved across her back and down to her waist; then across the rounded curve of her stomach and up to the fuller curves of her breasts. Anthea shivered at the touch of his fingers, and the movement made him lift his head away from hers. He was staring into her eyes, but as always his glasses prevented her from reading what his own eyes might say. But the beads of perspiration on his upper Up gave evidence of his emotion, though when he drew back further still and spoke to her, his voice was more sarcastic than she had ever heard it.

  'I knew there was passion behind all that primness. Even in your erstwhile disguise I suspected it.'

  She tried to think of a wounding retort, but no words came to mind. She was bruised by his kisses and his touch and all she wanted was to run away and hide.

  'Be ready at eight in the morning,' he continued. 'I'll see you then.'

  'Yes, Mr. Allen.' Her voice was soft as syrup and she marvelled that she could make it so. 'Goodnight, sir,' she continued as she walked to the door. 1 hope you sleep well.'

  'The sleep of the just, Miss Wilmot. Insomnia is something that's never bothered me!'

  'Nor has conscience,' she murmured, and closed the door behind her.

  In the hall, she stopped and leaned against the wall, her legs too shaky to sustain further movement. What irony of fate was taking her to live in his London home? How could she bear to be in such close and constant proximity to him?

 
'I must learn to bear it,' she vowed, as she crossed to the stairs and slowly climbed them. 'He must never guess how I feel. Never!'

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Throughout their journey to London, Anthea sat quietly beside Mark in the back of the Rolls. He was totally engrossed in a pile of documents, and she was amazed at how easily he could forget her presence, while she sat beside him trembling at his nearness and longing to throw herself into his arms. She—Anthea Wilmot—a young and carefree girl, was suddenly finding herself carefree no longer. It was humiliating to acknowledge; the more so since she knew how amused the recipient of her devotion would be if he ever discovered it. The very thought was enough to make her shudder.

  Only as they drove through the London suburbs did the man beside her rouse himself from his work to give her a brief resume of what her duties would be. They did not appear to differ from those in the country, though with the constant entertaining which she knew he was planning, it did not look as if she would get much free time. Still, she did not wish to go out, nor did she have the head for studying. The moment she was alone with a book she started to think of Mark, and the less time she had for that, the better for her peace of mind.

  Seeing her safely into the hall, with her suitcases given to a Japanese houseboy, Mark Allen drove off again, and Anthea felt so lost and lonely that she went to the kitchen to say hello to Monsieur Marcel. In his own domain he was definitely lord and master, but he greeted her with affection, a fact which seemed to please the other staff working in the kitchen, who had no doubt been wondering how the temperamental chef would receive the new housekeeper.

  'It is merveilleux to have you chez moi!' he exclaimed. 'Already I have done one of the recipes from the book you gave me—a lemon syllable and truly parfait.,

  'Syllabub,' Anthea corrected with a smile, and feeling slightly happier, followed the Japanese boy to her room.

  It did not have the magnificent view of the one at Bar- tham Manor, but it was large and modern, with a small but beautifully equipped bathroom and a radio and television. Quickly she unpacked and then set out to inspect the house.

  It was larger than she had expected, but the four floors were serviced by two lifts, one in the servants' quarters and one in the main part of the house. The kitchen was on the ground floor, but a dumb waiter fitted with an electric warming oven transported the food up to the dining-room, which was a delight to the eye with its delicately painted Chinese wallpaper and thick Chinese carpet.

  Despite being rushed to the hospital, Mrs. Rogers had left a list of instructions regarding the entertainment for the week ahead, and Anthea studied the notes carefully, wondering whether Mark Allen engaged people because they fitted in with his requirements or whether they made themselves fit in order to remain with him. Either way he seemed to have everything the way he wanted it to be, both in London and the country.

  By lunchtime Anthea felt she knew every detail of the running of the house. She also felt more of a housekeeper here than she did at Bartham Manor, and guessed it to be partly due to her new surroundings and partly to her finding it easier to wear a mantle of authority.

  In the afternoon—with a few hours to spare—she took a taxi to the Kings Road, and then walked along the crowded pavements. It was a pleasure to be among young men and women of her own age, and it was with a sense of reluctance that she finally made her way back to Eaton Square. As she did so, a dress in a boutique window caught her eye. It was leaf-green and reminded her of a tree in springtime. For a long moment she stared at it, then succumbing to temptation, went in to try it on.

  Half an hour later she walked up the steps to the front door of the house, a dress box in her hands, a smile of pleasure on her face. She fumbled in her bag for die key and was still searching for it when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the silver-grey Rolls turn the corner and draw to a stop behind her. Mark Allen's tall, lean figure emerged, bounded up to her side and opened the door.

  'You're home earlier than I expected, sir,' she said breathlessly.

  'My guests are arriving at six o'clock.'

  'But dinner isn't until eight-thirty.'

  'I realise that. Miss Wilmot. But we'll be having a business discussion beforehand.'

  'Don't you ever entertain for pleasure?' she asked before she could stop herself.

  'Business is my pleasure,' he said coldly, and was turning away when he noticed the box in her hands. 'Dressing up for the boy-friend?'

  'Don't your girl-friends dress up for you?'

  'They prefer to undress!'

  He sauntered away before she had recovered her tongue and, still gasping at his reply, Anthea went to her room.

  Promptly at six the first guests arrived. Anthea did not go out to see them, but their voices told her they were male and American. Dickson, a far more austere butler than Leggat, served drinks in the drawing-room and was then dismissed and told not to return until he was rung for, a sign that the conversation was confidential. An hour later several more guests arrived, social ones this time, and the party gathered momentum, so that Anthea, busy in the butler's pantry inspecting dishes of canapés as they were taken past her, could hear the noise of talk and laughter.

  It was after midnight before she got to bed, but she was too excited and tired to sleep and she lay listening to the cars as they departed. Though the house was large, it was smaller than Bartham Manor, and from her bedroom she could hear the lift that took Mark to his own suite of rooms on the floor below her. She had glanced into them briefly on her arrival and had noted the beautiful mahogany furniture, the masculine decor of dark orange and brown and the large pile of books and papers on his bedside table; even when relaxing he was still concerned with his work. She had also seen the picture of a calm-faced woman whom she had known instantly was his mother. They had the same straight nose and firm chin, but the woman's mouth was gentle, the way Mark's was on the rare occasions when he dropped his guard. It was a mouth whose touch she would never feel again, and a burning wave of longing for him trembled through her, shaming her with its force. With a moan she buried her head in her pillow.

  She was dressed and downstairs before seven o'clock next morning, and though the air was warm with the hint of a lovely day to come, it did not have the freshness to which she was accustomed. She would never enjoy living in London, where the constant hum of traffic and the smell of fumes always seemed to be hovering in the air.

  Alone in the kitchen, she took the opportunity of examining everything carefully, and marvelled at the number of gadgets at Monsieur Marcel's command: an electric knife grinder and percolator, an electric rotissomat, eye-level ovens, a flat ceramic hob which grew hot at the press of a button and a huge deep freeze and refrigerator which stood side by side in the vast, white-died larder. What a great deal of money it must take to maintain this establishment: and all of it geared to the service of one man.

  'Do you always make a habit of getting up so early?' Mark Allen's quiet voice made her spin round, and she saw him in the doorway, hair tousled, navy silk pyjama legs showing below a navy silk dressing gown piped in scarlet. There were no initials on the pocket, she was glad to see. There was none of his shirts either, as far as she remembered.

  'What are you smiling at?' he asked.

  'I was thinking that you don't sport your initials over everything.'

  'I'll paint them on my Rolls if you like!' He half smiled as he ran his hands through his hair. It robbed him of some of his dignity and took ten years from his age. 'I suppose I'm too early for breakfast? I don't usually have it before eight.'

  'An hour to go.' She glanced at her watch. 'But if you tell me what you like, I'll make it for you. I'm not sure what time Monsieur Marcel arrives.'

  'He never prepares breakfast. That's done by Mrs. Dickson.'

  Anthea flushed, annoyed with herself for not knowing this.

  'Why should you know it?' he said, as she murmured an apology. 'You were engaged to look after Bartham Manor, not this place. Mrs. D
ickson and her husband live in the mews flat over the garage and she comes in about seven- thirty.' 'You employ a lot of people.'

  'You've made that comment before,' he remarked. 'I sense that you disapprove?'

  'It isn't my business to approve or not.'

  'A lot of things aren't your business, Miss Wilmot, but it doesn't stop you from forming opinions about them or from jumping to erroneous conclusions.'

  'I could say the same about you,' she retorted, and turned away to fill the electric kettle and search along the rows of glass jars for the coffee beans.

  'I take it you're referring to my remarks about you and your boy-friend?' he enquired pleasantly. 'Am I wrong in assuming that he is?'

  'Yes. He's a friend—nothing more. And I have lot of men friends.'

  'You mean you play the field?'

  Exasperated that he had misunderstood her, she banged the cup down on a tray. 'That wasn't what I meant at all! I have girl friends and men friends. No more, no less.' She drew a deep breath. 'You still haven't told me what you would like for breakfast.'

  'Orange juice and coffee. I'm not in the mood for food.' He stifled a yawn. 'I slept like a log, yet I still feel tired.'

  'That's because you overwork.' She took some oranges from the refrigerator. 'And you have another party tonight.'

  'And tomorrow and the day after,' he replied. 'Which reminds me that I shall be lunching here today with Mrs. Goderick. See that there's a cold meal for us, will you? Something that we can serve ourselves, without anyone around.' He went to the door and on the threshold hesitated. 'If anyone should ever ring you—a reporter or someone from a journal—and ask you about myself or Jasper Goderick, please tell them that you don't talk to the press.'

  'Are they likely to ring me?'

  He shrugged. 'They don't care whom they speak to. You or Dickson or anyone else that they can pump.'

  ‘I’ll tell the rest of the staff,' she said. 'But what do we say if they ask about Mrs. Goderick?'