by Sara Craven
‘Oh.’ Lydie checked in the doorway. ‘Has Mother recovered from her migraine, then?’ she asked constrainedly.
‘I reckon she must have.’ The housekeeper wrestled a pillow into its case. ‘She’s gone off to Wheeldon Grange for a day or two. There was a last-minute cancellation, seemingly, so they could take her.’
Lydie’s heart sank. Wheeldon Grange was an exclusive up-market health hydro with an emphasis on elegant diets and beauty treatments, a Mecca for the well-heeled and overweight. But the privacy of its guests was rigorously ensured. Lydie had marginally more chance of breaking into Fort Knox than of achieving any kind of confrontation with Debra in the Grange’s high-priced and hushed surroundings.
As her mother well knew, she thought bitterly. She’d chosen her sanctuary quite deliberately.
‘Do you know when she’s coming back?’ Her voice sounded hollow. She was ice-cold again, shaking with reaction as she leaned against the doorjamb.
‘I couldn’t say at all.’ Mrs Arnthwaite triumphantly fought the last pillow into submission.
‘I see.’ Lydie paused, trying to collect her reeling thoughts. ‘Is—is my brother at home?’
‘Nay, he’s gone into Thornshaugh to see his young lady. Told me he wouldn’t be back until late.’ Mrs Arnthwaite lifted the bedspread into the air like a swirling, silken cloud and lowered it to the bed with symmetrical precision.
Then she turned, her eyes narrowing as she observed Lydie’s sagging figure. ‘And what’s to do here?’ She crossed the room with her purposeful stride. Lydie felt her hair, her sleeve touched with an oddly gentle hand, and knew a demeaning urge to throw herself against that ample bosom and sob.
‘Why, lass, you’re sopping wet—and freezing.’ The housekeeper gave a disapproving cluck. ‘Now, you come with me, and be quick about it.’
Lydie, too shattered to argue, obeyed.
Before she knew what was happening, she found herself immersed in a steaming, scented bath, with towels and a robe warmed and waiting for her when she emerged. It was wonderful, she thought dazedly, to find someone else in control. Wonderful to have her hair rubbed briskly, then blow-dried quickly and without fuss. Even more wonderful to find the fire lit in her bedroom and a chair set beside it, and then to be presented with a tray bearing a bowl of fragrant, creamy chicken soup, a bread roll still hot from the oven, and a pat of butter in its own cooling dish.
To be pampered like this, and by Mrs Arnthwaite. It was almost beyond belief.
‘Mr Austin won’t be back from golf until teatime. He’s ordered the roast to be served this evening,’ the housekeeper explained. ‘But this should tide you over.’
‘It certainly will.’ Lydie forced a smile. ‘You’ve been very kind.’
‘And when you’ve finished your meal you’re to have a rest on your bed. You’ve got the house to yourself, so you won’t be disturbed.’ She gave Lydie an almost maternal nod. ‘And I’ll call you in good time for tea.’ She paused at the door, her expression almost arch. ‘Mr Marius will have returned by then too.’
Well, that explained Mrs Arnthwaite’s change of attitude, Lydie thought as the door closed behind the older woman. I’m no longer an interloper in her eyes, but the future mistress of the house. And that makes all the difference.
If she hadn’t felt so heartsore, it would have been almost funny. But she was genuinely glad to hear that Jon had sought out Nell at last. Maybe, with his future at the mill in doubt, they could now reach some kind of rapprochement. Certainly her brother needed Nell’s steadfast support as never before. If he’d recognised this, it was a step in the right direction at least, she decided with a small sigh as she began to eat. Her own conflicts were a different matter, however.
She still felt battered and emotionally bruised by the events of the morning, but the soup was a delicious comfort and she finished every drop.
Her meal over, she lay back in the chair, watching the small pile of apple logs that Mrs Arnthwaite had kindled in the hearth dwindle and disintegrate into sweet-smelling ash.
Rather like my life, she thought wearily, and felt a slow tear trickle down her cheek.
Suddenly she felt stifled, claustrophobic. She went over to the window, pushing the casement wide and drawing in deep breaths of air. The weather was improving, with a watery sun making a grudging appearance between the scudding clouds. The air was fresh with the recent heavy rain, the clean, sharp scent of grass intermingled with the intoxicating perfume from the massed beds of roses and the languorous, glorious fragrance of the lilies, clustered against the house’s rough grey walls.
Lydie tensed as the heady, evocative sweetness reached her, caressing her senses, reawakening memories that were half-pleasure, half-pain. For her, the perfume of the lilies would always mean moonlight spilling across a bed, the warmth of Marius’s arms around her, the sensuous caress of his hands and lips against her flesh, arousing her to undreamed-of pleasure.
And only a short while ago, for a few, brief moments, she’d glimpsed that same delight again. Known the same driving, aching need.
Yet it wasn’t the same, she realised sadly. It couldn’t be. Because all Marius was offering her now was physical passion without any of the underlying tenderness and reverence of love. And that, for her, would never be enough.
She shivered slightly and turned away from the window. Perhaps a sleep would do her good, she thought, climbing onto the bed and pulling the coverlet across her body. At least it would provide her with a period of welcome oblivion from her problems.
But even in sleep there seemed no escape. Her dreams were fleeting and restless. She seemed to move uneasily through alien landscapes, surrounded by the faces of strangers. When she tried to speak, no words came. Everything she touched seemed to dissolve into nothingness. And out of the blankness came mocking voices, taunting her, calling her names.
One of the voices became louder, more persistent. She felt herself being shaken, not roughly, but sufficient to jerk her into wakefulness with a small, frightened cry.
She sat up in dazed alarm, pushing her hair back from her face, and saw Marius standing beside the bed.
He said with cool formality, ‘I’m sorry if I startled you. I came to tell you that Austin is back and demanding his tea.’ He paused, then added expressionlessly, ‘And he’s brought a visitor.’
‘Oh?’ Lydie still felt disoriented. ‘Who is it?’
‘George Foxton.’ Marius allowed her to assimilate the name of Thornshaugh’s leading jeweller. He added tonelessly, ‘Apparently he ran into him at the golf club and persuaded him to bring over a selection of rings especially for you to choose from.’
‘Rings?’ Lydie repeated in bewilderment, and Marius nodded with slight impatience.
‘Austin clearly wishes to formalise our engagement without delay,’ he said, his lips twisting. ‘I take it you have no objection?’
‘I have at least a thousand objections.’ Lydie strove for poise, her eyes challenging him. ‘Not that I suppose they make any real difference.’
‘You’re learning, Madonna Lily.’
Yes, she thought, and in a hard school. Aloud, she said, ‘Austin certainly isn’t wasting any time.’
Marius hunched an indolent shoulder. ‘He probably feels too much time has been wasted already,’ he retorted.
‘Oh,’ she said, and stretched. ‘In that case, I’d better get dressed.’
‘Perhaps so.’ He looked at her for an intent, tingling moment. Lydie, following the direction of his eyes, saw that the lapels of the towelling bathrobe had fallen apart during her restless doze, leaving her almost naked to the waist.
Colour stormed into her face. She said, ‘Oh,’ again, this time in vexed embarrassment, and covered herself swiftly, aware of his faint smile.
He said, ‘Actually, you can take your time. I’ve warned him I have to shower and change.’
Taking her first good look at him, Lydie was shocked to see that he was still wearing the clothes he’d h
ad on earlier. She said, dismayed, ‘You mean you’ve only just come back? Marius—for God’s sake—you’ll end up with pneumonia...’
‘I’m sorry to depress your hopes,’ Marius said dismissively, ‘but it will take slightly more than a summer storm to carry me off. However, I appreciate the note of wifely concern,’ he added, his mouth slanting sardonically. ‘It sounded almost genuine. You must have been rehearsing, sweetheart.’ He paused, watching the flare of indignant colour in her face. ‘Why not complete the caring picture by coming with me to wash my back?’ he invited softly.
For an instant, the image of him tanned and naked under the torrent of hot water invaded her mind with startling clarity. She could almost breathe the damp scent of his skin, feel the depth of bone and play of muscle as she ran her hands across his shoulders, and down the length of his spine...
She said breathlessly, hauling herself back from the edge of some inner precipice, ‘I’m afraid my concern doesn’t go to those lengths.’
‘Ah, well,’ he said, and his smile was slow and devastating. ‘It’s early days. See you later.’
Watching him walk to the door, Lydie was tautly aware that her heart was thudding against her ribcage, and, more frighteningly, of exactly how tempted she was to call him back.
As soon as the door closed behind him, she scrambled off the bed and ran to the wardrobe.
The first garments she grabbed were jeans and a sweatshirt, then, remembering her role as hostess, and in deference to Austin’s known preference, she selected a simple shirtwaister dress, narrowly striped in black and white. She brushed her hair back, confining it at the nape of her neck with a black ribbon, and slid her feet into low-heeled pumps. A modicum of make-up would suffice, she thought. A touch of blusher, a trace of highlighting for her eyes, a soft, clear pink to warm the frozen contours of her mouth. Neat but not gaudy.
She stood back and regarded herself, striving for objectivity. Well, she told herself, she was ready—or at least as ready as she would ever be.
As she left her room, Marius joined her on the landing. He was wearing tailored grey trousers and a classic white shirt, the sleeves of which were turned back to reveal his tanned forearms. His dark hair, she saw, was still damp from the shower, and she felt her face warm slightly as she recalled her recent fantasy, thankful that he could not read her thoughts.
She was aware of his eyes travelling over her in a lazy, insolent inspection.
‘I like the demure look, Lydie,’ he drawled. ‘It’s almost as beguiling as your recent striptease. Is this a new image?’
‘What, this old thing?’ she jibed, pinching a fold of fabric between finger and thumb. ‘Goodness, Marius, you have been away a long time.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Something of which I need no reminder from you, believe me.’ The grim note in his voice sent a chill down her spine. There was something ruthless about him—something implacable. Even if Debra confessed everything and begged his forgiveness, there was no guarantee that it would be granted.
Was he really so set on obtaining his pound of flesh that he would allow the past to destroy them all?
She looked down at the carpet. ‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered stiltedly. ‘It was a stupid thing to say.’
‘Unwise, certainly,’ he said curtly.
‘On the other hand,’ she went on bravely, ‘neither of us can be expected to take out every word and examine it before we speak.’
He raised his brows. ‘What are you suggesting—some kind of truce?’
No, she cried out silently. Not a truce—a lasting peace. And if you were to hold out your arms I would run into them now, and stay there for ever.
She felt her nails score the palms of her hands as she fought for self-control.
She managed a shrug. ‘I suppose so.’
‘I’m not fond of truces, Madonna Lily,’ he said softly. ‘I prefer unconditional surrender.’
‘And if I find that unacceptable?’
‘Austin is waiting for us,’ he mused. ‘So unfortunately we haven’t time now to discuss the range and level of acceptance I require from you. That will be a pleasure to come.’ He saw the flinch she could not disguise and smiled faintly. ‘Only one of many, of course,’ he added silkily. ‘Now, shall we go down?’ He held out a hand to her.
Lydie ignored it. ‘What I will never understand,’ she said between her teeth, ‘is why Austin ever decided to allow you back into this house at all.’
Marius’s smile widened. ‘Perhaps, my sweet, he had no choice.’ He paused. ‘Rather like yourself.’
For a long, measuring moment they looked at each other, then Lydie spun on her heel and walked away from him down the stairs, her head held high.
He caught up with her at the drawing-room door, his hand on her shoulder turning her easily to face him.
‘In view of Austin’s visitor,’ he said softly, ‘I think we should burnish our act a little.’
He pulled her towards him and kissed her on the mouth, very slowly, very expertly and very thoroughly, while one hand sought and cupped the soft weight of her breast through the fabric of her dress.
The world seemed to shiver and grow still, encasing them in a heated, thunderous silence.
Lydie’s lips parted helplessly under the aching, draining pressure of his kiss. Her senses were overwhelmed by the intimate closeness of his body, the cool, clean scent of his skin, the softly erotic friction of his thumb across her hardening nipple, and, most potent of all, the thrust of his lean, muscular leg between her pliant thighs.
She was oblivious of time, of place, aware only of the clamour of her driven, haunted body pleading for surcease.
When at last he released her, Lydie swayed towards him. Her legs were shaking, the breath labouring in her lungs as she raised dazed and heavy lids and stared up at him. But he seemed, she realised with shock, totally unmoved.
For a moment, he scanned her face with minute attention, then nodded. ‘That’s better,’ he murmured, half to himself. ‘At least now you look like a—’
‘Please don’t say a woman in love,’ she threw at him with the scorn of desperation as she dragged together what rags of control she had left, ‘or I may throw up.’
His mouth twisted. ‘Maybe a woman in lust would be more appropriate,’ he drawled. ‘Anyway, it’s the effect I wanted, and more. Something, darling, you can’t pretend—or lie about.’
He reached past her to open the door, then motioned her to precede him into the room with exaggerated courtesy.
Austin and George Foxton were just coming in from the garden.
‘So there you are.’ Austin was clearly in one of his most genial and expansive moods. ‘George has a little surprise for you, my dear.’ He nodded towards a flat black case on a side-table. ‘That’s only a small selection, of course. If there’s nothing that appeals, you could always choose a stone and have a ring made for you.’
Lydie was tautly aware of Marius at her shoulder. She said lightly, ‘I’m sure there’s no need to go to those lengths. Anything will do.’
‘Anything?’ Austin’s brows lifted in surprise and the beginning of displeasure.
‘I think Lydie means that she doesn’t need diamonds to remind her of our happiness,’ Marius interposed smoothly. He smiled down into her eyes, challenging her. ‘Think of it, darling, as a symbol of our love for each other.’
She found herself seated at the table, George Foxton making a little ceremony of unlocking the case. His was a long-standing family business, and he had a name for being a shrewd judge of gems.
In spite of her anger and inner tension Lydie gave a faint gasp as he drew away the layer of black velvet and the brilliance of the stones flared into the afternoon sunlight.
She thought, This could have been the happiest moment of my life, and saw the glitter of diamonds fragment and blur as sudden tears gathered and were fiercely fought back.
She said huskily, ‘They’re beautiful.’ Then, to Marius, she added, ‘Choose for me.
’
She was conscious of the weight of his arm, laid casually across her shoulders, the warmth of his breath fanning her cheek as he bent closer, the dark face absorbed.
He said at last, ‘This one, I think,’ and picked up a cluster ring, the centre brilliant surrounded by baguette diamonds.
‘An excellent choice.’ Mr Foxton was smiling, the disruption of his Sunday afternoon clearly secondary to the importance of obliging an old friend, not to mention making such a handsome sale, Lydie thought with sudden cynicism.
She found herself hoping absurdly that the ring wouldn’t fit, that some adjustment would have to be made before she needed to wear such an obvious sign of Marius’s possession of her. Of her submission to his will.
But it slid smoothly and with a kind of finality over her knuckle. She was aware of Mr Foxton’s hearty good wishes, Austin’s hug, then Marius quietly, almost formally lifting her hand to his lips. Sealing the deed with a kiss.
She forced a smile. ‘I’ll ring for tea.’
Tea be damned,‘ Austin declared robustly. ‘I told Mrs Arnthwaite to put some champagne on ice.’
With Mrs Arnthwaite came more congratulations. Lydie felt her smile turning into a fixed grimace. She drank some of the chilled sparkling wine, trying to infuse a little radiance into her expression, into her thoughts, wishing that she did not feel so cold, so dead inside.
Mr Foxton was all smiles as he took his leave, but Lydie knew that he must be secretly wondering at the speed of the engagement following so closely on Marius’s return, plus the fact that Debra was absent from such a significant occasion.
But he would never ask, she thought. Never make any comment. He and Austin were friends from their schooldays, members of the same clubs, fellow Rotarians—pillars of the Thornshaugh old-boy network and subject to its laws of discretion.
Once they were on their own again, Austin insisted on pouring more champagne.
‘This is a day to remember.’ He waved aside Lydie’s protest as he refilled her glass. ‘It’s a while since there’s been much worth celebrating in this house. A whole new beginning.’ He nodded fiercely. ‘That’s what we all need.’