by Anne Mather
His own energies had been expended in unpacking the rest of the bags and boxes that still stood in the hall. Fortunately, the night before he’d discovered a spare duvet among the bedding still to be dealt with, which was how he’d been able to sleep on the sofa in the morning room without freezing to death.
It had never occurred to him that Isobel might have cared how he spent the night. After that scene in her mother’s bedroom he’d been furious with himself, and her, and he’d assumed she’d feel the same. He should have remembered: Isobel came from a different level of society, where childish tantrums could not be tolerated. However angry Isobel was, the demands of civility had to be maintained.
What worried him most was what would happen when he did return to London. There was still an enormous amount to do and, although the place was gradually airing out, most of the rooms were still in a dilapidated state of repair. It was crazy, he knew, but he couldn’t bear the thought that Isobel was going to run herself ragged trying to do it all herself. Not when the expense incurred in hiring a firm of interior decorators would mean nothing to him.
He found an opportunity to speak to her just before supper, when she slipped outside to pick some daffodils that were growing wild in the kitchen garden.
Mrs Edwards was busy in the kitchen, preparing the chicken Mr Edwards had bought from a nearby farmer, and Emily was in the conservatory, rather ungraciously reading the local newspaper to her grandmother. Lady Hannah insisted the print was too small for her eyes, but although Emily had agreed to do it, she would much rather have been outside with her mother.
Isobel straightened when she saw her husband coming towards her, and Jake knew a momentary pang at the wary look that entered her eyes. Dammit, what did she think he was going to do to her? he wondered irritably. He’d been helping, hadn’t he? Surely she recognised that much?
Deciding he couldn’t jump straight in with his offer, Jake bent and picked a solitary bloom himself, handing it to her almost as a peace offering. Then, when she’d gathered it, along with the others, into her arms, he said, ‘At least it’s stopped raining at last.’
Isobel’s mouth flattened. Then, ‘Yes,’ she said, glancing about her at the muddy garden. ‘Mr Edwards says the sun will come out tomorrow.’
Jake couldn’t prevent a wry smile. ‘And he’s the expert, is he?’
‘No.’ Isobel was defensive. She straightened her back. ‘Have you come to tell me you’re leaving?’
Once again, Jake felt that increasingly familiar twinge of resentment. ‘Not tonight,’ he said, answering her with the same edge to his voice. ‘I wanted to talk to you, that’s all. Without Emily or your mother in attendance. It’s difficult to get you alone in the house.’
Isobel gave him a sceptical look and he knew she was remembering what had happened the evening before. The trouble was, he was remembering it, too, and it didn’t seem half so reprehensible in retrospect. On the contrary, right now his fingers were itching to tuck the loose curl of dark hair that framed her jawline back behind her ear, and he was already anticipating how soft and silky it would feel against his skin.
His eyes dropped abruptly, only to be confronted by the equally tempting prospect of her cleavage, a dusky hollow exposed by the unbuttoned neckline of her shirt. Dear God, he thought, was this why he’d kept his distance all these years? Because as time had passed he’d suspected how susceptible he still might be to Isobel’s unconscious sensuality?
But it was sex, he told himself fiercely. Only sex. And he could get that from Marcie. Indeed, it was probably because he hadn’t had sex with Marcie in recent days that he was feeling this unwelcome attraction to his wife. He was horny, that was all. He’d get over it.
Isobel arched her brows now, and he realised she was waiting for him to get to the point. Besides which, there was a cool breeze blowing down from the moors and he saw the involuntary shiver she gave.
‘I’m leaving in the morning,’ he said abruptly, which wasn’t what he’d intended to say at all, and he saw the barely perceptible tightening of her lips.
‘You could have told me that inside,’ she said, shifting the flowers from one arm to the other. ‘I’m only surprised you’ve wasted a whole weekend on us.’
Jake knew she was only being defensive, but that didn’t prevent the irritation he felt at her careless words. ‘I thought you might have been grateful for my help.’ he said, a little bitterly. ‘I doubt if you’d have succeeded in getting the exterminators out on a Sunday.’
‘Oh, you’d be surprised what Lady Hannah’s name can do,’ Isobel retorted stiffly. ‘But I am grateful for what you’ve done. You—well, you’ve been a big help.’
‘Gee, thanks.’ Jake couldn’t prevent the jeer. ‘I’m overwhelmed by your appreciation.’
Isobel just looked at him. There was no doubt about what she thought of his sarcasm. She stepped forward, and her intentions were unmistakable, but when she would have brushed past him, Jake caught her arm.
‘Wait!’
Isobel froze then. ‘Take your hands off me,’ she commanded, but a little demon inside Jake refused to be denied.
‘Why should I?’ he countered, looking down into her startled face. ‘Isn’t this exactly what you wanted?’
She gasped. ‘You have no right to say that.’
‘Don’t I?’ He gave in to the impulse to loop the dark strands of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered against her nape. ‘Wasn’t it only last night that you told me you were jealous?’
She sucked in a breath. ‘That was a mistake.’
‘Damn right.’ Jake felt suddenly savage. What the hell had she meant by saying that to him? She must have known what she was inviting. ‘But it was my mistake, not yours.’
With amazing aplomb, she looked up at him now. ‘Is that all you have to say?’ She lifted her free hand and flicked his fingers away from her neck. ‘I need to put these in water,’ she added, indicating the daffodils. ‘I think they’ll look pretty in the middle of the table.’
Jake felt an unwelcome tightening in his gut, knew that if she looked down she’d see the treacherous evidence of the effect she had on him for herself. Yet she waited, oh, so coolly, for him to make the next move.
He swallowed hard, ground his teeth together, and tried to ignore her warmth, the lemony fragrance of the shampoo she used on her hair. But he couldn’t help inhaling the heated womanly scent of her body and longed to taste her ripe mouth once again.
He knew she wasn’t indifferent to him. Dammit, when he’d compelled her into his arms the night before, she’d been as eager as he to touch and taste. What bugged the hell out of him was why he would want to pursue that madness. She’d been his wife, for God’s sake, and she’d betrayed him. What possible novelty—and that was all it could be: a novelty—what possible novelty could there be in seducing his own wife?
He didn’t know. He didn’t even want to guess at such a sick compulsion. All he knew was that his own control was wearing dangerously thin, and if he didn’t let her go he’d have something more to regret.
With an oath, he released her, but before she could disappear into the house he spoke again. ‘I want to arrange for a guy I know in Leeds to come and look at the house,’ he said quickly. ‘The main rooms have got to be made liveable.’ And, before she could issue any denial, he added. ‘Perhaps you should discuss it with your mother. Before you reject my offer out of hand.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
BY THE middle of the following week, even Emily had to admit that Mattingley wasn’t such a bad place after all.
As Isobel had known she would, her mother had accepted Jake’s help without restraint, and she had had to stand back and allow her soon-to-be-ex-husband to put them even more deeply into his debt. Perhaps that was his plan, she thought broodingly, lying awake nights, worrying as much about his intentions towards her as the expense. Maybe he thought if she owed him so much financially she wouldn’t object to any terms he offered her for a divorce. For, des
pite the fact that circumstances had made it difficult for him to talk about severing their tenuous relationship, she knew it was only a matter of time before the axe fell.
Nevertheless, during the day she was usually too busy to worry about her own affairs. Although she’d got her way in moving back to Mattingley, and might have been expected to be grateful for it, Lady Hannah was not a good patient. Even though there were workmen in the house, and some of the downstairs rooms were in a state of upheaval, she refused to stay in bed. She wanted to see what they were doing to her house, she insisted, and Isobel had lost count of the times she had to rescue the old lady from tripping over cables or being engulfed in the dust from falling plaster.
During those first few days they lived for the most part in the conservatory. With the windows cleaned, and new cushions on the wicker furniture, it was a pleasant refuge, and even the cool north wind that bent the plants in the shrubbery couldn’t penetrate its walls.
It helped a lot that the sun had decided to take pity on them, and that the view from Lady Hannah’s recliner was both relaxing and impressive. Beyond the tangled muddle of the garden, rolling moorland stretched as far as the eye could see, with just the occasional farmhouse or hamlet to punctuate the scene. There was a timelessness about the landscape, a sense that, however much conflict there might be in the world, these moors would never change.
The house itself was changing, however, though not in any fundamental way. All the same, Isobel had to admit that the dining room and the family parlour had been much improved already, and when the painting was finished and new wallpaper was hung, Mattingley would regain a little of its earlier style.
The gardens were another matter. As yet, Isobel hadn’t even thought of tackling them. If they were here long enough she supposed she could hire a rotavator and try and clear some of the undergrowth. But right now she had enough to do, and the future was nebulous at best.
At least Emily seemed to have settled down in her new surroundings. It helped that Isobel had agreed that the decorators should redecorate her room, too. In consequence, Emily had spent hours poring over wallpaper catalogues, proffering her own ideas as to how the job should be done.
Jake, of course, had left on Monday morning, and Isobel had no idea if he intended to return. He’d given his orders—or his ultimatum, whichever way you cared to look at it—and departed for the airport in a taxi, knowing full well that someone else would be authorised to handle the final details.
Even so, Isobel had been amazed when a firm of interior decorators had turned up in the early afternoon. The strings money could pull, she’d thought cynically, even though she knew Jake had said that the owner of the company, Andrew Hardy, had been a friend of his since their college days.
Still, by Tuesday morning, a provisional work plan had been sketched out, and the painters themselves had arrived just before lunch. With half a dozen men working full-time it was amazing what could be achieved, and Lady Hannah had advised her daughter to leave them to it.
Of course, the old lady had instructed the men to be wary of the mouldings, and they’d been left in no doubt that this was no ordinary house they were dealing with. Isobel had once found her mother regaling the wallpaper-stripping crew with the history of Mattingley itself, describing the shooting parties her grandfather used to hold there before the first World War and boasting about the famous people who’d used to vie for an invitation.
Isobel was inclined to take her mother’s stories with a pinch of salt, and she hoped the workmen did, too. There was no doubt that Mattingley had once been quite a showplace, but it had never had the reputation of Castle Howard.
By the end of the week the family parlour was finished and the dining room had had its walls stripped and the Waterford chandelier removed for cleaning. After the room had been decorated a French polisher was coming to wax the floor, and the upholstery on the Queen Anne dining chairs was being carefully cleaned and expertly repaired at Andrew Hardy’s workshop in Leeds.
It seemed all too much for Isobel to cope with. Why was Jake going to such lengths on their behalf? Surely he must realise that when her mother died the house would have to be sold anyway? If he’d wanted to do something to make their lives more comfortable, hiring a firm of household cleaners would have been enough.
Always the grand gesture, she thought bitterly. But that wasn’t really fair. Jake had never gone in for ‘grand gestures’. That was her mother’s domain, not his. And he was making her mother happy. Perhaps that was all he intended.
Her mother, meanwhile, seemed amazingly well. Moving to Mattingley did seem to have given her a new lease of life. Or perhaps it was seeing the old house regaining a little of its elegance. There was no denying that it looked much different now from the neglected place it had been on their arrival.
Friday dawned bright and sunny and, deciding she needed to get some air, Isobel rallied Mr Edwards for an assault on the garden at the back of the house. This was the area Lady Hannah looked out on from her chair in the conservatory, and as her mother was still in bed, reading the morning newspaper, Isobel and Emily joined the old man.
A stone-flagged patio gave onto lawns and a shrubbery and, leaving Emily picking weeds out from between the stones with a spiked stick, Isobel and Mr Edwards started clearing the borders. Between clumps of rank grass and dandelions, delicate primulas struggled to raise their heads, and tulips and narcissus were exposed when the weeds were pulled away.
‘You look busy.’
The unexpected sound of a man’s voice startled Isobel, and for a moment she thought it was Jake. But his voice was much deeper, much less arrogant, without the mannered quality that spoke of a public school education.
She got to her feet, immediately aware of how untidy she must look, with her hair coming loose from its knot and her sweater and trousers smeared with mud. Thankfully, Mr Edwards had provided her with gardening gloves, so her hands were clean, but she couldn’t be so sure about her face.
The man who had addressed her was standing on the patio, hands thrust into the pockets of brown corduroys, an Aran sweater not really flattering his bulky build. Not quite as tall as Jake, he was nevertheless not a small man, and his broad features were creased into a smile.
Isobel did not smile, however. ‘What are you doing here, Piers?’ she asked, aware that Emily was listening to every word.
‘Hey…’ He gave a petulant snort. ‘Is that any way to greet an old friend? What do you think I’m doing here? I heard you were staying at Mattingley and I came to offer my help, if it’s needed.’
‘It isn’t.’ Isobel glanced significantly back at the flower bed. ‘Thanks, but no thanks, as they say. I’m sure you can show yourself off the premises.’
Piers scowled, and Emily, who had no idea who he was, or how revolted her mother was to see him, gave him a rueful look. ‘Shall I ask Granny if she’d like to speak to Mr—er—Piers?’ she asked innocently, and Isobel wondered if she was trying to be helpful or just deliberately annoying.
‘That won’t be necessary, Em,’ she said quickly, before Piers could respond. Then, pointedly, ‘How are you getting on with the weeding? That seems a very small pile of grass.’
Emily pulled a face at her mother, but not before Piers had rewarded her with a smug smile. ‘You must be Isobel’s daughter,’ he said, holding out his hand invitingly. ‘It’s very nice to meet you, Em—Emma, is it?’
‘Emily,’ answered the girl as they shook hands, and Isobel wanted to scream with frustration.
‘Emily.’ Piers savoured the name. ‘How nice it is to meet you, Emily. I’m an old friend of your mother’s. Piers Mallory. My family owns the property adjoining your grandmother’s.’
Emily’s eyes widened. ‘Do you have an estate, too?’ she asked, and Isobel guessed her mother was responsible for that.
‘A small one,’ he conceded modestly. ‘We run a grouse moor.’
‘What’s a grouse moor?’ asked Emily curiously, but Isobel had no intent
ion of allowing Piers to use her daughter to prolong his visit.
‘It’s where they shoot birds,’ she said, answering Emily’s question herself. ‘You wouldn’t like it, Em. They kill the birds for sport.’
‘Shame on you, Isobel.’ Only the tightening lines around his mouth revealed that he was annoyed. He turned back to Emily. ‘Your mother knows perfectly well that grouse-shooting is a necessary part of country life.’
‘Is it like fox-hunting?’ asked Emily at once, and Isobel had to hide a smile as Piers recognised he had made a tactical error. ‘’Cos I don’t like fox-hunting,’ went on Emily. ‘It’s cruel. I don’t care if foxes are a nuisance. They have as much right to live as anything else.’
‘Which shows that you’ve spent far too much time in the city,’ declared Piers, rallying his defence. ‘You ask your grandmother. She’ll tell you I’m right. Besides—’ he cast another glance at Isobel ‘—there’s nothing like riding out with the hounds on a misty winter’s morning. You do ride, I suppose, Emily? Your grandmother used to be quite a horsewoman when she was young.’
‘Granny used to ride horses?’ exclaimed Emily in surprise, but Isobel had heard enough.
‘Never mind what your grandmother used to do, Emily,’ she said. ‘You’re supposed to be working.’ She looked at the man. ‘Goodbye, Piers. As you can see, we don’t have time for social chit-chat.’
Piers’s expression darkened, and she thought for a moment he was going to ignore her dismissal. But then, as if deciding it wouldn’t be wise to say anything more in front of Emily, he touched a mocking hand to his forelock and strolled casually away.
Once he was gone, however, Isobel found her taste for gardening had deserted her. She was trembling, as much with rage as frustration, and it infuriated her anew that Piers should think he could walk onto their property without so much as a by-your-leave. How dare he? she thought. How dare he? She would have liked to take one of the guns he used to shoot his damn game birds and blast him into kingdom come!