‘Firstly, Stella, Georgina wasn’t there in the car so whatever she thinks she knows, it’s still only supposition. And I assure you, no one saw us on the hillside. As to my supposed skill with women, romantically I’m only interested in one.’
She couldn’t help the spreading warmth of pleasure his statement gave her but she refused to let it show. ‘Yes, the wrong one.’
‘You know about me and Mrs Boyd?’
Her unexpected laughter made her sip of tea go down the wrong way and she was suddenly coughing as well as laughing with an image of the lemon-lipped Mrs Boyd swooning in Rafe’s arms. She could see he was enjoying teasing her and in truth, it was helping her to let go of the early fear about Georgina. She was still worried but his presence had a calming effect. People who had looked over at them especially after her small explosion of coughing and laughter had returned to their conversations. Stella tried again after putting down her cup and clearing her throat. ‘And it’s going to get us both into a lot of trouble if Georgina carries out her threat to expose us. Grace overheard me saying about not wanting to be the other woman, she’s talked about it with Georgina and . . .’ She looked around, concerned that she may have been heard or that people were watching too closely. They were not, but her shoulders slumped in a sense of defeat.
Rafe appeared unaffected by the news that had felt shattering to her just hours earlier. ‘She won’t expose us . . . not even with the little she thinks she knows.’
‘Why?’
He gave a careless shrug and sat back. ‘Georgina is like her mother. She has already grasped the true power of information. She appreciates that it can be used to her advantage. What’s to be gained by her claims, and there’s always a risk we can wriggle out of it. No, I know Georgina well enough to confidently suggest that her plan will be to leverage what she thinks she has on us.’
‘Blackmail?’
He lifted a shoulder. ‘An unpleasant word. I think she’d regard it more as compensation.’
Stella sneered. Nevertheless she considered the fact that she may not be exposed and that Georgina might be bribed to stay quiet. She wrapped her hands around her china cup, warming them distractedly. Rafe must have noticed it was empty and without asking poured her tea. ‘So what does Georgina want?’ she asked.
‘I can’t answer that. I’ve never understood her motivations. Georgina knows a lot of people and a lot of her peers like to be seen with her but I’m sure if I asked her to name a single friend – someone she could trust, someone she can count on – I doubt she could.’
‘That’s dreadful.’
‘She’s made it that way. Georgina doesn’t let people in. I think she feels deeply insecure and I suspect when she finds someone whose love she doesn’t question and who stands up to her, she’ll learn to trust; not find it so necessary to be on the attack all the time.’
‘You don’t feel sorry for her?’
‘Not in the least. I struggle to like her these days although there was a time I freely gave my love to her, but she has grown into someone I find morbidly dull. In fact, I don’t admire anything about her. I’ve watched her grow up and provided for her so that makes me feel responsible for her, but she’s essentially the product of her mother’s over-protective, over-indulgent and cool upbringing.’
‘That’s so harsh, Rafe.’ Stella couldn’t believe she was defending the two women she least liked.
‘Well, Georgina is nearly seventeen. I had lads fighting alongside me in war who were younger, braver, kinder . . .’
‘That’s unfair.’
He drained his tea and sighed. ‘Now who’s being harsh?’
‘She’s not known war, its demands or hardships. She’s been raised in wealth, ruthlessly indulged and it’s pointless you complaining because you were one of the people who let it happen. You could have been the difference in her life.’
‘I’m not her father.’
‘Yes, but as far as Georgina knows, you are her father and certainly the only one who has been in her life. Your responsibility in taking her on was to fill that role. Instead you’ve taken a hands-off approach.’
‘Her mother wanted it that way. She kept me at a distance.’
‘I blame you both for how Georgina is. She has everything and yet she has nothing. She’s so empty it’s despicable.’
Rafe stared at her and she felt his admiration hug her. ‘I love you all stirred up like this.’
‘Do you?’
‘Yes, it’s refreshing.’
‘Love me, I mean?’ she said, ignoring the compliment. There. The main question. She sounded calm but she wasn’t in control. Her stomach felt as though she was riding the Big Dipper again as she had in her teens at Blackpool, screaming alongside her father’s groaning laughter.
He looked down, clearly taken by surprise. ‘I do.’
‘You don’t know me.’
‘Other way around, I suspect.’
There was no denying that. An awkward pause stretched. She had to tackle his reputation as a rake.
‘John Potter warned me you were a wolf.’
He gusted a bright laugh and then gave a low howl and Stella shooshed him, embarrassed.
‘You sound proud of the label,’ she remarked, her tone huffy.
He reached across to touch her hand but she pulled it away quickly. ‘Stella, John Potter barely knows me.’
‘He knows that you seduce plenty of women.’
‘Does he?’
She nodded, swallowing visibly, feeling small and embarrassed.
His gaze held her until she looked away. ‘What do you think, Stella?’
‘He’s looking out for me?’
‘Do you trust him?’
‘I have no reason to mistrust him,’ she bleated. ‘And he is worried that I am falling in love with you.’
‘And are you?’
‘Yes! Damn you, Rafe. The falling is over. I’m already at the bottom of the chasm!’ She began gathering her things.
His large hand found hers again and this time she didn’t pull away. ‘Stella . . . no, wait, Stella. Please, listen to me. You know I am not what I seem at home . . . agreed?’
‘Agreed.’
‘What I want Potter to think is what Potter thinks. The truth is not necessarily what he imagines it to be, in the same way that bumbling Douglas Ainsworth is not me.’
She felt her gaze narrow. ‘What’s to be gained by lying to Mr Potter?’
‘Well, if you’d read the letter you might understand, but let me assure you that while I am no saint I am no womaniser either. The fact that I’m happy to let people think otherwise suits me. Frankly, the majority of women bore me, Stella. Beautiful and vacant, or brilliant and lacking in femininity – I’ve not been lucky to meet anyone who stirred my emotions into the perfect cocktail until I danced with you.’
Fresh warmth was spreading, lower this time. ‘What are we going to do?’ she whispered, feeling suddenly lost.
‘Do you wish you’d never gone to the dance, Stella?’
‘Yes.’ Then shook her head sadly. ‘No.’
He pulled her towards him and she instantly felt less rudderless. ‘Come on.’ Rafe stood.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Away from here.’
‘What about my wardrobe?’
‘I can fix everything. Meet me downstairs. Go to the East Street corner entrance and head right to the seafront. I’ll catch up with you.’
‘I’ve no idea where I’m going.’
‘Follow the smell of the sea.’
It sounded a welcome idea to leave the stuffy tearooms and the claustrophobic atmosphere of chortling women.
‘I’ll get the bill,’ he said, reaching into his pocket for some coins.
She grabbed her gloves and sped downstairs, barely thanking her waitress, not sure what she was hurrying towards or from. She angled her way to the front of the store via the ground-floor fashion accessories of hosiery, gloves, umbrellas and a crowded perfume
counter.
‘Excuse me,’ she asked a lady counting handkerchiefs. ‘I’ve lost my bearings. Could you tell me the way to East Street, please?’
The woman pointed over her shoulder with a smile. ‘Yes, of course, Madam. Just over there is Hanningtons Corner and that fronts onto East Street.’
‘Thank you.’ She moved purposefully in that direction and was dismayed to spot Georgina trying on a straw hat. She knew Hanningtons was the only place a woman of her means would shop in Brighton, so she shouldn’t be surprised to see her. Nevertheless she froze momentarily but then, as if scooped up by invisible angels, she was moving; she could swear she couldn’t feel the carpet beneath her feet. Picking up a huge hat to cover her face, she turned her back to Georgina and moved swiftly behind a pillar. She didn’t pause, knew she hadn’t been spotted and gratefully blended into the slipstream of other hurrying shoppers dipping their heads, pulling up collars and swirling scarves around themselves as they scuttled out of the store with Stella in their midst. With the hat returned, she forced herself to walk at a normal pace until she’d passed through the corner doors and then burst out, scurrying down the street, swallowing cold air, gasping as if choking from the tension of escape. Stella headed right as instructed towards the sea. Still dragging in lungfuls of air she had to lean against a wall because her heart felt as though it was pounding so hard she could sense the throb at her temple.
‘Are you all right, Miss?’ a young woman asked. She was in the uniform of the tearooms at Hanningtons.
‘Yes . . . yes, just a headache,’ she lied.
‘Why don’t you come into the warm and —’
‘Thank you, I shall be fine,’ she replied with an embarrassed smile. ‘The sea air will clear it.’ Stella pushed off the wall and pleaded with her feet to keep her moving.
She pulled a silk headscarf out of her bag and wrapped it around her hair, tying a knot under her chin. She hurried down the street, trying to put as much distance between her and the suspicious Georgina as she could.
She glimpsed the seafront ahead; she could hear it now as well as see its vast greyness and that colour wouldn’t change, she suspected, because the weather felt to be cooling by the minute. So much for being on the cusp of summer! A wind had picked up and blew harder, cutting past her overcoat and whistling around her ears to make her bend her head to keep her eyes from watering. It nearly blew her back around the corner as she rounded it and this part of the seafront looked almost deserted, save a few hardy souls pushing prams.
She gasped at the temperature drop now that she was exposed and she glanced around for where she might shelter. There was nowhere. Stella looked left and stopped a passer-by.
‘Excuse me, please, Sir, where does this lead?’ She pointed.
‘To the Old Steine.’
‘Steine?’
‘Bus terminus.’ The fellow flicked a cigarette, pulled his collar up and lurched on. He looked like a worker coming off a shift and eager to be home. She couldn’t blame him. She followed in his path, heading back towards Hove, wondering whether it mattered if Rafe found her. What did he expect of her? What possible future was there for them? Her instincts told her she should run in the other direction; go straight home to London and send for her belongings from Harp’s End and forget the name Rafe Ainsworth and his wretched letter. Forget the soulful, searching gaze that made her feel naked, or the mellow – often sardonic – manner that teased her, or even the smooth voice that rarely raised itself beyond calm and which seemed to make her feel safe. Forget the boy in the photos and the Arabian desert that she wished she could share with him and hear him speak its language. She hardly knew him, anyway – certainly wasn’t much the wiser since their first meeting. She knew she must force herself not to recall his touch, the hardness of his body, the softness of his mouth . . . his tongue, his . . . Stella gave a small cry as someone grabbed her and pulled her into a doorway. It was dark and smelled damp but it didn’t matter because for all the instinctive warning bells clamouring within, it was Rafe who held her. The voice she thought she could ignore, the gaze she thought she could forget and the mouth she hoped she wouldn’t crave made instant mockery of her resolve. Confronted by him, her best intentions melted away.
‘Sorry for startling you,’ he said softly and cupped her face. ‘May I kiss you?’
‘If you don’t, I’ll die.’ She loved the bright smile that parted his lips and stretched his cheeks, fired his eyes and changed his brooding presence.
Stella forgot where she was for several heartbeats, lost in his affection, heedless of being seen kissing in a doorway like a . . . The thought made her pull away sharply.
‘Rafe, this makes me feel like a —’
He pulled away. ‘Don’t say it.’
‘Why not? It’s how I’m behaving. On the open street, no less.’
He stepped back, pulled his coat closed and reached for her hand. ‘All right, then. Will you come with me?’
‘To where?’
‘Somewhere safe, away from prying eyes.’
‘Will it make me feel less like a street girl?’
‘That’s up to you.’
She took his hand, allowed him to lead her. As they walked, he put his arm around her, pulled her tightly to him, and Stella knew they couldn’t be physically closer if they tried. And as soon as she thought it, she knew she must adjust that notion . . . they could be closer. Stella walked, no longer allowing herself to think on anything specific. If she did, she knew she might tear herself free and run like a frightened rabbit. Instead, she anchored herself to the safety of his warmth and bulk and cleared her mind of all thought. It wasn’t wrong . . . With Rafe everything felt safe, everything felt right.
17
It was like moving in a dream state; she was with the single person she wanted to be alongside and suddenly nothing from outside their special bubble of intimacy could intrude. Her awareness of his presence was heightened to being able to pick out the sound of his individual footsteps on the pavement while the colour and sounds of everything else around her appeared to fade. The lonely cry of seagulls swooping on the beaches became distant sound, while even the rhythmic break of the waves on the foamy shore dragging shingle back against the sucking sands became simply a sigh on the edge of her consciousness. She barely saw passers-by smile, or men who lifted their hats in a silent salutation.
Rafe did, though. He was seemingly focused for both of them; nodding, touching his hat in turn, while all she could concentrate on was her escalating heartbeat. She fixed her gaze on the traditionally whitewashed buildings of Brighton to calm the timpani of fear, to anchor herself, but her eye tripped on a large terracotta façade. Where were they? She was walking up some stairs and then he was guiding her through a revolving door. He did all the work. Her job was to put one foot in front of the other, no words exchanged.
There were voices, people smiled at her. She managed to nod but no smile would come. Stella drifted away to look up at massive vaulted white and gold ceilings. She passed a smoking room with club chairs upholstered in soft leather, small Persian rugs. Where was this place?
They were now following the footsteps of a young man in a uniform. ‘Would you like to wait for the lift? It’s the third floor, Sir.’
‘We shall be fine with the stairs. In fact, just give us the key. We have no luggage, as you can see.’
‘Er . . . fine, Sir.’
‘My friend needs a rest. She’s come over a little faint.’
‘Can I fetch you —’
‘No, she just needs some quiet for a few hours. I’ll sit with her and order some tea and sandwiches later, perhaps.’
‘Very good, Sir.’
Stella watched some coins change hands.
‘Come on, Stella,’ Rafe said and they were climbing one of the grandest staircases she could imagine with its sweeping ascent of wide marble stairs over which chandeliers hung from magnificent archways. She could appreciate it and yet felt disconnected from the be
auty as though moving in a trance. Stella heard a door close and with its soft click became fully aware that they were alone in a vast chamber. Its series of tall windows opened onto a long balcony that overlooked the promenade to the beach where the breeze over the English Channel was stirring the waves into gentle white caps.
‘It smells beautiful in here,’ she remarked.
‘The Brighton Metropole was built just over forty years ago and has its own perfumier. They use it to scent their rooms,’ he said, still by the door. ‘Speaking of rooms, this is not the most lavish, I regret.’
‘No, that might attract attention,’ she murmured to herself.
‘It’s booked under your name but I can stay a while without raising suspicions.’
Rafe must have seen her shiver because he walked across the vast expanse of carpet to draw the curtains, which immediately darkened the room mutely lit by a single standard lamp. Stella moved away from the windows and the world outside to where a fire danced in the ornate marble fireplace. He arrived silently behind her to help her off with her coat; his had already been cast carelessly across a sofa together with his hat. She followed suit, removing gloves, scarf and hat. It kept her nervous hands occupied and Stella wondered if he felt the same way.
‘I went for the ensuite with hot water rather than cold or sea water,’ he said. She heard the awkwardness; was relieved by his uncertainty.
‘How long do we have?’ Stella hated how her simple query sounded vulgar.
‘Long enough,’ he replied, picking up that hidden question, oddly lacking in his usual adroitness with words. She waited, forcing him to be more accurate. ‘I said I’d pick up Georgina at six.’ Stella wanted to glance at her watch. He saved her the trouble. ‘Nearly four hours.’ Now he sounded sheepish.
Long enough, she allowed to echo through her mind. Long enough to tumble into bed, long enough to fall so deeply in love she would be ruined for others, long enough to spoil each other’s lives . . . and those who loved them.
‘Stella, listen, if you don’t —’
‘But I do!’ she declared, finally emerging from the stupor. ‘I just don’t trust our wisdom.’ She looked up and his expression was filled with sympathy. She could sense the longing that tiptoed across the tightrope that stretched the short distance between them. Her yearning to be in his arms wobbled its way straight back to him. ‘I mean . . . there’s no going back,’ she offered, her words sounding tremulous. ‘We can’t undo it. We won’t be able to change the hurt it may cause to ourselves or, more importantly, to others.’
The Last Dance Page 25