by Anne Mather
‘Aren’t you speaking?’
Ben’s voice invaded her thoughts, and try as she might she couldn’t ignore it. With some reluctance, she cast a brief glance in his direction. In black jeans and a black Oxford shirt, he should have looked sombre, but he didn’t. It was she, in her neat white blouse and navy skirt, with her hair drawn tightly back into its usual braid, who appeared stiff and unforgiving. Relaxed behind the wheel, his arm resting casually on the window, he looked half amused, and dangerously familiar. His expression was decidedly whimsical, and she wondered what he’d really come here for.
‘What am I supposed to say?’ she asked now, realising as she did so that her voice sounded sharp and peevish. Not at all what he was used to, she was sure. But telling her he was taking her to see a house was surely the poorest excuse imaginable.
He shrugged now, his shoulders moving smoothly beneath the soft cotton of his shirt. ‘Tell me about your day,’ he suggested evenly. ‘Is Cyril still running you ragged? Is that why you look so tired sometimes?’
‘No!’ Rachel glared at him indignantly, wishing she wasn’t so aware of his superb physical condition. ‘If I look tired, it’s not Cyril’s fault, it’s yours. I haven’t done much sleeping since you barged back into my life.’
Ben’s mouth twitched. ‘Why do I get the feeling that that’s not as complimentary as it sounds?’
‘Because it’s not.’ Rachel was quick to disabuse him of any ambiguity in her words. ‘You know perfectly well I don’t want you here. And if you think enlisting my mother’s help is going to change that, you’d better think again.’
Ben eased himself into a more comfortable position, adjusting the tight denim between his legs, and running an assessing hand along his thigh. Rachel could have ignored it. She would have ignored it, she told herself, but her initial reaction to his movement was one of unadulterated panic. She’d thought he was going to touch her. She’d thought his shifting in his seat had heralded another assault on her emotions. And that was something she couldn’t allow. She was too afraid of the aftermath.
‘Am I responsible for this?’ he asked at last, when she was drawn into the corner of her seat, her arms wrapped about her middle, her knees pressed tightly together, and Rachel cast him a fulminating look.
‘Why don’t you just take me home?’ she demanded angrily, as frustrated by her own reaction as his. ‘We have nothing more to say to say to one another.’
‘Where have I heard that before?’ Ben braked behind a trundling tractor, and regarded her tolerantly. ‘As I see it, I haven’t said half enough. I thought I had more time. But——’ he paused ‘—I find I haven’t.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ But the relief at finding he wasn’t about to touch her had taken the edge from her voice. ‘Why don’t we let the solicitors deal with it? I’m sure they’ve got more time, and they’ve certainly got more interest.’
‘I disagree.’ Ben drew her unwilling gaze back to him. ‘Anything you do interests me. That’s why I’m here.’
‘Stuff your interest,’ said Rachel rudely, annoyed to find her hands were still trembling. Oh, God, why did he always have this effect on her? Why couldn’t she ignore him, as he’d ignored her for the past two years?
Ben’s smile was indulgent. Evidently she wasn’t going to make any headway by being childish. But she’d known that already. It was just so difficult to be objective with him.
The tractor was in no hurry, and nor was Ben, apparently. The powerful Mercedes idled along behind the lumbering machine, making no attempt to overtake, even though the road ahead was perfectly clear. Rachel’s nerves stretched to screaming pitch at this deliberate waste of her free time. It was all right for him; he didn’t have to work five days out of seven.
Then, just as she was contemplating the wisdom of opening her door and jumping out, the reason for Ben’s patience was explained. As she was calculating the time it would take for him to turn the Mercedes in the narrow road and come after her, they turned off on to an even narrower lane. She glimpsed a signpost that said Watersmeet, but she’d never heard of it. But then, there were dozens of villages in these parts that barely warranted a pinprick on the map.
‘Where are we going?’ she demanded, realising now exactly how helpless she was. Unless he chose to take her back, it was going to be very difficult to find her way home unaided. She could always phone her mother, of course. But Mrs Collins was hopelessly inept at reading a map.
‘I’ve told you,’ he replied, as the Mercedes glided easily over a rise in the road. ‘I’m taking you to see a house. It’s not far now, I promise.’
Rachel pressed her lips together. She realised it was pointless telling him she didn’t want to see the house—any house, if it came to that. She wanted to go home. Before anything awful happened.
They rounded a bend, and then swung almost immediately between stone gateposts. If there had ever been gates, they were there no longer, but the Mercedes’s tyres crunched over a cattle grid before riding up a long, curving drive.
There were trees lining the drive, tall oaks and poplars, with here and there the placid beauty of a horse-chestnut. Which was appropriate really, because there were horses in the paddocks that stretched beyond the pavement, beautiful thoroughbred animals, who regarded their passage without dissent.
Rachel opened her mouth to ask who the horses belonged to, and then shut it again. She didn’t want to know, she told herself. She wasn’t interested. She had no wish to start a conversation with him that might be construed as giving in.
The drive meandered over a stone bridge, with a stream gurgling merrily beneath, and it became increasingly difficult to hide her admiration when the house appeared beyond a belt of trees. Mellow-bricked, and ivy-hung, it was a pretty example of a small manor house, with many long-paned windows and a central portico.
There was smoke curling from one of the many chimneys that decorated the tiled roof, and immediately Rachel felt more at ease. Whoever owned the house was evidently at home. For all her fears of an abduction, she had obviously been mistaken.
And, after all, why should Ben wish to abduct her? she thought, giving him a surreptitious look. For heaven’s sake, she was letting her imagination run away with her. He’d told her mother she was with him. If she could believe that. It wouldn’t be the first time he had lied to her.
‘Like it?’ he asked now, and, determinedly putting any negative thoughts aside, Rachel nodded.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, as the drive curved into a circle of gravel, with an island fountain in its centre. ‘Who does it belong to?’
Ben hesitated. ‘It’s owned by some people called Armstrong,’ he replied at last, and briefly the name touched a chord in Rachel’s mind. But before she could follow it up, he brought the car to a halt before the shallow steps leading up to the front door. ‘Come on,’ he said, thrusting open his door. ‘I’ll show it to you. It’s got five bedrooms and three bathrooms, and a couple of acres of garden and an orchard at the back.’
Of course, it wasn’t the sort of reply she had expected. But, with Ben out of the car and gesturing to her to follow him, she didn’t have a lot of choice. Oh, she could have remained where she was, she thought afterwards, but at the time she didn’t think of it. She supposed she was still under the illusion that the Armstrongs would be waiting for them, and when a middle-aged woman opened the door her supposition seemed to be confirmed.
All the same, she wished she’d had some warning of where she was going before she left the shop. Although she had washed her face and renewed her make-up at lunchtime, four more hours of cataloguing, dusting, and unpacking had taken their toll. Her hands were clean, but she felt grubby. Why couldn’t he have shown her the house this evening, after she’d had time to change?
The answer was obvious, of course. And he had known it. Given a choice, she would never have agreed to this outing. Given any option, she’d have run a mile before she put herself so recklessly in
to his hands.
Ben was speaking to the woman now, and, realising she couldn’t vacillate any longer, Rachel opened the car door and got out. The casual jacket she had been carrying when Ben pulled up beside her, she now slipped over her shoulders. A soft cream mohair, it at least gave her a semblance of self-confidence.
‘This is Mrs Morris,’ Ben introduced her easily. ‘My wife,’ he added, and Rachel knew she didn’t have the nerve to contradict him. Besides, estranged wife would be splitting hairs, wouldn’t it? She doubted Mrs Morris was interested …
Mrs Morris?
She gave Ben a suspicious look as the woman invited them into the house. Where was Mrs Armstrong? she wanted to ask irritably. And then it occurred to her that Mrs Morris was probably the Armstrongs’ housekeeper. She had that air of deference as she gave them a polite smile and left them standing in the hall.
‘What are we doing here?’ Rachel hissed, as soon as the woman was out of earshot. Mrs Morris had disappeared through a door at the far end of a panelled entrance hall, and although Rachel felt sure she had nothing to worry about, the house was amazingly quiet. Too quiet.
‘Looking at the house,’ said Ben innocently. ‘Isn’t that what I said?’
‘The Armstrongs’ house?’
‘They own it, certainly,’ Ben agreed, gesturing towards the door on their left. ‘Shall we start here?’
Rachel looked horrified. ‘You can’t just wander round the house unescorted!’
‘Why not?’
She gave him a retiring look.
‘All right.’ He sauntered across the carpeted floor and swung open the door into a cool sitting-room. ‘When I said the Armstrongs own the house, they do. But they’re not here right now.’
Rachel stared at him. ‘Where are they?’
‘Saudi Arabia.’
She thought she’d misheard him. ‘Where?’
‘Saudi Arabia,’ he repeated carelessly. ‘Stop worrying about the Armstrongs. Tell me what you think of this room?’
Rachel expelled her breath in a noisy gasp. ‘You brought me here, knowing full well the Armstrongs wouldn’t be at home!’
‘Yes.’ There was an edge of impatience to his voice now. ‘We don’t need the Armstrongs to show us round. We can do it perfectly well by ourselves.’
Rachel shook her head. ‘Why should we—no, I’ll rephrase that—why should I want to look at a house I have no intention of seeing again?’
Ben stepped into the sitting-room, but his voice drifted back to her. ‘I’m looking for a house in the district. I thought this was worth a look.’
CHAPTER NINE
‘WHAT?’
Ben’s reply brought her unwillingly—but swiftly—to the open doorway. And, in spite of the anger she was feeling, she couldn’t help the involuntary gasp of admiration that escaped her at the sight of the room beyond. Although it had obviously been some time since anyone had bothered to redecorate, nothing could hide the simple beauty of its tall walls and high, corniced ceiling. It was a large room, almost square in shape, with an exquisite marble fireplace, presently filled with a huge vase of dried flowers. But Rachel could imagine how it would look when a fire was lit in the wide hearth, and the curtains drawn across two of the long windows she had seen earlier from the drive. At present they gave a panoramic view of the parkland, and the impression created was one of lightness and space.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Ben said carelessly, standing in the middle of the worn Aubusson carpet, low-heeled boots set wide apart, hands tucked into the back pockets of his jeans. ‘I knew you’d be impressed.’
Rachel gathered her objections about her. ‘What did you mean? You’re looking for a house in the district? You live in London.’
‘Don’t be obtuse,’ responded Ben, abandoning his stance and walking towards her, and she backed hastily out of his way. ‘I can own two houses, can’t I?’ His brows arched at her sudden withdrawal. ‘Didn’t I tell you it was for sale?’
‘You know you didn’t,’ declared Rachel shortly, but she had already guessed. And she knew that Daisy would love it. Particularly, if she was allowed to get a horse of her own to ride in the grounds.
‘Well, what do you think?’ he asked now, opening another door to display a large, book-lined library, ideal as a study for someone working at home. Across the hall, a spacious dining-room opened into a Victorian-styled conservatory, with a paved patio beyond, suitable for summer barbecues.
‘There’s a pool-house, too,’ he continued, gesturing through the octagonal windows of the conservatory. ‘Though the pool’s been drained all winter. It’s heated, believe it or not, by solar panels in the roof of the pool-house. And there are screens to roll back if the weather’s very hot.’
Rachel took a breath. ‘Why are you telling me all this? Why have you brought me here?’
Ben shook his head. ‘Humour me,’ he replied indulgently. ‘I wanted you to see it.’ He glanced around the hall with a critical eye, and then gazed up the curving staircase. ‘Come on. I’ll show you the bedrooms.’
‘No.’ Rachel dug in her heels.
‘Why not?’
She swallowed, determined not to let him see how he had disconcerted her. ‘There’s no point. And besides, Mrs Morris——’
‘—will think it decidedly odd if you stay down here,’ Ben finished for her. ‘I noticed you didn’t contradict me when I said you were my wife. Don’t you think it’s a little late to be having second thoughts?’
‘I’m not having second thoughts.’ Rachel could hear her voice rising and struggled to control it. ‘I didn’t contradict you when you said I was your wife because I didn’t want to embarrass you. But you don’t appreciate that. You don’t care how you embarrass me.’
‘By inviting you to look at the bedrooms?’
Put like that it did sound neurotic, but Rachel refused to be deterred. ‘By bringing me here,’ she declared, though they both knew she was lying. ‘I’m not interested in the house, Ben. I’m not interested in you.’
‘Then you’ve nothing to worry about, have you?’ he commented drily, starting up the wide staircase. ‘Unless you don’t really mean it, of course.’
‘In your eye,’ muttered Rachel inaudibly, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a defensive response. But, as she watched him mount the stairs she knew she had to follow him. Not just to prove she meant what she said, but because it would be embarrassing if Mrs Morris decided to check on her guests.
The upper floor of the house was laid out much like the lower one, with each individual set of rooms opening from the central landing. There was a master suite, and a guest suite, each with its own dressing-room and bathroom, and three smaller apartments, with only dressing facilities, that shared the third bathroom.
‘Of course, the dressing-rooms here could be converted to bathrooms, too,’ Ben remarked, after considering the plumbing arrangements. ‘But that’s not an immediate necessity. How many bathrooms does one person need?’ He returned to the master suite, and went to stand by the windows. With his hands pushed casually into his pockets again, he looked thoughtfully out at the parkland that stretched away from the front of the house. ‘With some redecoration, I believe it could be habitable by late summer. Just in time to pick our own apples in the orchard, and light fires in those huge fireplaces downstairs.’
Rachel expelled her breath. ‘You always did have a vivid imagination,’ she said shortly.
‘Why?’ He turned to look at her now, and although she was standing safely by the door, with no possible chance of his cornering her in this place, she felt a twinge of alarm.
‘Well—it’s how you earn your living,’ she said defensively. ‘Besides, you’ve never picked an apple or lit a fire in your life.’
Ben lifted his shoulders. ‘I can learn.’
It wasn’t the answer she had expected, and she knew a momentary pang. But, ‘I suppose so,’ she conceded tautly, taking a steadying grasp of the handle. ‘Well—can we go now?’
Ben shrugged. ‘After we’ve seen the garden at the back. I believe there’s a tree-house. According to the details they sent me about the house, it’s been there since the Armstrongs’ children were small.’
Preceding him down the stairs, Rachel could afford to be generous. ‘And they’re not small now?’
‘No. They’re all grown up and married—three of them, anyway. The second son is divorced, I believe. Some problem with the au pair.’
Rachel’s head shot round. ‘Is that supposed to be funny?’
‘No.’ But Ben’s expression was unreadable. ‘Here—we’ll go this way,’ he added, as they reached the hall again. ‘We can go out through the conservatory. Mrs Morris knows what we’re doing.’
‘Does she?’
But Rachel’s reply was only rhetorical. She was wishing she did; wishing she had a clearer notion of why Ben had brought her here. Oh, he was obviously interested in buying the house, and there was no denying that with the right interior designer, the results could be incredible. But she would never live here. This would never be her home.
Ben opened the conservatory door, and they stepped out on to the patio. Unlike the house, the garden had been well cared for and the borders were thick with flowering shrubs. Between clumps of azaleas, tulips and narcissus grew in wild profusion, and the westerly winds had brought primroses and wood anemones to cluster in sheltered beds. The blossom was out on the trees in the orchard: creamy white and palest pink, it scattered across the lawns like strewn confetti. The comparison wasn’t appropriate, but the imagery was apt.
Rachel realised that, unlike the house, which needed a serious redecoration, the garden simply required a loving hand. And evidently someone cared enough to tend its lawns and flower beds. Without regular care, it would have quickly become rank and overgrown. As it was, it was a fitting setting for the house, whose mellowed walls seemed friendly in the dusky evening light.