by Helen Brooks
‘And I would prefer Francesco to know nothing until the new nanny makes an appearance. She can work with you, as you did with Angelica, yes?’ He narrowed his eyes at her, his face straight.
She nodded. Words were beyond her. And then, as he turned to go, she burst out, ‘I will repay you for the fares for my mother and Rose and Violet, Slade, and of course they must leave immediately—’
‘Do not insult me.’ He swung back with an anger that made her flinch visibly. ‘Your family are my guests for two weeks as arranged, and there will be no talk of payment of any kind. I wanted to do this; it was my decision. And do not think you will be embarrassed by my presence; I leave for Geneva in the morning and I shall be away some weeks.’
This was like an awful nightmare. ‘Slade—’
‘Do not say it, Daisy! Do not say you are sorry or I truly will not be responsible for my actions,’ he said with a violence which shocked her. And then, as she stared at him with agony in her eyes, his expression changed, as though a mask had slipped over his face, concealing all emotion, and he said quietly, ‘You have been honest with me and that is the end of the matter. It is finished.’
He was heaping the burning coals of fire on her head and she didn’t know if she could bear it.
‘Isabella has offered to put Francesco to bed while we have cocktails in the drawing room, and then she will serve dinner at half past eight.’ His voice was clipped and cold. ‘I would suggest you change for dinner now and then perhaps escort your family downstairs when they are ready?’
‘Yes, yes, all right.’ She shouldn’t have said anything, Daisy told herself frantically. It had been the wrong time; she had said it the wrong way. What was she going to do? What was she going to do? ‘Slade? We need to talk about this; we have to talk it through…’ She hardly knew what she was saying, so great was her distress. ‘Please, I want you to understand—’
‘No, Daisy.’ He had actually turned to walk across to his study but now, at her feverish voice, he turned back to face her and it was as though he were a stranger. ‘We have nothing to talk about,’ he said with grim finality. ‘You have expressed yourself very clearly and we both understand the situation fully now.’
There was a white, milky haze in front of her eyes and a buzzing in her ears, but then, as she heard the click of the study door closing, all became crystal-clear and quiet. The emptiness was profound, eternal; it ate her up and swallowed her until every little cell and nerve was part of the consuming vacuum in which the future lay spread out in deep, endless darkness. He had gone; he had walked away from her.
It was over, she had finished it, and it was what she had wanted, wasn’t it?
She stood for desolate blank minutes in the spangled sunlight which fell across the walls and floor in great golden pools, and if the world had ended she wouldn’t even have noticed.
He wouldn’t try again, not now. The feeling that she had just made the biggest mistake in her life—and she had made a few—was trying to force its way out through the void but she wouldn’t let it. She couldn’t weaken now and it was too late anyway.
She had had to do this. She stood for some minutes more before retracing her footsteps upstairs on leaden feet. She had had no choice. The decision had been made and it was irrevocable.
‘That was a wonderful meal, Slade. Isabella is a marvellous cook. It’s going to be fantastic to be here for two whole weeks.
Rose’s voice was bright and bubbly and it was clear that Dean was a million miles from her thoughts, Daisy thought wretchedly. Her sister was four years younger than herself and at twenty had recently matured into the slender beauty her plump teenage years had hinted at. Rose looked what she was—young, carefree, happy and beautiful—there were no painful secrets in her past, or bitter memories to disturb her sleep and shadow her days. She was everything a man could want.
And she wouldn’t want it any other way, Daisy told herself quickly with a surge of very real shame. Of course she wouldn’t. She loved both her sisters, deeply, but their jaunty, untarnished vivacity made her feel decades older than her twenty-four years.
And then her gaze lifted from Rose’s cute, flirtatious face and was drawn in spite of itself across the table to Slade, and she found, with a little shock that caused a shiver down her spine, that he was watching her with the same inscrutable look he had worn of late.
She glanced away quickly, turning to make some light comment to Violet who was seated on her other side, but her pale, fragile profile was strained and his eyes did not leave her face for some moments more.
The five of them lingered over their coffee and brandy, and Daisy found it a form of refined torture to sit and chat as though she hadn’t a care in the world.
She had eaten in the formal dining room several times before when Slade had entertained, but tonight the gleaming antique furniture, the glittering crystal, the white damask tablecloth and exquisitely carved, heavy silver cutlery all served to add to the poignancy of her misery as they reminded her she’d soon be gone.
There was her mother, her round pretty face creased in glowing smiles as she sat at Slade’s side. She looked happier and more content than she had in months—in fact since her father had died, Daisy reflected soberly. And her sisters were both clearly having the time of their lives and relishing every single moment. She dared not look at Slade. Since that one time when her glance had locked with his she had studiously kept her gaze either on her mother or somewhere just above Slade’s head.
She had hoped, once the ritual of coffee was over, that the evening would draw to a natural close but she had reckoned without the animated Rose. When Slade politely suggested, at gone eleven, they retire to the drawing room in a tone that indicated he was really expecting they would call it an evening, Rose—ably backed by Violet—seized on the opportunity vigorously. There followed another couple of hours of talk and laughter, mellowed by good music, more wine and Slade playing the perfect host.
At some time in the proceedings—Daisy wasn’t sure when—he had discarded his jacket and tie and undone the first few buttons of his shirt, and he looked good enough to die for. The big muscled shoulders under the dark mulberry silk of his dinner shirt, his narrow waist, lean hips and strong legs were shown off to perfection by the expertly cut clothes, and with his jet-black hair and dark, glittering looks Rose and Violet were blatantly fascinated, hanging on to his every word like two bemused schoolgirls still in pigtails and short socks.
It made Daisy want to slap them. And Slade. It made her want to scream and snarl and spit, which was doubly shocking as she had never considered herself a jealous person. In fact she would have sworn on oath before tonight that there wasn’t a jealous bone in her body, and if anyone had had cause to be jealous she had with Ronald, she told herself stoutly.
The final straw occurred at half past one when Rose, fortified by several glasses of wine and casting all propriety to the wind, insisted on Slade dancing with her to a particular piece of music she insisted was her absolute favourite. It made no difference to Daisy’s outrage that Slade didn’t seem very enthusiastic, Rose having to practically haul him to his feet and force the issue to the point where it was embarrassing; all she could see was her sister’s slender, blonde-capped shape in his arms as the strains of ‘The Way We Were’ drifted on the air.
Right, enough was enough. The effort it took to keep her voice in neutral was painful but she managed it—just, bending down to her mother and Violet who were sitting together on one of the sofas and putting an arm round each of them as she said, ‘I’m asleep on my feet; I’m going up, but don’t let me spoil it for you.’
She felt slightly mollified by Violet’s whispered, ‘Why does Rose always have to make such a fool of herself, Daisy? It was obvious he didn’t want to dance,’ and the apologetic look on her mother’s face, but she just wanted to get out of the room before she burst into tears.
She felt lost and alone and abandoned, she admitted to herself as she called out a brigh
t goodnight to the two dancing, adding a cheerful, ‘See you in the morning; it’s been a lovely evening,’ over her shoulder for good measure as she made for the door.
Lovely evening! She grimaced to herself at the absurdity of the words as she ran quickly up the stairs. How ridiculous! And she was ridiculous too. Slade had every right to dance with whomsoever he pleased, and so did Rose. She had made it clear to Slade she wanted nothing to do with him and she had told Rose the coast was clear on the romance front. She had no one to blame but herself for any of this—if she was feeling miserable she had brought it on herself. But she still hated him! She blinked back the burning tears hovering behind her eyelids. She hated him and loved him and what she was feeling now was a million times worse than anything she had endured with Ronald.
But it didn’t change her mind about leaving Festina Lente and Slade. In fact it was confirmation of everything she had done.
She had just reached her suite when she stopped dead still, her hand on the door, staring unseeingly at the pale light oak wood as the self-knowledge reverberated like a gong.
But it was true. Slade had said he’d fallen in love with her and she believed he cared for her; whether it was the depth of emotion she had for him she didn’t know, but she did believe that he cared. He hadn’t said whether he expected it to last—he hadn’t mentioned marriage or anything like that—but just the fact that he had used the word love meant she had to get away as soon as she could. No. She opened the door slowly as the little voice in her head challenged her to face facts. No, it wasn’t that she had to—she was choosing to go; she wanted to.
She walked across the sitting room and into the bedroom but she didn’t switch on the lights; the full moon outside meant she could see clearly enough and somehow in the shadows it was easier to come to terms with what her head was telling her.
She was a coward; she was too frightened to do what her heart was longing to do and take a chance just in case she had been duped again. If she had the choice of putting herself into another man’s hands—even Slade’s—and having to trust and believe and work at a relationship again, or living life alone—even a life that would be miserable and lonely and cold, but where she was in control—there was really no contest.
She shook her head slowly; she didn’t like to think of herself as a coward but it didn’t alter her mind. Nothing would do that. She wished with all her heart it could be different but…
How long she stood in the moonlit room gazing out over the shadowed garden she didn’t know, but when the knock came at the sitting-room door she heard it immediately. Her brow wrinkled as she glanced quickly at her wristwatch, turning it to a shaft of pale white moonlight to see the time. Three o’clock. Three o’clock in the morning and someone was at the door? It had to mean her mother or one of the girls was ill. Francesco had a buzzer by the side of his bed which was directly connected to her room in case he needed her, so it wasn’t him.
She reached the door in a moment, her heart thudding, and then—in the instant before it swung wide—her intuition, born of her love, told her it wouldn’t be her mother or one of her sisters outside.
‘Hello, Daisy.’ Slade’s voice was soft and low and measured and totally non-threatening, but in spite of that Daisy began to tremble. ‘Can I come in for a moment?’
‘No.’ It was instinctive, and then she qualified quickly, her voice husky, ‘It’s…it’s late, Slade.’ He was going to Geneva in the morning and that would buy her some time—time to tighten the armour, to put more mental distance between them. He was leaving early, before eight—she had heard him discussing his departure with her mother during dinner—and she would make sure she had a late breakfast. ‘I’ll…I’ll see you in the morning,’ she lied quietly.
‘Daisy, this is important. I want—’
‘Please, Slade.’ Don’t talk to me now, she pleaded silently. Please don’t. I can’t take any more tonight and I need to be strong and calm to survive. I’ve dragged myself up from the bottom of the pit of despair and grief to this point and I can’t let it all be for nothing; I can’t collapse now.
He looked at her for a long moment and he must have read something of what she was feeling in her face, because his own became expressionless and his voice was cool and even when he said, ‘Okay, perhaps it will be better in the morning. Get some sleep; you look all done in.’
He had turned away before she even began to close the door but then, in one of the swift, panther-like movements that characterised him, he was facing her again.
Daisy would have taken a step backwards if he hadn’t pulled her into his arms, because she had read his intention in the narrowed, glittering eyes, but then he was kissing her, fiercely and hungrily, without waiting for her assent.
She struggled—for some long moments she struggled—but she had been injected with a deep drugging desire from the first second she had seen him outside her room, let alone when he had touched her, and she was aching and melting inside.
He was crushing her mouth and his hands were moving over her satin-smooth skin in an agony of desire; there was no gentleness, none of the former control which had distinguished their previous encounters. Dimly, in the back of her mind, the knowledge surfaced that if she didn’t stop this he wouldn’t, but she didn’t want to. She didn’t want to. She was going to leave him, nothing could change that, but why shouldn’t she have one night, one night out of a subsequently lonely lifetime, to remember? She deserved this. If nothing else she deserved this one brief, snatched taste of heaven.
He was making soft, deep, appreciative growls in the back of his throat and she answered the primitive call with small moans of her own as they swayed, locked together, in an embrace that was all fire and heat.
Reason had utterly gone as she began to edge back slowly into the room, drawing him with her, her body still pressed close to his as she searched for relief from the slow, sweet ache in her lower stomach. She could feel the bunched muscles in his powerful chest and shoulders under the thin silk of his shirt as her hands moved hungrily over the hard planes of his magnificent body, and she matched, kiss for kiss and caress for caress, the fierce desire that was consuming him.
‘I want you, Slade.’ She wasn’t aware she was voicing the passion that was burning her up. ‘I want to remember this. Hold me, touch me, make love to me…’
Her voice trailed away as his hands became still and his mouth froze on hers for an endless moment before he raised his head to look into her drugged eyes. ‘Remember it?’ he asked hoarsely, his voice still shaking from the passion that had engulfed him moments before.
‘What’s the matter?’ Icy trickles of awareness were slithering down her spine and she suddenly felt afraid at the expression on his face. He suddenly didn’t look like Slade.
‘You said you want to remember it,’ he said slowly, his body drawing away from hers and his warmth leaving her flesh so that she felt bereft and cold. ‘This is to be a one-off, is that it?’ he asked with terrible composure.
‘I… You know how I feel,’ she stammered weakly, her legs trembling as she backed away from the look on his face. ‘I’ve…I’ve been honest with you. I haven’t pretended.’
He stared at her for a full thirty seconds without saying a word and then when he did speak there was none of the caustic anger she expected, just an utterly controlled, cold stoniness that cut her to the core. ‘I don’t want to be serviced, Daisy,’ he said with brutal crudeness, his eyes never leaving hers, ‘and neither do I intend to be used like a stallion on a stud farm.’
‘That’s not what I mean.’ She was shocked beyond measure, her face as white as a sheet and her eyes black with anger and hurt. She couldn’t believe he had reduced it to that.
‘No?’ He continued to stare at her, the piercing gaze laser-sharp and merciless. ‘Then how else would you explain a one-night stand between us—a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am encounter that you have no intention of repeating? There are any number of women I could call on for that,
Daisy. I don’t want that from you.’
She wanted to explain, oh, she wanted to so much, but how could she? She didn’t even understand it all herself so how could she explain it to him? Daisy thought feverishly. She looked back at him, her hair a shimmering silver halo about her white face and her eyes enormous, and tried to force some words past the dryness in her throat but they wouldn’t come.
‘Go to bed, Daisy.’
His voice was softer now and very quiet and it made her want to cry. And she couldn’t cry—she mustn’t—that would be the final humiliation, she told herself frantically as he turned and made for the partially open door.
She stayed where she was—she couldn’t have moved if her life had depended on it—and just before he stepped on to the landing and closed the door he faced her again, his face as distant as his voice as he said, ‘Goodnight.’
She tried to say something back but failed utterly, merely inclining her head and hoping the trembling that had taken her over hadn’t made itself known to those piercingly astute eyes, and then, after a last curt nod of his head, he was gone.
Daisy stared at the closed door for some minutes before she could persuade her legs to carry her into the bedroom, and even then she stumbled along as though she were intoxicated.
What must he be thinking? She took off her clothes mechanically, her fingers feeling numb and frozen, and after slipping her bathrobe over her shaking body she walked through to the bathroom. Despite the late hour she stood under the warm shower for some long minutes, the hot water going some way to alleviate the chill that was making her teeth chatter even though the cold was coming from within.
It was when she glanced into the mirror as she brushed her teeth that reality hit. The small white face with the desperate haunted eyes staring back at her wasn’t her! It couldn’t be. She looked at herself, the toothbrush stationary in her hand. But she recognised this face. It was the face that had looked back at her that first day after Jenny had gone.