by Penny Jordan
But, despite the temptation which kissing her had presented, somehow he had always managed to tell himself of the differences that lay between them in age, experience and in prospects. He loved his job and wouldn’t have wanted to change it for anything or anyone, but there was no denying that to expect a girl, brought up as Sylvie had been with every conceivable luxury, to move into the kind of accommodation estate managers normally occupied, to live the often lonely lifestyle that would be hers when he was working... He just couldn’t do it. Had she been older, wiser...poorer...it might have been different. And so he had resisted the temptation to give in to her desire and his own love, and he had praised himself for his selflessness, until the fateful day he had taken her Alex’s cheque.
To see her there, outside her flat, dressed only in a man’s shirt—a shirt through which, with the hot summer sunshine slanting down on her, he could see quite plainly the shape and fullness of her breasts and even the dark aureoles of her nipples—to watch her with another man, a man who he had immediately assumed was her lover, had created within him an anger, a bitterness, a jealousy that had rent wide apart his self-control.
To discover later, too late, that there had been no other lover, to realise what he had done and why, had filled him with such self-loathing that he could hardly endure the weight of his own guilt.
‘I love you,’ Sylvie had told him innocently. ‘I want us to be together...’
He had spent the previous week with Alex, discussing ways and means in which they could reduce the cost of running the estate. Amongst them had been his own suggestion that they rent out his cottage and that he move into rooms in the main house. He knew that if Alex accepted his suggestion he wouldn’t even have a proper home to offer her. He could just imagine how her mother would react to that, to the idea of her daughter living in rooms above the stables of the house where she had been brought up. And Sylvie was still so young, still so naive...still at university with the whole of her life in front of her. What right had he to use what had happened between them to tie her to him? No, better to let her think that he didn’t want her than to have her turn to him five or even ten years down the line to tell him that she had made a mistake; to accuse him of putting his own emotions before her needs, of taking advantage of her youth and inexperience.
And he’d been glad he had done so when she had dropped the bombshell about her relationship with Wayne.
Somehow that was something he had just not expected, but he had seen from the expression in her eyes and the vehemence in her voice that she meant every word she was saying. And so he had walked away, telling himself that it was for the best for her, best that somehow, some time, some way he should learn how to forget her.
But, of course, he had never done so.
And now here she was, back in his life, a woman now and not a girl, and what a woman, how much of a woman, the woman whom he loved—and who hated him.
It had hurt him more than he could bear that she should think he would actually try to cheat anyone... Did her precious Lloyd know how lucky he was or how much he, Ran, would give simply to hold her in his arms and hear her telling him that she loved him? He would give everything he had, everything he was...
What a fool he was. She didn’t love him, she loathed him.
Watching her just now on his way back from checking on the fences, on the look-out for potential poachers, he had ached so badly for her, so very, very badly. There was no point in him going to bed; soon the false dawn would be lightening the night sky, and besides, there was only one reason he wanted to be in bed right now and it had nothing to do with sleeping or being alone.
Kissing her tonight had opened the floodgates on his love for her and his body still ached with the longing it had evoked. How the hell he was going to get through the next few months he had no idea. Grimly he turned away from the house and the temptation of Sylvie’s bedroom, Sylvie’s bed, Sylvie herself.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘HI, HON, it’s me, Lloyd.’
Sylvie smiled warmly as she recognised her boss’s voice.
‘Lloyd,’ she responded, ‘how are you?’
‘Fine, I guess. Listen, I’ve got to come over to England on some other business and I thought whilst I was there I’d drive up to Derbyshire and see how you’re getting on with Haverton Hall.’
Sylvie laughed. She wasn’t in the least deceived. Lloyd was like a child with a new toy whenever he acquired a new property, saying every time that he wasn’t going to visit it again until all the renovation work had been complete and then being totally unable to resist checking on how things were going. Or not so much checking on how things were going, but sneaking another look, like a child sneaking a look at a hidden-away Christmas present just to check that it was still there and that he was actually going to receive it. As Sylvie well knew, no matter how many properties Lloyd acquired, he still continued to fall in love with new ones, and Haverton Hall was well worth falling in love with.
This morning she had an appointment with the firm who were going to work on the restoration of the carving and the plasterwork. Based in London, the artisans the firm employed had all completed their training at the same Italian firm that Sylvie had used when renovating the palazzo. She had seen samples and photographs of their work and knew that no matter how expensive they might be—and they would be—they were the right people to work on Haverton Hall.
‘When are you arriving?’ she asked Lloyd, still smiling.
‘I’m booked on today’s Concorde,’ he told her.
Sylvie heard the door to the small office she had organised for herself at Haverton Hall open behind her, but she didn’t turn round. She didn’t need to; she knew from the reaction of her own body that it was Ran who had walked in. Ever since the night he had kissed her and they had argued, they had treated one another with cold distance. She had gone downstairs that morning to discover a neat file of papers and bank statements awaiting her which proved conclusively that Ran had paid for the work done on the Rectory himself.
She had apologised, very formally and very curtly, and then pointed out that he wouldn’t have been the first client to take advantage of Lloyd’s generosity.
‘I haven’t taken advantage of it,’ he’d reminded her acidly, before walking away from her.
Since then, the contact between them had been as minimal as both of them could make it.
‘Oh, Lloyd, that’s wonderful,’ she told her employer truthfully. ‘I’ve missed you.’ It was true. She had missed him and suddenly something occurred to her. ‘Look, I’ve got to come down to London to see some people. Why don’t we drive back together? I’m going to have to stay overnight anyway... The Annabelle?’ she responded, when he told her where he was planning to stay, and then teased him, ‘Isn’t that a bit romantic...?’
‘I’ve heard some good things about its designer,’ Lloyd responded mock-sternly. ‘My interest in the place is purely professional.’
By the time Sylvie had completed her telephone call Ran had gone. Good; the less contact she had with him the better. She much preferred her solitary evening meals to the trauma of spending any time with him, even if she did sometimes wonder where he was eating and with whom and if he stayed with her all night. It had to be Vicky, of course. The woman was forever telephoning him, purring smugly down the line whenever Sylvie answered, demanding, ‘Tell Ran to ring me; he’s got my number.’
She was sure he had, Sylvie had decided acidly, him and every other man who was subjected to the divorcee’s high octane blend of sexuality.
* * *
The shop occupied by Messrs Phillips and Company, master gilders and restorers, was down a narrow alley, a small courtyard of buildings that time seemed to have forgotten.
Walking into the courtyard was like walking back in time, Sylvie decided as she gasped in delight at the Elizabethan framework of the narrow buildings with their outward-jutting upper storeys.
‘They belong to one of the royal estates,’ the ch
ief partner in the business, Stuart Phillips, informed Sylvie. ‘And they’re very strict, not just about the maintenance of the building but about who they take as tenants as well. We got our tenancy after we had been commissioned to work on one of the royal palaces.’
An hour later, after Sylvie had discussed Haverton Hall and the work required on it, he turned to her and told her, ‘We can do it, but it’s going to be very costly.’
‘Very costly is fine,’ Sylvie assured him and then smiled at him as she added softly, ‘Exorbitantly costly isn’t; there’s enough work here to keep you in business for nearly twelve months...guaranteed work.’
‘Our order books are already full,’ he told her urbanely.
‘Not according to my contacts,’ Sylvie retaliated. ‘The way I heard it, one of your biggest contracts has been withdrawn due to lack of funds.’
‘I don’t know who your informants are...’ Stuart Phillips began huffily, but Sylvie stopped him.
‘Let’s be honest with one another, shall we?’ she suggested firmly. ‘We’re both busy people with no time to waste on silly point-scoring. You’re the best in the business in this country and I want the best for Haverton Hall, but...there are other firms...’
‘We shall need a guarantee that the contract will be seen through to its end,’ he told her, frowning. ‘I don’t like carrying all my eggs in one basket...’
‘You shall have it,’ Sylvie assured him.
‘Mmm... From the records you’ve shown us the original workmanship was done to a very high standard, especially the wood-carving.’
‘If not Grinling Gibbons himself, then certainly one of his most skilful pupils,’ Sylvie agreed.
‘The records you’ve got of the original designed decor are excellent; they even list the furniture and each room’s colour scheme,’ he assessed.
She had Ran to thank for that, Sylvie acknowledged. Normally it fell to her lot to search painstakingly through the records to put together a composite picture of what a property had originally looked like. On this occasion Ran had done all that spadework for her. Not that she had allowed him to see how impressed she was. She wasn’t prepared to do anything that would allow him to think he had some sort of advantage over her.
When the time came for her and Stuart Phillips to part company Sylvie had his agreement to concentrate exclusively on the work on Haverton Hall, even though she had had to agree to a substantial bonus payment to get him to do so. She made sure she held tightly to budget where she could, but she would never take the less expensive option when it came to employing the best craftsmen. It would be worth it, she exulted as she left the courtyard. Haverton Hall was worth it.
She had arranged to meet Lloyd at his hotel for afternoon tea. He loved that type of tradition and, as he happily informed her an hour later when she was shown up to his private suite, ‘No other country serves an afternoon tea quite like England...’
‘I should hope not,’ was Sylvie’s tongue-in-cheek response, then she started to tell him about her visit to the gilders.
‘You’re sure they’ll be as good as the Italians?’ he asked her at one point, suddenly very professional and alert.
‘Better,’ Sylvie told him simply. ‘You see, the original work on the house was carried out by English workmen who had trained in Italy, rather like Messrs Phillips, artisans, and my guess is that their workmanship, although Italian in conception, would have had a decidedly English interpretation to it—where an Italian craftsman might have carved cherubs and allegorical scenes from the great masters, an English craftsman would have carved animals and birds, things from nature.’
‘Why don’t you stay here tonight?’ Lloyd suggested once they had finished talking about her visit to Messrs Phillips and Company. ‘I can ring down and book you a room.’
Sylvie shook her head.
‘No, thanks; I’ve already arranged to stay overnight with my mother.’
Knowing that Lloyd had a business dinner organized, Sylvie left just after five o’clock, having arranged to pick him up at ten in the morning.
She drove to her mother’s, suffering the latter’s perfumed embrace after her mother’s maid had let her into the apartment.
‘Darling, it’s my bridge evening this evening. I could cancel it but...’
‘No, please don’t.’ Sylvie checked her mother with a smile.
‘Well, at least we can have dinner together and you can tell me all your news. How is dear Ran? So exciting, his inheritance...the title...’
Sylvie’s smile faded.
‘Ran’s fine,’ she told her mother, adding dismissively, ‘We don’t see an awful lot of one another; we’re both busy.’
‘Oh, darling, such a shame,’ her mother protested.
‘I...’ Sylvie gave her a direct look. ‘At one time you thoroughly disapproved of him.’ And my feelings for him, Sylvie could have added, but she didn’t.
Her mother made a small moue. ‘But, darling, that was before...’
‘Before what?’ Sylvie challenged her wryly. ‘Before he inherited the title...’
‘Well, these things do make a difference.’ Her mother defended herself as Sylvie gave her a quizzical look. ‘Ran is now an extremely eligible man.’
‘Mother! These days a woman doesn’t need an eligible man,’ Sylvie told her. ‘We can support ourselves.’
‘Every woman needs a man to love her, Sylvie,’ her mother told her sadly. ‘I still miss your stepfather.’
Immediately Sylvie was contrite. Her mother was old-fashioned and out of touch in her ideas, her thinking, but she had genuinely loved both Sylvie’s own father and her second husband, Alex’s father, and Sylvie knew that despite the business with which she filled her days she was sometimes lonely.
‘Have you seen Alex and Mollie recently?’ she questioned, wanting to turn the conversation into happier channels.
‘Oh, yes,’ her mother responded immediately and warmly, ‘and they’ve invited me to Otel Place for Christmas.’
Several hours later, as she prepared for an early night, Sylvie wondered what Ran was doing. Not going to bed on his own if his recent behaviour pattern was to be followed. Angrily, she closed her eyes. What did it matter to her who Ran spent his nights with or how?
What did it matter?
All the world, that was how much it mattered, but no one but her must ever know that.
Even before he had kissed her she had known the truth. Just the way her body, her senses, her being, had reacted the moment she had set eyes on him again had told her that what she had tried to dismiss as a mere childish crush had somewhere, somehow, against all the odds and certainly against her own will, turned into real adult love. She ached for Ran—to be at one with him, at peace with him, to be loved by him, to share his life, to bear his children—with such an intensity that sometimes she didn’t know quite how she was going to be able to go on bearing it.
Live one day at a time, that was her present motto; just get through each minute, each hour, just go on telling herself that ultimately it was going to get better, that once the work on Haverton Hall was finished and she was out of Ran’s orbit she would be able to rebuild her defences and, with them, her own life. That was what she told herself, but deep down inside she wasn’t sure she truly believed it.
* * *
‘We’ll have to call at the Rectory first,’ Sylvie warned Lloyd as she drove north. ‘I don’t have the keys to Haverton Hall with me.’
‘That’s fine by me,’ Lloyd assured her. ‘How are you and Ran getting along, by the way?’
‘He’s a client of the Trust,’ Sylvie pointed out severely.
‘So you haven’t fallen in love with him, then,’ Lloyd teased her. Somehow Sylvie managed to force a responsive smile. Lloyd meant no harm. He took a paternal interest in her and often told her, only semi-jokingly, that it was time she fell in love. He had no idea about the real state of affairs between her and Ran, the real state of her heart, her emotions.
‘Say, this is really beautiful countryside,’ he commented as they drove through Derbyshire.
‘But still not as beautiful as Haverton,’ Sylvie teased him.
Immediately he was off, enthusing about the house and its architecture.
Sylvie’s heart sank when she pulled up outside the Rectory and saw that Ran’s Land Rover was there. There was another car outside as well and Sylvie’s heart dropped even further when she recognised it. Perhaps with her away and the opportunity to have the house to themselves, Ran and Vicky had decided on a change of venue and had spent the night together here.
Ran had given her a set of keys to the Rectory, and rather than disturb him she used them to unlock the door, but to her discomfort, as they walked through the hall, Ran and Vicky were just coming downstairs.
‘Hi there,’ Lloyd began genially, but before Ran could say anything his telephone began to ring.
‘Excuse me a moment, will you?’ he said apologetically, leaving the three of them together as he hurried into the library to answer the telephone.
‘I don’t think we’ve met,’ Vicky began coyly, ignoring Sylvie to smile provocatively at Lloyd.
‘Lloyd, Vicky Edwards.’ Sylvie introduced them mechanically. ‘Lloyd is my boss and—’
‘So you work for the Trust as well, do you?’ Vicky commented.
‘Lloyd is the Trust,’ Sylvie told her, thoroughly exasperated by the other woman’s manner.
‘Oh...how very interesting,’ she responded softly, immediately crossing the hall to Lloyd’s side, turning her back on Sylvie. ‘You must tell me more...’
Quite how Vicky managed to invite herself to join them when they went to Haverton Sylvie wasn’t quite sure, but invite herself she most certainly had.
Lloyd obviously didn’t share her own dislike of her, she recognised as she saw the bemused male appreciation with which he was regarding the older woman.
By the time Ran rejoined them Vicky was purring seductively to Lloyd.