The Loving Slave

by Margaret Pargeter

  Feeling strangely more comforted by this than by what seemed absolute confirmation that she was Charles Hearn's granddaughter, Gina said stiffly, 'I hope I don't disappoint you.' Again recalling some of Quentin's insult­ing comments, she exclaimed, 'I'm afraid I'm very plain.'

  'Of course you're not!' Charles returned sharply. 'It's merely those dreadful clothes you're wearing. If only,' he added grimly, 'I'd known where you were! I'm not sure that I'll ever be able to forgive your father for keeping you from me all these years, but there seems little point in animosity now.'

  Gina watched him nervously, and, as if aware of her reluctance to talk to him about her father yet, he went on to tell her something about her mother. It was then that Gina sensed that a vital part of Charles Hearn had died with his daughter. He was only in his sixties, certainly he didn't appear old, but there was a sadness in his eyes when he spoke of her mother that made Gina soften to­wards him for the first time. It was clear that, in spite of his wealth, he had known a sorrow and unhappiness which more than matched her own.

  Suddenly she found her attitude changing. She found herself hoping she might be able to make up a little for what he had lost. And, while she still felt they were more or less strangers, she knew she had taken the first step towards reconciling herself to the future.

  There followed the most disturbing and exciting year, so far, in Gina's life. She was reluctant to leave the gentle Surrey countryside, but once in London she was im­mediately involved in a whirl of activity that left her little time to fret. Her great-aunt Liza instantly took her in hand, but so tactfully and pleasantly that afterwards Gina suspected she had learnt to love her even before she loved her grandfather.

  Liza Cunningham, a childless widow, was in her ele­ment. Gina was taken to the best salons, where she was groomed and dressed until she felt she in no way re­sembled the girl who had lived at Briarly. Her red hair began looking truly wonderful, as did her face and figure, glowing with health and vitality. In Paris, a few weeks later, when a leading couturier said her figure was something to rave about, she still felt slightly incredulous. Yet sometimes, when she looked in the mirror before going out in the evenings, she did find it difficult to re­cognise herself and she often wondered what Quentin would think of her now. Sometimes if it occurred to her that she concentrated on improving herself solely with Quentin and revenge in mind, she dismissed such thoughts as absurd. It was because of her grandfather and Aunt Liza, no one else.

  She got used to Rolls-Royces, houses in Mayfair, French chefs, Renoirs and Corots. Now she ate smoked salmon and pheasant, drank the best wines and grew knowledgeable about the latest thing in cocktails, even though she liked few of them. She had mink, dresses with famous Paris labels, jewellery from some of the great jewellers in the Place Vendome, perfume by Jean Patou, Balmain and Balenciaga, to name but a few.

  When she protested to her aunt that her grandfather was spending far too much on her and that it wasn't necessary, Liza reproved her kindly.

  'I shouldn't say a word, darling, if I were you. Your grandfather's a very wealthy man and you're all he has, and it's years since he's been this extravagant. Let him enjoy himself, it can't do any harm, and he might not have so many years left. Apart from that, you're almost bound to marry,' her eyes rested teasingly on Gina's glossy new beauty, 'and then he won't be so important in your life any more. So why not allow him to spoil you for the next few months, maybe a little longer if the right man doesn't come along?'

  While often Gina longed to be back at Briarly, it wouldn't have been true to say that she didn't like living with these two people who loved her. It was all new and she would have been less than human if she hadn't en­joyed it. They left London and toured the world, visiting, as Charles had promised, friends and relations. They stayed at beautiful resorts in the Rockies, in skyscrapers in New York, a fourteenth-century castle in Spain, glass-sided penthouses in Rome, as well as many other places. In France there was a wonderful old chateau in the Dordogne, but one of her favourite places was a cousin's flat in Paris.

  Louis was a cousin several times removed, but Gina felt an immediate kinship with him. He spoke impeccable English, but he made her speak French with him until she became quite fluent. He was older than she was and very sophisticated, but he had a good sense of humour and she enjoyed his company.

  His flat, like many Paris houses, was set in a courtyard behind enormous wooden doors, and from it he showed her most of Paris while the older people rested. They had such fun together that Gina was convinced she had at last managed to forget Briarly and Quentin. Until Louis took her to the races at Longchamps, one day, and she saw a horse that reminded her too closely of Hector.

  After this, in spite of a further few weeks spent sailing in the South of France on a fabulous yacht in fabulous weather, all she really craved for was to return home. She realised, at last, that the only way to get rid of the ghost of Quentin Hurst was to see him again. This hold he seemed to have over her, which no amount of idle flirting with other men seemed able to eliminate, was making her very bitter indeed. This, coupled with the way he had treated her, made her determined that, once back, she wouldn't seek to merely exorcise his ghost. She would, if it were at all possible, have some sort of revenge.

  She had seen photographs of him from time to time with other women, but he had made no attempt to get in touch. So far as she knew he had never once enquired, since she had left Briarly, as to whether she were dead or alive. Once, in a bitter mood, she had thought of writing and asking how he was, but her good sense had prevailed. If he wasn't concerned for her, why should she worry over him? And she did see photographs!

  While she didn't enjoy seeing photographs of him with other women, this made her feel fairly certain he wasn't yet married to Blanche. When they were in Rome, and she inadvertently learnt that he was also there, Gina had toyed with the idea of letting him know where she was staying. She had even got as far as deciding to consult her grandfather on the best way to reach him, when Sir Charles dropped the morning paper in her lap.

  'I see our friend Quentin Hurst was enjoying himself last night.'

  There had been a small photograph of him, dancing with a beautiful Italian girl. Gina had stared at it for a long time, then forgot about trying to contact him.

  It was almost a year before they returned home, and, as they left London for Dorking, Gina knew that never, during all the time they had been away, had she ever been in such a state of intense excitement. By now she had learnt to love both her aunt and grandfather, a love not unmixed with gratitude for all they had done for her. Sitting between them, as they left the city, she felt entirely secure. Yet it was on Quentin Hurst that her mind concentrated. Charles and Liza were the safe, loving background. Quentin, who she was aware was none of these things, occupied her thoughts entirely.

  While she hated to think she might react badly on meeting him again, she wanted to meet him as soon as possible. And when they did meet, she wanted to make as great an impact as possible—which ruled out her original plan to drive over and see him as soon as she got back. She knew Quentin. If she arrived on his doorstep wearing a simple little suit, he might never bother to look at her again. No, it would have to be a small after-dinner party here and one of her Paris models, with her hair freshly shampooed—for then it looked particularly glorious, and her face expertly made up—the lot! Otherwise she could well be wasting her time.

  As they neared Dorking and her grandfather's estate, she asked tentatively, 'Do you think we could invite a few people in for drinks tomorrow evening, after dinner?'

  'What a lovely idea!' Aunt Liza agreed at once, for she loved entertaining and felt happy that Gina wanted to be sociable.

  Charles, knowing better than Liza did the kind of life Gina had led before he found her, hesitated. Gina, aware of it, glanced at him uncertainly. 'Grandfather?'

  'You can ask whom you like, of course,' he assured her carefully. 'This is your home now, but why not wait a few days?'<
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  'I'd like it to be tomorrow,' she insisted, with a stub­bornness she could see surprised him. 'If it's all right with you?'

  'It's not that,' his eyes narrowed slightly as he glanced at her sideways. 'Was there anyone in particular you wanted to ask?'

  She lowered her thick lashes so he shouldn't see her agitation, forgetting the betraying pink in her cheeks. 'Not especially. There's Richard Hedley, if he's still around. He was the vet who used to come to Briarly to see the horses. Felix Duke was nice to me, too. And then there are the Hursts.'

  'That's just four,' said Aunt Liza.

  'Yes, well,' Gina hedged awkwardly, 'I'll have to leave the rest to you,' she bent her bright head. 'I didn't have many friends.'

  'And now you would like more?' Liza thought she understood. 'Well, that should be easily arranged. How many?'

  'How many? Oh, I see,' for a moment Gina felt be­wildered, 'you mean for the party? Well, not too many. Just enough so it doesn't seem too cosy—if you know what I mean.'

  She could see they didn't, but as she didn't know how to explain she lapsed into silence while the other two began discussing who should be invited. Liza didn't need pencil and paper; she was quite capable of handling a list of suitable guests in her head.

  By the time they reached Bourne Court it was all settled and Gina thanked them. Once inside, another dis­cussion began as to which bedroom she should be given. In the end it was decided she should have one at the very end of the first floor corridor, one which got both the morning and afternoon sun and had its own bathroom.

  Gina, willing to agree to anything, escaped upstairs while Liza went to consult with Mrs Bexley over to­morrow's entertainment before she began ringing people. Gina felt rather guilty about the extra work, but Liza was in her element, as usual. Laughing, she promised to have her breakfast in bed, next morning, if she was at all tired.

  At dinner, later that evening, she told them that nearly everyone had accepted.

  Charles smiled wryly. 'They're probably all wondering why we should want to see them so soon,'

  'We've been away almost a year, Charles,' his sister reproved him, 'and I suspect nearly everyone's curious about Gina.'

  'What about the Hursts?' Charles asked the question which had been burning the tip of Gina's tongue.

  'Quentin isn't at home,' Liza replied, 'but Lydia prom­ised she would try and get hold of him. She's sure, if she can, he'll come. She won't be able to manage herself, as she has arranged to go away for a few days. She sends her regards, though, Gina, and hopes to see you soon.'

  Most of the next day, apart from when she had her hair done, Gina spent with her grandfather, being shown over her new home. She thought it was beautiful but found it difficult to believe it would all be hers one day. This diffidence was something she knew she must try and overcome. She had looks and more beautiful clothes than she knew what to do with. On top of this she was an heiress with a titled grandfather. Yet underneath the veneer of gloss and sophistication she had acquired over the past year, she was still the less than confident young girl she had once been. There was still a feeling of in­feriority she was finding impossible to get rid of. For this she continued to blame Quentin Hurst and was full of resentment towards him because of it.

  After dinner she went to change again into another dress, teasing her grandfather, saying she must do him justice. But when she emerged an hour later, Liza gave a kind of startled gasp as she came to see what Gina was doing and met her outside her bedroom door.

  'Good heavens, child, someone's going to lose their eye­sight,' she exclaimed. 'I can see Charles having to chase hordes of young men away!'

  Gina's laughter was gay but oddly strained. 'Truth­fully, Aunt Liza, do you think I look much different from the way I looked when you first saw me?'

  Liza Cunningham's smile held pride. 'Vastly different, my darling. In fact I'm willing to bet that few of the people who knew you before will recognise you.'

  Gratefully, Gina gave her aunt a quick hug. 'You go down,' she begged, 'I forgot something. I'll follow in a minute.'

  She had only forgotten her courage. She tried to tell herself it was because she couldn't bear to face a crowd of curious people, but she knew that, for her, the crowd would consist only of Quentin.

  Cars were arriving and she couldn't put it off any longer, but she need not have worried. Everyone made a great fuss of her when she went downstairs, but Quentin wasn't there. If he was coming he hadn't arrived yet, and the relief she knew was wonderful. So wonderful that she couldn't understand why she should feel impelled to seek Liza out and suggest she should give him a ring.

  Liza was too busy to take much notice. Absently she shook her beautifully waved head. 'Better wait a little longer, dear. He'll probably be here in a minute.'

  He was. As Gina stood chatting to Richard Hedley, Quentin came through the door of the big lounge which was crowded with people. She saw him speak to her grandfather, who went to meet him, then his dark eyes were searching the room, seeking and finding her.

  He hadn't changed, she was the one who had done that, and she sensed, even with the width of the room between them, that he was immediately conscious of it. Her heart jerked and began racing in the old familiar way, his name coming inaudibly to her lips as in a dream, while the only sane part of her functioning commanded she pull herself together. If she played her cards right, that same voice whispered, he might soon be eating out of her hand.

  It took a lot of effort, but she managed to smile at him brightly. She couldn't be absolutely sure that she held his whole attention, but it seemed like it. For the moment it was sufficient to see interest flaring as his gaze pinned hers, as, without once removing his eyes from her face, he wended his way towards her through the crowd. Without being aware of it, she left Richard's side and moved to­wards him, so she could be alone with him when they met. They might have been quite alone for all the notice either of them took of anyone else.

  'Gina!' To her surprise he bent to kiss her cheek, put­ting his hands on her arms to do so.

  To her dismay, her racing heart drove the colour from her cheeks when he touched her, but deliberately she attempted to hide her feelings. 'Hello, Quentin,' she smiled at him again, this time more seductively, as she had seen other girls doing on her travels. Her smile widened to a teasing grin. 'Or do I say Mr Quentin?'

  Just for a second his eyes narrowed, but to her relief he decided to accept the smile and ignore the dig. Some­thing warned her she must learn not to betray her resentment, for, even cloaked in a smile, he might guess it was still there.

  'Well, well! Quite a transformation!' He made no attempt to disguise his appreciation, as his eyes went closely over her—and he did this as if he had every right. The tight black dress wasn't her favourite, but it served its purpose, being designed to draw the attention of even the least observant to the perfect lines of her figure. She wasn't fond of black, but the colour did seem to do a lot for her white skin and flaming red hair, which curled down her back in a blaze of glory.

  Quentin was taking his time, inspecting her, and she felt strangely breathless as his gaze passed slowly across her smooth, unblemished face, pausing on the full curve of her lips before plunging hungrily with her dress to the enticing roundness of her breasts. Insolence joined the appreciation in his eyes, enough to make her quiver, al­though she gave no visible sign of it.

  'So now,' he said coolly, 'you're grown up? You've learnt how to dress, to—er—make-' she was sure he had been going to say show, 'the most of yourself?'

  'Are you paying me a compliment?' she asked sharply.

  'Aren't you sure?' he challenged mockingly.

  'You never did—in the past,' she retorted.

  'Ah, but you've left the past behind you, haven't you?' he drawled. 'The girl I knew wasn't interested in herself, only horses.'

  'Naturally,' she allowed coolly, 'I've changed.'

  'You've learnt how to make the most of yourself, anyway,' he mused, his g
lance mocking. 'Do you always wear your hair loose like that, like a flaming banner?'

  'Don't you think it looks nice?'

  'Answer my question first, Gina.'

  'Oh, all right,' she blurted, with a sudden, irrational desire to shock him, 'I like it this way because it's sexy and free.'

  He merely laughed, as if her answer amused him. 'And do you actually feel sexy and free, eager to indulge your­self?'

  'Now you're twisting my words.'

  'Not necessarily.' His face, even more good-looking than she seemed to remember, hardened. 'From the first moment you saw me tonight, you've been throwing out some kind of challenge, and I'm curious.'

  She flushed, her glance wavering from his dark, intensely masculine one. 'Wouldn't I know better than to throw anything in your direction?'

  'I don't know,' he paused reflectively. 'You've cer­tainly changed. You were always sharply intelligent and I can see you've picked up quite a lot while you've been away. If you haven't actually practised all you've learnt, I should think you know, or imagine you know, how to go about it. Once we were poles apart in experience, but the gap might be nothing now.'

  Irritated beyond measure by a wave of embarrassment, Gina snapped, 'Why should you doubt I haven't slept with a man?'

  'No reason why I should,' he agreed, with a faint hint of violence. 'I might even be pleased to hear you had. Before you left Briarly you were extremely young and innocent.'

  'Before I left Briarly,' she retorted bitterly, 'I was very innocent about a lot of things.'

  'But not now?'

  He was going too fast for her. They had met, but weren't having the sensible kind of conversation she had envisaged, after not seeing each other for so long. Their voices were racing, yet they hadn't even touched on health, their respective families, the weather, all the normal things. She seemed to have been plunged im­mediately into waters too deep to swim in.