It was what she wanted, but would it work? He didn’t love her, and if she hadn’t been pregnant he would have avoided her where possible.
She twisted her fingers together in her lap and he told her, ‘I can’t stay, I’ve got a hell of a lot on at the moment, but during this coming week I’ll arrange the date and venue for the ceremony. After the wedding you can move in with me, and when I’m less pushed for time we’ll look for somewhere more suitable. A city apartment’s not the ideal environment for a child.’
As proposals went, this one rated rather less than one out of ten. She clamped her lips together to stop them quivering, and he said, his voice gentling, ‘It will be all right; I promise. We’ll make a good marriage.’ Briefly, he reached out to ruffle her boyishly cropped hair. ‘I have to go now, but I’ll be back a week today, early evening. We’ll break the news to the parents over dinner. Don’t say anything until then. If there’s any flak flying, I’ll take it.’
A good marriage. If he was willing to make it work then so was she. But to be the wife of a successful young solicitor she needed to change her image, and she spent most of the week hunting for suitable clothes, because how could he be proud of a wife who went around wearing fault-concealing baggy trousers and tops?
It was the afternoon, a week later, before she found the perfect dress for dinner that evening. She wanted to wear something that would make a statement, to appear older and more sophisticated in front of Harold and Vivienne, and to show Jason she was more than prepared to make an effort.
Hurrying into the house through the kitchen regions, clutching the classy carriers, she encountered Mrs Moody.
‘Mrs Harcourt’s been looking for you. You’ll find her in the conservatory.’
‘Thanks.’ No need to say more. Mrs Moody didn’t encourage chit-chat. For the first time ever Georgia didn’t feel intimidated by the severe mouth, the glacial, disapproving eyes. And as she sped up to her suite of rooms to get ready for Jason, for the announcement he would make over dinner tonight, her confidence soared. Vivienne could wait; she had more important things to do than listen to her endless complaints.
When her mother had married Harold Harcourt, after meeting him when she’d worked as his temporary personal secretary, Georgia had been over-awed, intimidated, even, by the opulence of this house and Harold’s staggering wealth. Unused to anything of the kind, she’d been out of her depth, afraid of putting a foot wrong.
But her mother had taken to her new lifestyle as if she’d been born to it, instead of having had to scratch a living to support herself and her unwanted child. She lapped up the luxury of having everything done for her, more designer clothes than she could wear, and a holiday home in the Caribbean.
Well, Vivienne was welcome to it! Georgia was about to embark on a life of her own, with Jason and their baby. Very carefully, she took the black dress from one of the carriers and laid it across her bed.
Classy. Jersey silk and cut on the bias, so it clung in the right places. Short—four inches above her knees—with a scoopy bodice. When she’d tried it on it had made her look sleek, yet voluptuous, rather than just plain overweight.
And plain black courts in the softest leather imaginable, with high and slender heels to give extra height to her perpendicularly challenged frame. She’d stopped growing when she reached five-two—upwardly, anyway.
After her shower she anointed her body with perfume, musky, exotic and disgracefully expensive. To give him his due, Harold made her a generous allowance. She rarely touched it, but today she’d dipped deep into her account.
But it had been worth it, she thought as she wriggled into the scraps of scarlet nonsense that passed as underwear. Used to wearing sturdy, practical undies, she found her mirror image a blush-making revelation.
The low-cut bra lovingly shaped her breasts, displaying them to their full advantage, and the tiny briefs emphasised her sex. Would Jason want her if he saw her like this? Would he see her as a desirable woman instead of a graceless lump? Would he decide that marriage to her might be more exciting than a mere execution of his duty? Would he think she was sexy?
The unmistakable sound of someone entering the adjoining bedroom sent her already thudding heartbeats into a frenzy. No one ever came to her rooms, not even Mrs Moody, because she looked after them herself.
Jason?
Her hand fluttered to her throat. It had to be him. He’d promised to be here in time for dinner. With an hour still to go he could have decided to speak to her privately before announcing their marriage plans later on.
Her eyes widening, her veins racing with fire, she watched the porcelain knob of the bathroom door make a slow half-turn.
A few short weeks ago she would have been diving for a towel to cover her near-nakedness, and she almost gave in to the impulse now, but managed not to because there was no earthly reason to be shy with the man she loved with every atom of her being, the man who would soon be her husband, the man who had fathered the new and precious life she was carrying.
And she would have the answers to the questions she’d asked herself only a few seconds ago!
Then the world went black and very still. Harold stood in the open doorway, staring at her. And Georgia stared back, too shocked and embarrassed to move.
The way he was looking at her made her feel like throwing up. His heavy face was red, hot eyes raking over every inch of her body. She tried to make a move, to grab a towel from the rail and cover herself, but her feet seemed to have grown roots through the floor.
‘Well, well, well—what an eye-opener!’
He was leering at her, Georgia thought, horrified. Oh, if only she weren’t so gauche, knew how to handle this hateful situation. ‘You have been hiding your light under a bushel!’
The thick sound of his voice galvanised her, was all it took to have her leaping over the tiles, grabbing for a towel. But Harold side-stepped, moving quickly for a heavy man, and was there before her, mocking, ‘No need to be shy with me, sweetie. No need at all.’
Beginning to panic now, she couldn’t agree with that. He might only be teasing, indulging in one of his too-near-the-bone jokes at her expense, but she wouldn’t bet on it. And the only way to stop his eyes crawling all over her body was to cover it.
She made a desperate lunge for the edge of the bathtowel she could see behind his bulky frame and he caught her before she made the connection, his laugh high and silly, his hands grabbing, all over her.
And then all hell broke loose.
At any other time the sight of her mother’s distorted features would have struck her as being hysterically funny, the twisted expression on her expertly made-up face and the raucous tone of her voice an almost surreal contrast to the perfect taste of the smoke-grey silk that hung so beautifully on her pin-thin body.
‘Just what the hell is going on in here? Hal? Answer me, Hal!’
Her flesh crawling with embarrassment, Georgia found herself thrust aside. She was shaking all over, not knowing what to do or say, grateful that the hateful mauling had stopped but horrified that her mother should have witnessed the degrading scene.
This was the worst thing that had ever happened to her, she thought wildly, and then proved herself wrong, because Jason was here, too, his face dark with bitter anger, and that had to be worse than anything she could possibly have imagined. ‘Vivvie, sweetheart,’ Harold said. ‘Don’t get the wrong end of the stick!’
He smoothed a hand over his thinning hair and Georgia just knew he would have straightened his tie had he been wearing one.
‘I hate to have to tell you this, but I can’t have you getting all the wrong ideas—I only came up here to pass on that message her friend left with you. That Sue somebody-or-other who’s been phoning all afternoon. Thought I’d save you the trouble, darling. But this little minx of yours was parading about in those skimpy things.’ He drew his brows down in an anxious frown. ‘I haven’t said anything before—didn’t want to upset you—but she’s been com
ing on to me for weeks now. And just now—well—she just threw herself at me, as you must have seen for yourself.’
All eyes on her, condemning her, Georgia could barely hold herself upright, let alone speak.
How could Harold say such disgusting things about her? She was shaking so badly, inside and out, that her denial when it came was barely audible.
‘I didn’t. No, I didn’t!’
She knew she hadn’t sounded convincing, and her mother was shouting at her, the words she said scrambled by her own panicking brain, making no sense. But she could tell by the look of loathing in Vivienne’s eyes that she didn’t believe her.
And why should she? Why should she believe the truth when it would mean that her marriage would never be the same again? Why sacrifice wealth, luxury and ease if by blinkering herself she didn’t have to?
And the look of deep and bitter contempt on Jason’s face said it all. He didn’t believe her, either. The offer of marriage had been made out of duty. He didn’t love her, never had and never could, and now he despised her. He had only let her into his bed because she’d been eager and offering herself.
Hadn’t Sue’s mother once asked, ‘Why are men ruled by their hormones?’ shaking her head over her twenty-year-old son’s latest folly. Guy had been chasing after a woman from the nearby village, twice his age, and rumoured to be no better than she should be.
Jason had been ruled by his hormones, his judgement clouded by alcohol, and now deeply—and probably bitterly—regretted it. If he thought anything of her at all he would be defending her now, at least asking to hear her side of the story.
But he didn’t say a word, and she just knew that this farce gave him the perfect get-out. If he believed Harold, he could free himself up to believe anything—believe that after her initiation she had thrown herself at every male she came across, greedy for sex, allow himself to believe that the child she was carrying wasn’t even his!
Blinded by a sudden deluge of tears, she stumbled from the room, her arms crossed tightly across her breasts in a vain and belated attempt to hide as much of herself and her stupid red underwear as she could from Jason’s bleak, contemptuous eyes.
He made no move to stop her, or to follow her, and the last tiny flicker of hope snuffed out and died. And as she scrabbled around in her bedroom, snatching up the jeans and sweater she’d discarded earlier, her shoes and handbag, she could hear the low, harsh sound of his voice, her mother’s shrill tirade, Harold’s low, placating mutters.
They would be discussing her gross behaviour, she decided hysterically, heading for the door. Deciding how to get her contaminating presence out of their lives.
She fled down the corridor until she could no longer hear their voices, pulled her clothes on, walked into her shoes and clattered down the stairs.
As she reversed the small car she had been given the use of out of the garage, with more speed than precision, she knew exactly where she would go. To Sue.
Mercifully, she’d been too busy wandering round the shops planning her future with Jason to even think about contacting her friend to tell her what had happened and that she’d changed her mind about going with them to New York after all.
Kate and Robin Ansley, Sue’s parents, wouldn’t turn their backs on her, she knew that. Though at the moment they were both in New York. Robin had been there for weeks, setting up the American branch of his London-based advertising agency, and now Kate had flown out for a couple of weeks to make the final decision about where the family should live.
They had always welcomed her into their close and loving family, and would do everything they could to support her through this; she knew that. And Sue would fight her corner to the bitter end.
CHAPTER THREE
GEORGIA came back to the present with a jolt. She felt numb all over, the rapid playback of the past stunning her brain. And the way Jason was looking at her now, with contempt and scarcely veiled hostility, told her that Harold had never owned up to the truth of what had happened that evening all those years ago.
Maybe he’d meant to, but had never raked up enough courage. Jason could be frighteningly forbidding when he wanted to be.
But she’d made her peace with her mother’s husband a long time ago. He’d flown out to New York to break the news of her mother’s death in a car accident the day after her funeral. She hadn’t wanted to see him, not after what he’d done, but his altered appearance had shocked her so much she had listened to what he’d had to say.
His wife’s death, and the manner of it, had made him take a long, hard look at himself, and he’d hated what he’d seen. He hadn’t been able to apologise enough for the lies he’d told on that traumatic evening, the damage he’d done to her, and ultimately to his wife.
It had been hard to forgive him, but, faced with someone as obviously tormented by guilt as he was, she’d had no option but to try. On his return to England he’d written often, and occasionally she had replied, and when she’d returned to the UK he’d travelled to Birmingham once a month to give her lunch.
She’d cancelled their last date, though. She’d been so busy with her presentation. Now she wished she’d made time. He’d always seemed so lonely, pathetically pleased to have her company. He’d never known about her pregnancy, and that had made things easier because not knowing, he couldn’t mention it.
Jason was tall, over six feet, and she had to tilt her chin up to look him in the face. There was nothing there to see but naked dislike. Did he ever wonder what had happened to their baby? Did he even care? Had Vivienne told him about the miscarriage, or had neither of them bothered to mention the subject?
He’d made no attempt to contact her in all these years. He’d washed his hands of her, and the child she’d been carrying.
She never allowed herself to think about the miscarriage, the lost baby; it hurt too much. She closed her eyes briefly, to hide the pain, and felt his gaze on her like a brand, burning through her eyelids. She snapped them open again, and stared into the hard, hostile eyes, pushing the past firmly away. She didn’t know this man who had ignored her existence, the fate of their child. And didn’t want to.
The change in her stunned him. He was staring, he knew he was, but could do nothing about it.
This new version of the plump teenager he remembered was stylishly slender, yet perfectly formed, wearing an elegantly simple cream-coloured sweater, which almost certainly carried an Italian label, over narrow-fitting designer jeans. The woman she had become was light years away from the dumpy, frumpy fifteen-year-old he had first met at Harold and Vivienne’s wedding ten years ago.
The first real and deep compassion he’d felt in all of his twenty-three years of living had twisted sharply inside his guts as he’d looked at her then, wearing an awful blue satin dress that had emphasised every bulge, a fluffy confection of blue flowers set incongruously and precariously on her mouse-brown cropped head, and carrying her mother’s bouquet of white lilies in hands that visibly shook.
There’d been a look of bewilderment in her huge eyes that had made him want to take care of her, shelter her from life’s knocks. Especially when Vivienne, elegant in a darker blue silk, had raised a perfectly arched, perfectly derisive eyebrow whenever her hapless daughter made a gauche remark or clumsy movement.
Vivienne had had no time for her daughter, he had sensed that from the start, and later he had learned why.
But Georgia’s uncomfortably awkward smile—when he had eventually persuaded her to give one—had been beautiful, trusting and innocent, her eyes clinging to his as if he’d been a rock in a raging sea.
Now there was no compassion in him, not for her. She had killed any care he had had for her as surely as she had killed their child. He’d felt sick to his soul when Vivienne had told him of the abortion.
Besides, from the look of her, she needed none. And her smile—should she ever decide to thaw that haughty expression—might still be as beautiful as sunrise, but it would leave him cold.
Hooding his eyes, he strode towards her, held out a hand. ‘I’ll garage it for you and bring in your luggage.’
‘No.’ Instinctively she enclosed the keys in the palm of her hand. ‘No one touches that car but me.’
So there was an area where she was vulnerable. He shrugged. What did he care? He followed her out, and the vehicle in front of the closed garage area did raise an eyebrow. No wonder she was possessive.
Powerful, sexy, beautifully styled, its origins were as obvious as the classy sweater she wore. Either her job paid mega-bucks or she had a rich lover.
From the look of her, and what he knew of her, from what he remembered of the way she was in bed, he’d lay odds on the sugar daddy. He activated the remote control, then tossed it to her and instructed tightly, ‘Lock up after you. You’re in your old room. Supper in ten minutes; Mrs Moody held it back.’
He’d been watching the double doors slide open as he spoke, and now he turned to look at her again. Her hair shimmered under the security lights and her eyes were dark amber pools that said, Arrogant bastard! as clearly as if she’d spoken the words aloud.
He acknowledged the challenge, the confrontational gauntlet thrown down by those unwavering golden eyes with a brief dip of his head, a tight smile, then strode back into the house.
She could find her own way. Whatever else she might have forgotten—her morals, her responsibilities towards the new life she had once carried and, yes, to him—she could hardly have forgotten the way to the suite of rooms that had been hers. And she could carry her own bags.
Mistress for a Night Page 3