Mistress for a Night

by Diana Hamilton

  He wouldn’t mention her relationship with Harold. That was firmly in the past and could stay there, because Harold was dead. But he could tell her about the other reason, because it needed clearing up.

  ‘The guy you live with. I’ve only spoken to him on the phone—the first time when I had to tell you of Harold’s death, when he passed me over to you, and the second when he told me you’d gone out to the island. His tone alone told me he was defending his territory.’

  Georgia lifted her head from where it rested against the warm angle of his shoulder, a slight, puzzled frown between her eyes as she looked at him. He brushed a tangle of hair back from her forehead and assured her, ‘It’s OK, sweetheart. I don’t expect you to have lived the life of a nun for the past seven years. And from the way you respond to me I guess you can’t be in a committed, serious relationship with him.’

  She loved him for that, more than ever—if that were possible. Putting her hands on either side of his face, she drew his head down, kissing him until the breath left her body, and he said raggedly, against her mouth, ‘We’ll go back and move your things out. If he causes trouble, just leave him to me. You can stay at my London apartment until the wedding. Three weeks should give you enough time to buy a new hat! And then a long, long honeymoon. On the island? Would you like that?’

  She threw her head back, her golden eyes dancing. ‘Very much! I can’t think of anywhere better.’ Then she giggled irrepressibly, ‘Oh, I do love you! You get the quaintest ideas! You don’t have to defend me against an ex-lover’s wrath—Ben isn’t my lover, never was. He’s simply a neighbour with aspirations in that direction. He tries it on and I slap him down. The number of jars of coffee he borrows would stock a supermarket, and I guess that when he answered the phone while I was on the island he was snooping.’

  She sobered suddenly. The idea of Ben going into her apartment, probably pawing through her possessions, was horrible. ‘There are only four apartments in the building, and all of us have spare keys to the others—a precaution in case of burst pipes and so on.’

  ‘And he uses his to snoop around whenever you’re out,’ Jason said savagely. ‘The first thing I’ll do is make him hand it back. Not that it matters, because you’ll be with me in London. We’ll look for a proper home—a house in the country, darling?—when we’re back from that extended honeymoon.’

  ‘Jason.’ She laid her finger over his lips to stop him. He was making so many plans her head was reeling. She shifted round on the luxurious leather upholstery so that she could face him more squarely.

  ‘I won’t be with you in London before the wedding.’ She saw the sudden bleak flick of fear in his eyes and hurried on, because she couldn’t bear him to think, if only for an instant, that she’d changed her mind. ‘I need to work four weeks’ notice; that means I have to stay where I am. I’ll have to get in touch with my boss—Robin Ansley—in New York. He’ll need to appoint my successor, and I’d like him and Kate, his wife, to be at our wedding. They couldn’t have been kinder if they’d been my parents. And Sue and her American fiancé, and Guy, of course. So, if we marry in six weeks—’

  ‘Four,’ he stated. ‘I can’t wait a minute longer than that to put my ring on your finger.’

  ‘Done!’ she capitulated easily. She couldn’t wait, either. The wedding arrangements would have to be done on the hoof, but that didn’t matter. She could manage it. She could do anything as long as he loved her.

  ‘And I,’ he told her decisively, taking her hand and kissing the tips of her fingers, ‘will stay with you at your apartment while you work out your notice. I’ll have a meal waiting when you get home, and wash your smalls, and push your neighbour’s teeth through the back of his head if he so much as shows his face!’ He was smiling, but deadly serious. Never again would he put his work before her and her needs. ‘That’s if I can’t persuade Ansley to waive your period of notice. I’ll have a word with him when you phone, to let him know what’s happening.’

  Snuggling back into the warmth of his chest, she smiled a secret smile. He was taking charge, and for almost seven years no one, but no one, had been allowed that liberty. But she actually liked it. It made her feel secure, and totally loved for the first time in her life. And very, very feminine.

  He slid his hands beneath her sweater, stroking the smooth line of her back, sliding them round to caress the sides of her aching breasts, sending her wild with longing, and said thickly, ‘It’s time we headed back to your place, your bed. Or, I’ll start behaving like a randy teenager and ravish you in the back of the car!’

  ‘Oh, goodness!’ Georgia struggled up through the obliterating mists of rising passion. ‘I’m due to meet the solicitor—’ she shot a hasty look at her watch ‘—right now!’

  ‘I’d forgotten about him,’ Jason said, watching fondly as she tugged her clothing back in place, pushed her fingers through her glorious hair, trying to tame it. ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘Some letter Mrs Moody found—and papers to sign for her and Baines’ pensions.’ She sounded breathless; she felt breathless, unbusinesslike. She would be late for the meeting. And she would look unbusinesslike, look as if she had just been thoroughly kissed. Which she had. She would look as if she was ecstatically happy. Which she most definitely was.

  She grinned, because it didn’t matter. ‘So give me the keys and I’ll get going.’

  She held out her hand, and for a moment wondered if he would do no such thing, would insist on driving her there himself, leaving her beautiful car at the side of a ditch for someone to tow away and get rid of.

  But slowly he took her keys from his pocket and put them in her outstretched hand, closing her fingers around them, and because she understood his reluctance—he’d been afraid that she’d drive herself into an accident, as Vivienne had, in what must have been a savagely reckless mood—she said, ‘Thank you. I promise I’ll drive carefully.’

  ‘I’ll hold you to that.’ He smiled, but his voice was gruff as she opened the door and slid out. And by the time she’d started her engine the Jaguar was on the road, leading the way, the pace staid.

  Georgia grinned. Give him time and he’d learn that she was a safe driver, could handle her powerful car, was always in control. She loved him, deeply and devotedly, always had and always would. But there were certain things…

  There was only one safe passing place on the approach to Lytham.

  Georgia flashed her headlights in warning and arrowed ahead, tucking back neatly to the side of the lane well before the next corner, and Jason sped up, laughing aloud.

  The battle for mastery would never get serious. With Georgia, the provocative minx, it would always be fun.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE drawing room at Lytham was overheated. Besides the central heating, Mrs Moody had provided them with a hearthful of blazing coals. Jason, sitting on the window seat, divorcing himself from the proceedings because whatever Georgia decided to do with her legacy was entirely down to her, ran a finger round the inside of the neck of his light sweater.

  He had already disposed of his jacket, and still he felt stifled. He looked at Baines with a twinge of sympathy. The gardener was sitting close to the fire, and obviously wished he wasn’t, but felt too out of his element to attempt to move. His face was red, his forehead beaded with sweat, and his thick fingers were plucking at the cloth cap he held on his heavy-corduroy-clad knees.

  Mrs Moody stood just inside the door, looking as if she was wearing a steel corset, upright, stiff, her expression as dour as ever.

  Only Georgia looked at ease, her graceful body bent over the papers the solicitor had asked her to sign, reading carefully, finally nodding and adding her signature.

  ‘Thank you.’ The solicitor slipped the signed papers back in his document case and named the generous sum that would be paid out each month—enough to keep Mrs Moody in more than comfortable retirement and to make an adequate buffer for Baines, should the new owners of Lytham—whoever—not re
quire his services.

  Jason saw Baines go even redder with astonished pleasure, and caught the look of gratitude and relief Mrs Moody threw in Georgia’s direction. For a moment or two he was swamped with self-loathing as he recalled the way he’d reacted to the new Georgia who had walked in here the day before Harold’s funeral.

  How he’d coldly informed her that as Harold hadn’t remembered his loyal staff in his will she should put that right. She hadn’t needed reminding; her generosity of spirit hadn’t changed.

  He had let past misunderstandings and bleak bitterness blind him to what she really was: his loving, generous darling.

  Never, never again, he vowed vehemently. He would never, in all the years that lay ahead of them, cease to show her how much she was loved. She had had so very little of it up until now; he would make it up to her in spades.

  ‘All that’s left, at this time, is to hand you this letter.’ The solicitor put a large white envelope on the table. ‘The instructions are written in the late Mr Harcourt’s hand.’

  ‘I came across it in his shirt drawer,’ Mrs Moody told Georgia, her tone more animated than Jason had ever heard it. Had she been worried about her future, where she would live when she got too old to work, how she would manage on the state pension?

  ‘He was always so particular about his shirts. There was this drawer of new ones, still in Cellophane wrappers. I was gathering them up to send to a charity shop when I found it. I thought it might be important. Now, Miss Georgia, shall I bring in some tea?’

  ‘Not for me, thank you,’ the solicitor said, fastening the document case with fussy precision. ‘I have another appointment waiting. I’m already late.’

  And Baines, twisting his cap between his hands, mumbled his thanks to Georgia and followed the solicitor out, anxious to hurry back to his wife and tell her the good news.

  Georgia said, ‘I’d love some, Mrs Moody. We both would.’

  As the housekeeper left the room Georgia picked up the envelope, her eyes puzzled. ‘I wonder what this is?’

  ‘Open it and see.’ Jason hoped he didn’t sound as edgy as he felt. Whatever private last messages that letter contained, he wasn’t going to sit in judgement. He remembered her tears at Harold’s funeral, her obvious sorrow, and wondered what they had meant to each other. He didn’t want to know.

  ‘Now why didn’t I think of that?’ She gave him a radiant smile and held out a hand to him. ‘Let’s read it together.’

  Jason went, because when she called he always would, but crazily, considering the hot-house temperature of this room, he felt a trickle of ice run down his spine. A foreboding of what?

  He stood at her side while she slit open the envelope but he made no attempt to read what was written on the two separate sheets of closely covered paper. He found he was holding his breath.

  When she whispered his name, brushed her hair away from her face and looked up at him, he saw her cheeks were pale, wet with tears, and he gathered her to him, holding her. Because if she needed comfort—whatever the reason—he was here to give it her.

  ‘You were—very fond of him.’ He got the words out with difficulty. ‘I saw how you wept at his funeral.’ He ached for her to deny it, and knew she couldn’t. Whatever Harold had said, in those last private words to her, it had left her weeping in his arms.

  She said, ‘Fond of Harold? In a way, I suppose.’

  ‘You don’t have to lie to me,’ he told her, almost brusquely.

  She lifted her head and shook it, biting down on her lower lip, grabbing her control back. ‘I’m not lying. I did get to like him better after he came out to New York to tell me the news that Vivienne was dead and already buried.’ She pulled a hankie out of her trouser pocket and blew her nose ferociously. ‘He was so full of guilt—he couldn’t stop apologising because he thought he’d ruined my life with those lies he’d told. I never did have the heart to tell him about the baby, and you wanting to marry me until you believed his lies. He was so full of remorse over putting the final nail in the coffin of my relationship with my mother that I couldn’t heap anything more on him.’

  ‘So you forgave him?’ Jason tugged her back into his arms. He knew how different Harold had become after his wife’s death: thoughtful, remorseful, shrinking in on himself.

  ‘There didn’t seem much point in harbouring old grudges,’ she told him, her voice muffled by his sweater. ‘He used to write, and sometimes I’d reply. Just odd snippets of news—he seemed lonely, and unhappy, and I felt more sorry for him than actually fond of him. I wasn’t crying for him that day. The night before I’d dreamed of our baby—the first time in ages.’

  ‘It still hurts you?’ He could have punched his fist through a wall in frustration, but he held her gently, close to him. He wanted to fight every damn thing that hurt her, but was powerless, in this case, to do so.

  ‘No, not since I knew you wanted our baby, too,’ she told him, pulling away a little, her eyes glowing with love now. ‘That little life was loved by both of us; that makes the difference. We can let it go—and there will be others. And before Mrs Moody comes back with that tea—’ she held out the two sheets of paper ‘—read these. This one first.’

  With a brief look at her, he took from her what appeared to be two separate letters, and scanned them quickly. One was from Vivienne, written to her daughter, and, as Georgia had indicated, he read that first.

  The tone was jerky, almost hysterical, and told of her desire for a reconciliation, mentioned the unfinished letter she’d left behind on the island. Told of the way she couldn’t blind herself any longer to Harold’s furtive affairs. Of her shame and remorse at the way she’d made herself believe Harold’s version of events when she’d walked in and found them wrapped around each other.

  If I’d believed you, I couldn’t have gone on living with him. And I didn’t want to lose what I’d got. So I told myself I believed him and washed my hands of you. I was a lousy mother, greedy and self-centred, and I have come to hate myself.

  So that was why Georgia had shed those tears! Not speaking, he looped an arm around her waist and pulled her close, then read what Harold had written. Not much, just an apology and an explanation.

  On his return to Lytham, after hearing of Vivienne’s fatal accident, he’d found the letter she’d written among her things.

  I realised then what harm I’d done, to both of you. It changed me. But I still didn’t have the courage to send the letter on to you. I give it to you now, and leave all I own to you. An attempt at recompense.

  As he read, Georgia could see the relief on his face and she knew. She had always suspected that Jason believed she’d slept her way into her inheritance, that her relationship with her stepfather had been murky.

  She took the sheets of paper from him, folded them and tucked them into her handbag, her face set. ‘As I said before, you get the quaintest ideas.’ She poked his flat midriff with her forefinger. ‘You thought Harold was my sugar-daddy, and I let him be because I wanted his money. All of it.’ She gave another jab. ‘Admit it!’

  He felt cold all over now, and at any moment he would start to shake. There was a tight knot in his chest and he couldn’t breathe.

  Was she about to tell him she couldn’t marry, let alone love, a man who was capable of harbouring such hateful, demeaning thoughts? Walk out of his life again and leave him broken?

  Unbelievably, though, her golden eyes were dancing now, and she was smiling. But he couldn’t. He felt like a worm. ‘I’m sorry, Georgia. So sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be.’ She was actually grinning, and his heart began to beat again. ‘You still wanted to marry me, even though you thought I was that dreadful. You must really love me, warts and all!’

  And wasn’t that the truth! He loved her more with each beat of his heart. She was wonderful, and he didn’t deserve her, but he’d spend the rest of his life trying to!

  His strong teeth gleamed whitely as he returned her smile. ‘I really, truly do.’ He pi
cked her up and swung her round. ‘But I am relieved to have finally got rid of those warts!’

  ‘Tea,’ Mrs Moody said from the doorway, and cleared her throat, smiling at their antics.

  Jason put Georgia back on her feet, sliding her down his body. She looked flushed, radiant, utterly, utterly gorgeous. He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the backs of her fingers. ‘Mrs Moody, very soon I’m going to frogmarch this little darling to the altar. Will you be the first to congratulate me?’

  ‘And about time too, if you don’t mind me saying it. I always knew you were right for each other,’ the housekeeper said as Jason took the heavy tray from her and carried it to the table.

  ‘Right.’ He surveyed the silver teapot, the plates of thinly cut smoked salmon sandwiches, the rich fruitcake and the tiny sausage rolls. ‘Make a start on this, both of you. I’m going to fetch some of Harold’s champagne. I think the occasion demands it.’

  Georgia poured the tea and handed a cup to Mrs Moody. ‘Do sit down,’ she said, and passed her the plate of sandwiches and saw her settled in the chair near the fire. She took her own tea to the sofa that flanked the table, so that Jason could sit beside her. ‘Have you thought where you might live when this house is sold?’

  ‘Well…’ Mrs Moody put her teacup down on the delicate tripod table beside her. ‘There’s a cottage to let in the village. I’ve always fancied it—it’s right next to the church. And with that generous pension—’ her cheeks went pink with excitement ‘—I could easily afford it.’

  ‘Then go for it!’ Georgia nibbled at a triangular sandwich. ‘I think I know the one you mean—it has a lovely front garden, full of flowers in the summer, and a rose arch over the gate?’

  The older woman nodded vigorously, her mouth full of fruitcake, and Georgia wondered why she’d ever been frightened of her. ‘See the estate agent first thing in the morning and take it,’ she advised. ‘Get in there before someone else does. And if you fancy anything from here—furnishings, bedlinen, china, anything—then do take what you want. Jason and I will have no use for it.’