by Vaso
He wanted her attention and she gave it to him reluctantly for a few seconds. Beside Kemp, Adam and all the other men here were . . . tame.
When the game in which they were playing began, she watched with more interest than she usually felt, simply because Kemp was playing. Even in the regulation polo gear, which she had always thought somewhat unattractive, he was a figure to draw attention.
As she might have expected, he played at number three. It was somehow characteristic that he should occupy that vital position where his task was both to open attacks and support the number four, Mr Ducaine, in defence. Each of the mounts he used, changing after every two chukkas, was highly trained and the game was played at lightning speed.
Again, watching him, Valentine felt pride mingling with her sadness. Even now it seemed as if he was somehow part of her. His presence on the field was commanding and he was far and away the best player among the eight.
But she still wondered if this sort of life, dictated by the cycle of wine-producing but nevertheless attended by plentiful leisure and pleasure, could ever truly satisfy him. The life he had previously led must have tempered him, making him aware of things of which those who stayed at home were ignorant, and all this might not be enough to fulfil him when the gift which had made him respected was far from being fully expanded.
Someone sat down beside her and Valentine turned her head reluctantly, feeling momentarily perturbed when she beheld Emma Ducaine, neat and pretty in a pale blue linen dress and white sandals. Then she thought with sudden defiance—she was damned if she was going to let Emma know that she was no real rival to her.
'Oh, good,' Emma said with relief. 'I thought I might be too late to see Kemp play.'
'Aren't you interested in the fortunes of your father and brother at all?' Valentine asked naughtily, irrationally determined to provoke, as if by upsetting Emma she might alleviate some of her own pain.
Emma blushed. 'Them too, of course. But Kemp ... I · haven't seen him for years. How is he playing?'
'Quite brilliantly,' Valentine had no hesitation in responding. Let Emma think she was being challenged! 'But then I imagine he does everything brilliantly.'
Emma looked at her curiously, but Valentine was watching the game again, and anyway, her eyes were safely secret behind sunglasses.
'You like him, don't you?' Emma queried.
'Like?' Valentine felt as if a knife twisted in her heart, but she gave the girl an assessing glance. She knew she was being perverse, but she didn't care. If she gave up the game, she might fall to pieces, and above all, Emma was someone she didn't want looking at her essentially private agony. 'An insipid word, Emma, or were you employing it as a euphemism?'
'I don't know what you mean.' Emma watched the game for a few moments—or radier, she watched Kemp, hungrily. Then, 'How are you getting on with him? Has he come to a decision about whether you're to keep your job?'
If he hadn't decided to fire her yet, he would when he knew the truth, Valentine thought bleakly. But with a faint laugh, she said, 'Don't you think he was only joking when he .said he must consider the possibility of firing me?'
'I didn't think so,' Emma said'Stiffly.
'Perhaps your sense of humour is of a different brand to Kemp's .. . and mine,' Valentine suggested limpidly, but it cost her considerable effort. She diought achingly—it's probably true, but you have more chance than me because there's ,no Philip in your past.
'You don't understand . . . You hardly know him, Valentine.' Emma muttered rebelliously,.
'In the sense you mean, but in another sense I feel as if I've known him since the beginning of time,' Valentine told her mischievously, keeping her voice light, wishing fervently that the girl would go away. She wanted to be alone with her ever-increasing pain. 'Have you ever heard of that happening, Emma? Seeing someone for the first time and in that same instant recognising them, as if you'd known each other in a previous life?'
'You're imagining things,' Emma responded brusquely. 'How . . . how can you even begin to know and understand a man like Kemp? You . . . you don't belong here, you don't fit in!'
'What are you getting so upset for?' Valentine enquired interestedly. Please God, she hid her own gnawing distress better than Emma did hers.
Flushing, Emma subsided, muttering ungraciously. Valentine watched the conclusion of the game which ended in victory for Kemp's side. She wondered if Emma's unhappiness came anywhere close to hers in intensity. Why did women have to be. so weak, so dependent on men for happiness?
Then, determined to play to the finish of her own game, whatever it cost her in terms of pain and effort, she turned to Emma and picked up her last words. 'Come to that, if you think about it, Kemp doesn't really belong here either.'
'What do you mean? Of course he belongs.'
'He comes from a different world, Emma,' Valentine said gently.
'He belongs to Fleurmont now,' Emma insisted obstinately.
'But have you seen the restlessness in his eyes?'
'He'll adjust, he'll settle down,' Emma predicted eagerly. 'Or he will, if you don't influence him into Selling.'
Valentine was silent until the waiter bringing them cold drinks had departed. She felt filled with regret for what might have been. 'Who could influence Kemp Irvine, Emma?' she asked finally and knew it was the truth. Not she, not Emma, not anyone. 'It would be folly to try.'
'You'd try, though,' Emma accused heatedly. 'I know what it is, Valentine. You want him for yourself and be-
cause you're a city person you'd try to get him away from here.'
'Oh the contrary, I could enjoy this sort of living for the rest of my days, the luxury and the peace,' Valentine told her truthfully, and decided to go on with the truth. Somehow it eased her own pain to build fear in this girl's mind. 'And yes, I do want Kemp, but a man such as he is . . . It's the duty of people like you and me not to stand in his way, Emma. How long can he be happy here?'
Emma's pretty pink lips quivered and Valentine realised that she was close to tears and felt sorry for her. It was better than.feeling sorry for herself, and she had come close to that last night and today.
'Don't you know it's bad manners to be as honest as you've been about what you want, Valentine?' Emma said spitefully.
Valentine lifted her chin proudly. 'Why should I dissemble?' she asked with a tight little smile.
'You'll never get him.'
The knife twisted again. Why did the truth always have to be so agonising? She hoped desperately that the other girl wasn't perceptive enough to realise what those cruel little words had done to her. However resolutely she sustained her gruelling act, surely a perceptive person must actually sense her anguish, so intense was it. She swallowed painfully before managing to retort, 'And you will? Then I think you'd better pay just a little heed to the truth about Kemp Irvine, the real truth and not your idealistic imaginings, or you're going to be badly hurt.'
'And why should that concern you?' Emma retorted. 'What do you care what pain other people suffer?'
When her own was so all-enveloping? But what did Emma mean? Behind the sunglasses, Valentine's eyes searched the other girl's face, but at that moment Mrs Ducaine joined them and by unspoken agreement the hostilities were suspended. Mrs Ducaine was pleasant enough, although she produced a few oblique warnings to the effect that Valentine ought to tread warily now that her employer was on the spot and able to see how she was behaving, but Emma remained silent until they were joined by Kemp and some of the men who had shared in his game.
As the younger men swooped on her, Valentine watched Emma scramble to her feet, eagerly hurrying to greet Kemp, catching at his arm and looking confidingly up into his face.
Making intelligent comments about the game, Valentine still heard the other girl's anxious words. 'Oh, Kemp, Valentine has been saying you're not content to be at Fleurmont . . . You're not going to go away again, are you?' she begged for reassurance most appealingly.
Kemp's smile was indu
lgent. 'We start harvesting at the end of next week, Emma, and I'll certainly be permanently at Fleurmont while that's going on.'
Then he looked in Valentine's direction with a definite hardening of his features, and his blue gaze was mocking. She experienced a moment of searing misery, but managed to give him a small, private smile which seemed to suggest that she knew his answer had merely been meant to appease Emma.
With a last contemptuous look, he gave his attention to Emma once more, and Valentine was left trying to subdue her poignant unhappiness while she pretended an interest in what the other men were saying to her.
Later, when Adam explained that he had to return to Fleurmont with Kemp and Valentine to pick up his car, Emma elected to accompany them. She clearly had her sights set on the front passenger seat as they approached the Porsche, and Valentine's unhappiness made her take perverse pleasure in suggesting that since Adam was so interested in the new car he ought to sit beside Kemp, as he had been in the back for their earlier journey. That, she thought complacently, was more subtle than claiming it for herself. But why was she bothering? She could achieve nothing for herself. Philip, Philip . . . always his relationship to Kemp was in her mind.
Kemp gave her a malicious look and said smoothly, 'Adam, I can hardly believe it. Would you really pass up the opportunity to sit next to our ravishing Valentine?'
Adam looked at the gleaming car and then at the slim beauty that was Valentine.
'Valentine wins,' he said.
Her bright lips shaped a word and Kemp laughed quietly.
'Victory, Valentine,' he murmured. 'Over a machine.'
'I should hope so,' she retorted smartly, and treated Adam to a radiant smile.
At Fleurmont the brother and sister stayed for a drink, which they had in the pastel-coloured, scented garden with the evening sound of birdsong to punctuate their conversation.
'Don't forget you promised my mother you'd come over for lunch tomorrow, Kemp,' Emma reminded him when they left.
'What about you, Valentine?' Adam asked, squeezing her hand. 'Will you be over too?'
'Oh, I'm so sorry, Adam,' she said easily. 'But Gary has arranged to come over and go riding with me.'
'Oh, are you still trying to learn to ride, Valentine?' Emma asked gauchely.
'I'm succeeding too,' Valentine responded with quiet dignity which called attention to the other girl's crudeness, and Emma flushed.»
They drove away and Kemp and Valentine turned towards the house. 'I hope you don't mind Gary using one of the horses,' she said quietly. 'Emma and Adam often ride them as well.'
'Of course I don't mind. They're all old friends and the horses need the exercise,' he assured her as they entered the beautiful hall. 'I'm glad to see you divide your favours equally, especially as neither Adam nor Gary means much to you.'
'Oh, I try to be fair,' she drawled nonchalantly, but his now familiar contempt still had the power to make her heart contract with hurt. Her sapphire eyes widened. 'Although I'm not sure what you mean by ... my favours. The pleasure of my company, I suppose?'
'If that's all you give them,' Kemp said sceptically.
'It is.'
She looked at him expectantly then, to see if he believed her, but he merely raised his eyebrows derogatively.
'Why did you try to upset Emma?' he asked abruptly.
Valentine shook her head. 'She's going to be hurt, Kemp,' she warned. What would he say if she admitted that she too was going to be hurt; was already hurting badly?
'Let me handle it in my own way,' he snapped. 'Leave her alone in future, and I'd be grateful if you didn't discuss me with anyone else either.'
'All right,' she agreed equably. 'I don't like being talked about either.'
'You, Valentine?' He laughed at that. 'You'll be talked about all your life, sweetheart, and you know it. You'll also cause trouble all your life.'
It was too close to what Valentine knew of herself and for a fleeting moment the mask slipped fractionally, leaving her looking back at him helplessly. Then she managed a smile, but she couldn't make it anything other than bitter.
'You're probably right,' she conceded tartly.
By the time Valentine had enjoyed a scented bath and dressed for the evening, she had succeeded in subduing the pain that was part of her awareness of the appalling truth.
Her eyes were sparkling as she made up in front of her dressing-table mirror and she knew that she would enjoy this evening—it might be the last time she knew pleasure on Fleurmont, because when James and Sylvie left, she must tell Kemp the truth.
Her dress was another romantic dream, deep rose pink chiffon over masses of taffeta and net, unusual in that it
had a very full skirt which swayed about hej when she walked and emphasised the wonderful slenderness of her waist. The tight bodice revealed the firm perfection of her breasts and the heart-shaped neckline gave a tantalising glimpse of her cleavage. She had changed the colour of her lipstick, blusher and nail varnish, and softened her hairstyle, allowing a few shining curls to frame her face.
'The ultimate in femininity—not being ready at the stated time,' Kemp drawled when she finally joined him and the Hattinghs in the sitting-room. 'The ultimate in femininity anyway.'
'Oh, well!' Valentine was demurely apologetic even as she wondered achingly if he would ever address her without that contemptuous mockery. 'At least it allowed me to—Make An Entrance.'
'And what an entrance!' His eyes met hers which were like great sparkling jewels, and something passed between them, an exchange of something which left Valentine inwardly .shaken and rejoicing in the knowledge that he found her desirable.
'Well worth waiting for,' James commented appreciatively.
'You always look so gorgeous, Valentine. Ah, if I was tall and dark,' Sylvie added ruefully, shaking her head. She was silvery fair and slight, in perfect contrast to her large dark husband.
'But I think you're lovely,' Valentine said, and meant it, as she sat down beside her. 'Who's looking after Binnie tonight?'
The evening passed enjoyably. Valentine was at her breathtaking best, and Salome had provided a delightful meal at a beautifully set table, while Kemp was a fascinating and attentive host.
Sipping at the estate's Cabernet Sauvignon, Valentine listened to the men discussing a new wine which had been created, the paradoxical Blanc de Noir. However much Kemp hated being burdened wirn Fleurmont, he clearlv knew all there was to know about wine production.
James and Sylvie obviously liked and respected him, and once again Valentine felt that same sense of pride she had experienced at the polo. He was special, a rare and brilliant man with a magnetic power to attract.
But a facet of his attraction was physical, and as the evening progressed, she found herself stimulated as much by his physical presence as by his conversation, but in a wholly different way, for the effect was like a slow fire starting in her veins—and all so futile, her mind taunted inexorably.
It was late, midnight, when the Hattinghs departed. The night was dark and silent; the dogs had been fed and Salome and Maude had long since washed up and gone to their quarters, no doubt looking forward to sleeping late in the morning, Sunday being a day off for both of them.
Returning to the sitting-room with Kemp, Valentine was steeling herself to say what must be said.
She bent gracefully to test the heat of the last pot of coffee she had made, not so long ago. 'There's still some left if you'd like it,' she volunteered.
There was no reply and she turned to look at him ques-tioningly. Kemp was standing in the centre of the room, simply looking at her, and his eyes were blazing in a quite unmistakable way. Valentine stood very still, staring back at him, but the rate of her heartbeats had accelerated.
The lights were dimmed to a low intimate glow and the room was very still, the only sound the ticking of the clock. Valentine felt as if she were suffocating, as if the room was too small to contain the intensity of feeling swamping her.
&
nbsp; 'Come here, Valentine,' Kemp invited softly.
For a moment longer she remained where she was, but her breath was coming sharp and shallow .now. Then, with a sigh, she went to him.
This one last time, she promised herself weakly, and her awareness of the truth became torture.
She stood in front of him and his long sensitive fingers
lightly caressed the smooth line of her throat, causing a sensation that made her catch her breath.
'It's still only about twenty-four hours since I last held you in my arms,' Kemp murmured with a mockery that was for them both. 'You've been deliberately provocative all day, and tonight you look like a romantic fairytale princess—but fairytale creatures aren't for touching, are they, Valentine?'
'I don't think they ever feel as I do right now eidier,' she responded with a sad, faint smile, her voice a fine crystal sound.
He took her in his arms then and a shiver ran through her slender body as his lips touched her face, moving along one high cheekbone, then down until, in a sudden convulsive movement, their mouths fused. Instant, raging desire claimed Valentine and she clung to him, moving her arms up so that her trembling fingers could bury themselves in the clean thickness of the hair at the back of his head.
She moaned in supplication when the kiss came to an end and Kemp smiled at her, his face still very close to hers.
'There's too much skirt to that dress,' he said, a thread of laughter in his voice. 'I can't get close enough to you . . . And besides, I very much want to see what you look like.'
Valentine felt his fingers dealing with her zip, but she made no protest and allowed the rose pink confection to slide to the floor in a soft rustle of sound before stepping out of it. Then his arms claimed her again and they stood there, locked together in a timeless embrace, Valentir.c clad in her flimsy bra, the single taffeta half-slip which had not been attached to the dress and her high-heeled sandals.
She couldn't think, she could only feel. There was a drumming heartbeat sound which might have come from either of them and she felt she must surely die or at least faint as a result of this exquisite, throbbing pleasure.