House of Storms

by Violet Winspear

  'Isn't it a pity that we aren't?' Debra drew determinedly away from his touch. They were such gracious times compared with what goes on these days.'

  'Sure, fine for the upper middle classes.' Stuart's eyes narrowed into slits of steely blue. 'The poor were dirt beneath their feet, and the marvellously erudite Miss Austen wrote mainly about her own class; the fine ladies and gentlemen who had nothing better to do than flirt behind their fans and their glasses of Madeira.'

  Debra lowered her gaze, for it was true what Stuart said.

  'Surprised that I've even opened a book?' he mocked.

  'Of course not.' Debra knew very well that self-educated people often read far more books than those who were fortunate enough to have parents who could send them to college.

  'You had better believe it.' He firmly tucked her arm through his. 'We're two of a kind, you and I, honey. We have instincts in place of a university degree and we can go as high as we want to.'

  'You might be ambitious,' she protested. 'What makes you think I'm equally so?'

  He shot a side-smile at her as they walked down the grand staircase, arm in arm, her long white skirt brushing the dark material of his narrow-fitting trousers. 'You're here at Abbeywitch, aren't you? The Salvadors are landed gentry, and here you are among them, looking like a princess.'

  'Your talent for flattery is inexhaustible,' she rejoined. 'There has to be a dash of Irish in you, Mr Coltan.'

  'For sure there is,' he laughed. 'My greatgrandfather was a real wicked lad from the old country; I believe they threw him out in order to save the chastity of the girls of County Mayo. He landed up in New York harbour, never made a penny that he didn't spend, and married himself a little lacemaker. There, now you have my family history you can start to call me Stuart.'

  'Is Stuart your real name, or adopted for the stage?'

  'Does it matter, honey?'

  'Not in the least.'

  He laughed softly to himself, as if he thought it did matter to her that he kept his real name a secret.

  'You're very conceited,' she informed him.

  'Am I?' He didn't seem to mind in the least that she thought so.

  'You really believe that every girl you meet falls in love with you.'

  'Love?' He gave her a wryly amused look. 'Now there's a word to conjure with . . . what do you think it means?'

  'What it says, I suppose.'

  'Two lonely souls drawn to each other by a fine thread of fate into an everlasting devotion?'

  'You're being sarcastic,' she accused.

  'Why not, when it's a lot of romantic tosh. You've been reading too many books, honey. Don't confuse fiction with reality or you'll land yourself in trouble.'

  They reached the foot of the stairs as he spoke the words, and the way he looked her up and down informed Debra that he thought her naively amusing and about ready to be taught the real facts of love.

  'Have you ever had a boy-friend?' he asked, in his impudently assured way.

  'I think you know the answer to that question, Mr Coltan, so why ask me?'

  'It isn't every girl who would admit such a thing.' His eyes glinted with a hunting light. 'You're a bit of an innocent, aren't you?'

  'Oh, I'm not so innocent that I'll allow you to singe my wings,' she retorted.

  'You might enjoy the experience.'

  'I doubt it,' she said, with spirit. 'A short while ago you said I was ambitious and in a way you're right. I like the business of books and I want to develop my skills as an editor, but I'd stand little chance of doing that if I allowed myself to be carried away by your blarney . . . in more ways than one. I'm not a flighty little fool, Stuart. My head is firmly set on my shoulders.'

  'So you're going to settle for all work and no play,' he scoffed, 'and end up a lonely spinster?'

  'I expect that will happen,' she agreed. 'Quite frankly, I can't see much wrong with it, especially when I think of Pauline Salvador and the way she ended up. No one gave that marriage much chance, did they? No one in this house accepted that poor girl and they wonder why her husband has gone off by himself.'

  'Perhaps she's on his conscience,' Stuart said, his eyes narrowing. 'There's hot blood in the Salvadors and he may have caught her playing around.'

  'Would Pauline do that!' Debra gave him a troubled look. 'She had the little boy to consider, and despite what everyone thinks, I don't believe she married Jack Salvador for money and position.'

  'How would you know?' Stuart gave a short laugh. 'You never met Pauline and you have the tendency, honey, to judge people as if they're characters in a book. Real people, my dear girl, can be very unpredictable. They don't behave to a prescribed pattern, and do you honestly believe that anyone ever really knows anyone else? I doubt if we know ourselves from one day to the next.'

  'That might well be true,' Debra agreed, 'but Pauline had Jack's baby and surely that proves something?'

  'What exactly?' He looked directly into her grey eyes with their vagrant tints of green, and the edge of his mouth was cynically quirked.

  'That they loved each other.'

  'Sainted James, you are innocent, aren't you?'

  'I—I know what you're thinking.' Debra wanted to walk away from his jeering, but at the same time she didn't want to walk in among the party guests all on her own.

  'What am I thinking?' Stuart demanded.

  'That babies don't come from the heart.'

  'Isn't it a fact?' he drawled.

  'If you're such a cynic, Stuart, why do you bother to go and play with little Dean in his nursery?' This frankly puzzled Debra, for not a thing about Stuart Coltan indicated that he had the slightest interest in young children. He seemed to her a young man who was busy enjoying himself and quite detached from the more serious aspects of life, including a little boy whose mother had drowned and whose father left him in the hands of other people.

  'I knew Pauline, so why shouldn't I be interested in her nipper?' Stuart pushed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and his gaze drifted from Debra and settled on the dominant portrait of Don Rodare de Salvador in its huge baroque frame; he wore black and silver and his eyes were dark and alert in his lean Spanish face. 'I'm not immune from feelings, Debra. You've got the wrong idea about me. I bet I've a softer centre than any member of the Salvador clan, especially the present-day hidalgo.'

  Her own eyes had focused on the portrait and she gave a start when Stuart mentioned the man who so much resembled the Don Rodare who had founded the family into which a showgirl had married, her young life doomed, it seemed, from the moment Jack Salvador had carried her over the threshold of Abbeywitch.

  Her start became a shudder when Stuart suddenly gripped her by the shoulder. 'Is that it?' Stuart's breath was hot against the skin of her neck. 'You've got your eye on the hidalgo?'

  'Don't talk nonsense—!' Debra wrenched away from him, but he pursued her and before she realised he had trapped her in one of the alcoves of the hall, out of range of the chandeliers and therefore shadowed. Stuart caught her roughly against him and before she could protest he had his mouth on hers, insistent and expert and entirely unwanted.

  Maddened in case Rodare Salvador saw them, Debra drew back her foot and kicked him on the shin, right on the bone with the toe of her silver shoe. It made him let go of her and instantly she whirled out of his reach and fled towards the sound of music and people ... a breathless young creature in georgette, unaware that she had the look of a deer fleeing from a fire as she entered the high-ceilinged, wide and panelled room where the party was in progress.

  She stepped forward quickly as Stuart loomed up behind her, and in that instant her gaze fused with that of an even taller figure in matt-black evening suit and striking white shirt. His skin had something naturally gold about it and more than ever he looked as if he had stepped out of a Goya painting. He stood framed by tall embrasured windows draped in flame-coloured curtains . . . black, gold and flame of the Inquisition, striking in Debra a chord of awareness more intense t
han anything she had ever felt before.

  A burning sensation ran over her skin and she had a wild desire to turn and run and not stop running until she was as many miles as she could get from that darkly brilliant gaze . . . compelling as the flame that traps the moth.

  'That music is driving my feet crazy!' Debra didn't resist as Stuart propelled her to the centre of the room where the parquet floor had been waxed so the guests could dance. A group of professional musicians had been hired and they were excellent, with a lilt to their playing that Debra recognised.

  'That's Georgie Dane,' she breathed, her eyes fixed upon the young man playing the piano.

  'Sure is.' Stuart smiled as they moved to the easy rhythm, to the lilting touch of those fingers on the keys. 'I knew he and his group were entertaining at the St Regis in Newquay and I suggested to Zandra that she get them for the party. I'm full of great ideas, eh?'

  'If you say so.' Debra felt herself smiling, her annoyance with him dying away. He was good to dance with, and being here with him among the throng of dancers was safer than being within reach of Rodare Salvador. She didn't dare to look in the direction of the windows where he seemed to stand apart from the fun and chatter . . . rather like a monarch amused by his subjects!

  'Don't look now,' Stuart murmured in her ear, 'but our haughty host has just been joined by a package I'm sure he'd like to unwrap.'

  Debra strove not to look but her curiosity overcame her caution. Her heart gave a thud when she saw that Rodare had been joined by a dazzling young blonde, and that his dark head was bent to her in a listening attitude and he seemed to have lost awareness of the other people in the room.

  'Is that Sharon Chandler?' Debra asked, feeling quite certain that the girl in the satin gold dress with the low neckline was the girl whom the Salvadors would welcome into their family with open arms.

  'You bet your sweet life it is.' Stuart openly quizzed the girl in gold. 'She looks expensive, which was something poor Pauline couldn't achieve even on Jack's money. That was one of the reasons why the haughty Lenora didn't like her. The landed gentry judge girls not by their nice natures but by their pedigree. Breeding is paramount, then daddy's bank account is taken into consideration, and finally if her riding-seat comes up to standard she has the rosette pinned on her.'

  As the Georgie Dane group moved into their version of I Don't Want To Set The World On Fire, Debra was swung breathlessly close to where Rodare was still in deep conversation with Sharon. She caught the deep sound of his voice and saw the girl watching him intently, and it was natural discipline that kept her in step with Stuart.

  'You can take it from me,' he went on, 'Lenora didn't like it one little bit when her darling Jack got himself involved with a high-kicking filly from the chorus line. Anyway, it looks as if the hidalgo plans to remedy his half-brother's mistake. Just look at the way that girl is looking up at him!'

  'He's so tall that she can hardly help it.' Debra spoke as casually as she was able to, for those two figures superimposed upon the flame-coloured curtains were in every way a foil for each other. The girl was like a golden bloom which the man had plucked for himself, and those beckoning dark eyes of his seemed to be holding her in thrall. If Debra hadn't been so fair-minded she would have taken an instant dislike to Sharon Chandler, but there was no denying the girl's good looks and the lissom charm of her figure in the dress that glistened like golden moonlight on water.

  'They are well matched,' she murmured.

  'Made for each other,' Stuart said drily. 'I see Lenora bearing down on them . . . Holy James, she's actually smiling!'

  Debra took a quick look and saw Lenora kissing the girl on the cheek. Rodare stood looking on and Debra had her gaze upon him just a second too long . . . suddenly his eyes had hold of hers, then they raked over her in Stuart's arms and she could have sworn that mockery flicked the edge of his lip.

  Debra felt herself tingle with resentment. Did he expect her to sit in one of the alcoves like Jane Eyre, eyes cast down and looking a picture of demure servility? Was that why he had wanted her at the party, so she could see him with Sharon Chandler?

  She wanted to walk out of the room, but if she did depart he might assume that she was envious. Obviously she was meant to feel like the little typist whom his sister Zandra hadn't felt worthy of an invitation. Already she had caught the sharp attention of Zandra, who looked rather like a tigress in a dress of honey and brown stripes. The raven-dark hair was bunched at her nape in a diamond circlet and there were diamonds in her earlobes.

  'I—I didn't want to come to this party.' Debra couldn't quite keep the tremor out of her voice. 'He insisted.'

  'El Rodare?' Stuart raised an eyebrow so high it almost reached into his hairline. 'You mean he got you on your own and insisted?'

  'He came to my bedroom—' Debra broke off, realising at once that the words sounded invidious. 'What I mean—'

  'I think I know what you mean.' Stuart stared down at her, seeing her as if through the eyes of the other man, the one who was master of the house. She didn't dazzle the male eye with blonde hair and the kind of blue eyes that clung to a man as if he were the god of light. Debra had a more subtle attraction . . . that of unalloyed innocence.

  'Did he try to push his way in?' Stuart was scowling, and at the same time leading her off the floor in the direction of the buffet.

  'No—nothing like that,' she protested. 'As if he would!'

  'I bet it was on his mind!' Stuart reached for two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter and handed one to Debra. 'Come on, you don't imagine he's any different from other men just because he gives you all that high-and-mighty talk about the honour of the Spaniard being bound up with hospitality. That's just his line and bound to get to an innocent like you, who has probably read all about the noble Knights of the Round Table and other romantic tales. They talked a lot about honour, but that didn't stop Lancelot and Tristan from seducing the fair ladies.'

  'I don't intend to be seduced by anyone,' Debra said indignantly. 'Just because it's always on your mind!'

  'That's slander,' he said, but without rancour. 'Mmmm, this is splendid champagne— nothing but the best for the Salvadors. What they've splashed out on Krug and caviar tonight would keep me in lunches for quite a few weeks. Let's go to the buffet and help ourselves to some of that delicious food.'

  What was laid out on the long white-clothed table made Debra feel hungry, and following Stuart's example she took a plate and a fork and helped herself to whatever took her fancy. From the moment Rodare Salvador had looked at her in that mocking way, Debra had decided to look as if she was having the time of her life. She would gobble down this plate of food even if it made her feel bilious; she would laugh at Stuart's nonsense, and dance whenever he asked her to.

  They were standing side by side, sampling the caviar, when Zandra made her way towards them with a tigerish glitter in her eyes. 'I expected you to come and say good-evening,' she snapped at Stuart, and the glare she gave Debra was enough to curl the smoked salmon. 'Perhaps you had something better to do, is that it?'

  'You know I like to dance,' he drawled, 'and you seemed busy with Van Allen. This is great caviar, you should try some.'

  'Are you enjoying it?' Zandra snapped at Debra.

  'Yes, thank you,' Debra said politely.

  'One assumes that you've never had it before?' Zandra was in such a temper that she didn't even pretend to be polite. She looked Debra up and down and it seemed to fuel her anger that Debra looked cool and charming in her white dress set off by her chestnut hair, jade-pinned.

  'No, I've never had caviar before,' Debra agreed. 'It reminds me a little of the cod's roe I always took home for my supper on Friday evenings.'

  Debra heard a spluttering sound as Stuart nearly choked on a swallow of champagne.

  'Is that meant to be funny?' Zandra demanded.

  Debra looked wide-eyed and shook her head. 'Fried cod's roe is delicious, especially with chips and a cup of tea.'

>   'You impertinent little typist!' Zandra was fuming. 'You weren't meant to be at this party, for we don't usually invite the staff!'

  'Zandra!' Stuart was abruptly unamused. 'I don't know what's got into you, but if you want to pick on someone then choose me. I'm used to dealing with the tantrums of actresses—they're inclined to be touchy if the spotlight isn't on them the whole time.'

  There was a flash of diamonds and Stuart caught and gripped Zandra's wrist a moment before she struck him. She glared at him, he stared at her, and Debra quickly walked away, heading into what she thought was an alcove and found to be an archway into a conservatory that led off from the immense ballroom.

  The dance music followed her into the green sanctuary, with its domed glass ceiling, masses of indoor plants, and pale lilies spinning on the pond where gold fish swam lazily beneath the heart-shaped leaves.

  Debra drew a shaken breath. Oh lord, what a scene! Zandra was hopelessly in love with Stuart and he quite obviously didn't feel the same way about her. He had a certain charm, but he used people and he had casually hinted that he had ingratiated himself with Zandra because he was ambitious and she had social and theatrical connections. They were the main attraction where he was concerned, and despite the way the actress had spoken to her, Debra couldn't help feeling a kind of sympathy.

  Hadn't she herself felt a stab of unwanted jealousy when she had glanced across the dance floor and seen the girl in gold holding the attention of Rodare Salvador.

  It was a hateful feeling and Debra sank down into a fan-backed cane chair and drank from the champagne flute which she still held in her hand. She wanted her nerves to get back to normal. She wanted to be again the cool, composed girl she had been while working in London. She wanted to dislike that haughty Spaniard for the way he had looked at her while she danced with Stuart. Anyone would think he had caught her in Stuart's arms for a more intimate purpose!

  She sank back in the cane chair and it creaked a little, and, as if in answer, she caught a movement at the other side of the foliage; there came a click, then a drift of aromatic smoke, followed by a definite footfall.