by Craven, Sara
She laid down her fountain pen and stared reflectively out of the window at the smooth rolling lawn below the terrace. She was finding this letter unexpectedly difficult to write. It was very different from the carefree correspondence that she and Vanessa had enjoyed so far during their schooldays, because there was so much she was forced to leave unsaid.
She couldn't tell Vanessa how shocked she had been by the change in her father when she had arrived home a fortnight before. Michelle had warned her that he had been ordered to lose weight by his doctors, but this had not prepared her for the stoop in his shoulders and the way his clothes seemed to hang on his tall, once-burly frame. His face too was lined and almost haggard. But it was the subtle alteration in his personality which had most disturbed her. Where he had been bluff and good-humoured, now his temper was uncertain and inclined to be querulous. Michelle handled him with kid-gloves, and Lacey, rather subdued, followed her lead.
She had had little private conversation with her stepmother since the revelations in the car on the way to Paris, but if Michelle was worried about the immediate prospects facing the family, she kept it well concealed. Occasionally her manner seemed slightly abstracted, but that was all. Again, this was something that she could not confide in Vanessa, nor her increasing feeling of uneasiness that there were still things that were being kept from her.
She sighed and put the unfinished letter back inside her writing case. It was a pretty lame effort so far, but they
were giving a dinner party that evening and perhaps something would happen there that she could turn into an amusing story for Vanessa.
She was a little surprised as she went up to her room to find Mrs Osborne the housekeeper and one of the women who came in from the village to help with the cleaning engaged in turning out one of the guest bedrooms, and making up the bed. As far as she knew, tonight's guests were all local people, and she hesitated in the doorway, watching them curiously.
'Who's coming to stay, Mrs Osborne?' she asked at last.
`Madame didn't tell me the gentleman's name, Miss Lacey.'
So it's a man, Lacey thought as she went on her way. That explained it. It must be one of the bank's directors, all of whom had been frequent guests in the past. Only the room was obviously being got ready for a single occupant —and all the directors were married men who usually brought their wives with them.
She had hoped the preparations for the dinner would have added a touch of excitement to an existence which had so far proved boring to the point of monotony. But nothing had changed. Her tentative offers of help were waved irritably away by Michelle, who seemed unusually on edge for such an experienced and accomplished hostess.
Lacey, rather huffily, decided she would take herself off to the village. At least Fran Trevor would welcome her help at the stables, she thought defiantly.
But even in this she was thwarted, for when she arrived at the stables, the place was deserted except for the girl who came in a couple of days a week to do the accounts and the bookwork, and she informed Lacey that Miss Trevor had taken out a group of people staying at the Bull who had welcomed the chance of an afternoon's hacking round lanes and fields. So there was nothing for it but to trudge back to the house again and try to keep out of everyone's way.
The guest bedroom looked very nice, she thought, poking her head round the door for a critical peep, but Mrs
Osborne hadn't put any flowers in there. It was too early in the year for the gardens to yield very much, but Lacey knew there were some early daffodils in a sheltered corner and she decided to pick some as a welcoming gesture of her own.
But just as she was going into the garden she was stopped by Mrs Osborne with a request to help clean some silver, and it was late in the afternoon by the time she could decently escape and find her flowers. It was pleasant in the garden. The day's cold wind had dropped at the onset of dusk, and, wrapped warmly in an ancient duffel coat, Lacey enjoyed quite a leisurely stroll before she headed back to the house with her armful of flowers.
She collected a suitable container from the china cupboard, and went upstairs to the bathroom adjoining the guest room where she filled the vase and arranged her blooms. She had overfilled the vase a little and she picked it up with great care, holding it steadily as she opened the door that communicated with the bedroom and stepped forward.
But the room was no longer in its pristinely unoccupied state. There was an expensive leather suitcase open on the bed, clothes spilling out of it carelessly, and beside it a man was standing, stripped to the waist, as Lacey's stunned eyes immediately registered. She started violently and some of the water in the vase splashed down her faded denim skirt and on to the bedroom carpet.
She was aware of a pair of intensely dark eyes taking her in, from the tangle of pale hair on her shoulders to her drenched skirt and flat shoes. She felt she was being assessed and dismissed, and the colour surged up into her pale skin.
When he spoke, his voice was deep with an intonation that puzzled her. It seemed to hold a faint transatlantic drawl overlaid by a trace of something more foreign, and she wrinkled her brow trying to recognise it until he repeated his remark with a kind of weary patience, that arrested her attention instantly.
`I said, hadn't you better get a cloth and mop up that mess?'
Lacey stared at him, dimly aware that she was most certainly not accustomed to being spoken to in that way. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him so, but he was her father's guest and it was her duty to be courteous however lacking in that respect he himself might be.
She walked over to the chest of drawers, intending to leave her flowers before she went to look for a cloth, but he halted her in her tracks.
`Are you proposing to put a wet vase down on polished wood? You haven't a great deal of idea about how to look after antique furniture.'
Lacey's blood boiled. Of course she knew better than that, but the shock of finding this—creature already installed and half naked had driven her usual common sense from her mind.
He had a shirt in his hand. Why didn't he put it on and and cover himself up? she thought angrily, looking with dislike at his broad brown chest with the black mat of hair, but that was obviously the last thing on his mind, because just then he rolled the shirt into a ball and tossed it back into the case.
I'll—I'll just put them on the floor for a moment,' she said hastily, averting her gaze.
`Better still, why not take them back where they came from?' He stood watching her, his hands on his hips. 'I don't need flowers in my room, or anywhere around me. I prefer to see them in their natural state.'
Lacey's eyes held an obvious glint. She said, 'Then I think I'll take them to my own room. I don't happen to share your prejudice.'
He looked at her, his piercing dark eyes narrowed, raking her from head to foot.
'Does Lady Vernon usually allow her employees your sort of latitude?' he drawled.
Lacey stood very still, her thoughts whirling. 'Heavens,' she thought, a giggle bubbling up inside her which she instantly suppressed, 'he thinks I'm the upstairs maid or something!'
As if he had read her thoughts, his voice broke in on them with swift abruptness. 'Just who are you?'
She shrugged, deliberately vague. 'Oh, I help in the house.'
`Do you?' he said, rather grimly. 'Well, perhaps you'll go and—help somewhere else. I'm waiting to take a bath—unless you include washing guests' backs among your duties.'
He began lazily to unbuckle the belt on the dark, close-fitting trousers, and Lacey observed the manoeuvre with alarm, her cheeks already flushed at what his words had, implied.
'I'm sorry to have disturbed your privacy,' she said rather haughtily, turning abruptly towards the bedroom door to make her escape.
His mocking laugh followed her as she closed the door carefully behind her, and she bit her lip angrily as she walked down the corridor to get to her own room. The encounter had totally disconcerted her. No man had ever spoken to her or looked
at her like that before, and she was aware that her pulses had quickened and that her mouth felt oddly dry.
She felt almost vindictively glad to picture his embarrassment when they met again later at her father's dinner table. It would teach him to jump to conclusions, she told herself. But at the same time she was uncomfortably aware that the arrogant set of those muscular brown shoulders and the assurance of his heavy-lidded eyes had not suggested a man who would embarrass easily, or respond in any of the conventional ways. Lacey had to admit that she would have been happier if he had remained a totally unknown quantity to her—if, in fact, they had never met at all, and the prospect of the dinner party ahead, not to mention the entire weekend that faced her, filled her with a strange sense of dread.
When Lacey emerged from her bath that evening, she was surprised to find her stepmother's maid waiting for her in her room.
`Madame's asked me to put your hair up for you, Miss Lacey,' Barbara announced, setting a china bowl full of hairpins down on the dressing table.
`Oh.' Lacey digested this, a slight frown wrinkling her
forehead. She usually wore her hair very simply, either hanging loose on her shoulders or in two bunches, as she had planned to wear it that night, the fastenings masked by small bunches of artificial daisies. The style was intended to complement the simplicity of the deep blue Empire line dress laid across the bed, and she wondered doubtfully whether a more sophisticated style would suit either her or the dress.
But Barbara was certainly skilful, she decided, as she watched the girl's fingers transform her swathe of hair into a smooth coronet on top of her head, softening the severity of the style with two softly curling strands allowed to rest against her ears. It was the first time she had ever been offered Barbara's services, which were usually Michelle's exclusive prerogative and jealously guarded as such, and she wondered curiously why an exception had been made on this particular evening. Nor did Barbara's ministrations stop at her hair. She gave Lacey a light but effective make-up as well, moisturising her skin and shadowing her eyelids, as well as applying lip gloss to the soft curve of her mouth.
When she had finished, Lacey gazed at herself in astonishment. She hardly recognised herself in this cool, aloof young woman with the mysterious eyes and shining crown of fair hair.
'There, Miss Lacey.' Barbara's tone was plainly self-congratulatory. 'Now if you'll just get into your undies, I'll fetch your dress.' She handed Lacey a pair of briefs and some filmy tights.
'Er—thank you, Barbara.' Lacey flushed a little awkwardly, telling herself that she was perfectly able to dress herself unaided. 'Where's the rest of it?'
Barbara stared at her. 'That's all, miss. You couldn't wear anything else with this dress.'
`But that's ridiculous. I always have in the past,' Lacey swung round vexedly on the dressing stool and gasped as she saw the mass of clinging black fabric Barbara was holding carefully over her arm. 'What's that?'
'Your dress, miss.' Barbara sounded surprised. 'Didn't you think it would arrive in time?'
Lacey's lips parted helplessly as she recognised that
Barbara was holding out the daring gown with the minimal bodice that she had seen modelled at Jean Louis.
`There's been some mistake,' she said eventually. 'That dress is for Madame. I—I couldn't wear anything like that.'
'It's definitely your dress, Miss Lacey. Madame said so when I unpacked the box, and besides, this isn't her fitting. It must be a little surprise for you,' she added encouragingly.
Lacey's lips tightened. 'Well, I still don't intend to wear it,' she declared. 'Please take it away and bring me my blue dress instead.'
'But, Miss Lacey,' Barbara's voice was anxious, 'Madame said you had to wear it tonight. I don't know what she'll say if ...'
`That isn't your problem, Barbara,' Lacey said gently. 'I'll see my stepmother before I go down and explain. I'm sure there's been a mistake of some kind.'
'Mistake? What mistake?' Michelle's cool voice spoke from the doorway. She came gliding across the carpet, elegant in a silver gown, a cigarette held tensely in her fingers, and carrying a glass filled with some pale liquid in her other hand.
'Miss Lacey doesn't want to wear the Jean Louis model, madame.' Barbara sounded subdued, as if she felt she would be blamed for Lacey's rebellion.
Michelle's eyebrows rose. 'Eh bien? You may go, Barbara. I will deal with this.'
When the door had closed behind the girl, she set the glass down on the dressing table near the bowl of daffodils and stood, looking grimly down at her stepdaughter.
'Were my instructions not clear?' she asked.
`Michelle!' Lacey was totally appalled. 'You surely can't expect me to go downstairs wearing—that.'
'Pourquoi pas?' Michelle gave her a hard look. 'It is an expensive dress, and black will set off your hair and skin admirably.'
Slow colour crept up Lacey's face. 'You know why not,' she protested.
Michelle gave a brief, metallic laugh. 'A prude, ma chère? You are no longer at the convent, to sais. Most girls of your
age would give much to wear such a dress. What have you to be ashamed of? Your body is young, and your breasts are firm. You have the perfect figure for the gown, which is why I bought it for you. Now please dress yourself in it without further arguments. It is getting late.'
`But, Michelle, what will people think—what will my father say?'
Michelle shrugged. 'What should they think? That you look—charming. And your father will say nothing. He not only approves of the gown but he particularly wishes you to wear it tonight.'
`But why?'
Michelle sighed elaborately. 'It is his wish that you should make a favourable impression on one of his guests.'
`By appearing half naked?' Lacey's mouth twisted in a sudden cynicism that belied her youth. 'And who is this very important person—or am I not allowed to ask?'
But as soon as the words were uttered, she knew. There was only one person it could be—the strange man into whose room she had blundered with her unwanted welcome offering of flowers. She felt suddenly cold and sick, remembering how his eyes had assessed her earlier with all the assurance of a man for whom the female body held few secrets. To have to appear in front of him wearing the black dress would be a total humiliation.
'You asked to be treated as a woman, but you persist in behaving like a child.' Her stepmother's tone was icy. 'His name is Troy Andreakis.'
Lacey had been staring at the bowl of daffodils, trying to fight back her tears, but at the name her head came up sharply and she stared at Michelle disbelievingly.
`The oil and shipping magnate? But what is he doing here? He has no interest in Vernon—Carey.'
`Not yet.' Michelle picked up a hairbrush and studied it with over-absorbed interest. 'Yet—who knows? By the time the weekend is at an end ...' She shrugged again, leaving the sentence unfinished.
Lacey stared at her bewildered. 'I don't understand.'
`Oh, it's quite simple, ma chère. A large-scale investment by a man of Andreakis' status would restore confidence in
Vernon–Carey. Without it, there could well be a catastrophe —quite soon.'
Lacey gripped the edge of the dressing table. 'Things are that bad?' she managed, her green eyes enormous in her pale face.
`They are that bad,' Michelle corroborated tautly. 'And, believe me, there are no lengths to which I will not go to ensure that your father gets that investment from Andreakis. That is why, ma chère, you are going to wear that dress tonight, because you are going to help me—you are going to be an asset to your father for the first time in your life instead of a liability.'
Lacey flinched a little, but her stepmother went on unheeding. 'This is why you are being dressed as an attractive woman, instead of a child. A man like Andreakis does not want to dine in the company of a gawky schoolgirl. You once hoped to occupy a concert platform, and for that you would have needed an ability to act, to project your personality as well as
your music. Tonight your father needs that performance from you. He wants you to relax Andreakis, to charm him if you can.'
Lacey closed her eyes for a moment. Now was not the time to confess that she and Troy Andreakis had already encountered and failed to charm each other. Would the transformation from gawky schoolgirl to sophisticate be sufficiently complete to render her unrecognisable? She doubted it, and knew that she was going to need every scrap of social grace that had been imparted to her at the convent to get through the evening without disaster.
'If it's what Daddy wants,' she said wearily, at last.
`Oh, I wouldn't say precisely that.' Michelle's voice was ironic. 'But he appreciates the necessity at least, and he is depending on you.' Her eyes skimmed Lacey's wilting figure appraisingly. 'Barbara has done her work well. Make sure you do the same. Now please hurry. The others will be arriving soon.'
As she turned to go, she indicated the glass on the dressing table. 'Pour toi. For you—a dry Martini,' she said.
'But I only drink fruit juice,' Lacey protested.
Michelle smiled a little. 'Call it Dutch courage. You may
need it.' And she was gone on a cloud of Balmain perfume.
Lacey tasted the drink gingerly, grimacing slightly at the taste, but it had a warming effect which served to chase away some of the unpleasant butterflies which appeared to have taken up residence in her abdomen.
When she was finally ready, she stood and stared at herself in the full-length mirror, resisting an impulse to cover the upper part of her body with her hands. It was true, she thought detachedly—she did not have to be ashamed of her figure. The stark black of the material made her white skin look almost translucent and gave her slender curves a frank enticement. She just prayed that her untried poise would be able to cope with the promise of almost total revelation that the gown exuded.
But in spite of its provocation, and the sophistication of her shadowed eyes, glowing mouth and softly piled hair, Lacey felt desperately inadequate. Unwillingly she forced her mind back to that earlier encounter, visualising the ruthlessness of his dark face. Not a man who would suffer fools gladly, she surmised, and one for whom a woman would need more than a glossy facade to arouse his interest. What could she find to say that would engage the attention of a man like Andreakis?