by Penny Jordan
He himself was asleep, a faint shadow darkening his jaw, his normally harsh features oddly vulnerable, and it came to her that during the long months of their marriage she had never once seen him like this. The intimacy of their position turned her bones to water and she placed her hands against his chest, trying to wriggle away without disturbing him.
His eyes opened, unfocused for a moment, and then he was awake, sardonically alert as he surveyed her tousled curls and flushed expression.
‘You fell asleep and insisted on using me as a pillow. Force of habit, no doubt.’
‘What habit?’ Autumn asked bitterly, the words slipping out before she could stop them. ‘You always used to turn your back on me.’
‘And you wanted us to sleep like this? With you in my arms?’
His words were soft and yet oddly sensual, triggering off a sensation of boneless weakness. There was a disturbing glint in Yorke’s eyes and she sensed that if he thought she would agree to it she would be sharing his bed as well as his home. But nothing had changed. Perhaps he did still want her, as he might want any woman he thought was available, but that was all. She had told him she felt nothing for him, but now she suspected that this statement was dangerously untrue. She had felt nothing when he was six thousand miles away, but now, with barely six inches between them, she was vitally and disturbingly aware of him.
‘What does it matter what I felt? It’s what I feel now that’s important.’
‘And that is?’
‘Nothing.’
‘We’ll be landing in two hours, sir.’
The Captain looked slightly embarrassed, but Yorke merely released her smoothly, directing her attention to the portholes and advising her to watch for the dawn breaking over the Atlantic.
‘I’m going to have a shower. It’s a bit cramped in there, otherwise I’d ask you to join me.’
Her face flamed as he walked away, and she wondered how he had explained her absence—and more important, how he was going to explain her return.
Heathrow was busy, and as they left Terminal Three Yorke’s chauffeur slid the immaculate Rolls to a halt and sprang out to collect their luggage.
Autumn was too tired to pay any attention to their surroundings, but as the miles sped past and the false dawn lit the sky it occurred to her that they could not be going to London.
This was borne out as a motorway sign loomed up ahead, the word ‘Bristol’ imprinting itself on her fogged brain.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked Yorke stupidly.
‘Home.’
He didn’t elucidate and pride kept her silent until they turned off the motorway, the powerful headlights picking out the bends on a narrow country road, the rolling hills of the Cotswolds spread out around them.
They passed through villages, awakening sleepily, as dawn pearled the sky and the first rays of the sun crimsoned the clouds, and then turned off down a narrow lane, hedges either side of them, the morning full of birdsong as the Rolls slid in magnificent dignity between impressive wrought iron gates and up a gravel drive coming to rest in front of a rambling Tudor farmhouse, its black and white exterior gleaming cleanly.
‘Come on,’ Yorke instructed her. ‘I warned Mrs Jacobs to expect us, so you can go straight to bed if you like.’
The front door opened, and the chauffeur followed them into the square panelled hall with their luggage. Autumn stared round in bemused delight.
The panelling was old and cared for, its rich patina speaking mutely of generations of loving attention. A round table which she vaguely recognised as Chippendale held a brass jug full of russet and lemon chrysanthemums. An elegant flight of shallow stairs ran up one wall ending in a hanging gallery, light pouring into the upper room from a large latticed window.
‘Like it?’ Yorke asked softly.
She was saved from replying by the housekeeper, who was trying to control the excited enthusiasm of a pale golden labrador.
‘Please don’t worry, I don’t mind at all,’ Autumn laughed as he jumped up to lick her hand, his tail wagging frantically.
‘I’ll show you to your room.’
‘I’ll do that, Mrs Jacobs,’ Yorke said easily. ‘But I think Mrs Laing would like a cup of tea.’
Mrs Laing. How strange it was to hear herself called that again.
Several doors led off the landing, but Yorke opened one unerringly, standing back to let her precede him into a room that made her catch her breath with delight. Lattice windows looked out on to the rolling countryside, an old-fashioned tester bed dominated the room. A thick deep rose-coloured carpet covered the floor, the bed and windows were hung with a floral fabric in soft pinks and greens on a cream background.
‘This house had been in the same family for generations before I bought it,’ Yorke told her. ‘It’s been added to and improved on by each one, and while purists might find it a little overpowering, I like it.’
And no wonder, Autumn thought, noting the elegant antiques. Two doors led off her room; Yorke opened one and said briefly, ‘Bathroom,’ watching her suavely while she stared at the second.
‘What’s through there?’ she asked him, her throat dry.
‘What do you think?’ he drawled. ‘Mrs Jacobs knows that I was returning with my wife—a wife from whom I’ve been parted for a considerable length of time. What more natural than that she should give us the Master Suite?’
He opened the door and stepped through it.
‘This, as you have already deduced, is my room. But don’t worry,’ he told her harshly, ‘this door will never be opened by me.’
It closed solidly after him, leaving Autumn staring at it, until a soft knock on the outer door startled her. It was the chauffeur with her luggage.
‘Mrs Jacobs said to tell you that she’ll bring a tray upstairs for you if you wish…’
‘Tell her not to bother,’ Autumn told him with a smile. ‘I slept on the plane. I’ll be down shortly.’
She unpacked quickly, putting her clothes away in a tallboy that smelled faintly of lavender. From her bedroom window she had glimpsed an Elizabethan knot-garden, and she wondered what had made Yorke buy a house like this. He could have no use for it—unless he was contemplating marrying again. Her stomach knotted protestingly and she stared blindly in front of her. What did it matter to her if he did?
She found Mrs Jacobs in the kitchen, a large, beautifully equipped room that still possessed much of the homely air it must have had when it was still the hub of a busy farm.
Mrs Jacobs greeted Autumn with a smile, indicating a trolley set with cups and saucers and a plate of homemade biscuits.
‘I was going to take it to the drawing room, but Mr Laing is in his study.’
‘Oh, I shan’t bother him,’ Autumn told her. ‘I’ll just drink my tea here and then go and explore, if you don’t mind.’
‘I don’t mind at all, but I think Mr Laing is expecting you to join him. He told me to show you to the study when you came down.’
All part of the charade, of course. For a moment she had forgotten that they were supposed to be happily reconciled.
The study looked out on the back of the house, and what Yorke told her had once been the stables, but which was now a delightful garden, enclosed on two sides by the house. The stables had been incorporated into the house to provide extra accommodation, and although Autumn found the house beautiful she still could not understand what had motivated Yorke to buy it. If she had contemplated him buying any type of house it would have been something far more imposing; the sort of elegant mansion which would impress his business colleagues and double up as a country conference centre.
As though he read her thoughts he asked her dryly, ‘Do you find it so strange that I should want a home? Somewhere where I can put aside business and relax?’
‘Do you find it strange that I should?’ Autumn countered, remembering the cold elegance of the apartment. Without thinking she added impulsively, ‘This is a house for children; for a family.’
‘Which I don’t have. But that’s not to say I never shall,’ he told her cruelly.
Why should she mind if he was already thinking ahead to another marriage? It was no concern of hers, and yet a feeling of helpless dismay welled up inside her as she visualised children playing outside in the gardens; his children, with his dark hair and…
Her teacup clattered in its saucer.
‘You’re tired,’ Yorke said abruptly. ‘Go and rest. I’ll tell Mrs Jacobs not to disturb you.’
‘Will you be in for dinner?’ Autumn asked him remotely. If she must take part in this charade then let her at least adopt her role right from the beginning. To the outside world at least they were a recently united couple, and although she cared little whether Yorke got his knighthood or not she sensed that he would be swift to punish any attempt on her part to sabotage the picture of domestic bliss he was going to such pains to paint.
‘I’ll be in all day,’ he told her. ‘I find I can work just as easily from here as from London—and far more pleasantly. Make the most of today. As soon as word gets out that we’re here we’ll be besieged by visitors. Beth and Richard are coming down on Friday. I want to talk to them about Travel Mates.’
‘And warn them about our “reconciliation”, I expect.’
He looked at her sharply.
‘As far as Beth and Richard are concerned it’s for real, Autumn, don’t make any mistake about that. The only people who know it isn’t are you and I, and that’s the way I want it to stay, so don’t get any ideas about crying on Richard’s shoulder.’
Richard’s shoulder! If she had felt like confiding in anyone it would have been Beth, who had been so kind and understanding before. She blinked and eyed Yorke’s hard face warily. She couldn’t remember these swiftly changing moods and wondered if they were something the pressure of controlling a multi-million-pound empire had wrought.
Although she had claimed she wasn’t tired, she slept well into the afternoon, rousing only when Mrs Jacobs came in with a tea tray.
‘There now, I’ve gone and woken you,’ she apologised as Autumn stretched sleepily.
‘Don’t apologise. If I’d slept any longer, I’d have been awake all night. I’m sorry I’ve missed such a lovely day, though.’
‘We’ve been having a real Indian summer,’ Mrs Jacobs agreed. ‘But the forecast is good for the whole week, so you’ve plenty of time to enjoy it. Mr Laing said you’d be wanting to take things quietly for a while until you’d accustomed yourself to the change in climate.’
‘Is he still working?’ Autumn asked absently, surprised when the woman shook her head.
‘He’s out with the dog,’ she explained. ‘Takes him out most days about this time when he’s here. I normally serve dinner at half past eight.’
‘That’s fine by me,’ Autumn assured her. ‘Once I’ve found my feet we’ll have a chat.’
She could see no point in disrupting Mrs Jacobs’ routine when she was only going to be here for such a short time, but on the other hand if she did nothing Mrs Jacobs might find it odd. Surely no woman could contemplate becoming mistress of such a beautiful house without any enthusiasm?
She was just thinking that she would have to go to London and collect some of her clothes from her flat, because the ones she had brought with her from St John’s were scarcely suitable for an English autumn, when Mrs Jacobs added,
‘You’ll be wanting your cases. Mr Laing said to bring them up once you were awake. Bert brought them in a while back. I’ll get him to bring them up for you.’
‘But my cases are here, Mrs Jacobs,’ Autumn protested. ‘I’ve unpacked them.’
‘I was meaning your cases from London,’ the woman explained, looking concerned. ‘Mr Laing said as how you’d need them, what with the change in temperature and all…’
Yorke had arranged to have her clothes collected from her flat? But how was that possible?
With Yorke all things were possible, she admitted grimly, and the cases Bert Jacobs had brought upstairs undoubtedly contained her clothes. There weren’t many. Alan paid her well, but the expense of a flat to herself was exorbitant, and Beth’s careful tutelage had resulted in a taste for clothes of a quality that exceeded her slim finances.
Nevertheless, she would not shame Yorke, she reflected later as she dressed for dinner in a dress of muted blues and greens with a brief, low cut bodice and gently flaring skirt.
Yorke was waiting for her in the drawing room, and when she saw that he had changed into a dinner suit she was glad that she had taken trouble with her own appearance—not to impress him. Never that. But she wanted him to see that the shy, gauche girl she had been had been eclipsed by a woman who was in control of her surroundings and herself.
At one time the elegant drawing room with its priceless Aubusson carpet and period furniture would have completely overawed her. Now she was able to admire it with the knowledge of a connoisseur, commenting knowledgeably on the four Nicholas Hilliard miniatures grouped on one wall, without selfconsciousness or conceit.
The meal was delicious and Autumn told Mrs Jacobs so warmly, when she came to collect the trolley.
‘Quite a marked change,’ Yorke drawled sardonically when she had gone. ‘I seem to remember a time when you couldn’t even walk in a restaurant without blushing and stammering.’
Autumn raised her eyebrows.
‘Do you?’ she said sweetly. ‘I’m surprised. You must have taken me out for a meal at least twice. I used to think you were just ashamed to be seen with me. I didn’t realise that you were frightened that I might make some dreadful faux pas as well!’
She watched with interest as faint colour ran up under his skin. So he wasn’t completely invulnerable after all.
‘I take it that this time the object is to make our relationship as public as possible,’ she added, pressing home her advantage. ‘I seem to remember that before you appeared to want to keep my existence a dark and hidden secret.’
‘You’ll need clothes, and jewellery,’ Yorke said abruptly. ‘I’ve organised a bank account with you.’
‘I don’t want your money, Yorke,’ Autumn told him, standing up. ‘If my clothes aren’t good enough for you, then too bad.’
‘You agreed to play a part,’ Yorke reminded her, ‘and that means adopting everything that goes with that part, including this.’
Some romantic impulse had led Mrs Jacobs to decorate the dining table with lighted candles, and in their soft glow Autumn shivered as she recognised the familiar diamond and sapphire cluster. She stepped back instinctively and barely managed to restrain herself from hiding her hands behind her back.
The metal felt cold as Yorke slid its heavy weight over her knuckle with her wedding ring.
‘Welcome home, Mrs Laing,’ he said softly. ‘We’ll have our coffee in the drawing room, but first…’ Autumn stared at him as he produced a small gift-wrapped parcel. ‘It’s your birthday,’ he reminded her grimly. ‘Open it.’
She had completely forgotten the date and the gift surprised her. She unwrapped it slowly, her emotions already threatening to overwhelm her reason. She had not expected him to produce her rings, but it was quite logical. When she had left them behind she had never thought she would ever wear them again.
She gasped as the wrapping paper slid away to reveal a long slim leather box.
‘Here, let me,’ Yorke said impatiently, taking it from her and snapping it open, lifting the sapphire and diamond necklace from its bed of white satin and sliding it round her neck.
It had been so obviously chosen to match her ring that bitterness welled up inside her.
‘You were very sure of me, weren’t you?’ she said in a voice tight with anger. ‘Take it off, Yorke, I don’t want it.’ She reached for the fastening, but his hands closed over it, and her body trembled violently at the implications of having him so close to her. No matter how much she tried to deny it, she was not indifferent to him, and standing together like this it woul
d be fatally easy to forget her resolution. She only had to turn and his arms would surely enfold her. Stop it, she told herself biting down hard on her lip. Stop it!
‘I was sure that you wanted your divorce,’ Yorke told her coolly. ‘This isn’t bribery, if that’s what you’re thinking. We’re a couple who’ve been reconciled after two years apart. What could be more natural than that I should buy you expensive presents? I’m a rich man, Autumn,’ he reminded her, ‘and you’re a rich man’s wife.’
‘Money—that’s all you ever think about,’ Autumn railed at him emotionally. ‘There are some things you just can’t buy, Yorke.’
‘Like what?’
In the candlelight his eyes gleamed like jade, the shadows throwing into relief the harsh planes of his face. She had an overpowering urge to go to him and run her fingers over the familiar bones, but she crushed it without mercy.
‘Like love,’ she said quietly. ‘But that’s something you’ve never needed, have you, Yorke?’
She walked out before he could reply, tempted to go straight to her room, but she couldn’t be sure that he had not felt her momentary tremor when he fastened the necklace—and worse still guessed the reason for it. Pride demanded that she remain with him, playing out the charade to its bitter end, so her hand was quite steady as she poured his coffee, and his lips twisted faintly as she asked if he wanted cream or sugar.
‘Surely you can remember that much?’ he taunted. ‘You’ll hardly be convincing in the role of doting wife if you continue like this.’
‘People will just have to assume that I’m a very private person and prefer to keep my feelings to myself.’
‘Do you?’ he asked softly.
He hadn’t moved, but all at once the atmosphere had become highly charged with a sexual tension that was unmistakable. Her mouth was dry, the blood moving hotly through her veins. She put down her cup, marvelling at the fact that she managed to keep it steady.