by Sara Craven
Chloe obeyed mutinously. Not that she had much choice with his hand clasped firmly round hers, pulling her upright.
She wasn’t used to being thrown. She felt jolted all over and tomorrow she’d be bruised, and what she really wanted was to burst into tears and go home.
And to say that she’d made a mistake because his unexpected arrival had startled her was no excuse at all.
She lifted herself stiffly into the saddle, took a deep, calming breath then set off as instructed. This time there were no mistakes as Moonrise Lady soared safely and sweetly over the rail and came down as if she was treading on velvet.
As she brought the mare to a halt and made to dismount, Darius reached up, lifting her out of the saddle and depositing her gently on her own two feet, wobbly legs notwithstanding.
‘Thank you.’ She tried to say it normally but, with his strong hands still grasping her waist, it emerged as a squeak. She stepped back and removed her hat, shaking her hair loose. ‘I—I’ll see to the Lady.’
‘Arthur will do that. I’ve been instructed to take you up to the house.’
She hesitated, glancing down quickly at the grass stains on her jodhpurs. ‘I’m expected at home.’
‘My sister-in-law has rung the Grange,’ he said. ‘Told them you’re staying for some tea. Although there won’t be much sympathy.’ He produced a handkerchief and wiped her cheek, showing her the smear of earth he’d removed. ‘And clean you up a little at the same time.’
Colour stormed into her face as she realised what she probably looked like. But she accepted, too, that there was little point in further protest. That she was doomed to appear a grubby urchin beside Penny Maynard’s effortless chic.
She hadn’t set foot in the house since Lady Maynard’s death, but it didn’t seem to have changed at all. The hall with its flagged floor, and the family portraits in massive frames on its panelled walls gave its usual cool and shady impression after the blaze of the sun, the only patch of colour provided by a massive silver bowl filled with roses on a long side table.
In the drawing room, Penny was standing by one of the mullioned windows staring fixedly at the garden beyond. As Darius conducted Chloe into the room, she turned, her gaze sharpening.
‘Good God, what happened to you?’
‘I fell off,’ Chloe admitted in a tone of false brightness.
‘Off one of my husband’s gentle, noble creatures?’ Penny’s tone was mocking. ‘I can hardly believe it.’ She walked forward. ‘You look as if you’ve been rolled on and trampled. I’ll take you up to my room. Make you look more presentable.’ She glanced at Darius. ‘Tell Mrs Vernon to give us about twenty minutes before she brings tea, will you?’
As she followed Penny up the stairs, Chloe felt the past few years slip away, turning her back into the nervous fourteen-year-old being conducted to Lady Maynard.
But whereas that bedroom had been massive and stately, filled with valuable antique furniture, Penny’s room was in total contrast.
It was all pale colours, and sleek modern lines, down to the low, wide divan bed.
‘Andrew offered me free rein with the décor,’ Penny tossed carelessly over her shoulder. ‘So I took him at his word.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ said Chloe. Beautiful, she thought, but also totally out of place in an old house like this. Nor could she visualise Andrew Maynard’s tall, broad-shouldered frame being at ease in all this feminine magnificence. But no doubt he felt his glamorous wife was worth it.
The bathroom was another surprise in ivory and gold, and more like a beauty salon than a place to wash and clean one’s teeth. Or the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles, she thought with a shudder as she caught sight of herself in all her mud-stained glory in one of them. Only her shirt seemed to have escaped relatively unscathed.
‘Have a shower if you want,’ her hostess invited casually. ‘There are loads of towels. And I’ll find you something cleaner to wear. I imagine we’re about the same size.’
‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble,’ said Chloe, but it was a token protest. Her eyes were already glistening at the sight of the engraved glass cubicle with its power shower.
‘You’re not.’ The denial was instant, but the accompanying smile seemed a little forced. ‘Come down when you’re ready.’
The cascade of hot water felt like balm on her aching body. When she returned to the bedroom, her jodhpurs had been removed and a pair of jeans with a designer label were waiting for her in their place, together with a short-sleeved white silk blouse, and a hair dryer.
The jeans fitted her like a second skin, and Penny was taller too, so Chloe had to turn up the legs a fraction. But the blouse was a little too large, so at least there was no chance of any more accidents with buttons, she decided, her face warming at the unwelcome memory.
Once dressed again, she sat down rather shyly at the dressing table with its array of scent bottles and cosmetic jars, praying she wouldn’t break anything or move a pot of cream out of its designated place, and began to attend to her hair.
At the same time, she found her eyes straying round the room, remembering the enormous four-poster bed in Lady Maynard’s bedroom, and the elegant chaise longue by the window where the Hall’s former mistress had spent so many of her latter days, and wondering what she would have made of all this determined modernity. Or whether Penny would have been gently but firmly dissuaded from its more extreme aspects.
Because Lady Maynard had believed in tradition. Sometimes, when the reading was over and she’d felt well enough, she had talked to Chloe, reminiscing about her girlhood, spent travelling with her parents to various diplomatic posts all over the world, making the past live again with an almost wistful note in her voice.
She’d spoken too of the history of the Hall she’d been compiling over the years, admitting with regretful finality that it would never be finished.
‘That will be someone else’s task,’ she’d said.
I wonder what happened to it? thought Chloe as she switched off the dryer and stood up.
When she got down to the hall, Mrs Vernon was just wheeling the tea trolley into the drawing room.
‘Perfect timing,’ Darius said, tossing aside the copy of Horse and Hound he was reading and getting to his feet as Chloe followed the housekeeper into the room. The green eyes skimmed her, sharpening in undisguised appreciation as they observed how the borrowed jeans moulded her slim hips and the length of her slender legs, before returning almost quizzically to the concealment of the white blouse.
No prizes for guessing what he was thinking, Chloe thought indignantly as the dull colour stole back into her face again. Head high, she stalked over to a chair as far from the sofa he’d been occupying as it was possible to get without actually leaving the room.
I don’t want him to look at me like that, she thought passionately. I don’t like the way it makes me feel. And I wish he’d stayed up in London, or never come back at all, because I don’t like him. Full stop.
Penny was an attentive hostess, offering cucumber sandwiches, scones with jam and cream, and a Madeira cake that managed to be even lighter than Aunt Libby’s.
How can she possibly stay so thin with Mrs Denver serving up feasts like this several times a day? Chloe wondered.
Penny chatted too, a rapid flow of words that scarcely demanded an answer, or an intervention from anyone else, telling Chloe how lucky she was to be going to university in London, and what a fun city it could be, talking of theatres, concert halls, galleries and nightclubs.
Or how to be a student on a private income, Chloe thought drily. But she was glad she did not have to sustain the other half of the conversation in any meaningful way. On the surface, it appeared to be a conventional afternoon occasion, but there was a tension in the room that was almost tangible.
And it had to be centred on Darius, she thought, acutely aware of him lounging on the other side of the room, his silk tie loosened, his shirt unbuttoned at the neck as he listened to
every word, a half-smile playing round his lips. She remembered what Aunt Libby had said about him. Someone who pushed even the law to its limits.
She found herself wondering exactly what he had done, and why he’d been sent away.
But that was forbidden territory, and she was glad to be able to get up, murmuring that she must be going, thanking Penny for her delicious tea, but swiftly declining her offer of a lift, on the grounds that the walk back to the Grange would do her good.
‘Stop me stiffening up too much,’ she added.
‘But you must take this with you. Your family’s invitation to the Birthday Ball.’ Her hostess handed her a square white envelope, addressed, Chloe saw, not just to her aunt and uncle, but, for the first time ever, to herself as well.
She held it awkwardly, feeling a bit like Cinderella. ‘Thank you. I—I must pop back to the stables before I leave—pick up my bag.’ She forced a smile. ‘So thanks again—and goodbye.’
Hurrying as best she could, she’d reached the archway into the yard when Darius caught up with her.
She said tautly, staring straight ahead of her, ‘You really don’t need to see me off the premises. I know my way.’
‘I’m sure you do.’ He followed her into the stable, leaning against the door as he watched her tuck the invitation into her bag. Apart from the sounds of Moonrise Lady happily chomping on some hay in her stall and the cooing of a pigeon in the rafters, it was very quiet. Even, she realised, isolated, with Arthur nowhere to be seen.
He went on, ‘But I also have something to give you.’
He took a small bottle of tablets from his pocket, grinning as her eyes widened. ‘And it’s not some weird drug to render you helpless and at my mercy, either. It’s just arnica for the bruises. I’m sure your uncle has plenty, but consider it a precaution.’
Darius Maynard, Chloe thought bitterly as she accepted the bottle with a muttered word of thanks, and pushed it into her bag, king of the disarming gesture.
He added, ‘And I’ll drive you home.’
‘No!’ The refusal was too quick and too sharp, and she saw his brows lift mockingly.
‘Chloe, my sweet,’ he said softly. ‘What must I do to prove that you can trust me?’
‘Nothing,’ she said raggedly. ‘I simply don’t want it to be necessary.’ She swallowed. ‘I know it’s all a big joke to you, but it’s one I don’t happen to share.’ She spread her hands almost helplessly. ‘So, why can’t you just understand that—and leave me alone?’
‘Because this is not a joke,’ he said with sudden harshness. ‘Which is something that you in turn are failing to understand.’
He stepped forward, and his hands grasped her shoulders, pulling her towards him.
The breath caught in her throat. She lifted her hands, placing them flat against his chest in a hurried attempt to keep him away from her. Because she had to do something—something—to stop him. Before it was too late …
Then he bent his head and his lips took hers with a quiet and almost frightening precision, exploring its soft contours as if her mouth was some unknown territory he was learning by heart, and she knew, as if he had spoken the words aloud, that it was already too late. And perhaps always had been.
One hand moved down and grasped her hip, urging her body into an even more intimate proximity with his. His other hand also abandoned her shoulder to gently stroke the vulnerable line of her throat, and the delicate whorls of her ear before moving to the nape of her neck to let his fingers twine in the soft, dark fall of her hair.
Her own fingers were curling into fists, as they clutched the crisp front of his snowy shirt, holding him as if she was drowning, or her shaking legs would suddenly hold her upright no longer.
His lips coaxed hers apart to allow him to penetrate her mouth’s inner sweetness and she felt the satin glide of his tongue teasing hers, playing with its tip in the kind of sensuous demand she’d never experienced before, and she felt the shock of it whisper through her body, startling her innocence with the promise of her own sexuality. Making it impossible for her to deny him the response he sought. Or even wish to …
His kiss deepened instantly, passionately, sending sharp tendrils of sensation quivering along her nerve endings. Her hands slid up to his shoulders, then fastened round his neck, the brush of his hair like silk against her fingers.
And the little voice in her head protesting that this was all wrong, that it was dangerous—it was madness and she should stop it now—now—faded to a whisper and then to silence.
They stood, mouths and bodies locked together. For the first time, Chloe felt her clothing as a barrier. She was aware that her breasts seemed to be blooming—swelling against the confines of her bra, pressing against the hard muscularity of his chest, and she wanted to be rid of it. Rid of everything.
As if in answer to some unspoken plea, Darius slid his hand from her hip to her waist, then upwards to cup one soft mound in his palm, while the ball of his thumb moved gently against the delicate rosy peak in deliberate, provocative arousal. She gasped against his mouth, a small choked sound that was almost a moan, as she felt the sudden rush of scalding heat between her thighs.
She heard him groan something that might have been her name, then his caressing hand stilled. He took his lips very slowly from hers and began to kiss her temples, her closed eyes, the line of her cheekbones, and, with great care, the corners of her mouth, just brushing her skin as softly as the wing of a butterfly.
She raised leaden lids and looked up at him, seeing a glitter in the green eyes that scared and excited her at the same time.
When he spoke, his voice was husky, almost slurred. He said, ‘No—not here, my sweet one. Not—like this.’
He drew her close and held her for a long moment, his arms almost fierce, his face buried in her hair. Then he straightened, putting her away from him, looking down at her with faint ruefulness.
He said quietly, ‘And now I really am going to take you home.’
There were tears on her face as she sat staring unseeingly into the darkness and Chloe wiped them away with her knuckles in a gesture that was almost childish. But every haunting memory of that time, seven years before, was conspiring to remind her that she had indeed been hardly more than a child just emerging into womanhood.
And I indulged myself with a child’s dreams, she thought bitterly. Ignored the warnings from people who’d known him so much longer and so much better than I had and who, therefore, had no illusions about him. Told myself they were simply prejudiced, making unfair comparisons with Andrew, who never put a foot wrong.
Darius asked me to trust him, and for a while I did, although I had no cause—no reason to do so. Because I was young and stupid, I let his touch, his kisses tempt me to forget what I really wanted from life. Even to fool myself, for a brief time, that he might be the one—the other half of myself.
And, oh, God, he made it so easy for me. So terribly, heartbreakingly easy.
She shivered suddenly, wrapping her arms round her body.
I mustn’t use emotive words like that, she told herself. My heart did not break. It didn’t even develop a hairline crack, because Darius was just a diversion. Fate’s way of teaching me to distinguish the substance from the shadow. A painful but necessary lesson.
And I won’t make the same mistake again.
But she soon found that time hadn’t totally done its healing work, and the pain still existed, twisting inside her as she remembered driving back to the Grange with him, her body hot and aching, her hands clasped in her lap to hide the fact that they were trembling.
When she asked him in a small, hoarse voice to drop her at the end of the lane, he made no protest, but she saw his mouth tighten wryly.
As she fumbled her seat belt he leaned across and released it for her, running a finger gently down the curve of her cheek. He said, ‘I’ll be in touch,’ and drove off.
‘So, tea at the Hall,’ said Aunt Libby. ‘Did you have a nice time?’<
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Chloe met her enquiring gaze with as much composure as she could manage. ‘Yes, Mrs Maynard was very kind. I must wash and iron the clothes she lent me and return them.’ She handed over the big square envelope. ‘And she sent you this.’
Her aunt’s brows rose as she extracted the card and read it. ‘You’ve also been invited, I see. I imagine you won’t want to go.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I recall you shuddering away from the idea not that long ago, describing the Ball as a bunch of old fogeys dancing the St Bernard’s waltz,’ Aunt Libby returned calmly.
Chloe flushed. ‘Well, yes, I probably did—then.’
‘But something’s happened to change your mind?’ Mrs Jackson’s eyes were shrewd.
‘It’s probably my only opportunity to go.’ She forced a smile. ‘See if I was right about it. Once I’m at university, I’m going to have to find vacation work, so I won’t be around so much.’
‘No,’ Aunt Libby said thoughtfully. ‘There is that.’ She was silent for a moment, then gave a brief sigh. ‘Then I’ll accept for the three of us. You’ll need a dress, of course.’
‘There’s a hire place in East Ledwick,’ Chloe said quickly. ‘Or I can try the charity shops. It needn’t cost much.’
‘Clearly you have it all worked out.’ Her aunt’s tone was dry. ‘We’ll drive over later this week. See what’s available.’
It was not a prolonged search. The woman who ran the dress hire ran a brisk eye over Chloe and nodded in approval. ‘Lovely slim figure and slightly high-waisted too. I think I have the perfect thing.’
She disappeared to the back of the shop and returned with a swathe of filmy fabric in white, shot with the glimmer of silver, draped over her arm.
‘I’m told this has been inspired by the new Pride and Prejudice film due out in the autumn,’ she announced. ‘Whatever, I think it’s delightful.’
And when Chloe looked at herself in the mirror, she could only agree. It was a slender column of a dress, short-sleeved, the ankle-length skirt falling straight from a low-cut bodice which permitted an enticing but demure glimpse of the first swell of her breasts.