Читать книгу The Impetuous Bride - Caroline Anderson - Страница 10

JAKE was standing by the front passenger door of Tom’s car, but Mel elbowed him out of the way.

‘You can sit in the back with my sister and apologise for bitching at each other, or get a taxi. Right now I don’t much care which, but I’d be grateful if you’d manage to behave towards each other in a civilised fashion. I’m not asking you to be buddies, clearly that’s too much, but you could at least be polite.’

And she slid into the front seat, slammed the door and left them standing by the car in silence.

After an endless moment, Jake reached for the handle, opened the door and held it for her without a word. Still in silence, Lydia climbed into the back and slid across the seat, and he folded himself in beside her, fastened his seat belt and stared straight ahead.

‘Sorry, Lydia. Sorry, Jake.’

They both glared at Mel. ‘Butt out, little sister,’ Lydia said tightly. ‘I can fight my own battles.’

‘Nevertheless, I think—’

‘Drop it, Mel,’ Tom said, and started the car, turning the radio on. Lydia realised she was shaking all over, hanging on by a thread, and she could feel the waves of tension coming off Jake.

They’d driven about two tense and emotionally charged miles before he sighed and turned to her. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said tightly. ‘I didn’t mean to snipe at you. I just find this very difficult.’

He wasn’t alone! She’d been wondering for ages just why she’d let herself be talked into this calculated disaster of an evening. ‘It’s OK,’ she conceded, desperate to end this war that had sprung up between them. ‘I never expected you to kill the fatted calf.’ She tried a tentative smile, and his mouth flickered just briefly.

It wasn’t a smile, but it was a concession, and the tension eased noticeably, to her huge relief. She relaxed back against the seat, still shaking with reaction, but at least they were nearly home.

They pulled up on the drive a few minutes later, and Tom cut the engine. ‘Coffee?’ Mel suggested, and gave them both a considering look over the back of the seat. ‘Think you two can cope with that?’

‘I should think we’ll manage,’ Jake said drily, and, opening the door, he got out and helped Mel from the car, leaving Tom to open Lydia’s door.

He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze and smiled at her worriedly. ‘You OK?’ he asked softly, and she nodded.

‘Yes, I’m fine. Come on in, it’s chilly.’

She rubbed her bare arms briskly to warm them, and led the way into the kitchen. The Aga was warm, as ever, and she put the kettle on automatically and leant against the front rail, her back to the stove and her hands wrapped round the rail for warmth.

Her mother came into the kitchen and commandeered Mel and Tom immediately, leaving her alone with Jake, and she was suddenly conscious of the way she was standing and the way Jake was looking at her. Dear God, did he think she was being deliberately provocative?

She crossed her arms over her chest, her fingers gripping her upper arms defensively, and gave him a cautious smile. ‘I’m sorry about Mel,’ she began, but he cut her off with a short, humourless laugh.

‘No. She was right. I apologise. It was unforgivable. I shouldn’t have poked fun at you; you have every right to do what you like with your life.’

‘Not if it hurts other people,’ she murmured softly.

He was silent, his eyes expressionless, and then he turned away, reaching for the mugs with a familiarity that tore at her heart. How many times had she watched him do that? Struggling to fill the silence, she groped for a topic. ‘How did you get on with the house this afternoon?’ she asked. ‘Were the people OK?’

He gave her a strange look. ‘We discussed this over dinner,’ he reminded her, and she coloured.

‘I meant, did you like them? Would you like them to have your house? It’s a very personal thing selling something you’ve worked hard on and care about—you want to make sure it goes into the right hands.’

‘It’s a house, Lydia,’ he said in a tight voice. ‘Just a house.’

She shrugged and pulled the kettle off the hob, lowering the cover down over the hotplate with exaggerated care. ‘Coffee or tea?’

‘Coffee—thank you.’ He set the mugs down beside her, and his arm brushed hers, bringing lingering warmth to the cold skin. He was so close she could smell the faint citrus scent of his aftershave, so familiar it made her ache to hold him, to slip into his arms and rest her weary head on his chest and cry her eyes out for all the stupid things she’d done in the last year.

Instead she moved away, out of range of the scent of his body, and made the coffee with brisk and economical movements. ‘I’ll take theirs into the study—I can tell this is going to be one of those long confabs that will drag on for ages.’

She put four mugs on a tray and carried them through, earning distracted smiles of thanks, and went back to the kitchen.

Jake was sitting at the table, his long fingers curled around his mug, staring down into its murky contents as if it held the secret of eternal life. There was a box of mint crisp chocolates on the side and she offered him one. He shook his head, but she had two, dipping them in her coffee and sucking them. It was a disgusting habit, but they tasted better like that and she was hardly trying to impress him.

Just as well, judging by the strange way he was looking at her.

‘They liked it,’ he said abruptly, and she paused in her sucking and looked at him in utter confusion.

‘They? They liked what?’

‘The viewers,’ he explained. ‘They liked your kitchen. She waxed lyrical on every single feature. I thought she was going to rip out the dog bed and take it with her.’

Lydia smiled wryly. ‘Oh, dear. Still, I suppose it’s a good sign.’

‘Oh, absolutely. The agent seems to think they’ll all come to blows over it. It certainly won’t hang about on the market, apparently.’

Lydia felt a great pang of regret. It would have been her house, hers and Jake’s, and they would have brought their children up in it.

If their marriage had stood the test of time. Instead it had fallen even before the first hurdle.

‘You ought to come and see the house before it goes,’ he was saying. ‘I’ve done a lot more since you left. It was in a pretty basic state when I bought it—I don’t know if you can remember.’

Remember? How could she forget walking round the echoing emptiness with him, excitement gripping her at the thought of transforming the basic and antiquated scullery into a wonderful family kitchen that would be the heart of his beautiful home. Not for her, of course, not at that stage, but for him and some nameless woman who would become his wife.

‘I want children,’ he’d said, ‘so nothing too precious.’

And she’d imagined the children, little blue-eyed, dark-haired clones of their father, with mischievous smiles and infectious laughter.

It was in that kitchen that he’d first kissed her…

She jerked herself back to the present and his invitation. ‘I’d love to see it—and of course I remember it. It will be interesting to see what you’ve done.’

Heartbreaking, too, but she couldn’t seem to walk away from him no matter how sensible it might be. And it could be her last chance to see it.

‘When?’ she asked, and he shrugged.

‘Tomorrow? Come for breakfast. Your body clock will be all up the creek, so tired as you are I don’t suppose you’ll be able to lie in. Ring me. I’ll cook for you.’

She met his eyes, and for a moment there was a glimmer of the old Jake, then it was gone again.

‘Thanks,’ she murmured. ‘That would be lovely. Don’t wait in, though. I might sleep—who knows?’

‘I’ll be in,’ he assured her, and it sounded almost like a promise.

He must be crazy. He couldn’t sit in the same room with her without being reminded of her defection, and yet he was inviting her over—and for breakfast, for heaven’s sake! Not coffee, not a cup of tea, but breakfast, the most intimate meal of all—a meal they’d never shared.

He was mad. He had to be. Bringing her back into the house and filling every nook and cranny of it with her image was absolutely the last thing he needed, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t as if those images would haunt him for years, because the house would be sold and she’d never even been to his new flat in London.

No, it was just a short-lived torture, a bit of flagellation that if he wasn’t such a masochist he would have avoided like the plague, but he was too weak and too stupid to steer clear of her.

He drained his coffee and stood up. She was drooping over the table, struggling to keep her eyes open after her long flight, and he was keeping her up.

Not that he ought to care, but for some absurd reason he did.

‘I’m off,’ he said briskly. ‘Go to bed. Call me in the morning.’

She stood up and went to the door with him, and without thinking he lowered his head and brushed her lips.

‘Sleep tight, Princess,’ he murmured roughly, and then could have kicked himself for the familiar endearment.

He walked home in the dark, striding along the lane in the faint moonlight, his body stalked by the image of her leaning against the Aga, her nipples clear against the soft fabric of her dress, the tip of her tongue chasing the last melted smear of chocolate on her lips, the gentle sway of her body as she moved.

He could still smell the light, teasing fragrance of her skin, taste the chocolate on her lips. His palms ached to cup those small, soft breasts, to cradle her bottom and lift her against him as he lost himself in her.

Damn. He stripped off his sweater and unfastened his shirt, pulling it out of his trousers and letting the cool night air to his skin. Damn her for her hold over him.

It was just because he’d never had her, of course, because she’d always held back from that last intimacy. If he’d made love to her he could have forgotten her, could have got her out of his system.

Maybe now was a chance—not out of revenge, but just as a way of purging his emotion.

And maybe he was a bigger fool than he’d thought.

He went in, slammed the door behind him and took the stairs three at a time. Maybe a cold shower would bring him to his senses.

She rang him at a quarter to nine, knowing he would be up. He was always up by six, so he’d told her in the past, and he answered the phone on the second ring.

‘Hi,’ he said, and his voice sounded gruff and sexy and early-morning, and did nothing for her composure.

‘I’m awake,’ she said unnecessarily. ‘Is it too early? I’m dying for coffee.’

‘Of course not. Come on round. I’ll leave the back door open.’

She pulled her wet hair into a ponytail, contemplated putting on make-up and told herself not to be ridiculous. She was going for breakfast, nothing else.

Her jeans hung on her, but they would have to do. She slid her feet into sandals, tied a jumper round her shoulders in case it was chilly out and walked briskly round to his house.

Although it was next door, technically, it took a couple of minutes to walk there along the lane, and the fresh morning air felt wonderful on her skin. It had rained in the night, just lightly, and the air was cool and damp and scented with honeysuckle and roses.

It was gorgeous, so much more subtle than the exotic scents of the tropics, and Lydia felt the tension in her ease a little. Nevertheless, she approached the back door with a certain amount of trepidation. She’d put so much of herself into the design of this particular kitchen, and then later so much love into the planning of the other things they’d hoped to do, and now she would see what he had achieved—and what he was casually going to hand over to another person without a pang, because it was, in his words, ‘just a house’.

Not to Lydia. Never to Lydia.

She tapped on the open door and went in, greeted by the wonderful aroma of fresh coffee and sizzling bacon, and there he was, standing at the work island in a pair of ancient jeans faded almost to white over the knees and seat, a soft T-shirt tucked in, emphasising the breadth of his shoulders and the neatness of his waist.

‘Hi,’ he murmured, and threw her a smile that made her heart kick. ‘Come on in.’

She went in, looking round her at the finished room, settled in now to its role and every bit as lovely as it had been. A wave of sadness washed over her, and instinctively she crossed to the Aga for the comfort of its warmth. ‘Anything I can do?’

‘No. I’m just about done. There’s a plate of goodies in the bottom oven—you could get it out.’

She reached down and pulled out a dish heaped with bacon, sausages, tomatoes, mushrooms, tiny fried potatoes—

‘Good grief,’ she said faintly. ‘Do you always do breakfast like this?’

He grinned, turning her heart over, and put the last few rashers of bacon on to the dish. ‘Only on Sundays. There’s scrambled egg in the microwave; it just needs another turn.’ He pressed a couple of buttons and while it finished off he put coffee and milk and mugs on a tray. Toast popped up, the scrambled eggs were done and he was hustling her through into the breakfast room.

‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, slamming to a halt in the doorway. ‘You did the conservatory!’

‘Like it?’ he asked from right behind her, and she felt her eyes fill. It had been another of their plans, and she felt the huge well of sadness grow a little larger.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she whispered, and swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘Really lovely.’

‘Go on out there. I’ve set the table.’

She put the hot dish down on the mat in the middle of the cast-iron table, and looked around at the pretty structure. White-painted, it reached up towards the clear blue sky, the centre of the roof a square raised lantern, a typical Georgian feature and absolutely at home in the context of his house. Plants rioted around the broad sills, foamed out of huge pots and swarmed up the glass. It was like a tropical paradise, and she shook her head in astonishment.

‘You must have green fingers,’ she murmured, stroking a leaf thoughtfully.

‘You sound surprised.’

She shrugged. Just another thing she hadn’t known about him. ‘It’s lovely,’ she said, and turned to look at him.

For a moment there was something in his eyes, something that could have been yearning, and then it was gone, replaced by a genial nothingness like a shield over his feelings.

Unless that was just fanciful imagination, which was quite likely, given her lack of sleep.

‘I can’t claim all the credit. I have a domestic genius who waters them for me. I suspect it’s more her touch than mine.’ He held a chair for her, and she sat down, looking out over the garden and noticing the little changes—the new rose bed, the repaired formal terrace, the little summer house—

‘You’ve got a summer house!’ she exclaimed.

‘I know. It just seemed to need one. Come on, help yourself before it’s cold.’

She looked at the mass of food and her stomach rumbled. Her last proper meal had been in Singapore, and since she’d hardly eaten a thing last night because of the atmosphere, she was utterly ravenous. ‘I could eat all of this,’ she confessed with a wry grin.

‘Do. I can cook more. Pile in.’

She did, not stopping until her plate was clear for the second time and she was halfway down her mug of coffee. Then she leant back and smiled sheepishly. ‘That was wonderful.’

His answering smile was gentle and a little sad.

‘You’re welcome.’ He looked down into his coffee, his face thoughtful, and then looked up, spearing her with those incredible blue eyes. ‘About last night—I’m sorry I was so rude.’

She shook her head. ‘Forget it. We’ve dealt with it. It wasn’t easy for me seeing you again, so I can’t imagine you found it any easier. We all say things we don’t mean when we’re under pressure.’

He didn’t reply, just nodded slightly in acknowledgement and returned his attention to his coffee.

The sun rose higher, filtering through the tree overhead and bathing them in gentle, dappled light. It was calm and restful, and she couldn’t imagine why on earth he would want to sell it and return to London full-time—

‘Why are you selling it?’ she asked, the words just coming out without her permission. Oh, Lord, did that sound as desperate as she thought it did?

He shrugged, his lovely blue eyes unreadable. ‘What is there here for me?’

Me! she wanted to scream, but she couldn’t. He didn’t want her; he’d made that perfectly obvious. ‘Mel said you’d been spending more time in London.’

‘Business has been quite busy recently,’ he agreed, and pushed his chair back, his breakfast hardly touched. ‘Come and see the rest of the house.’

And then she could go, she thought, and get out of his way. He was clearly in a hurry to get rid of her—probably regretted the invitation, but his natural good manners would have prevented him from withdrawing it.

She followed him back to the hall and through the rest of the house, and as she looked around she thought it seemed soulless. Only the kitchen seemed to have any real heart—the kitchen and the conservatory, which they’d planned together and researched in the run-up to the wedding.

They went upstairs and looked in the bedrooms, and they were all beautifully presented and co-ordinated. She wondered who had done it, and if he’d slept with her, and felt a surge of jealous rage.

‘This is my room,’ he said finally, pushing open a door, and a huge lump wedged in her throat, because this was what she’d said she wanted—the walls, carpet, curtains, all soft creamy white, with a huge four-poster in the middle, its massive barley-twist posts and heavily carved head and foot boards gleaming with the patina of age.

There was a richly embroidered cream bedspread smoothed over the quilt, piled high with cushions and pillows, and behind the headboard more of the same fabric hung in deep folds.

‘Did you do the bathroom?’ she asked in a choked voice, and he nodded.

‘Take a look.’

It was lovely—antique fittings with brass taps, the bath a monster with huge ball and claw feet, and in the corner a real Victorian shower with heads all down the sides as well as a massive rose overhead. It must use gallons of water, but it looked wonderful.

‘I got all the stuff from that reclamation yard you told me about.’

‘Well done,’ she said, flashing him a smile without really looking at him, because it all hurt too much and she was too close to the bed where she would have lain with him at night for the last year, and loved him.

She looked at her watch without seeing it. ‘I must fly,’ she said. ‘I haven’t really asked anything about the wedding or made myself useful at all yet, and they’ll be wondering where I am.’

She headed for the door, all but running down the stairs, and at the kitchen door she turned and looked back at him, and wondered if she’d gone crazy or if that really was regret in his eyes.

‘Thanks for the breakfast,’ she said, and then she fled, just before her tears spilled over and gave her away…

He was mad. Certifiably, stark raving mad. Why on earth had he taken her into his bedroom? Now she’d know he’d hung on her every word and built her dream for her, in the vain hope that she’d come back and share it with him.

He snorted. Not a chance. She hadn’t been able to get out of there fast enough. Maybe she didn’t even remember all their plans.

Not a hope. She’d realise what a fool he was, and even now she was probably laughing at him.

Well, damn her. He threw the remains of the breakfast in the bin, tossed the plates and cutlery into the dishwasher with scant regard for their safety and went out, slamming the door behind him. The coach house door slid open at the touch of a button, and he got into the car, gunned the engine and shot out of the garage, up the drive and off down the lane.

He tried to outrun his demons, but all he got for his pains was a speeding ticket and a lecture from the policeman that pulled him over. He drove to London, rang up a friend and thrashed him comprehensively at squash, then drowned his sorrows in the bar and went back to the flat to sleep it off.

Ridiculous. He never drank to excess, and yet Lydia only had to set foot in the country and two nights running he had too much to drink.

He woke up early on Monday morning, all his muscles screaming protest after the hammering he’d given them the day before, and drove back to Suffolk, arriving at his house as the sun came up over the trees and flooded the valley with gold.

He should have stayed in London. He had plenty to do in the office, but they could manage without him so long as he was accessible by phone, and the masochist in him wanted to be near Lydia for the few short days that were left.

He parked the car, went inside and made coffee, then banged on Tom’s door at eight with a mug of coffee to find Mel there, too, snuggled up against his friend’s side, a blissful smile on her face.

‘Morning,’ she said chirpily, and he dredged up a smile.

‘Hi. What’s on the menu today?’ he asked, wondering if he could make himself indispensable and coincidentally be in Lydia’s way.

‘Goodness knows. I’m keeping out of it,’ Mel said, winking mischievously at Tom. ‘We’ve got better things to do.’

They were clearly going to be no help at all. He went downstairs, drained the coffee pot and checked his watch.

Eight-thirty. He loaded the dishwasher, cleaned up the kitchen and strolled next door. The craftsmen were already coming and going in the kitchen workshops over the road, and as he looked down the drive his heart kicked. Lydia was sitting with her mother outside the back door on a bench, their faces tipped up to the sun, and as his feet scrunched on the gravel they looked up and Mrs Benton waved.

‘Jake! Come and have some coffee,’ she called, and his heart sank. He’d had enough coffee already this morning to launch a fleet of submarines, and the last thing he wanted was any more.

‘I’ve just had one—’

‘Some orange juice, then, or a croissant? We’ve just put some in the Aga. Have you eaten?’

He looked at Lydia, busy looking non-committal, and wished for the thousandth time that he could read her mind and know what she was thinking.

‘No, I haven’t. That would be lovely, thank you, Maggie.’

Lydia got to her feet and went into the kitchen, and he followed her. ‘Am I in the way?’ he asked quietly, and she stiffened and then laughed softly.

‘Of course not. Go on out and find a table and chairs from round the corner and drag them into the sun, could you? We’ll eat outside, it’s so nice.’

He went, as commanded, and then sat with Maggie Benton and offered his assistance.

‘Oh, Jake, you are a darling,’ she said. ‘I think Raymond’s supervising the scaffolding team this morning, building the bridge ready for them to bring the marquee across on Wednesday, and we’ve got to deliver a huge butcher’s block to a woman in Mendlesham Green—you couldn’t go with Lydia and give her a hand, could you? It’s much too heavy for her to lift on her own, and the woman’s pregnant.’

Oh, Lord. She was playing into his hands with a vengeance—maybe too much of a vengeance. It was one thing being around, quite another being trapped in the car with her all the way to Mendlesham Green and back. ‘Sure,’ he agreed, just as Lydia appeared with a tray groaning with coffee and orange juice and a basket of steaming croissants.

‘Breakfast,’ she said, and plonked it down on the table. ‘Now, look, Mum, I really don’t think I’m going to be able to do the butcher’s block. Can’t we get a carrier—?’

‘It’s all solved,’ Maggie said, patting her hand reassuringly. ‘Jake’s going to help you.’

Her eyes flew up to his, slightly startled, and then an apprehensive smile touched her lips. ‘Are you sure?’ she said softly, and he felt his last trace of doubt vanish.

‘Absolutely. We can’t take my car, though; it won’t be big enough.’

‘Take the Mercedes,’ Maggie said matter-of-factly. ‘It’s all right; Lydia will drive. She only wants your body when you get there.’

He nearly choked on his orange juice, but fortunately she didn’t seem to notice and it gave him a moment to recover his composure.

Then he looked up and caught Lydia’s unguarded expression. Shock, fascination and—hunger? Then she looked hastily away, soft colour staining her cheeks under the golden tan, and he became aware of the steady pounding of his heart beneath his ribs.

Today was going to be a very interesting day…