Читать книгу In Bed With...Collection - Emma Darcy - Страница 48
ОглавлениеMAGGIE stared gloomily at the vast array of very expensive clothes in her wardrobe. Vivian had made dressing up fun. She’d seen no harm in giving him the pleasure of it and there was no denying she had enjoyed feeling wonderfully glamorous, swishing around in gorgeous outfits.
She didn’t think Beau Prescott was going to view any of this as fun, though. The money Vivian had spent on making her look splendid was sure to bring his grandson’s censure down upon her head. He’d more or less accused her of being a whore this morning. Milking an old man’s indulgence was bound to come next. She wished she could shrug it off, not care, but it hurt having Vivian’s grandson think badly of her. It hurt all the more because she’d felt so instantly, so strongly attracted to him.
A knock on her bedroom door broke into her misery-laden thoughts. “Yes?” she called despondently.
Mrs. Featherfield came bustling in, brimming with excited anticipation. “He’s home, dear. Sedgewick suggested predinner drinks in the salon at six-thirty. That gives you half an hour to get ready.” She eyed the opened wardrobe with avid interest. “He’s still in his suit so you could wear something really pretty.”
Maggie grimaced. “It’s no use, Mrs. Featherfield. He doesn’t like me.”
“Nonsense! Master Beau was well and truly bowled over this morning. Saw it with my own eyes.”
“Well, he very quickly recovered and bowled me out of any getting together with him,” Maggie said dryly.
“Now that’s not it at all. Sedgewick and I agree that Master Beau liked you so much he got jealous at the thought of you and Mr. Vivian...being close. He wanted you for himself.”
Maggie found herself at a loss as to how to argue with such triumphant satisfaction.
“So don’t you worry, dear,” Mrs. Featherfield rushed on. “Wallace said Master Beau was very quiet on the way into town. Sedgewick feels that setting the record straight about you and Mr. Vivian gave him food for thought and reconsideration.”
All of it bad, Maggie figured, remembering the spark of malice in his eyes as he’d left her.
“Shock can do funny things to people,” Mrs. Featherfield remarked with a wise look. “We all need a period of adjustment. Master Beau will have settled himself down by now and I’m sure he’ll be charming to you this evening. You must give him another chance, dear.”
He was going to make mincemeat of her. Still, if she didn’t put on a show, Mrs. Featherfield, Sedgewick and the others would feel she was letting down the side. Maggie forced a smile. “I’ll do my best.”
The housekeeper beamed happily at this reassurance. As she hurried out of the bedroom she warned, “Six-thirty, mind. Jeffrey’s cooking Beef Wellington for dinner and he’s very particular about the timing.”
No doubt there’d be romantic candles on the table, too, Maggie thought, her heart sinking at the prospect of bearing the cynicism in Beau Prescott’s eyes. She hoped Sedgewick wouldn’t suggest champagne. The foreboding words, I am not my grandfather, were still ringing in her ears.
In a spurt of defiance, Maggie pulled out her red poppy dress. Since Beau Prescott viewed her as a scarlet woman, she would throw it right in his face. She had nothing to be ashamed of in her relationship with Vivian and she’d be damned if she would let his grandson turn it into something it wasn’t. Vivian had adored the boldness of her wearing red with her red hair, declaring it both daring and dazzling. Certainly the poppy dress would do away with any accusation she was not trying hard enough.
Maggie had always thought of it as a flirty little dress. It wasn’t exactly figure-hugging. The silk chiffon with its vibrant pattern of scarlet blooms splashed over a white background, more or less slid and shifted over her curves, falling to a cute short skirt with an underfrill rippling softly around her thighs. At the back, the skirt was looped up at the centre to showcase rows of flouncy underfrills that took on a life of their own when she moved.
Definitely a flirty dress. One could even say it flaunted her femininity. With malice aforethought, Maggie proceeded to complement the dress with appropriate accoutrements; sheer, pale flesh-coloured tights, high-heeled red sandals that strapped up to above her ankles, and long, dangly crystal earrings to reflect colour as they sparkled against her hair.
She sprayed her neck and wrists with Christian Dior’s “Poison” for good measure, then pranced downstairs, all flags flying for the cause, although to her mind, the cause was already dead and beyond revival. Nevertheless, Sedgewick could not fail to be pleased with her appearance and any further debacle between her and Beau Prescott would not be laid at her door.
She swept into the salon, walking to the strong beat of rebellion. Sedgewick was serving her antagonist with a freshly made martini. Beau Prescott, standing in a commanding position in front of the French marble mantelpiece, above which hung a romantic painting of Cupid at play—definitely a perverse comment on what was going on here—took the martini from the silver tray, looked at Maggie who had paused to take in the scene, and gave her the full force of a brilliant smile.
Her heart tripped.
“Good evening, Maggie,” he said pleasantly, lifting his glass a little as though toasting her appearance. “You make me see you would brighten any man’s world, regardless of age or circumstance.”
Unsure whether or not she had just received a compliment, Maggie seized on another implication in his greeting. “Did you have a difficult day?” she asked.
“Mmmh...” His eyebrows slanted musingly, attractively. “...I’d call it a three martini day. Will you join me in one? It may help smooth over my faux pas of this morning.”
An apology? Maggie was dumbfounded. She’d come to do battle and here he was in retreat. A very graceful retreat, too. And he looked so heart-meltingly handsome, a twinkling appeal in his eyes, a smile still playing on his lips, the compelling power of his masculinity given a tantalisingly civilised veneer by a perfectly tailored three-piece suit.
Her mind belatedly dictated a “Yes, I will, thank you,” reply, and a smile to match his. With Sedgewick looking on benevolently, she could hardly do anything else. Besides, she really did want to give Beau Prescott another chance, so long as he was being nice to her.
Maggie was instantly outmanoeuvred from adopting her usual hostess role. Beau Prescott took charge, very much the master of the house as he gave orders to Sedgewick, directed Maggie to sit on the sofa of his choosing and invited her to sample Jeffrey’s hors d’ouevres—his best creations—artistically arranged on an exquisite platter.
The little puff balls filled with creamed egg and topped with sour cream and caviar were irresistible. Besides, Maggie needed something to settle the sudden attack of flutters in her stomach. She was very, very conscious of Beau Prescott as he took the armchair closest to her, facing her across the oval end of the gilt-legged marble table which served both pieces of furniture.
He chose one of the fine pastry boats containing Jeffrey’s special crab mixture. Undoubtedly, Sedgewick had instructed the cook to pull out all stops tonight. After all, it was Master Beau’s homecoming. Maggie hoped it would be interpreted that way by the man who was now viewing her with speculative interest.
“I imagined you very differently, you know,” he confessed with an appealing twist of irony. “I guess, because you were linked in the will with Sedgewick and the others, I automatically put you in the same age bracket. Or thereabouts.”
It was an understandable assumption. “Then I must have come as a shock,” Maggie offered, remembering Mrs. Featherstone had excused his behaviour on that basis. She was prepared to be as generous.
He nodded. “To put it mildly. I’d be grateful if you’d fill me in on a few things that have been teasing me all day.”
“What do you want to know?” Maggie asked warily, willing to meet him halfway if this was a genuine offering of goodwill.
“Well...” He gestured helplessness. “How did you come here? Did my grandfather advertise for a nanny?”
The questions sounded like pure curiosity, nothing judgmental about them. Maggie’s nervous tension eased a little. Such curiosity was fair enough in the circumstances.
“I don’t think the idea had even occurred to him until after he’d met me,” she answered, shaking her head as she remembered back. “I’m sure it was just one of those things that grew on him and he kept adding to it as he went along.” Wanting Beau Prescott to understand she looked at him appealingly. “It was like a game to Vivian.”
“To you, too?”
Maggie felt she was on trickier ground here. She answered cautiously. “He made it fun. But he taught me a lot, too.” The sense of loss welled up in her again. “Your grandfather was a wonderful person and he gave me the best years of my life,” she said in a burst of fierce feeling.
The intent green eyes seemed to probe her emotion, measuring it. Maggie’s nerves tensed up so much she was almost driven to challenge any disbelief he had, but she held her tongue. She couldn’t make him believe her. He either did or he didn’t.
Luckily Sedgewick picked that touchy moment to serve her the martini she’d agreed to have and Maggie gratefully grabbed the glass, hating the searching silence. She gulped some of the strong liquor, barely stopped herself from choking on it, then sought further distraction in selecting one of Jeffrey’s dainty pizza circles with cheese, tomato and olives baked into it.
“I know what you mean,” Beau Prescott said quietly, startling her into looking at him again. His expression was soft, fondly reminiscent. “He had such a zest for life it was infectious. He opened windows to the world for me.”
“Yes. Oh, yes! That was just how it was.” The words tripped out, surprised delight lifting her heart.
His head tilted inquiringly. “How did the two of you meet?”
She relaxed into a smile. “It was the most amazing encounter. I was out of work at the time and just scraping a living by peddling single roses. I bought them at the markets, and prettied them up with foil paper and ribbons. I did the rounds of fancy restaurants in the evening and a lot of guys would buy one for the woman they were dining with. A romantic gesture, you know?”
He grinned. “How much did you charge?”
She grinned back, pleased he didn’t disapprove of her enterprise. “Five dollars. I figured for an elevation of mood, it was worth at least as much as a glass of wine.”
“Perfectly reasonable,” he agreed encouragingly. “I guess my grandfather couldn’t resist buying one from you.”
“Well, not exactly. He was with a large party of people at one of the restaurants I visited. Parties like that didn’t usually buy so I was concentrating on the smaller tables. Twosomes were always more promising. Your grandfather must have been watching me because he caught my eye and beckoned me to his table. To my astonishment he insisted on buying the lot, every rose in my basket. He said a pretty girl should be partying on a Saturday night and I should sit down and join his party if I had nowhere better to go.”
Beau Prescott laughed, his good humour wafting over Maggie like a seductive caress. “That sounds so typical,” he said, his green eyes dancing at her, enticing her into telling him anything he wanted to know. “Whom did he have with him?”
“It was a group of artists who’d won awards.”
“Anyone well-known?”
“I don’t really know. I never met them again.”
A slight frown.
“You could ask Sir Roland,” Maggie suggested helpfully. “He was there. I guess it was an Arts Council thing.”
“Ah!” The frown smoothed away. He smiled. “How many roses did you have left?”
“Twenty. For me it was a great sale. And then being offered free food, too...I was only too happy to sit down and join them. I ended up having a marvellous time.”
“My grandfather had a great talent for parties,” he said fondly.
“He certainly loved being the ringmaster and he did it superbly,” she warmly agreed.
They both sipped their martinis as memories lingered, their mutual affection for a grand old man subtly linking them and pushing their differences away. The silent hum of harmony filled Maggie’s heart with pleasure. This is how it should be, she thought, and imagined Vivian smiling down at them.
Beau leaned over and helped himself to an egg and caviar puff. The movement instantly restirred her awareness of the man; the fabric of his trousers tightening across a width of thigh that looked so hard and strong, Maggie’s breath caught in her throat as her mind flashed to how he might look naked, might feel against her own nakedness. She quickly shifted her gaze to his hand before a betraying blush erupted. It was just as fascinating in its maleness. A sure hand, she thought, capable of anything, and a little quiver of possibilities raced through her, further undermining her composure.
“So how did the nanny idea come up?”
The light, quizzical words shot through her ears and forced her to refocus. Maggie took a quick breath and almost gabbled in her haste to resume a natural flow of conversation.
“Oh, Vivian asked me about my life and I gave him a potted history, making it more colourful than it really was.” She shrugged. “You know how you do with strangers whom you never expect to meet again. It’s easier, more entertaining than laying out the less pleasant bits.”
“You mean you made up stuff?”
“No. What I said was true,” Maggie rushed to assure him. “I did travel with a circus...’ The moment the word was out, Maggie caught her breath, looking to see if there was an adverse reaction. Some people considered a circus unsavoury.
No frown. If anything, an increase in interest. Maggie braved going on.
“I worked as a nanny for the family who owned it. I also worked as a nanny on an outback station. I’ve done tots of other jobs, as. well, but those were the two that evoked the most interest the night I met Vivian.”
He looked bemused. “What was the name of the circus?”
“Zabini’s. It was a relatively small outfit, family owned and run. It toured country towns.”
“I would have thought that kind of thing was out of date now,” he remarked.
She nodded in quick agreement. “It was having trouble pulling in crowds when I was with it and that was over ten years ago. The problem was, the family didn’t know any other way of life. I was only with them for one tour. They didn’t need me after they went into recess so I don’t know what happened to them.”
“And that’s when you headed into the outback?”
“Yes.” She smiled ruefully. “It seemed like another adventure. I had experience as a nanny and there was plenty of employment available in that area.”
“Where did you end up?”
His obvious desire to know and the lack of any critical air released Maggie from caution. She happily painted the picture for him.
“On a big cattle station in the Northern Territory. A place called Wilgilag. Which means ‘red’ in the Aboriginal language. And it sure was. Red earth as far as the eye could see. Endless red. The cattle roamed over hundreds of square kilometres in search of feed. It was like another world. A different life.”
She caught herself back from rattling on too much and waved a dismissive hand, consigning Wilgilag to the past. “It was all a long time ago. Lots of water under the bridge since then, but that was the background of the nanny business.”
He smiled, obviously content with her explanation and amused by the situation. “I see how you could make it sound very colourful and my grandfather would have enjoyed it immensely. Did he latch on to you straight away for the nanny job?”
“No. I was really surprised when the party broke up and he gave me his card, saying if I wanted a steady job, to come and see him the next day.”
“He didn’t specify the job?”
She shook her head. “It made me wonder. But he’d been so charming. I’d liked him. And curiosity got the better of me. I couldn’t see any harm in finding out what kind of job. I mean, I wasn’t exactly doing anything wonderful, just making do until something interesting turned up.”
“Then Rosecliff must have come as another surprise to you.”
His eyes were twinkling, teasing, and his ready acceptance of everything she said was so exhilarating, Maggie didn’t feel she had to watch her tongue or manner with him anymore. Her natural exuberance came bursting forth, eyes sparkling, hands flying, words bubbling.
“Was it ever! I couldn’t believe anyone actually lived here at first. I thought I must have somehow got it wrong. Even after Sedgewick admitted me to the house—a real live butler, for heaven’s sake!—and ushered me into Vivian’s presence, it felt as though I’d stepped through the looking glass like Alice, and sooner or later something would snap me back to reality.”
He smiled.
Maggie happily beamed a smile right back at him, not noticing anything amiss in his. The circus hadn’t owned a tiger. She had never seen a live one. She had no point of comparison.
“What did you think of the nanny proposition?’ he prompted, still smiling.
She rolled her eyes. “Wild! But just the thought of living here was wild. It was all so impossibly wild I couldn’t resist giving it a try. After all, I could always walk away if I didn’t like it. But it just escalated into something more and more wonderful.”
He looked quizzically at her. “You didn’t ever feel the lack of...well...younger company?”
She might have, if Beau Prescott had come home before this. He was very acutely reminding her she was a young woman with a whole stack of unfulfilled needs, clamouring to be met. There seemed to be a simmering invitation in his eyes. It kicked her pulse into such rapid action it was difficult to concentrate on giving him an answer to his question. She blurted out the truth.
“I was too busy to think of it.”
“For two years?” he queried, his gaze wandering over her with a sizzling male appreciation that said more clearly than words she had been wasted in a limbo of nonsexuality.
Maggie’s skin started prickling. She gulped some more of her martini and shoved a crab boat into her mouth, desperate to stop the rise of heat. She crossed her legs, inadvertently drawing Beau Prescott’s attention to them, and wished she could uncross them again as she inwardly squirmed under his gaze. Afraid more leg action could only be seen as provocative, Maggie plunged into speech.
“I’d been in the company of heaps of young men before I came here. None of them were capable of giving me what Vivian did.”
His gaze flicked up and there wasn’t the slightest haze of warmth in his eyes. Two green shards of ice sliced into her, cold and deadly. “I don’t suppose any of them were millionaires.”
The comfort zone created by his earlier geniality was comprehensively shattered. Maggie felt a chill deep in her bones. He’d been putting on an act, drawing her out to get something bad on her.
“Apart from my salary, I never took any money from Vivian, Mr. Prescott,” she stated, a bitter defiance edging her voice.
He let her denial hang for several moments before drawling, “I wasn’t suggesting you did. But a lot of money was spent on you, Maggie. Your clothes...”
Her chin went up. “Yes and tickets to the opera, the theatre, concerts, balls...you name it, Mr. Prescott, and I certainly was given a free ride to all of them. No question. I’m guilty of going along with everything Vivian wanted. And I’m guilty of loving it, too. I’m sorry it sticks in your craw so much. Maybe you’d like to ask Sedgewick for another martini. Make it four for the day.”
She set her own glass on the table and stood up, bristling with angry disillusionment. “Shall I ring for him to come?”
He waved a dismissive hand and tried an appeasing smile. “I was merely remarking on the obvious. Why take offence?”
“You could have tried looking beyond the obvious, Mr. Prescott.”
The pretence of a smile twisted into a grimace. “You call my grandfather by his first name. Why not use mine?”
“Because I don’t assume familiarities. I never have. In my experience it’s asking to be slapped down if you do,” she answered tersely.
“Oh, come on! Not in Australia,” he protested. “It’s the most egalitarian society in the world.”
“That depends on where you’re coming from,” she mocked. “You’ve never lived an underprivileged life, have you? Never had to learn to be subservient. You have no idea what it’s like to live that kind of life.”
He frowned, unable to deny the charge.
Sick at heart, Maggie turned away from him and walked around the table, moving to stand where he had stood earlier, in front of the fireplace. She felt too agitated to sit down again. She glanced up at the painting of Cupid frolicking in a garden and a rueful smile curled her lips. The arrows being shot here tonight weren’t dipped in a love potion. More like poison.
When she swung around, Beau Prescott was keenly observing her, a perplexed V drawing his eyebrows together.
“I’ll tell you what Vivian gave me,” she shot at him. “Acceptance, approval, liking, respect. He took me in and made me one of his family. He transformed me into something more than I was and showed me what was possible. He educated me in so many ways—books, music, art—opening my mind to things I’d never known and would never have learnt without his guidance and tuition.”
She paused, showing her contempt for his shallow judgment of the situation. “I don’t know why your grandfather did it. Perhaps he was lonely. Perhaps he enjoyed playing Henry Higgins, turning me into ‘His Fair Lady.’ Perhaps he liked having an eager pupil. And I was certainly that. I was hungry for all he gave me and I did my best to live up to all he wanted for me.”
Her sense of rightness urged her to add, “I’m not ashamed of that, Mr. Prescott. I’m proud of it because I did Vivian proud. I loved your grandfather. I really did. And whether you like it or not, that’s the truth.”
He said nothing, retaining an intense air of listening as though waiting to hear more. She held his gaze in fierce challenge. The silence lengthened. The tension between them thickened.
Sedgewick stepped into the room and cleared his throat. “Dinner is ready, sir.”
It was so pedantic, such a ridiculous anticlimax, Maggie broke into a peal of laughter. “I do assure you, Mr. Prescott, our cook’s Beef Wellington will be much tastier than sinking your teeth into me. Best that we answer his call immediately.”
She set off for the dining room, not waiting for any response, savagely berating herself for being a gullible fool. Never again, she vowed. Beau Prescott might be capable of charming birds off trees, but this bird was going to keep her wings tightly folded against him.
