Читать книгу In Bed With...Collection - Emma Darcy, Emma Darcy - Страница 44

CHAPTER THREE

THE huge black wrought-iron gates that guarded the entrance to Rosecliff were wide open. Wallace slowly turned the Rolls-Royce into the white-gravelled driveway, giving Beau plenty of time to get an eyeful of his home and its surrounds. As always, everything looked meticulously cared for; the lawns manicured, the rose gardens in healthy bloom, the two wings of the massive H-shaped mansion reaching out to welcome him.

It was nine o’clock and from the row of cars in the parking area for the daily staff, Beau realised nothing had been changed since his grandfather’s death. The life here was flowing on as usual, waiting for him to come and make decisions. It made him doubly conscious of the responsibilities he had inherited.

Many people were employed on this estate, not only those who most concerned him. He suddenly saw the wisdom of the one-year clause in his grandfather’s will. It would probably take that long to sort out what should be done with the place. Beau couldn’t see himself adopting the lavish lifestyle enjoyed by his grandfather, yet it would be a shame to see Rosecliff become less than it was under some other ownership.

Wallace drove around to the east wing which housed the entrance vestibule. He stopped the car directly in front of the great double doors, distinguished from all the other doors by a frame of elaborate wrought-iron grillwork. They were being opened, with meticulous timing, by Sedgewick.

Sure the insidious Nanny Stowe would be standing right behind the butler, Beau didn’t wait for Wallace to do his ceremonial chauffeur stuff. He let himself out of the Rolls and strode straight for the meeting which had become paramount in his mind.

To his somewhat bewildered frustration, it didn’t happen.

She wasn’t there.

Sedgewick, as imposing as ever, his big dark eyes somehow managing to look both doleful and delighted, took his hand in both of his in a fulsome greeting. “Welcome home, sir. Welcome home.”

“Sorry not to have been here before, Sedgewick,” Beau said with feeling, knowing how devastating it must have been for the old butler to lose the master he’d loved and been so proud of serving.

Then Mrs. Featherfield, dabbing the comers of her eyes with her trademark lace handkerchief, her well-cushioned bosom heaving in a rush of emotion. “Thank heaven you’re here at last, Master Beau. It’s a sad, sad time, but it lifts our hearts to see you home again.”

“Dear Feathers...” His boyhood name for her slipped out as he gave her a comforting hug. “I truly believed my grandfather would live to a hundred. I wouldn’t have been gone so long if...”

“I know, dear.” She patted him on the back and eased out of his embrace to address him earnestly. “But you mustn’t fret. As Mr. Vivian would say, yesterday’s gone, and we have to make the most of today because tomorrow’s just around the comer and time does slip by on us.”

He had to smile. “I remember.”

“And I’m sure Nanny Stowe will fill you in on...”

“Ah, yes! Nanny Stowe.” Beau pounced. “Wallace has been telling me about our new addition to the household. Where is she?”

Sedgewick cleared his throat. “A lady of deep sensitivity, Master Beau. Since Mrs. Featherfield and I have considerable longevity of service, Nanny Stowe wanted to give us a few minutes alone with you. However...” He gestured towards the stairhall. “...I expect she will be coming down any moment now.”

“Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Featherfield got all fluttery, urging Beau forward, leading the way under the lofty Palladian arch to where the staircase rose in elegant curves to the second-floor hall. “Nanny Stowe is so looking forward to meeting you.”

No more than he was, Beau thought darkly.

As he stepped into the majestic stairhall, his gaze automatically travelled up the flight of broad steps that gradually narrowed to the first landing. A woman stood poised there, framed by the tall, arched balcony window, the light beaming in behind her seeming to set her hair aflame; glorious red-gold hair that sprang alive from her face, fanning out like a fiery halo with long glittering streamers which rippled down past her shoulders.

Beau was so stunned by this vision, it took him several moments to recollect himself enough to register more than the fabulous hair. She had skin so white it looked translucent, like the most delicate porcelain. Her face was strikingly beautiful, every feature finely balanced to please. Her neck looked almost unnaturally long, yet it, too, seemed utterly right, purposefully proportioned to hold such a face, as well as being the perfect foil for the glorious wealth of her hair.

She moved, jolting his gaze down to her feet to check he wasn’t imagining what he was seeing; feet encased in black shiny shoes with a gold chain across each instep; delicately shaped ankles leading to legs in sheer black stockings; legs that went on forever, mesmerising in their long, sleek femininity.

Beau knew there were sixteen stairs from the landing to the floor and she’d come down half of them before his eyes reached the short skirt of her black dress. A gold chain curved from hipbone to hipbone, dangling over her stomach, just above the apex of her thighs.

The air Beau was breathing started to fizz. Or maybe he wasn’t breathing at all and suffering from lack of oxygen. His chest felt seized up and his heart was drumming like a bongo on carnival night.

He dragged his gaze up past an impossibly small waist. A wild phrase leapt into his dazed brain...breasts like pomegranites...lush and ripe and delectable. Then he knew he was getting light-headed because his blood was all rushing down to his groin and very shortly he was going to be in big trouble.

Get back to the pure loveliness of her face, some shred of sanity shrieked. As his thigh muscles tightened to contain the hot prickling of desire, he watched the fascinating rise of a flush creep up the pearly white skin of her throat and its subsequent spread to her exotically slanted cheekbones. Then he was looking into her eyes, eyes as blue as the waters of the Caribbean, dazzling in their blueness.

“Nanny Stowe, sir,” Sedgewick announced, as though he were presenting the queen.

Not even the identification jolted Beau out of his enthralment. She was stepping towards him, no longer on the staircase, and he realised she was almost as tall as he was. If he reached out and pulled her against him their bodies would be right for each other, fitting together without any manoeuvring. The thought sent another shot of excitement down to the area Beau was struggling to control.

“Please accept my deepest sympathy, Mr. Prescott.”

Her soft, sexy voice caressed his spine into a sensual shiver.

“Your grandfather’s death was a grievous shock to all of us. I’m sure it was very much so to you.”

He belatedly noticed her hand extended to him. He grasped it, seeing its slim whiteness disappear, enfolded by his own darkly tanned hand, her fingers fluttering slightly against the strength of his. He wrenched his gaze up to hers again, fighting the fascination of the seemingly fragile extension of her femininity within his grip.

He had to think, had to speak. This woman, unbelievably, was Nanny Stowe. Sedgewick had said so. Therefore she had to be, however incredible it was.

“Wallace told me how well you arranged the funeral,” Beau heard himself say in a reasonably normal voice. “I could not have done better for my grandfather. Thank you.”

She nodded towards Sedgewick and Mrs. Featherfield. “Everyone helped.”

“Yes.” Beau forced himself to acknowledge them. “It was a grand effort and I appreciate it. Very much.”

They nodded, gratified.

Nanny Stowe spoke on, her sympathy subtly shifting to eloquent appeal. “I hope you don’t think it...well, unseemly...but I felt you might like to share the paying of last respects to your grandfather, so I arranged for the funeral service to be videotaped. The cassette is in the library, should you want to play it through sometime.”

“It was a kind thought. Thank you again.”

Beau was happily drowning in the glorious blue of her eyes, sucked right in by their seductive softness and going down for the third time. He was barely conscious of the replies he made, words dribbling out of his mouth when called for. When she fell silent he didn’t really notice. Her eyes were locked on to his and he could have stood there, getting in deeper and deeper but for Sedgewick interrupting.

“We have refreshments waiting for you in the informal dining room, sir.”

Her hand twitched in his, making Beau realise he was still hanging on to it. Reluctantly he let it go. Her skin was like warm silk as it slid away from his. “Yes. I could do with some coffee, Sedgewick,” he answered, obviously needing something to snap him out of this entrancement. Perhaps jet lag had caught up with him. Even moving from where he was didn’t occur to him.

Sedgewick orchestrated action. “Nanny Stowe, if you’d like to lead the way...”

She took a deep breath as though she, too, was feeling a lack of oxygen. “Perhaps you’d like to freshen up first, Mr. Prescott.”

Did he look as though he’d been run over by a truck? He smiled to dispel any questions about his mental and physical state, preferring to be the only one knowing how shaken he was. “No, I’m fine. Please lead on.”

He was happy to stay behind her, watching her walk. Her fabulous hair reached almost to her waist, its gleaming ripples shifting with each step she took. It was so alive, Beau fancied there was an electric current running through it, throwing off showers of sparks that were infiltrating him. Something had to account for the weird pins and needles attacking every part of his body.

Though the jaunty roll of her very cute bottom below her impossibly tiny waist might be causing the itchy feeling in his hands. He kept them rigidly at his sides to stop them from reaching out. This woman would have to be the most stunningly gorgeous, sexiest creature he’d ever seen in his life.

And she was Nanny Stowe?

A sharply unsettling question darted through the fog in Beau’s brain.

What had his grandfather been doing with her?

Two years she’d been under this roof and his grandfather, according to Wallace, had definitely not fallen into his second childhood. The more Beau thought about the situation, and all he’d heard and seen so far, it became disturbingly clear that Wallace, Sedgewick and Mrs. Featherfield viewed Nanny Stowe as mistress of the house.

And she was playing hostess to him right now!

The bottom suddenly fell out of the excitement she’d stirred in him. Beau went cold all over. It made horribly perfect sense. His grandfather had always enjoyed having a pretty woman on his arm. On both arms. But having found this one, why bother with any other? She had star quality on a megascale and his grandfather would have adored parading her everywhere. And probably adored her, as well! He’d loved owning beautiful things.

Beau’s stomach started contracting, working up a nauseous feeling. Refreshments were certainly in order. He obviously needed food as well as coffee.

When they reached the informal dining room, his suspicion was further confirmed by the way she moved automatically to the foot of the table and Sedgewick held her chair for her. Clearly it was her place and taken for granted, even though his grandfather was no longer here.

Then Mr. Polly arrived on the scene, carrying a basket of freshly cut, dark red roses. His weather-beaten face was cracked into a benevolent smile. “I’m so sorry I missed you at the front doors, sir. Good to have you home.”

Beau shook the offered hand. “Thank you, Mr. Polly. The gardens look as superb as ever.”

“I keep at it, sir. I brought this basket up. Thought Nanny Stowe might like to put these roses in your room, sir.” He turned to her. “They’re the best of the Mr. Lincolns, Nanny Stowe. Lovely fragrance.”

She blushed.

Beau was once again distracted by the fascinating flow of colour lighting up her pale skin.

Mrs. Featherfield swooped. “I’ll take the basket, Mr. Polly. Let’s go out to the kitchen and put the roses in water. Nanny Stowe will see to them later. She’s having coffee with Master Beau right now.”

Yes...they all considered Nanny Stowe a cut above themselves, Beau thought, watching Mr. Polly being swept away. Arranging roses in a vase for a guest’s room was the kind of genteel occupation suited to the mistress of the house. Except he wasn’t a guest. Which probably accounted for her embarrassment. She knew, even if the others didn’t yet appreciate it, his arrival changed the status quo.

Sedgewick proceeded to serve them with coffee and a selection of freshly baked croissants. “If you’d like something more substantial, sir, Jeffrey, the cook, is standing by.”

“No, I did have breakfast on the plane, Sedgewick. This is more than enough, thank you.”

Sedgewick stationed himself by the sideboard, ready to be attentive to every need. Nanny Stowe composed herself again, adopting a waiting attitude. Beau ate a crisp croissant and drank some coffee to wash down the flaky crumbs. It didn’t really help his churning stomach but it gave him time to think.

“Did my grandfather call you Nanny Stowe?” he asked.

A wry little smile played on eminently kissable red lips. “It amused Vivian to give me that title, Mr. Prescott.”

The familiarity of Vivian hit him in the gut. “So it was a pet name,” he suggested.

She frowned. “Not exactly. It did have a sort of purpose. My job was to be with him, accompanying him wherever he wanted to go and generally looking after him. But he didn’t call me Nanny himself. I was always Maggie to Vivian.”

“Maggie...” he repeated, knowing it plucked at a chord of memory.

“Yes. My Christian name is Margaret, you see.”

Maggie, the cat. That was it! Maggie from one of his grandfather’s favourite movies, Cat On A Hot Tin Roof. Elizabeth Taylor had played the role. She was married to a guy whose wealthy old father was dying and to clinch her husband’s inheritance she had pretended to be pregnant.

Pregnant!

Beau’s mind suddenly billowed in horror at the next thought that filled it. He’d more or less challenged his grandfather to beget his own heir for Rosecliff. While his grandfather hadn’t actually married Maggie Stowe, she’d lived very cosily with him for two years and she’d been given a year’s grace here after his death...which could mean his grandfather had still been hoping for a result.

“More coffee, Nanny Stowe?” Sedgewick asked, holding out the coffeepot.

She shook her head. Was she being careful of her caffeine intake?

“More coffee, sir?”

He waved it away. His heart was beating so fast he didn’t need any artificial stimulant. And thinking of hearts reminded him his grandfather had died of a heart attack...before anyone expected him to!

Doing what?

Trying to father a child?

Beau looked down the table at the blue-eyed red-haired siren who had power enough to entrance a man into attempting any reckless stupidity.

He had to know.

He had to ask.

He tried to find a way of couching the question less shockingly. Somehow the sense of urgency mashed his brain. Nothing came but the bald need to get the issue resolved. Immediately! The words shot out of his mouth...

“Are you pregnant, Maggie?”