Читать книгу The Tycoon's Baby - Leigh Michaels, Leigh Michaels - Страница 8

CHAPTER THREE

EVEN BEFORE SHE’D crossed the sea of oriental carpet to where Camilla Copeland was sitting by the fireplace, Janey had already admitted to herself that telling Webb off almost under his grandmother’s nose probably hadn’t been the smartest thing she’d ever done.

But it had certainly felt good.

She took the chair Camilla indicated and held out her hands to the crackling fire. “Wood fires are so beautiful,” she said, “and so welcome on a gray day like this.”

“Then you aren’t a fan of gas logs? I’ve never liked them.” Camilla smiled. “But then I’m not the one who has to carry the wood inside or the ashes out, so perhaps I have a biased view of the subject.” She looked up. “Webb, why don’t you get Janey a sherry? Or something else—I’m sure you know better than I what she’d like.”

With her back turned to the room, Janey hadn’t heard Webb approach, and when she caught sight of him, she thought he looked as if he could quite cheerfully drop cyanide in whatever beverage she chose. She shook her head. “Thanks, but I’m not much of a sherry drinker. Or anything else, really. Working around the machines has made me much more careful.”

Camilla nodded toward Janey’s left hand. “You’re being cautious with that ring as well, I hope.” She picked up a mass of rose-colored yarn from a basket beside her chair and placidly began to knit.

Janey looked down at the brilliant diamond. Last night under the factory lights it had looked almost garish. Today, as the stone reflected the flickering flames, it seemed quieter, classic—and mysterious. “Of course I wouldn’t put something this valuable at risk.”

Camilla shook her head. “No, that’s not what I meant. Years ago my father-in-law nearly lost a finger when one of the machines caught his lodge ring. Smashed it almost flat. The ring, I mean—though the finger was pretty well crushed, too.”

Webb poured a tiny glass of golden liquid for Camilla from the drinks tray, and set it on the table by her elbow. “Gran would be much more sympathetic if it had been his wedding band instead of a symbol of his mens’ club.” His voice was dry.

Was he going to pretend the whole exchange in the hallway had never happened? Eager to seize her cue, Janey looked up at him with a quick smile. But he obviously hadn’t intended the remark to be humorous, for his eyes were still chilly. He leaned against the mantel with his arms folded across his chest. He was looking at her, Janey thought, as if she’d suddenly turned into a malaria-carrying mosquito and he was figuring out how to swat her. She began to wish she’d accepted a drink anyway, just so she’d have the glass to keep her hands busy.

Camilla daintily sipped her sherry and returned to her knitting. “I’m so glad you like the house, Janey. How thoroughly unpleasant it would be to live somewhere you didn’t care for—and I’m afraid Webb would never give this place up.”

For an instant, Janey’s breath caught. But perhaps she was being too sensitive? Camilla’s first sight of her had been as Janey stared around the hall; the woman would have to be dense as a tree trunk not to have realized at a glance that Janey had been thoroughly impressed. It didn’t mean she’d overheard any of that squabble in the foyer.

Reassured, Janey found herself wondering how the dream girl Webb thought he’d hired would respond to that comment. “It’s just the right size to hold all my relatives—at least the ones who’ll be living with us”?

“It’s awe-inspiring,” she said finally. “Almost like a museum.”

“I remember that feeling when I came here as a bride.”

Was there the slightest trace of acid in Camilla’s voice?

Camilla looked up from her knitting, her eyes bright and inquisitive. “It sounded just now as if you’ve made a special study of Henry Bellows, Janey. He’s dear to our hearts, of course, but compared to the more famous architects who worked in the Chicago area he’s almost an unknown.”

Janey’s throat closed up till she was absolutely sure she’d never be able to draw a breath again. She had underestimated the acoustics of the hallway; it might not echo, but it obviously made even a whisper carry—for it was apparent Camilla Copeland had overheard a good part of that low-voiced exchange.

The only comfort Janey could find was Webb’s stunned look; he was obviously as startled as she was.

Terrific, she thought. Now he was furious and surprised. She’d really done it up big.

Camilla went on, calmly, “Architecture is one of Webb’s favorite subjects, I know—I think the interest has been handed down in the genes ever since his great-grandfather commissioned this house. Was it the love of buildings which brought you together? And how, I wonder, did that subject happen to come up on the assembly line?”

Janey reflected, almost calmly, that hers was likely to be the shortest engagement in the history of western civilization. She waited for Webb to say something that would squash her as completely as his great-grandfather’s ring.

But he was silent, apparently unwilling to step in—either to rescue her or put her out of her misery. And it was far too late for Janey to play dumb on the subject, for she didn’t dare take the chance of underestimating precisely how much Camilla had heard.

“My faculty adviser in the college of architecture is a Bellows fan,” she admitted. “He’s always using examples of his work—just a few months ago when we were studying acoustical engineering he got almost poetic about your foyer.”

Webb looked as if he were strangling.

“Of course, when I first heard about this house, I never expected to see the interior.”

“Webb must give you the complete tour after lunch,” Camilla said.

Webb pushed himself away from the fireplace. “Oh, why don’t we begin right now? Mrs. Wilson must be getting anxious to start her afternoon off, anyway, so let’s go get Madeline—shall we, Janey?”

It was less a question than a growled order. Janey cast an apologetic smile at Camilla. “I’ve been so anxious to see her nursery,” she offered. Webb’s hand closed on her arm and she had to hurry her step to keep pace with him.

He’d learned his lesson about holding private conversations in the hallway, Janey deduced. Instead he practically dragged her up the stairs and into an alcove in the upper hall, where he released her, planted his hands on his hips and glared at her.

“I had no idea she could hear me,” Janey said.

“Great excuse that is!”

“Well, you didn’t, either,” she said reasonably. “That was obvious.”

“What the hell happened? You took one look at the house, fell in love with it and decided to go for broke? Or did you already have this planned before you even got here?”

“Go for broke?” Janey frowned. “You mean try to marry you for real, in order to get this house? Not a chance. Not even a Henry Bellows masterpiece would be worth putting up with you.”

“You lied to me.”

Janey faced him squarely. “I did not. You never asked about my background—you simply assumed because of my job that I’d climbed out of the primordial ooze just last week. ‘Janey doesn’t own a dress. You should have seen her trying to learn to walk in heels!’” Her voice was bitter. “What were you planning to say next, I wonder? ‘Of course I’ll have to teach her to read and write’?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Maybe not the words, but it’s exactly what you meant.”

He looked a little ashamed of himself. “All right,” he admitted. “It’s what I wanted Gran to think, and maybe I went a little overboard. But what happened to playing your part?”

“I don’t have to have hayseeds sprouting in my hair to get the message across that we’re all wrong for each other. So what if I’m not quite the poster girl for ignorance and poverty? She’s still going to hate me, Webb.”

He looked as if he’d really like to believe her but didn’t quite dare.

Janey caught a glimpse of movement in one of the long hallways that stretched away from the staircase seemingly into infinity. She turned her head just as a woman who was wearing a heavy coat and carrying a dark-haired child in a red velvet dress came into sight.

Webb looked over Janey’s shoulder and said pleasantly, “Mrs. Wilson. I was just coming to get Maddy.”

“And about time,” the woman said flatly. “Or had you forgotten I’m supposed to have an afternoon out, not just a couple of hours?”

“I’m sorry. We were a little distracted downstairs.”

Janey couldn’t believe her ears. Webb Copeland was actually apologizing?

He took the child from the nurse’s arms. Maddy snuggled close, and Mrs. Wilson pulled a pair of gloves from her pockets and briskly put them on. Her gaze slid over Janey, summarized and dismissed her. “Since I’m not leaving on time, I will of course be later getting back as well.”