Читать книгу Conflict Of Hearts - Liz Fielding - Страница 9

CHAPTER TWO

JAMES FRENCH turned as his daughter approached. ‘Lizzie, there you are. Are you leaving now?’ he said, a little awkwardly.

She wanted to fling her arms about his neck and hug him—longed to be able to tell him how happy she was for him, but the lie would stick in her throat. Lord, how she wished that she hadn’t overheard that conversation.

‘Noah has explained about the honeymoon having to be cancelled,’ she said stiffly, turning quickly as she saw the painful reproach in his eyes. ‘If you’d told me sooner, Olivia, I could have arranged...’ She lifted her shoulders in a tiny shrug. ‘But there’s plenty of food in the freezer. You won’t starve.’

‘Olivia has arranged a hamper...’ James French took hold of his new wife’s hand and squeezed it reassuringly. ‘She’s been quite amazing.’

‘Amazing,’ Lizzie agreed dully. She had helped, encouraged, supported her father for the better part of five difficult years, until the long black tunnel of depression he had been living in had begun to open out and he had been able to begin to work again, to live again. But Olivia had picked up the telephone and ordered a hamper from Fortnum’s and she was ‘amazing’. Well, Olivia would soon discover that life at Dove Court was not the bed of roses that she had obviously imagined.

The object of her speculation was talking quietly to Noah. ‘I know it’s a lot to ask.’

‘It’s no trouble. Just forget about everything but yourself and James.’ Noah caught Lizzie’s blue eyes regarding him sceptically and he straightened. ‘Shall we go?’ he said abruptly.

‘If you’re quite ready,’ she murmured, and reluctantly submitted to the hollow ritual of cheek-kissing.

‘Lizzie...’ Olivia hesitated for just a moment under her expressionless eyes, then shook her head. ‘Nothing. Just...enjoy yourself,’ she urged. ‘You haven’t had much fun...’

‘Fun’. The word rang tauntingly in her ears as they made their way back to the house.

‘Noah...’ Olivia had followed them, and her summons made him pause and turn.

‘Get in the car, Elizabeth. I’ll be with you in a minute.’

She made her way towards the vintage drophead Bentley, gleaming silver, its top down in the glorious summer sunshine. Her pink dress lay on the back seat along with Noah’s top hat. He was welcome to it.

She kept walking until she was in the cooler shade of the garage. Her car was at the far end and she climbed in, fitted the key and turned it. The engine obediently whirred, but did not catch. She tried again. Shock was beginning to overtake her. She was trembling, and her fingers slipped on the key as she tried for the third time to start the car.

The door beside her opened and she leaned back in the driving seat, admitting defeat. ‘What have you done?’ she asked.

‘Anticipated your every move.’ Noah leaned against the roof of her Metro and held out a small metal object for her inspection. ‘It’s called a rotor arm. I’m afraid you car won’t start without it.’

She stared uncomprehendingly for a moment. ‘How did you know?’

‘You lied about the luggage. Since you were planning to leave, this was the obvious place to look. I’ve already moved it to my car.’ He stood back, his face expressionless. ‘Shall we go?’

‘I’m not going anywhere with you,’ she protested. ‘I’m going to stay with a friend in Islington for a few days until I sort myself out. And I’m perfectly capable of driving myself.’

‘Nonsense,’ he snapped. ‘You’re in no condition to drive anywhere.’

‘I’m just fine.’

‘Really?’ He grasped her wrist and held her hand in front of her eyes. ‘You’re shaking, Elizabeth. And how many glasses of champagne did you drink?’

‘I wasn’t counting,’ she snapped back.

‘There was no need to. I don’t imagine you were planning to drive yourself down the M40 into London on this Saturday evening. You were going to let Peter Hallam do that.’

Damn the man! Why did he have to be right about everything? She took a deep breath. ‘You can give me a lift,’ she compromised.

‘How generous of you.’ And, with an ironic little twist to his mouth, he straightened and opened the door wide for her. She slipped out of her seat and fled across the yard to his car, not waiting for him to open the door.

‘Ready?’ he asked as he climbed in beside her. She took a last long look at the garden and the people standing about in small knots—friends, relations, people she had known all her life. Then she saw Peter. As if he could feel her eyes upon him, he turned and stared at her. Then Fran followed his glance and she also stared at Lizzie, her brow drawn down in a small frown. Noah had seen it too.

‘Fasten your seatbelt, Elizabeth,’ he said abruptly. She did so, then sank back against the old leather and closed her eyes. ‘And take off your hat, or you’ll lose it. There’s a scarf in the glove box.’

Would she never have a moment of peace to shed a tear for what she had thrown away? Apparently not. When she made no immediate move to obey he leaned across and removed her hat for her, flipping it onto the rear seat to keep his top hat company. Then he opened the glove compartment and thrust a long silk chiffon scarf at her.

‘Here.’ She continued to stare fiercely at her gloves, unwilling to betray her weakness, but he caught her chin and turned her face towards him. She blinked furiously, but too late.

For a moment he stared as the tears welled onto her cheeks, then with an impatient gesture he wiped them from her face with the pads of his thumbs. And he wrapped the scarf around her hair in a movement so practised that she was certain he had done it a hundred times before, holding her against his chest as he tied it at the nape of her neck. ‘Just how old are you, Elizabeth?’ he asked.

‘Twenty-one.’ Her voice was muffled against the lapel of his morning coat, her ear only hearing the steady thump of his heart.

‘As old as that?’ The doubt in his voice touched off a dangerous spark of anger, driving her away from the deceptive comfort of his broad shoulder. She fought down an intense desire to slap the man, but only because she knew without a shadow of a doubt that he would slap her back. ‘Far too old to be mooning over a calf-love. Did you actually believe him when he said he would marry you?’ She stared at him. ‘Surely your mother told you that a young man in the grip of his libido will promise anything to get his way?’

Dark colour seared her cheek-bones. ‘Doubtless you speak from experience.’

‘No, Elizabeth. I’m old enough to take care not to make promises I have no intention of keeping.’

‘I can imagine. Although your status as a confirmed bachelor is so public I can’t imagine that expectations on that score can be very high.’

‘I have never failed to make my position clear.’

‘That’s all right, then.’

‘It saves complications.’

‘What about love? Doesn’t that complicate things?’ she demanded.

‘Love?’ He turned away, switched on the ignition, pressed the starter and the car purred into life. ‘I learned a long time ago to distrust the word. Much safer to treat the whole idea as a spectator sport—on a par with bungee-jumping or free-fall parachuting.’

‘Didn’t I read somewhere that you once were a member of the Dangerous Sports Club?’

‘Did you?’ He shrugged. ‘I didn’t say I never participated, Elizabeth, only that I knew the risks involved.’ His lips tightened in a horrible parody of his smile as she drew in a sharp breath. ‘Have I shocked you? Well, you’re very young. Still naive enough to believe in such rubbish. You’ll learn.’

‘Just how old do you have to be before you get that cynical?’ she asked.

‘Not very old,’ he said, with feeling, and she thought for the most fleeting moment that she had managed to dent his insufferable arrogance. But then the blade-edged smile was firmly back in place. ‘I’m not quite in my dotage, but by your own demanding standards, Elizabeth, I’m far too old for you,’ he replied very firmly. ‘I can assure you that whatever you may hear to the contrary you will be perfectly safe under my roof. I wouldn’t touch you with a bargepole.’

‘You...’ She barely managed to stop herself from telling him in the most graphic terms what he could do with his bargepole. ‘You kissed me,’ she pointed out, and achieved a certain sharp satisfaction in contradicting him.

‘And I shall do so again if the situation requires it,’ he replied, unmoved. ‘But we’ll both know that it doesn’t mean a thing.’

The slow burn of anger helped, she found. While she kept her mind simmering on the obnoxious Noah Jordan she could almost forget about Peter.

‘You kiss very... thoroughly...’ she said, deliberately provoking him. ‘I’m sure I shall learn a lot.’

‘And you kiss like a virgin.’

She pressed her tongue hard against her teeth to stop herself from screaming at him that there was a very good reason for that.

‘Kissed once when I wasn’t looking,’ she misquoted a little shakily, ‘and never kissed again, even though I was looking all the time?’

‘No doubt you’ll improve with practice.’ For a moment she thought that she detected that errant touch of humour in his voice. But his face, when she turned, was stony.

‘Don’t bother to apply for the position of coach. It isn’t vacant.’

‘On the contrary.’ Her blush deepened painfully under his searching glance, but she refused to be intimidated. ‘However, tonight I think we must do our best to convince the new Mrs Hallam that it has already been filled.’ He slowed as they reached the main road, and for a moment concentrated on the traffic. Once they were moving along smoothly again he continued. ‘After that you can do whatever you like.’

‘What would you suggest?’ she prompted. Anything rather than dwell on the thought of Mrs Hallam, she thought.

His eyes lingered on her for a moment, then he turned away. ‘I hardly think I’m the best person to advise you,’ he said abruptly.

‘You’ve been pretty free with your advice until now,’ she declared.

He shrugged. ‘I suggest you do whatever is necessary to take your mind off Peter Hallam. Isn’t there something you’ve always wanted to do, but never had the chance?’

Another reminder that it was time to be moving on? ‘So long as it isn’t bungee-jumping or free-fall parachuting?’ she offered sourly.

‘You’re young enough to survive a few painful landings.’ Heartache wasn’t fatal, then? She thought it was a little early to say. She was still numb with shock. But fighting with Noah Jordan was certainly a very effective diversion. He threw her a fleeting glance. ‘Have you ever lived away from home? Actually worked for a living?’

He made her sound like a parasite. ‘No. But it looks as if I’m about to get my first taste of both. I don’t have much choice, do I? I’ve been given my marching orders.’

‘Marching orders?’ His surprise was very convincing, but she wasn’t fooled.

‘Frankly, Noah, I don’t understand why you’re taking so much interest.’

His mouth thinned. ‘Like you, Elizabeth, I had my arm twisted.’

‘Well, you can consider it untwisted. Just take me to Islington.’ He didn’t bother to reply, and for a while they travelled in silence. Then Lizzie glanced at the man beside her. ‘Was I really so transparent? Back there?’ she was finally driven to ask.

He threw her a cursory look. ‘As the Crystal Palace with all the lights on.’ She paled. ‘I assumed you wanted an honest answer.’

‘There’s honest,’ she replied stiffly, ‘and there’s brutal.’ She stared straight ahead. ‘I’ll never be able to look that girl in the face again.’

‘You’re going to have to. I invited them to join us tonight.’

‘They won’t miss me.’

‘On the contrary, your absence would be impossible to attribute to anything other than...pique.’

‘Pique?’

‘Jealousy is such a nasty word.’

Lizzie frowned. Jealous? She had always imagined jealousy to be a sour, hateful emotion. This hollow, empty feeling had none of that. But there was no time to consider the matter as Noah claimed her attention.

‘You will be charming to Francesca, you will behave towards Peter like the doting little sister he has doubtless portrayed you as to his wife, and you will treat me...’ He said nothing for a moment, but as they slowed and came to a halt for the motorway roundabout he raised heavy lids to run an assessing glance over her. It was unnerving.

Something in that look—the slightest darkening of a pair of steely eyes—brought a fierce glow to her cheeks and played havoc with her pulse, sending it crashing into overdrive. Whatever he wanted from her, she didn’t think she was going to like it.

A blast on a car horn behind them made her jump. Noah raised an apologetic hand and turned his attention back to the road.

‘What?’ Lizzie demanded.

‘You will treat me as if we are lovers,’ he said with absolute conviction.

Lizzie swallowed, hard. She’d been right. She didn’t like it one bit. ‘And how am I supposed to do that from the end of a bargepole?’

‘You can safely leave all the details to me.’ If Noah had meant to be reassuring he failed signally. His kiss still burned like a brand on her lips, and the suggestion that there was more to come sent a tremor of apprehension rippling through her midriff. ‘So?’ he asked once he had negotiated the slip-road. ‘What do you plan to do with yourself in London?’

‘I haven’t had much time to make plans,’ she said.

‘But surely you...?’ Then he went on, ‘No, of course you wouldn’t have made any plans for London. You were planning on a trip to New York with young Mr Hallam.’ His chiselled features were rock-hard. ‘Well, Olivia asked me to make sure you had some fun.’ He made it sound like hard labour. ‘I’m sure I’ll think of something. I’ll have to. It’s clear that you’ve never had to stand on your own two feet.’

Her denial was whipped away by the wind as he put his foot down and the Bentley cruised majestically past a row of lorries. It couldn’t matter less, Lizzie thought, but he was so wrong about her. She had stood very firmly on her own two feet ever since her mother had died. And she had been a very firm prop for her father too.

‘That really won’t be necessary, Noah. I shall be staying with my friend until I find somewhere to live. And I’m quite capable of keeping myself occupied.’

At least money wouldn’t be a problem. She had hardly touched the allowance that her father had given her since she had taken over the running of the house, and her mother had left her some money. A dowry, she had called it. Well, she wouldn’t be needing a dowry now. But she needed somewhere to live as a matter of urgency.

It was impossible to conduct a conversation in an open car travelling at high speed, but even when they reached the end of the motorway and slowed for London traffic Noah seemed disinclined to resume their conversation, deep in his own brooding thoughts. Finally she was driven to break the silence.

‘Islington was that way,’ she pointed out as they passed a road sign.

‘If I ever need a navigator I’ll bear you in mind. But we’re not going to Islington.’

‘You may not be... I certainly am.’ He ignored her. ‘You disabled my car so that I was forced to come with you,’ she went on a little desperately. ‘Now you must take me to my friend’s flat, or drop me at the nearest underground station if you prefer. I can easily make my own way from there.’

‘Must?’ For a moment the word hung between them, then, with the slightest shrug, he let it go. ‘It’s a sunny Saturday evening in August, Elizabeth. Do you suppose your friend is sitting at home on the off chance that you might decide to descend upon her and demand a bed for the night?’

The thought had already crossed her own mind, but she had no intention of admitting it. She would rather stay at a hotel than accept this man’s hospitality. ‘She’s always inviting me to come up for the weekend,’ she protested.

‘But, since she’s not expecting you, you have to address the possibility that she may be out.’

‘She’ll come back.’

‘This is London, Elizabeth, not some leafy country village. Sitting around on doorsteps surrounded by your baggage is not to be recommended. And I did promise your father...’ He clearly wished he hadn’t. ‘Besides, you and I have a date with a lady called Tosca.’

‘I told you—’

‘You told me that you loathe the opera,’ he interrupted a touch acerbically. ‘The collection of records and CDs in your room is simply for decoration?’

She bitterly regretted her impetuous lie as it came back to haunt her. ‘No,’ she admitted.

‘No,’ he agreed, with an assurance that set her teeth on edge. ‘I had planned to take you to see a show, but Olivia said you would much prefer the opera.’

Olivia. How clever of her. But she wasn’t to be won over that easily. As Noah brought his car to a halt Lizzie looked up at the impressive terrace—anywhere rather than face those all-seeing eyes. The façade was as polished as the man. Even the tubs of brilliant flowers that flanked the doorway shone as if they had just been dusted. She distrusted such perfection. ‘I would prefer it if you took me to my friend’s flat,’ she persisted stubbornly.

‘Nonsense. One night in a crowded bedsit, sharing a bathroom with heaven knows how many other people, would drive you mad. You’re simply not used to it. Besides, your invitation was for a weekend. What will you do then? If you think you can go creeping back to Daddy...’

Go back? She could never go back. She might be invited for the odd weekend, or Sunday lunch. But Dove Court would never be her home again. ‘I intend to find a job, somewhere to live in London.’

‘And how long do you imagine that will take? Or do you believe employers will be falling over themselves to offer you work?’ he mocked.

‘No, but...’ But what? Still she didn’t move, unwilling to put her main objection into words. She had seen the heads turn as they’d left the wedding. One or two raised eyebrows. And his kiss was still burned into her memory. And it was his stated intention to convince Peter that he was her lover. It might be ridiculous... It was ridiculous...

Noah had no such inhibitions. He lightly touched her cheek, turning her to face him. ‘If I were in the market for a girl on the rebound, Elizabeth, I can assure you that I would have had you eating out of my hand by now.’

Her blue eyes widened and, ignoring the odd little tremor low in her stomach, which had been provoked by the touch of his hand against her skin, she managed a small laugh. ‘You’re remarkably confident of your attraction,’ she said.

He regarded her solemnly. ‘Don’t you believe I could do it?’

And then he smiled. All the way up until little pouches creased beneath his eyes. Impossible to fake that. And his mouth was bracketed by strong, deep lines carved into his cheeks. She swallowed hard.

‘Just what are you in the market for, Noah?’ she asked, a little shakily, avoiding the need to give him a direct answer.

The smile abruptly disappeared, and he removed his hand from her chin. ‘Nothing. My life is exactly the way I like it. Except for you.’ He got out of the car and came round to open her door. Before she could respond the front door swung open and a middle-aged woman stood in the entrance.

Noah turned. ‘And, as you see, you will be adequately chaperoned. Mrs Harper, this is Miss Elizabeth French,’ he said, his hand in the small of her back propelling her up the steps to the front door. ‘You’d better take her straight up to her room; we’re going out at seven.’

‘Of course, Mr Jordan. This way, Miss French.’

Lizzie hesitated. ‘Noah, this is—’

‘Mr Harper will bring your bags up in a moment,’ he said, not allowing her to finish, his eyes daring her to defy him. She was trapped. At least for tonight. She would have to go through with his horrible plan. But tomorrow she would leave. Nothing would stop her.

‘How did the wedding go?’ Mrs Harper asked as she led the way up the stairs. ‘Such a lovely day for it. I’m sure Miss Olivia must have looked quite beautiful. Your father is a lucky man.’

She chattered on, not waiting for answers to her questions. ‘Now, these are your rooms. This is the sitting room. Your bedroom is through there, and your bathroom. I expect you’ll want a shower after driving with the top down. Miss Olivia always says that she feels as if she’s covered in “essence of motorway” after driving with Mr Jordan.’ She chuckled. ‘I’ll go and fetch you a tray of tea.’

The woman’s endless chatter was oddly comforting—normal in a world that had turned upside down. ‘Thank you, Mrs Harper.’

The woman took the bags that her husband brought to the door and hung Lizzie’s dress over the wardrobe door. ‘Shall I unpack for you?’

‘Oh, no. I can do that. Thank you,’ Lizzie repeated a little belatedly as the woman withdrew.

She stared at the pale pink taffeta dress. It had been bought when she’d had to accompany her father to a formal dinner a couple of years earlier and had been worn only once. It was a little creased, but otherwise fine.

She pulled a face. No, it wasn’t. It was awful. It had been her father’s choice, and had been too young for her even then. But when she had protested he’d said that he wanted everyone to be sure she was his daughter, that he was not some foolish middle-aged man out with a bimbo. It had been hard enough to get him out of the house; she hadn’t been about to argue over the dress. Well, it would have to do—it was all she had. She quickly stowed the remainder of her belongings and went to take her shower.

Ten minutes later she emerged from the bathroom to find a tray laid with a pot of tea and a plate of tiny sandwiches waiting for her. Her dress had disappeared.

As she sipped her tea she sat at the dressing table wondering what to do with her hair. It was ridiculously long, she decided, twisting it up into a simple chignon. If she left it loose, with the pink dress it would simply emphasise the ‘Alice in Wonderland’ look. There was a tap on the door.

‘Come in,’ she called. It was Mrs Harper with her dress. And another gown, black and elegant, on a padded satin hanger.

‘I’ve pressed your dress, Miss French,’ she said, ‘but...’ The woman was clearly embarrassed. ‘Mr Jordan suggested you might... um...prefer to wear this.’

‘Prefer’? She had the feeling that he had said something a great deal stronger than that. A closer look at her dress had doubtless warned him that she wouldn’t look like anyone’s lover in such a garment—certainly not that of the urbane, the very sophisticated Mr Jordan.

What would he consider suitable? she wondered, regarding the black dress with interest. It was an exquisite, ankle-length black shift in the finest silk jersey, with long, straight sleeves, a scooped-out neck and not a single detail to distract from the purity of the line. It was simply beautiful.

But then, the man was a world-renowned art dealer. He had appeared in his own series on the television, discussing the merits of twentieth-century art, the unexpected success of which had been the devastating charm of the presenter rather than the subject matter. His good taste had never been in doubt.

‘Thank you, Mrs Harper. If s... very kind of Mr Jordan.’

The woman was clearly relieved at her reaction. ‘It should fit you well enough. Miss Olivia isn’t quite as slender as you, but that fabric clings rather, so I’m sure you’ll get away with it.’

‘This is Olivia’s dress?’ She hadn’t given a thought as to where the gown might have come from. But Olivia had been staying with Noah for the last few weeks while her own apartment had been decorated. Something in her voice must have betrayed her.

‘It will look lovely on you, Miss French,’ Mrs Harper pressed, a little anxiously. ‘I know Miss Olivia wouldn’t mind...’

Lizzie minded. She minded a great deal. But that wasn’t Mrs Harper’s problem. ‘Please call me Lizzie,’ she said, offering a reassuring smile. And Mrs Harper smiled with relief and left.

She quickly made up her eyes and flicked blusher over her cheek-bones, leaving her tan to take care of the rest. Then, ignoring the black shift, she slipped into the pink taffeta dress. It was a little tight across the bodice; she had fulfilled the early promise of womanhood since she had last worn it. She tugged up the zip and then, very slowly, released her breath. It held, and for a moment she regarded her reflection with a certain amount of grim satisfaction.

Then she fastened a pair of pearl studs to her ears and touched the oval locket that she always wore about her throat before going down the broad staircase in search of her nemesis. She was now quite cheerfully prepared to convince the world that she was Noah’s lover. But somehow she didn’t think he would be quite so eager.

He was staring at a painting as she entered the drawing room, his thick dark hair a crisp counterpoint to the immaculate perfection of black broadcloth that emphasised his wide, square shoulders. For a moment she was struck by the sheer grace, almost beauty of the man. How easy it would be to fall under his spell, if he chose to cast it, she thought. Then he turned as he heard her move towards him.

The feeling was clearly not reciprocated. Regarding Lizzie in silence, Noah’s glance moved quite deliberately in a chilling inspection of her appearance. She lifted her chin a little and stood her ground, although the fine hairs at the nape of her neck stirred as she sensed that her defiance had made him very angry indeed.

But as he moved towards her it wasn’t her dress that claimed his attention. It was the locket.

He laid the tip of one finger against it, his eyes dark as thunderclouds as he fixed her to the spot. Then, without warning, he grasped it in his hand and jerked it from her throat, the old, delicate chain offering no resistance to this brutal treatment.

‘No!’ Lizzie’s hand instinctively reached out to retrieve the precious object. But his hand snapped shut, and he dropped the locket into his pocket.

‘What were you going to do, Elizabeth? Show Francesca your pretty antique locket? It’s old and no doubt the clasp is worn, and if by chance it should happen to fall open...’ He turned away in disgust. Lizzie swallowed.

‘Please give it back to me.’

‘I’ll have it repaired,’ he said abruptly.

‘That doesn’t matter. I just want it back.’

‘You can have it when Mr and Mrs Hallam are safely back across the Atlantic.’ He indicated the sideboard. ‘Would you like a drink? I have a feeling that we’re both going to need one to get through this evening.’

‘You invited them. You have the drink.’ She turned away, unable to bear to look at him, staring instead at the painting that had claimed his attention—a very traditional portrait of a young woman. Oddly out of place amongst Noah’s collection of modern art, the sitter looked vaguely familiar... She took a step towards it.

‘Sherry? Gin and tonic?’ he persisted.

She didn’t drink very much, but her throat was dry. ‘A tonic water,’ she conceded.

She heard the chink of ice, the fizz of tonic, then he walked across the magnificent Aubusson carpet until he was standing beside her. ‘Elizabeth?’

‘Thank you,’ she said, turning to take the crystal tumbler from his hand.

‘You’re entirely welcome.’ And he poured the contents of the glass down the demure décolletage of her gown.