Читать книгу Reform Of The Playboy - Mary Lyons - Страница 7

DESPITE the fresh, early-summer breeze rustling the thin gauzy curtains of her bedroom, Harriet felt hot and sticky as she tossed and turned in the darkness, desperately trying to seek oblivion in sleep.

Eventually giving up the unequal fight, she threw back the bedclothes. Slipping on a light dressing gown and padding barefoot through into the large sitting room, she made her way towards the large French windows on the far side of the room.

Was she stupid—or what? How could she have been such an idiot? Why had she allowed herself to be thrown so completely off base by that totally unexpected encounter this evening with Finn Maclean?

Right from the moment they’d first met, all those months ago, she’d taken an instant dislike to the man. Although when she tried to work out exactly why she’d felt so instinctively aggressive and antagonistic towards someone whom she had never met—Harriet had absolutely no idea.

It was all Great-Aunt Jane’s fault, she told herself glumly, before giving a rueful shake of her head at her own foolishness. How could she even think such a thing? Talk about being ungrateful! Although it was true that if her aunt hadn’t died, and left her both this wonderful house and access to its adjacent and utterly enchanted garden, she would never have met Finn Maclean.

So what’s new? Nasty bugs could always find a way of invading even the most glamorous, expensive apartments, Harriet reminded herself grimly, unlocking the glass doors and stepping out on to the small balcony.

Taking a deep breath of the soft night air, fragrant with the scent of jasmine, lilac and early-flowering roses, she could immediately feel herself beginning to relax and unwind. Sitting down on one of a pair of small white, iron garden chairs, Harriet gave a contented sigh as she leaned back and stared up at the stars, twinkling in the dark sky high above her head.

It was a private fantasy of hers that she was somehow the sole possessor of this half-acre of lawn, trees, secluded walks and flowerbeds, vibrant with colour all the year round. And she knew, from talking to many of the other occupants of the houses surrounding this ‘secret’ garden, that they felt exactly the same way.

Little known outside the immediate area, the Ladbroke Estate, covering much of Notting Hill and Holland Park, contained sixteen of these very rare, very private and totally secluded gardens.

What made them so special was the fact that they were totally inaccessible to anyone other than those living in the houses which completely encircled the private gardens. And they were, indeed, a hidden secret known only to a few. Even she hadn’t realised, despite regularly visiting this house over the past few years, that such a luxurious green oasis lay at the back of her aunt’s home.

In fact, it hadn’t been until after her great-aunt’s death last year, when, as one of her cousins had so accurately put it, ‘Harriet’s numbers came up on the lottery,’ that she’d realised just how very lucky and fortunate she was.

‘The lottery’ wasn’t, in truth, any form of gambling. Her cousin’s remark had merely referred to the fact that her great-aunt Jane—a highly eccentric, imperious old lady—had made a habit of regularly changing her will in favour of one or another of her many great-nephews and nieces. And thus it had been that, following the unexpected death of her aunt, late last year, Harriet—to her utter surprise and total amazement—had suddenly found herself the proud possessor of the enormous house in Lansdowne Gardens, together with some money, currently locked away in stocks and shares.

‘Lucky old you!’ her cousin Martin had exclaimed on hearing the news. ‘I was at the top of the list last year. So I guess I must have done something to blot my copybook. Maybe deciding to throw up work and go on the stage might just have had something to do with it?’ he added with a rueful laugh, before giving Harriet a hug and wishing her the very best of luck with her inheritance.

‘It’s a dreadful old house, full of cats and dusty furniture. What are you planning to do? Sell it?’

Harriet shrugged and agreed that the house had always appeared to be in a dreadful state. So, probably the best thing would be to clear it out, and then put it up for sale. A course of action which received enthusiastic support from her parents. Especially her mother.

‘It’s absolutely the only thing to do, darling,’ her mother announced firmly. ‘What on earth do you want with a huge old house in an extremely unfashionable part of London? You must try and sell it as best you can, and then buy a nice little mews house. Somewhere fashionable, like Knightsbridge or Sloane Square, would be just about perfect.’

Although she seldom saw eye to eye with her mother, Harriet had to agree that the older woman had, for once, given her some good and practical advice. However, neither Harriet, at that time renting a small flat in Islington, nor her mother—living deep in the country, in Gloucestershire—could have guessed that the Holland Park and Notting Hill Gate area of London would suddenly become so extraordinarily fashionable.

Harriet had no way of knowing whether it was the many ‘private’ gardens which had proved to be the main attraction—particularly when contrasted with the hot dusty streets and high-rise buildings of central London—or if it was just some inexplicable movement of people from one area to another. However, it seemed that as soon as some wealthy pop stars and highly paid executives in the advertising and entertainment business ‘discovered’ Holland Park and Notting Hill Gate, everyone else suddenly appeared to want to live there, too.

All of which went some way to explaining why, on her approach to a local estate agent, he was visibly pleased at the thought of selling her aunt’s house. When he explained that she could expect to gain close to a million pounds for the property, Harriet’s legs suddenly felt as though they’d turned to jelly. Collapsing down into the chair before his desk, she gazed at the man in utter disbelief.

‘I had no idea…I mean…you must be kidding?’ she gasped, feeling quite faint and dizzy for a moment.

‘Oh, no,’ Mr Evans told her confidently, impatiently clicking his fingers at his assistant as he called for a glass of water, since the girl looked as though she was about to pass out any minute.

‘After you gave me the keys, I had a good look around the property,’ he continued. ‘It’s an absolute shambles, of course, but there’s no reason why—when you’ve cleared out all the mess—you shouldn’t get something very close to that sum.’

‘I…I just can’t believe it!’ Harriet mumbled helplessly, shaking her head in bemusement. ‘Are you absolutely sure…? I mean…I don’t want to be rude—but that really is such a huge amount of money!’

‘That’s nothing!’ He waved his hand dismissively in the air. ‘Why, only the other day I was approached by a young couple—looking for a house just like yours—who were quite happy to pay two or three million for a property in good condition. You would be able to get a much higher price if your aunt’s home had been looked after,’ he confided. ‘But, all the same, I think we ought to be able to get you at least a million—no problem.’

A million pounds! Such a sum was absolutely ridiculous, Harriet told herself as she drove slowly back to her small rented apartment in Islington, which she’d chosen originally because of its proximity and ease of access to the law courts in The Strand.

Having studied law at university, she was now working as a very junior member of a large firm of solicitors. Unfortunately, it hadn’t proved to be the job of her dreams. In fact, she’d come to see that the dry, dusty world of lawyers was definitely not for her. It was only the problem of trying to decide exactly what she did want to do with her life—plus the need to earn a decent living, of course—which had, so far, prevented her from resigning her job and looking for work elsewhere.

However, despite repeating the words ‘a million pounds’ to herself over the following weeks, she still couldn’t somehow make it seem any more real.

Although, in a moment of total euphoria, she thought about giving up work and living on the proceeds of the sale of her aunt’s house, it didn’t take Harriet very long to see that wasn’t the answer to her problems. Lying around doing nothing all day might seem an attractive idea. But she was fairly certain that she’d soon get bored with such an idle, lazy existence.

Her parents were, of course, delighted at her sudden change of fortune. And as for her boyfriend, George—for once in his life he actually looked visibly excited.

‘I say, Harriet, that sounds a pretty useful sum!’ he exclaimed, giving her a much warmer smile than usual. ‘And there’ll be no need to worry your pretty little head about investing the money. Because I know several clever men in the City who’d definitely be interested in dealing with a nice little nest egg like that.’

In fact, Harriet told herself, it was amazing how everyone was busy spending the money she had yet to get. Her mother seemed determined that she should buy a small, bijou house in a highly fashionable area: ‘So handy, darling, when I want to do some shopping.’ Several of her friends thought she ought to blow the lot on travelling around the world until the money ran out, while someone else suggested that she open a trendy restaurant.

Even an old friend, Trish Palmer, had come up with the idea of Harriet buying the empty property next to her own antiques shop in Ledbury Road.

‘Hang on, Trish!’ she muttered sleepily, at six-thirty one morning, as she helped to lay out small pieces of antique jewellery on the stall her friend operated on Saturdays in the nearby Portobello Road Market.

‘While I enjoy lending you a hand with the stall every now and then,’ Harriet continued, warming her cold hands on a mug of steaming hot coffee. ‘I know absolutely nothing about old furniture and objets d’art. Quite honestly, the idea of me buying a shop and suddenly becoming a successful antiques dealer is absolutely daft!’

‘It doesn’t have to be that sort of shop,’ Trish pointed out. ‘You could sell anything you liked—clothes, flowers, or jewellery. I mean, just look at the terrific success of that girl who has an amazing shop at the other end of the road, selling nothing but gorgeous purses and handbags.’

‘She’s so talented,’ Harriet agreed with an envious sigh. ‘Unfortunately, I have a horrid feeling that I don’t have a creative bone in my body!’

However, it was Trish who eventually provided the answer to all Harriet’s problems.

Offering to lend their friend a hand one weekend, cleaning the house ready for viewing by prospective buyers, Trish and Sophie were both amazed at the sheer size of the place.

‘It’s looking great, now that all that broken-down, dusty old furniture has been carted away,’ Sophie said, leaning on a broom and gazing up at the ornate cornice of the large, high-ceilinged first-floor sitting room.

‘You wouldn’t know the place,’ Trish agreed, lifting a grimy hand to brush the damp hair from her brow. ‘It’s a pity you have to sell the house after all this effort. If it had been left to me, I’d try and find a way to hang on to it.’

‘Even if I did—I could never afford to live here,’ Harriet pointed out, before throwing down her mop and declaring that they’d all earned a tea-break.

Making her way down to the antiquated old kitchen on the lower ground floor, Trish continued to lament the fact that her friend was having to sell such a lovely old house.

‘Come off it!’ Sophie laughed, waving a chocolate biscuit around the high-ceilinged kitchen, which surprisingly seemed full of light, ‘What on earth would Harriet do with herself, living all alone in a place like this?’

‘Who says she has to live on her own?’ Trish retorted. ‘She could easily split a house of this size into flats—one to each floor. Or she could always let out rooms to her friends, or…’

‘What? Run a boarding house?’ the other girl scoffed. ‘Do me a favour! Can you honestly see Harriet cooking breakfast for everyone in the house before rushing off to work? Get real!’

‘I’ve definitely got better things to do with my time!’ Harriet agreed with a laugh, before reminding her friends that there was still a lot of work to do, and not much time left in which to do it.

However, as she walked slowly around the clean and empty building a week later, while waiting for the estate agent to call with a client who wished to view the house, Harriet had to agree that Trish had been quite right.

In fact, if there was some way in which she could manage to retain ownership of the house—and also to live here herself—she’d willingly do so. If only for the sheer pleasure of opening the tall, curved glass French windows in the large ground-floor room and being able to stroll out into the extremely peaceful and beautiful garden.

A moment later her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the doorbell, and she hurried through into the hall. Opening the door, she found the estate agent on the doorstep, introducing the tall man standing beside him as a Mr Maclean, who was very keen to see over the house before it was formally put up for sale.

She stood back to allow the men to enter the house, gaining only a brief impression in the dimly lit hall of a tall and slim dark-haired man.

However, as she led the two men through the large empty rooms, Harriet found herself beginning to think that ‘Mr Maclean’ didn’t seem at all keen on the house—or anything else, for that matter.

There was no doubt that he was tall, dark and handsome. In fact, as Harriet led the two men into the brightly lit, large main room on the ground floor, she found herself temporarily stunned into silence as she realised that the stranger wasn’t just a good-looking guy—but clearly quite extraordinarily handsome.

Viewing the man dressed in casual, but immaculate weekend attire, as he appeared to be gazing with complete disinterest around the room, Harriet was suddenly conscious of the fact that she, herself, must appear boringly conventional.

Never having done this sort of thing before, she’d spent some time earlier in the day trying to work out the right sort of ‘uniform’ for showing people around the house. Not that it was desperately important, of course. However, the estate agent had stressed the fact that first impressions were very important—which was why he’d also warned her to make sure the rooms were as clean as possible.

‘Ideally, of course, you should have bowls of flowers in every room,’ he’d told her. ‘In fact, I always tell my ladies that it doesn’t hurt to have the smell of fresh roasting coffee, or newly baked bread, issuing from the kitchen,’ he’d added with a conspiratorial wink, as he’d revealed some of the tricks of his trade.

However, since she obviously had no way of providing any of those items, Harriet had been forced to concentrate on making sure that all the rooms were sparkling clean—arranging for a window cleaner to call had worked wonders—and trying to dress as if she was the sort of person who normally lived in a house this size.

Which was why she’d discarded a short leather mini-skirt—obviously totally unsuitable when leading the way up a flight of stairs—and her favourite dress of floaty chiffon in autumn shades of brown and green—too frivolous. Hesitating over one of the sharp navy suits which she normally wore to the office—possibly too serious?—she’d eventually plumped for boring but safe: dark blue jeans, tight white T-shirt and a smart navy blue blazer.

But why she should care what she was wearing, when this man was stalking silently behind her as she led them in and out of the many upstairs bedrooms, she had no idea. Even when Harriet opened the large glass doors off the vast, first-floor drawing room, she found his total silence extremely off-putting.

She led the way out on to the balcony overlooking the garden, and expressed the hope that the men would enjoy the sight of such lush greenery as much as she did. But Mr Maclean merely glanced blandly at the view, before muttering noncommittally, ‘Very nice,’ before turning back into the house.

The man’s nothing but a philistine! she told herself grimly, closing the French doors angrily behind him.

Unfortunately, one of the security locks was rusty and stiff from disuse. As she struggled to turn the key, which stubbornly refused to budge, the tall stranger came over to give her a hand.

‘Here, let me help you,’ he murmured, suddenly materialising by her side and taking the key from her hand.

Thinking about the episode later, Harriet still didn’t understand why, as his hand brushed over hers, she should feel what seemed like a sudden electric shock, causing her to give a sudden yelp and a slight jump backwards, the key falling down with a clatter on to the hard wooden floor.

Highly embarrassed, and conscious of the deep flush rising up over her pale cheeks, Harriet was also bitterly aware of the man’s lips twitching with amusement as he bent to pick up the key.

So, he’s outrageously handsome—so what? Harriet told herself firmly, quickly putting as much distance between herself and Mr Maclean as possible before leading the way down into the lower ground floor kitchen area.

But she was still feeling distinctly unsettled, totally unable to explain the slightly sick feeling in her stomach as she moved over to the far side of the room. Turning around to lean against the sink beneath the large window, she listened as the estate agent began explaining the benefits of possessing such a large, semi-underground area in a house of this size.

‘…and, of course, if you’re still thinking of making this into a separate flat,’ he was saying, ‘it’s clearly ideal for what you have in mind. Lots of light and space, and—’

‘But you can’t do that!’ Harriet was astonished to find herself saying with some vehemence, suddenly upset to think of her aunt’s house being split up into apartments.

‘Oh, really…?’ Mr Maclean drawled sardonically, turning slowly around to face the girl standing on the far side of the room.

Almost as if he was clearly viewing her for the first time, he stared at the tall, slim figure, bathed in a warm glow from the light streaming in through the window, her long red hair, tied at the back of her neck by a dark blue ribbon, seeming to burst into fiery life beneath the strong rays of the late-afternoon sun.

Still astonished at her instinctive outburst, Harriet found herself feeling even more confused as the tall man began moving slowly and determinedly across the room towards her.

‘And exactly what makes you think that I can’t convert this basement—or any other floor of this house, for that matter?’ he asked in a cool, bland voice as he came to a halt in front of her nervous figure.

Having been virtually ignored during his tour of the house, Harriet felt distinctly flustered to find herself subjected to the full force of this man’s attention. The strong, intelligent gleam in his large blue eyes, which seemed to be boring into her skull, was not only highly disturbing but was also having a strange effect on her legs, which suddenly felt weak and wobbly.

Leaning for support back against the hard white porcelain sink, she struggled to pull herself together. Why on earth was she behaving in such a stupid, infantile way? She must have met hundreds of other guys, almost as good-looking as this one. So why let him get to her? It was still her house, wasn’t it? So, as far as she was concerned, he could take a running jump, she told herself firmly, before taking a deep breath and lifting her chin aggressively towards him.

‘I’m selling a house. Not a block of flats,’ she told him, dismayed to hear her normally firm, clear voice sounding unusually shrill and defensive. ‘I’m sure my aunt would hate to think of her old home being cut up into small apartments and sold off piecemeal—like you seem to be thinking of doing.’

There was a long silence as he stared at her intently for a moment, his expression giving no hint of what was going through his mind.

‘Correct me if I’m wrong, Miss Wentworth,’ he drawled sardonically, at last breaking the oppressive silence which seemed to have settled on the large room. ‘But I wasn’t aware that I’d discussed my plans with you…?’ he added with heavy sarcasm.

‘No, of course you haven’t,’ she retorted, deeply resenting being treated as though she was an impertinent child, daring to question her elders and betters. ‘But I’m not prepared to sell my aunt’s home to anyone who’s intending to cut it up and sell it off in bits,’ she added stubbornly.

‘Well, I don’t really see what you can do about it,’ he told her in a slightly amused, condescending tone of voice, which set her teeth on edge. ‘In fact—since this building was granted full planning permission for sub-division into apartments only three years ago—I fail to see how you can stop any purchaser from doing exactly as they want with the property.’

‘What…?’ Harriet stared past him at the estate agent, who’d been standing nervously across the room while this acrimonious exchange had been taking place. ‘I never knew my aunt had thought of splitting up this house. Why didn’t you tell me about the planning permission?’ she demanded angrily.

‘I didn’t know myself. Not until the other day, that is,’ Mr Evans told her with a slight shrug. ‘It was only when I was checking up on any possible boundary disputes that it came to light. Still, there’s no need to worry,’ he added, clearly in an attempt to pour oil on troubled waters. ‘It will, after all, make this house far more saleable.’

‘But…but it’s not just a house—it’s a home!’ Harriet wailed, not caring if she sounded childish. ‘I thought that there would be a family living here, enjoying the garden and…’ Her voice trailed away as she realised that she was succeeding in doing nothing but make an utter fool of herself.

‘Well, there you go.’ The estate agent shrugged, before brightly asking whether Mr Maclean would like to look over some of the rooms once again.

However, as Harriet trailed disconsolately behind the two men up to the raised ground floor, before leaving them to explore the rest of the house on their own, she only had one thought in her mind. She would never—under any circumstances—sell this house to that totally hateful man, Mr Maclean. She didn’t yet know how she could put a stop to his plans. But, come hell or high water, she was going to make damn sure that he never managed to get his hands on this house.

Unfortunately, despite cudgelling her brains, and coming up with a hundred and one highly impractical ideas over the next two weeks, Harriet had completely failed to find a solution to her problem.

Since her aunt—maybe because she’d been feeling lonely in her old age?—had gained permission to turn her home into apartments, there seemed no sensible explanation why Harriet should care what happened to the house, one way or another.

However, the fact was that she did feel very strongly about the subject—and also about that loathsome man, as well. Who in the hell did he think he was? Probably just some rotten property developer, who clearly took pleasure in destroying beautiful buildings merely for profit, she told herself, a heavy weight of depression filling her mind one night, as she slowly slipped off to sleep.

She had no idea what caused her to wake up some hours later, in the middle of the night. But, as she found herself sitting bolt upright in bed, it seemed as though her brain had been working overtime. Because, entirely without any effort on her part, Harriet suddenly realised that she’d found the answer to all her problems. She wasn’t going to sell the house. She was going to live in it herself!

Scrambling out of bed, she ran barefoot through into the small adjoining sitting room, which could have easily fitted four times into the large drawing room of her aunt’s house. Grabbing a piece of paper and a pencil, she immediately sat down and started working on some figures.

If she converted the ground and first floor into a maisonette for herself, it would enable her to live in the house and—just as important—give her direct access into that wonderful garden. However, she could only afford to do that if she converted the basement, second, third and fourth floors into four separate flats.

So…OK…she would being doing almost the same as that horrid man Mr Maclean had planned to do. But the difference was that in her case she was going to be personally living in the house, and looking after it. So, providing she could find enough money to convert and rent her first apartment, it should be possible for her to afford to do the other remaining floors in the same way.

After scribbling furiously for some minutes, she stared down at the figures. Yes! If she was very careful, and watched every penny of her expenditure, she could just about do it. And, of course, the scheme did have one quite outstanding bonus: it would enable her to give up her job, which she’d come to thoroughly dislike, while she took a year off from work to see to the conversion. By that time she was bound to have decided what she really wanted to do with her life. And, with any luck, her home would prove to be at least self-supporting, if not bringing in some useful funds.

Excited by her new idea, she talked the idea over with her old schoolfriend, Sophie. The other girl not only agreed that it looked as if it might be the solution to all her problems—but she also astonished Harriet by asking if she could rent the lower-ground-floor flat.

‘I’m sick and tired of the dump I’m living in at the moment,’ she explained. ‘And when we were down in the basement, having a break while clearing up the house, it did just occur to me that it would make a great pad. I mean, there seemed bags of room, and it was very light. Besides, those ceilings have to be about eleven feet high—right? And with its own front door out into the street, I reckon it will make a perfect flat!’

Encouraged by Sophie’s enthusiasm for the project, Harriet immediately telephoned the estate agent. To her surprise, Mr Evans was remarkably understanding.

‘I can see you love that house,’ he said with a heavy sigh. ‘However, if you can live there and make it pay for itself—the best of luck to you.’

Which, since he’d just lost a hefty amount of commission on the sale, was really very generous of him, she told herself. Although she subsequently found herself taking a rather more jaundiced view of the estate agent, when she discovered that he’d been guilty of foolishly—or, perhaps, merely carelessly—giving her phone number to a very angry Mr Maclean.

‘You damned girl!’ he rasped down the phone. ‘Not only have you put me to a great deal of time and expense, checking the planning permission and laying on surveyors, but I never had any intention of turning that house of yours into a block of flats.’

‘Oh, yes, you did!’ she snapped. ‘I quite distinctly heard you discussing with the estate agent your proposal to make the lower ground floor into a separate apartment.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! That was simply to provide a home for my younger brother, Jack, who works abroad most of the year. I wanted him to have somewhere—a piece of his own space, if you like—when he returns to this country on vacation,’ he told her, his voice tight with exasperation. ‘I fully intended to retain the rest of the house for myself.’

‘Well, I’m sorry if you’re disappointed—’

‘You don’t sound at all sorry!’ he ground out angrily, clearly able to sense the wide grin on her face, even if he couldn’t see it in person. ‘In fact, if I didn’t believe in non-violence, I’d cheerfully wring your damned neck!’ he added grimly. ‘I really wanted that house.’

‘Well, that’s just your tough luck, isn’t it?’ she retorted, before quickly putting down the phone and putting an end to the acrimonious conversation.

And that, if there was any justice in this world, should have been the end of any contact between them, Harriet now told herself with a heavy sigh, gazing out over the lawn and trees of the moonlit garden. Trust Sophie—who always had been accident prone—to introduce a snake like Finn Maclean into her Garden of Eden!

As she rose to her feet and walked slowly back through the large sitting room into her bedroom, Harriet realised that she now had no choice. She was just going to have to tough it out. After all, Finn was only going to be renting the upstairs apartment for six months. So, with any luck—and a firm contract—she should be able to make sure that she saw as little of him as possible.