Читать книгу Ordinary Girl, Society Groom - NATASHA OAKLEY, Natasha Oakley - Страница 10

ELOISE switched on the kettle and crouched down to search for the cafetière. It was tucked at the back of a bottom cupboard behind two large mixing bowls.

She sniffed the contents of an open packet of ground coffee, hoping it was still fresh. It didn’t matter. None of this mattered.

Nothing Jem Norland could say would change anything. Her mum hadn’t lied. Viscount Pulborough was her father—whether he wanted to accept that or not.

She glanced about aimlessly for a tray. She had one somewhere. Then she saw it. High on the top of the kitchen cupboards.

As she reached up with her fingertips it balanced precariously on the edge before tipping over, bringing with it a couple of bun tins and a baking sheet. Eloise closed her eyes and braced herself for the resounding crash.

She opened one eye gingerly.

‘What the—?’ Jem walked into the kitchen and began to pick everything off the floor. ‘Not your day, is it?’

‘I was looking for a tray.’

He held it up. ‘You found it. Where do you want everything else?’

Eloise grabbed the tins off him and shoved them into the oven. Her mother would have had a fit if she’d seen her do it. It had been one of her pet hates.

Her hands shook as she rested the tray on the melamine work top. Why had she remembered that now? She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. When she opened them she saw Jem was watching her.

‘All right?’

‘I’ve been better.’ She pulled out a couple of mugs from the top cupboard. Then she turned to look at him. ‘Are you drying off?’

He smiled, the lines at the edges of his eyes fanning outwards. ‘Steaming slowly.’

Eloise found her mouth curving in response. Strange. Awkwardly she turned and reached for a couple of cream mugs. ‘Sugar?’

‘No. No milk either.’ He leant against the doorframe. Relaxed. Watchful.

Eloise tipped the last of a carton of milk into a jug and placed it on the tray.

‘Perhaps you’d better let me carry it.’ He stepped forward and picked it up. She stood back and let him do it, unusually passive.

Jem looked across at her. She looked absurdly youthful. Her chic bob lacked the sophisticated glamour it had had earlier. In bare feet she didn’t reach his shoulder. Considering the damage she could do to the people he loved, he felt curiously protective of her.

And what if she was telling the truth?

More than that—what if it was the truth? What if she really was Laurence’s daughter? It would mean Laurence wasn’t the man of high ideals and personal integrity he’d always thought him. It would be a crack on the pedestal of the man who had done so much to restore his belief in others.

He followed her into the small lounge and watched her turn on the gas fire. The flames flickered up. She stood watching them for a moment and then turned to settle herself in the armchair, a cushion on her lap.

Jem carefully put the tray down on the old wooden trunk she used as a coffee table. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if he should be mother. And then he remembered—her mother was dead.