Читать книгу Vengeful Bride - Rosalie Ash - Страница 6

HER prospective employer was tall, broad-shouldered, and darkly attractive. Emma watched him rise to his feet, circle the vast mahogany desk and cross the carpeted study towards her, and for a few moments her nerve failed…

‘Miss Stuart. Come and sit down.’ He spoke pleasantly, his voice husky, full of that deeply ingrained male confidence which came from generations of wealth and power. Catching her breath sharply, she felt the warm strength of his hand as he clasped hers in greeting.

‘Thank you.’ Weakly, silently ordering her wobbling legs to carry her, she went to sit on the round-backed chair he was indicating. She crossed her legs. The skirt of her smart violet wool suit felt too short. Furiously she uncrossed her knees again and clamped them firmly together, tucking her ankles under the chair. She had the annoying impression that he was watching her discomfiture with veiled amusement.

‘Would you like tea? Coffee?’

‘Tea would be lovely.’ She smiled coolly. She had her feelings under control now. Discovering that Dominick Fleetwood in the flesh was a glorious cross between Mel Gibson and Kevin Costner had thrown her initially, but she had enough inward motivation to handle that…

He was relaying the order for tea to the elderly housekeeper who’d shown her in. When the housekeeper had gone, he sat on the edge of the desk, and eyed Emma expressionlessly.

‘So you’re a fully qualified archivist?’ His eyes were a stunning shade of blue, she registered, meeting their probing gaze with her own clear, deceptively mild grey ones.

‘I am.’

‘You don’t look like one.’

She smothered a desire to laugh.

‘What does an archivist look like?’ she enquired gravely.

‘I pictured someone dusty, flat-chested and a confirmed spinster,’ he informed her, equally deadpan. ‘Whereas I suspect that behind the disguise of those steel-rimmed glasses and raked-back hairstyle you are definitely nubile.’

The audacious chauvinism almost took her breath away. Did he seriously expect her to want the job, when he said things like that? But anticipation of the tailor-made perfection of the job, and a secret she’d no intention of revealing just yet, kept her glued to the chair like a prisoner.

‘Whether that’s supposed to be compliment or insult,’ she managed calmly, ‘I’ll do you a favour and ignore it.’

The gentian-blue gaze narrowed speculatively. His eyes were long and dark-lashed, and unnerv-ingly intense. In spite of her composure, she felt herself begin to prickle with awareness as he slid his gaze over the pale, set oval of her face, the neat shine of chestnut hair wound into a prim bun, the conservative cut of her suit not quite concealing voluptuous breasts and hips, a swoopingly narrow waist and long slim legs which went on forever…

In turn, she gazed back at him, taking involuntary note of the fine grey cloth of his city suit, the immaculate whiteness of his shirt. His skin tone was almost Mediterranean-dark. His hair was thick and black and wavy, cut short on top and curling slightly into his nape. He’d look good wearing a gold earring, she told herself tartly. There was a dangerous gypsy air about him, at odds with his upper-class lineage…

She had the sudden, sinking feeling that he knew exactly who she was, knew exactly why she felt this burning curiosity to see Fleetwood Manor…After all, he was a brilliant barrister, feted in London as one of the youngest and brightest to be called to the bar. Weren’t barristers supposed to be gifted at reading people’s thoughts and motives? At knowing everything about everyone?

But that was crazy. Dominick Fleetwood couldn’t possibly remember her. She certainly didn’t remember him. She’d been born here on the Fleetwood estate, but they’d have left when she was about five. And Dominick would have been away at school…

And besides, how could Dominick Fleetwood know why she was here, when she didn’t even quite know herself?

The evidence she had, from things her father had said, was strong but not conclusive…

She’d braced herself for some withering comment after her pert retort. But after what felt like an endless pause all he said, in a thoughtful voice, was, ‘You realise the family records are stored in filthy old boxes, in all manner of spidery corners of the estate?’

‘I’m sure they are.’

‘Can you lift down heavy trunks of papers?’

‘Yes. I’m quite strong.’

‘Fleetwood Manor is in a lamentable state of repair. Bits of it may not have changed a great deal since the place was built in the fifteenth century. Will you mind working alone in the attics?’

‘If you mean will I be frightened of ghosts or something, not in the least. History and the study of old houses, old records, is the great love of my life,’ she heard herself enthusing, more frankly than she’d intended.

‘So you’re planning on being wedded to your work, Miss Stuart?’ There was a wry note in his voice she couldn’t identify.

‘There are worse fates. At least that way a woman stays in control of her own existence,’ she said quietly. Why was she letting him subtly open her up like this? This interview wasn’t going at all the way she’d planned…She recalled his reputation as one of the country’s foremost defence lawyers, information gleaned from newspapers and magazine articles. He’d been variously described as combining the rapier skills of a Jesuit catechist with the cunning of a wolf. Had she ever imagined she could somehow get the better of him, and thus get the better of the whole arrogant, destructive Fleetwood family…?

She bit her lip, irritated with her own vulnerability.

‘You sound as if you’ve had bitter experience regarding the holy state of matrimony?’ It was a cool probe. This time she didn’t rise to the bait. She thought of her parents, but she shrugged and smiled blandly.

‘I’ve never been married, if that’s what you’re asking.’

She’d arrived here prepared to feel coolly indifferent towards him, been briefly fazed by his devastating appearance, but in fact disliking him was going to be child’s play. She already felt a stirring, fierce resentment towards him. Like father like son, she thought darkly. Womanising, patronising…

The door opened, and the housekeeper, a pleasant-faced grey-haired woman, brought in a tray of tea and biscuits. When they were alone again, he went back to sit behind the desk, leaning lazily back in the leather chair. His gaze was narrowed speculatively on her face.

‘So, tell me more about why you want to come and work here,’ he said calmly. ‘You’ve just qualified in archive administration, and you’re keen to earn more than the usual pittance paid to county archive assistants. Is that it, or is there another motive?’

The trace of cynical mockery seemed deliberately aimed to provoke. Emma kept her eyes on the tea-tray, a guilty sensation growing in the pit of her stomach. Her fears about his probing, dissecting skills were well justified, she realised nervously.

‘As I’ve already said, I love history. I love historic houses. And I love deciphering old papers, uncovering the lives of past generations. What other motive do I need?’

‘There should be enough skeletons in the Fleetwood closets to keep a scandal paper in business for months,’ he commented, his drawl coolly unconcerned.

She felt her face heating slightly. Skeletons in closets? What a dry piece of upper-class understatement that was…

‘Sounds as if I shall enjoy my job, Mr Fleetwood,’ she commented mildly, hoping her casual tone would deter him from further interrogation, ‘Or…should I be addressing you as Sir Dominick?’ The cautious probe was deliberate. Newspaper reports could be wrong, after all…

Dominick Fleetwood’s expression didn’t alter.

‘No. I’m just here on a kind of caretaker basis,’ he said calmly. He seemed to consider for a few moments, before continuing, ‘Until my elder brother Richard can be traced.’

‘Oh, yes…’ It had all been there, in the newspaper stories. The search for the missing baronet, the older brother who’d automatically inherit the title and estate.

Maybe it was her slight hesitation, or just a faintly guilty air she was projecting, but he gave her a piercing look.

‘Emma Stuart…’ He repeated her name slowly. The frown creasing his forehead suddenly deepened. ‘You’re not, by any chance, related to the Stuarts who used to work here years ago? They had a child called Emma.’

Emma stared at him for a few seconds in mute dismay. She felt her stomach clench, then sink alarmingly. There was nothing else for it. She’d have to come clean.

‘Yes. My parents worked here many years ago.’

Dominick’s face remained unreadable. But he was staring at her with a suddenly sharpened curiosity.

‘I remember them,’ he said coolly. ‘Jack Stuart was the gamekeeper, wasn’t he? And a very good one. I remember my father admiring how he used to hatch up to two thousand grey partridge a week in the spring, ready for the autumn shoots.’

‘Yes…’ Colour was seeping into her face, and she felt a wave of annoyance. She had no reason to feel embarrassed about the past. She’d been only five when they’d left.

‘I can hardly remember living here. But my father used to tell me stories about Fleetwood Manor, after we left…’ She hesitated. Her father had made it sound so romantic, steeped in the past, full of ghosts and legends. As a child, she’d fantasised about this place…

‘Stories?’ Dominick persisted, his gaze quizzical.

‘Catching poachers beneath a full moon, that sort of thing…’ She smiled slightly at the melodramatic tinge to her statement. This was how her father had always talked about the manor. In sweeping, melodramatic adventure-story fashion. His passion for the place had been one reason for her own love of history. Now, though, since her father had died, it had a very different significance in her life…

Her brain was racing round in circles as she presented a calm facade. She’d been found out already, but, on the other hand, what had been found out? That she was Jack and Amy Stuart’s daughter? Did that have any particular significance to Dominick Fleetwood?

Impossible to know what Dominick was thinking. How much he’d know. He clearly remembered her parents, but that didn’t mean he knew everything that had gone on between his father and his various and numerous estate employees…She had to be very careful not to get paranoid…

‘I’m intrigued,’ he said at last. He picked up a pen from the blotter and slid it rhythmically through his fingers. His gaze was blandly thoughtful.

‘What about?’

‘Why didn’t you mention living here as a child?’

It was a perfectly acceptable question, she told herself severely. And she didn’t have a very good answer. ‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave…’ she lectured herself silently. Her throat dry as paper, she ran her tongue over her lips and swallowed abruptly. Shrugging slightly, she managed a laugh.

‘It didn’t occur to me. It was hardly relevant to the job specification!’

‘But interesting, nevertheless.’

‘I didn’t imagine you’d be interested,’ she countered flatly. She crossed her legs again, and reached with a commendably steady hand for her cup of tea. ‘As I said, I can hardly remember living on the estate. My family wasn’t here very long.’

‘So is that why you’ve applied for this job? Out of curiosity? Nostalgia? A wish to revisit your childhood home?’

‘Partly. Perhaps. But as you said just now, the money you’re offering is a lot better than I could get elsewhere.’

‘That’s because I don’t suffer fools gladly, Miss Stuart,’ he informed her silkily. ‘I’m busy in court for the majority of the week. And since I’m only caretaking this place until my brother is found and informed of his inheritance, I don’t want someone who works at a snail’s pace. I’m prepared to pay a good salary for quick, efficient work. For total commitment to the job. If I thought you had some woolly, ulterior motive for wanting to be here, I might be less enthusiastic.’ The gypsy-dark face was deadpan, but he was definitely testing her in some way.

Hateful man, she fumed inwardly.

‘If I’d come here claiming to have spent my early childhood at Fleetwood Manor, you might have thought I was angling for…for preferential treatment or something. The past is…is quite irrelevant. I’m quick, efficient, and my commitment will be total,’ she assured him with as cool a smile as she could muster. ‘But can I ask why you’re so keen on speed? Are you intending opening the manor to the public? Putting interesting records on display?’

‘Who knows?’ His expression was lazily amused. ‘I personally would have no financial need to open the house to visitors, Miss Stuart. But let’s just say that the situation regarding my older brother is…unpredictable. He’s been estranged from my father for many years. Last heard of, he’d dropped out of society in the wilds of Tibet. There are certain eccentric conditions laid down by Sir Robert which my brother will have to be consulted on. Plus I have an impulsive streak in my nature.’ He grinned slightly, arresting her suddenly with the revelation of even white teeth and an attractive deepening of the vertical furrows from nose to chin. ‘I simply want my family records sorted, deciphered, and safely stored for posterity.’

‘Of course. I understand.’

‘Good. If we both know where we stand, when can you start?’

‘We…we haven’t even talked about exact salary, or hours…’

He tilted a dark eyebrow at her determined expression.

‘How much could you earn fresh from university as an assistant archivist with the council?’

She named a sum, and he gave a short laugh.

‘I’ll double it. Normal office hours, double pay for overtime. I’m not looking to employ some drab little Cinderella to drudge away in the attics, Miss Stuart.’

She blinked. Astonished, she heard herself saying weakly, ‘No, well…would I be living in?’

‘Naturally. One thing Fleetwood Manor isn’t short of is accommodation. Unfortunately, most of it is uninhabitable. I’ll show you where you’ll be working and sleeping.’

He stood up, and strode decisively to the door. Emma followed. Panic returned. Should she be plunging into this? Should she be indulging her burning curiosity about her family’s chequered past like this? Even if her father’s story, the sad tale he’d related to her before he died, proved to be true, would she achieve anything with some vague notion of justice or revenge…?

She followed the tall, athletic figure out of the study and into the picture-lined splendour of the manor’s galleried hall. Up the sweeping blue-carpeted staircase, along a broad, creaking landing where the polished oak floorboards looked to be as old as the house, and past rows of cynical-looking Fleetwood males, each more swarthy and dangerous than the last, they finally made it to a smaller, more humble back stairway, and were up in the attics.

The view from up here was stunning, Emma registered bleakly, peering through dusty windows and noting sunlit acres of rolling Warwickshire countryside, just beginning to burgeon into the pale magnificence of spring.

Spring was a time for new beginnings, she told herself uneasily. Not a time for raking up the ashes of the past, torturing herself with a sentimental journey back to the start of her parents’ tragic disintegration…

‘A lot of the old family papers are up here,’ Dominick was saying, pushing open a door to reveal a large room lined with shelves. There were some dusty old document cases, a big metal chest, an assortment of wooden storage boxes, some of them looking excitingly ancient. In spite of everything, Emma felt a frisson of anticipation at the historical riches yet to be uncovered. The manor had been in the Fleetwood family since the fifteenth century. She knew that from her father’s stories. Who knew what fascinating information she might unearth…?

‘You look like a cat surveying a dish of cream,’ Dominick commented drily. ‘You really like your chosen career, don’t you?’

‘I’ve always wanted to have the chance to do something like this,’ she admitted, unable to hide her glow of enthusiasm.

‘So this is your lucky year, Miss Stuart.’ He led the way out of the attic room again, and they retraced their steps back down to the main landing. ‘There’s masses more in outhouses, and the old butler’s pantry—it could take quite a while just getting it all together before you can sift through it.’

‘Quite likely.’

‘My housekeeper, Mrs Shields, has a strapping young grandson who can help to carry stuff around,’ he added conversationally as he flung open a bedroom door and waved her inside.

‘Thank you.’ She found herself in a big square high-ceilinged bedroom, overlooking the front of the house. Large sash windows were draped in rich but faded gold velvet. A very high-looking four-poster bed with gold and cream covers occupied centre-stage. A door beyond stood open, with the end of an old-fashioned white claw-foot bath visible.

‘Is this where I’ll be sleeping?’ It had such an air of grandeur, despite the threadbare carpet and worn-looking fabrics, she could hardly believe it. Swinging round, she found Dominick Fleetwood’s gaze gleaming with suppressed amusement.

‘This, believe it or not, is the only usable guestroom at present. The rest have been sadly neglected. And there is one drawback,’ he admitted calmly, leading the way to the bathroom. ‘You share this bathroom with me.’

He flicked his hand idly towards another door, which presumably led into his bedroom beyond. Emma felt her stomach hollow with a combination of nerves, anger, and something else she couldn’t identify…

‘I’ll be away most of the time. At my chambers in Lincoln’s Inn. I may return some weekends. Will that cause any problems?’ he persisted lazily. The blue gaze was unrelentingly amused.

‘Not unless you expect me to scrub your back?’ she quipped, on a dry laugh.

‘Not part of the deal,’ he agreed, with a grin, ‘although I confess it’s not an unattractive proposition.’ He let his eyes slide deliberately down over her, lingering on her slender throat, the fullness of her breasts beneath the suit jacket.

‘Speak for yourself,’ she muttered, feeling a wave of heat creeping under her skin at his cool arrogance. He was standing about a foot away, but in the intimate confines of the bathroom he was suddenly much too close for her peace of mind. At well over six feet, he towered darkly over her own quite respectable height of five feet eight. With his hands pushed casually into his jacket pockets, his eyes calmly appraising her shaky composure, she was suddenly warmly aware of his masculinity. It conveyed itself so strongly, it seemed to hit her with the force of a tidal wave, a tidal wave of sensuality.

He was a brilliant ‘jury’ lawyer, people said. With her throat drying, she began to see how easily he could project the kind of powerful charisma needed to sway twelve jurors to vote for his client. Dominick was a daunting adversary. Maybe the missing Richard was the weaker of the two sons? Maybe, if the melodramatic notion of avenging her mother’s honour and gaining her share of her inheritance had ever fleetingly occurred to her, her chance of extracting some sort of eye for an eye might have been more successfully directed at Richard, in any case?

‘Are you all right, Miss Stuart?’ He spoke softly, with just the merest hint of humour. She was ensnared in that narrowed blue gaze, and it was all she could do to catch her breath.

‘Yes, I’m fine…’

‘You look hot. Maybe you need some fresh air?’

‘Yes. Maybe I do.’ The look she gave him was politely veiled, but she had the sensation that he’d picked up on her vibrations of bitterness and resentment.

‘Shall we go downstairs again?’

Stiffly, tense with nerves, she passed him as he held open the door, and almost held her breath as her shoulder brushed his chest.

Back down in the hall, Dominick leaned on the edge of the huge square oak table, lovingly polished over the centuries, and regarded her with detached speculation.

‘Subject to your references confirming you’re not a potential burglar or cunning art thief, when did you say you could start, Miss Stuart?’

She thought rapidly. She’d been doing temporary work as a clerical assistant in a county archives office while she waited for an opportunity to make proper use of her post-graduate diploma. She’d have to pay a month’s rent on her bedsit, but at the salary being offered here that wouldn’t present a problem.

‘I…I could probably start a week on Monday.’

He looked unimpressed.

‘Is that the earliest?’

‘What did you expect? That I’d be able to start tomorrow?’ she retorted, with some spirit.

He considered her with a smoulder of amusement.

‘Are you always this…abrasive, Miss Emma Stuart?’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to sound…rude.’

‘That’s better. I like my employees humble, Miss Stuart. Remember that.’

It was difficult to tell if this was his quirky sense of humour talking, or if he actually meant it. Her smile was saccharine-sweet.

‘Oh, I will, Mr Fleetwood.’

‘Then a week on Monday it is,’ he agreed, with an air of finality. He glanced at a slim Rolex on his dusky wrist, and Emma felt dismissed. ‘Mrs Shields will be here to let you in, if I’m tied up in court. Make yourself at home.’

He held out his hand, and she put her own into it with a ridiculous tremor of apprehension.

‘But don’t use up all the hot water on a Friday night,’ he added, with a wicked gleam in his eyes. ‘See you, Miss Stuart…’

Emma escaped into the crunchy gravel sweep of the drive, and dived into her red Renault 5. His hand had seemed to burn her. She was trembling all over. A strong sense of panic was invading every inch of her body.

It wasn’t too late, she told herself desperately as she pressed her foot on the accelerator and left the manor behind. She could still ring and say she didn’t want the job. She could still get herself out of this, before she was in too deep to think straight…

But she did want the job, she realised in dismay. She wanted the job more than she’d ever wanted anything.

When she’d heard that Fleetwood Manor needed an archivist, her first reaction had been one of bitter curiosity, an urgent need to go and see for herself where Sir Robert Fleetwood had wrecked her parents’ lives…

Now all she seemed to be able to think of was the thrill of those ancient documents awaiting discovery in the Fleetwood attics. And Dominick Fleetwood’s mesmerising blue gaze.

She felt angry with herself, and frightened and bewildered by her reaction to the man she’d just met.

And she felt more alone, and more confused than ever…because how, in the name of God, could she feel such a frisson of awareness, such an unmistakable shiver of desire, towards a man who could well be her half-brother…?