Читать книгу Strange Adventure - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 7

‘DEAR Vanessa,’ wrote Lacey, ‘It’s hard to believe that I’ve only been at home for two weeks. It seems much longer. I was so happy to get your letter and know that you really are coming here for Easter. Kings Winston should be at its best by then.’

She laid down her fountain pen and stared reflectively out of the window at the smooth rolling lawn below the terrace. She was finding this letter unexpectedly difficult to write. It was very different from the carefree correspondence that she and Vanessa had enjoyed so far during their schooldays, because there was so much she was forced to leave unsaid.

She couldn’t tell Vanessa how shocked she had been by the change in her father when she had arrived home a fortnight before. Michelle had warned her that he had been ordered to lose weight by his doctors, but this had not prepared her for the stoop in his shoulders and the way his clothes seemed to hang on his tall, once-burly frame. His face too was lined and almost haggard. But it was the subtle alteration in his personality which had most disturbed her. Where he had been bluff and good-humoured, now his temper was uncertain and inclined to be querulous. Michelle handled him with kid-gloves, and Lacey, rather subdued, followed her lead.

She had had little private conversation with her stepmother since the revelations in the car on the way to Paris, but if Michelle was worried about the immediate prospects facing the family, she kept it well concealed. Occasionally her manner seemed slightly abstracted, but that was all. Again, this was something that she could not confide in Vanessa, nor her increasing feeling of uneasiness that there were still things that were being kept from her.

She sighed and put the unfinished letter back inside her writing case. It was a pretty lame effort so far, but they were giving a dinner party that evening and perhaps something would happen there that she could turn into an amusing story for Vanessa.

She was a little surprised as she went up to her room to find Mrs Osborne the housekeeper and one of the women who came in from the village to help with the cleaning engaged in turning out one of the guest bedrooms, and making up the bed. As far as she knew, tonight’s guests were all local people, and she hesitated in the doorway, watching them curiously.

‘Who’s coming to stay, Mrs Osborne?’ she asked at last.

‘Madame didn’t tell me the gentleman’s name, Miss Lacey.’

So it’s a man, Lacey thought as she went on her way. That explained it. It must be one of the bank’s directors, all of whom had been frequent guests in the past. Only the room was obviously being got ready for a single occupant—and all the directors were married men who usually brought their wives with them.

She had hoped the preparations for the dinner would have added a touch of excitement to an existence which had so far proved boring to the point of monotony. But nothing had changed. Her tentative offers of help were waved irritably away by Michelle, who seemed unusually on edge for such an experienced and accomplished hostess.

Lacey, rather huffily, decided she would take herself off to the village. At least Fran Trevor would welcome her help at the stables, she thought defiantly.

But even in this she was thwarted, for when she arrived at the stables, the place was deserted except for the girl who came in a couple of days a week to do the accounts and the bookwork, and she informed Lacey that Miss Trevor had taken out a group of people staying at the Bull who had welcomed the chance of an afternoon’s hacking round lanes and fields. So there was nothing for it but to trudge back to the house again and try to keep out of everyone’s way.

The guest bedroom looked very nice, she thought, poking her head round the door for a critical peep, but Mrs Osborne hadn’t put any flowers in there. It was too early in the year for the gardens to yield very much, but Lacey knew there were some early daffodils in a sheltered corner and she decided to pick some as a welcoming gesture of her own.

But just as she was going into the garden she was stopped by Mrs Osborne with a request to help clean some silver, and it was late in the afternoon by the time she could decently escape and find her flowers. It was pleasant in the garden. The day’s cold wind had dropped at the onset of dusk, and, wrapped warmly in an ancient duffel coat, Lacey enjoyed quite a leisurely stroll before she headed back to the house with her armful of flowers.

She collected a suitable container from the china cupboard, and went upstairs to the bathroom adjoining the guest room where she filled the vase and arranged her blooms. She had overfilled the vase a little and she picked it up with great care, holding it steadily as she opened the door that communicated with the bedroom and stepped forward.

But the room was no longer in its pristinely unoccupied state. There was an expensive leather suitcase open on the bed, clothes spilling out of it carelessly, and beside it a man was standing, stripped to the waist, as Lacey’s stunned eyes immediately registered. She started violently and some of the water in the vase splashed down her faded denim skirt and on to the bedroom carpet.

She was aware of a pair of intensely dark eyes taking her in, from the tangle of pale hair on her shoulders to her drenched skirt and flat shoes. She felt she was being assessed and dismissed, and the colour surged up into her pale skin.

When he spoke, his voice was deep with an intonation that puzzled her. It seemed to hold a faint transatlantic drawl overlaid by a trace of something more foreign, and she wrinkled her brow trying to recognise it until he repeated his remark with a kind of weary patience, that arrested her attention instantly.

‘I said, hadn’t you better get a cloth and mop up that mess?’

Lacey stared at him, dimly aware that she was most certainly not accustomed to being spoken to in that way. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him so, but he was her father’s guest and it was her duty to be courteous however lacking in that respect he himself might be.

She walked over to the chest of drawers, intending to leave her flowers before she went to look for a cloth, but he halted her in her tracks.

‘Are you proposing to put a wet vase down on polished wood? You haven’t a great deal of idea about how to look after antique furniture.’

Lacey’s blood boiled. Of course she knew better than that, but the shock of finding this—creature already installed and half naked had driven her usual common sense from her mind.

He had a shirt in his hand. Why didn’t he put it on and and cover himself up? she thought angrily, looking with dislike at his broad brown chest with the black mat of hair, but that was obviously the last thing on his mind, because just then he rolled the shirt into a ball and tossed it back into the case.

‘I’ll—I’ll just put them on the floor for a moment,’ she said hastily, averting her gaze.

‘Better still, why not take them back where they came from?’ He stood watching her, his hands on his hips. ‘I don’t need flowers in my room, or anywhere around me. I prefer to see them in their natural state.’

Lacey’s eyes held an obvious glint. She said, ‘Then I think I’ll take them to my own room. I don’t happen to share your prejudice.’

He looked at her, his piercing dark eyes narrowed, raking her from head to foot.

‘Does Lady Vernon usually allow her employees your sort of latitude?’ he drawled.

Lacey stood very still, her thoughts whirling. ‘Heavens,’ she thought, a giggle bubbling up inside her which she instantly suppressed, ‘he thinks I’m the upstairs maid or something!’

As if he had read her thoughts, his voice broke in on them with swift abruptness. ‘Just who are you?’

She shrugged, deliberately vague. ‘Oh, I help in the house.’

‘Do you?’ he said, rather grimly. ‘Well, perhaps you’ll go and—help somewhere else. I’m waiting to take a bath—unless you include washing guests’ backs among your duties.’

He began lazily to unbuckle the belt on the dark, close-fitting trousers, and Lacey observed the manoeuvre with alarm, her cheeks already flushed at what his words had implied.

‘I’m sorry to have disturbed your privacy,’ she said rather haughtily, turning abruptly towards the bedroom door to make her escape.

His mocking laugh followed her as she closed the door carefully behind her, and she bit her lip angrily as she walked down the corridor to get to her own room. The encounter had totally disconcerted her. No man had ever spoken to her or looked at her like that before, and she was aware that her pulses had quickened and that her mouth felt oddly dry.

She felt almost vindictively glad to picture his embarrassment when they met again later at her father’s dinner table. It would teach him to jump to conclusions, she told herself. But at the same time she was uncomfortably aware that the arrogant set of those muscular brown shoulders and the assurance of his heavy-lidded eyes had not suggested a man who would embarrass easily, or respond in any of the conventional ways. Lacey had to admit that she would have been happier if he had remained a totally unknown quantity to her—if, in fact, they had never met at all, and the prospect of the dinner party ahead, not to mention the entire weekend that faced her, filled her with a strange sense of dread.

When Lacey emerged from her bath that evening, she was surprised to find her stepmother’s maid waiting for her in her room.

‘Madame’s asked me to put your hair up for you, Miss Lacey,’ Barbara announced, setting a china bowl full of hairpins down on the dressing table.

‘Oh.’ Lacey digested this, a slight frown wrinkling her forehead. She usually wore her hair very simply, either hanging loose on her shoulders or in two bunches, as she had planned to wear it that night, the fastenings masked by small bunches of artificial daisies. The style was intended to complement the simplicity of the deep blue Empire line dress laid across the bed, and she wondered doubtfully whether a more sophisticated style would suit either her or the dress.

But Barbara was certainly skilful, she decided, as she watched the girl’s fingers transform her swathe of hair into a smooth coronet on top of her head, softening the severity of the style with two softly curling strands allowed to rest against her ears. It was the first time she had ever been offered Barbara’s services, which were usually Michelle’s exclusive prerogative and jealously guarded as such, and she wondered curiously why an exception had been made on this particular evening. Nor did Barbara’s ministrations stop at her hair. She gave Lacey a light but effective make-up as well, moisturising her skin and shadowing her eyelids, as well as applying lip gloss to the soft curve of her mouth.

When she had finished, Lacey gazed at herself in astonishment. She hardly recognised herself in this cool, aloof young woman with the mysterious eyes and shining crown of fair hair.

‘There, Miss Lacey.’ Barbara’s tone was plainly self-congratulatory. ‘Now if you’ll just get into your undies, I’ll fetch your dress.’ She handed Lacey a pair of briefs and some filmy tights.

‘Er—thank you, Barbara.’ Lacey flushed a little awkwardly, telling herself that she was perfectly able to dress herself unaided. ‘Where’s the rest of it?’

Barbara stared at her. ‘That’s all, miss. You couldn’t wear anything else with this dress.’

‘But that’s ridiculous. I always have in the past,’ Lacey swung round vexedly on the dressing stool and gasped as she saw the mass of clinging black fabric Barbara was holding carefully over her arm. ‘What’s that?’

‘Your dress, miss.’ Barbara sounded surprised. ‘Didn’t you think it would arrive in time?’

Lacey’s lips parted helplessly as she recognised that Barbara was holding out the daring gown with the minimal bodice that she had seen modelled at Jean Louis.

‘There’s been some mistake,’ she said eventually. ‘That dress is for Madame. I—I couldn’t wear anything like that.’

‘It’s definitely your dress, Miss Lacey. Madame said so when I unpacked the box, and besides, this isn’t her fitting. It must be a little surprise for you,’ she added encouragingly.

Lacey’s lips tightened. ‘Well, I still don’t intend to wear it,’ she declared. ‘Please take it away and bring me my blue dress instead.’

‘But, Miss Lacey,’ Barbara’s voice was anxious, ‘Madame said you had to wear it tonight. I don’t know what she’ll say if …’

‘That isn’t your problem, Barbara,’ Lacey said gently. ‘I’ll see my stepmother before I go down and explain. I’m sure there’s been a mistake of some kind.’

‘Mistake? What mistake?’ Michelle’s cool voice spoke from the doorway. She came gliding across the carpet, elegant in a silver gown, a cigarette held tensely in her fingers, and carrying a glass filled with some pale liquid in her other hand.

‘Miss Lacey doesn’t want to wear the Jean Louis model, madame.’ Barbara sounded subdued, as if she felt she would be blamed for Lacey’s rebellion.

Michelle’s eyebrows rose. ‘Eh bien? You may go, Barbara. I will deal with this.’

When the door had closed behind the girl, she set the glass down on the dressing table near the bowl of daffodils and stood, looking grimly down at her stepdaughter.

‘Were my instructions not clear?’ she asked.

‘Michelle!’ Lacey was totally appalled. ‘You surely can’t expect me to go downstairs wearing—that.’

‘Pourquoi pas?’ Michelle gave her a hard look. ‘It is an an expensive dress, and black will set off your hair and skin admirably.’

Slow colour crept up Lacey’s face. ‘You know why not,’ she protested.

Michelle gave a brief, metallic laugh. ‘A prude, ma chère? You are no longer at the convent, tu sais. Most girls of your age would give much to wear such a dress. What have you to be ashamed of? Your body is young, and your breasts are firm. You have the perfect figure for the gown, which is why I bought it for you. Now please dress yourself in it without further arguments. It is getting late.’

‘But, Michelle, what will people think—what will my father say?’

Michelle shrugged. ‘What should they think? That you look—charming. And your father will say nothing. He not only approves of the gown but he particularly wishes you to wear it tonight.’

‘But why?’

Michelle sighed elaborately. ‘It is his wish that you should make a favourable impression on one of his guests.’

‘By appearing half naked?’ Lacey’s mouth twisted in a sudden cynicism that belied her youth. ‘And who is this very important person—or am I not allowed to ask?’

But as soon as the words were uttered, she knew. There was only one person it could be—the strange man into whose room she had blundered with her unwanted welcome offering of flowers. She felt suddenly cold and sick, remembering how his eyes had assessed her earlier with all the assurance of a man for whom the female body held few secrets. To have to appear in front of him wearing the black dress would be a total humiliation.

‘You asked to be treated as a woman, but you persist in behaving like a child.’ Her stepmother’s tone was icy. ‘His name is Troy Andreakis.’

Lacey had been staring at the bowl of daffodils, trying to fight back her tears, but at the name her head came up sharply and she stared at Michelle disbelievingly.

‘The oil and shipping magnate? But what is he doing here? He has no interest in Vernon–Carey.’

‘Not yet.’ Michelle picked up a hairbrush and studied it with over-absorbed interest. ‘Yet—who knows? By the time the weekend is at an end …’ She shrugged again, leaving the sentence unfinished.

Lacey stared at her bewildered. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Oh, it’s quite simple, ma chère. A large-scale investment by a man of Andreakis’ status would restore confidence in Vernon–Carey. Without it, there could well be a catastrophe—quite soon.’

Lacey gripped the edge of the dressing table. ‘Things are that bad?’ she managed, her green eyes enormous in her pale face.

‘They are that bad,’ Michelle corroborated tautly. ‘And, believe me, there are no lengths to which I will not go to ensure that your father gets that investment from Andreakis. That is why, ma chère, you are going to wear that dress tonight, because you are going to help me—you are going to be an asset to your father for the first time in your life instead of a liability.’

Lacey flinched a little, but her stepmother went on unheeding. ‘This is why you are being dressed as an attractive woman, instead of a child. A man like Andreakis does not want to dine in the company of a gawky schoolgirl. You once hoped to occupy a concert platform, and for that you would have needed an ability to act, to project your personality as well as your music. Tonight your father needs that performance from you. He wants you to relax Andreakis, to charm him if you can.’

Lacey closed her eyes for a moment. Now was not the time to confess that she and Troy Andreakis had already encountered and failed to charm each other. Would the transformation from gawky schoolgirl to sophisticate be sufficiently complete to render her unrecognisable? She doubted it, and knew that she was going to need every scrap of social grace that had been imparted to her at the convent to get through the evening without disaster.

‘If it’s what Daddy wants,’ she said wearily, at last.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say precisely that.’ Michelle’s voice was ironic. ‘But he appreciates the necessity at least, and he is depending on you.’ Her eyes skimmed Lacey’s wilting figure appraisingly. ‘Barbara has done her work well. Make sure you do the same. Now please hurry. The others will be arriving soon.’

As she turned to go, she indicated the glass on the dressing table. ‘Pour toi. For you—a dry Martini,’ she said.

‘But I only drink fruit juice,’ Lacey protested.

Michelle smiled a little. ‘Call it Dutch courage. You may need it.’ And she was gone on a cloud of Balmain perfume.

Lacey tasted the drink gingerly, grimacing slightly at the taste, but it had a warming effect which served to chase away some of the unpleasant butterflies which appeared to have taken up residence in her abdomen.

When she was finally ready, she stood and stared at herself in the full-length mirror, resisting an impulse to cover the upper part of her body with her hands. It was true, she thought detachedly—she did not have to be ashamed of her figure. The stark black of the material made her white skin look almost translucent and gave her slender curves a frank enticement. She just prayed that her untried poise would be able to cope with the promise of almost total revelation that the gown exuded.

But in spite of its provocation, and the sophistication of her shadowed eyes, glowing mouth and softly piled hair, Lacey felt desperately inadequate. Unwillingly she forced her mind back to that earlier encounter, visualising the ruthlessness of his dark face. Not a man who would suffer fools gladly, she surmised, and one for whom a woman would need more than a glossy façade to arouse his interest. What could she find to say that would engage the attention of a man like Andreakis?

With a little groan, she tried to think of what little she knew about him—mostly gleaned from rare newspaper stories, and generally illustrating his loathing of personal publicity. But there had been a story recently—something to do with litigation over a trusteeship involving his young sister— which he had won, she recalled with a slight curl of her lip. She could remember there had been pictures of his beautiful villa on the Ionian island of Theros, taken presumably with a long-range lens out of respect for his dislike of the Press. She could recall gossipy items, too, about beautiful women who had been his guests on Theros for varying periods of time.

A little shiver ran through her body. She felt like a novice swimmer who suddenly finds the water too deep, and too cold.

She gave a shaky little sigh and turned reluctantly towards the door. Better to make her entrance downstairs as inconspicuous as possible than linger, and have Michelle coming in search of her.

As she came slowly down the wide, polished staircase to the hall, Mrs Osborne was just admitting a latecomer. As he shugged off his overcoat and handed it to the housekeeper, Lacey realised it was Alan Trevor and in spite of herself she felt a wave of self-conscious colour rising in her face and had to crush an impulse to turn and run back to her room.

When she spoke, she was amazed to hear how normal, even prim, she sounded. ‘Good evening, Alan.’

He swung round. ‘Er—hello, Lacey. Am I the last? I had to stay behind because the vet was coming to look at Domino. She’s due to foal any time, but he doesn’t think there’ll be anything doing tonight.’

‘Well, I’m glad you were able to make it.’ She moved forward from the foot of the stairs, aware that his eyes were taking in the transformation in her appearance with evident puzzlement. ‘Is something the matter?’ She looked up at him innocently.

‘No—oh, no. It’s just …’ He stared down at her, frowning a little. ‘Hell, Lacey, what have you done to yourself?’

‘Don’t you approve?’

‘No—yes. I don’t know.’ He pushed his hair back impatiently. ‘What’s more important, will your parents approve? I mean, have they seen that dress?’

‘Of course.’ Lacey twirled round slowly, letting the filmy skirt float out and settle back against her slender legs. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘Oh, it’s fine—what there is of it,’ he said, heavily sarcastic. ‘And black. I’ve never seen you in black before.’

‘And you don’t like it?’

‘I wouldn’t say that. It just takes a bit of getting used to.’ His eyes went over her again. They held censure and something less easy to define. ‘You just look so—different.’

‘Well, I can’t always wear jeans and gymslips,’ she said defensively. ‘I have to grow up some time.’

‘We all have to do that,’ he muttered. ‘Come on. We’d better go in.’ He offered her his arm with a strange formality.

‘Oh, Alan!’ She ignored the gesture, slipping her hand into his with all the confidence of long familiarity. ‘I haven’t changed that much, believe me. I’m the same person I always was.’

‘Are you, Lacey?’ He gave her fingers a quick squeeze. ‘I guess I’ll just have to take your word for it.’

She was glad she did not have to enter the drawing room by herself. Even though her appearance did not cause the sensation she had feared, she was conscious of a number of curious glances, particularly from guests who had known her since childhood. There was admiration mixed with the curiosity too from most of the men, and after a moment or two Lacey felt some of the tension begin to leave her body. Alan released her hand, murmuring that he would fetch her a drink, and she stood alone, looking round the room and returning smiling nods and greetings.

Then she saw him. He was standing by the ornate marble mantelpiece, his arm casually resting along the shelf. He seemed to be paying minute attention to the glowing butt of his cheroot, but as if aware of her scrutiny he raised his head, and their eyes met across the room. Lacey felt the polite smile fading on her lips as she encountered his look. It held recognition bordering on disbelief, and a frankly sensual assessment that brought the colour flaring to her face and an angry light to her eyes. For a moment she stood motionless, then, as she saw him fling the remains of his cheroot on to the blazing logs in the hearth and move away from the fireplace in one swift impatient movement, she realised he was coming towards her and panicked, turning towards the door, regardless of the curious glances she was attracting from the group of people nearest to her.

But the way was blocked by Mrs Osborne’s comfortable figure, telling Michelle that dinner was served, and escape was impossible. She gave a swift glance around, searching vainly for Alan, as her father reached her side.

‘So there you are, Lacey.’ She knew she was not imagining the impatient, anxious note in his voice and turned towards him reluctantly. ‘Mr Andreakis has been waiting to meet you, my dear.’

Her hand was encompassed by lean, brown fingers. It was the most conventional of salutes, so it was nonsense to imagine that she could still feel the pressure of his hand, long after he had released her. Dry-throated, she acknowledged his greeting in a small husky voice, registering that he was treating her as a complete stranger although there was no doubt that he had recognised her from that brief encounter in his room earlier. She supposed she should be grateful to him for saving them both from awkward explanations, but whereas she had hoped to be able to make him feel foolish, she now felt at a disadvantage. Resentment kept her silent as he took her arm and escorted her into the dining room, holding her chair as she sat down with a courtesy that she was certain masked—what? Something as simple as mockery? She could not be sure and it irked her as she unfolded the exquisite damask napkin, and picked up her soup spoon.

To her relief, Michael Fairclough, a leading member of the local hunt, was her other neighbour at the table and she was able to start a conversation with him about the forthcoming point-to-point, even pretend for a while that the dark, sardonic figure at her other side did not exist, but a glacial look from Michelle at the end of the table brought her up with a jerk, reminding her of her duties. She turned towards him to find, disconcertingly, that he was watching her. Her colour rose, and the trite remark she had been planning on the weather prospects for the weekend died on her lips.

Wonderingly her eyes searched his face, marking the strongly arched eyebrows above those impenetrably dark eyes, and the hard lines of his mouth and jaw. In spite of the formal elegance of dinner jacket and befrilled white shirt, she was aware of the muscular strength of the chest and shoulders they concealed, and the air of restless, barely controlled energy that suggested these civilised trappings were merely a veneer.

‘Do you read characters from faces, Miss Vernon?’

Her nerves jumped both at the appositeness of his question, and at the realisation that she had been guilty of staring at him.

She shook her head, transferring her gaze swiftly back to her plate.

‘You must think me very rude,’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

‘You’re no thought-reader either.’ He picked up his glass and drank some of the wine it contained. ‘You’ve barely touched yours,’ he commented. ‘It’s hardly a compliment to such a fine vintage.’

‘I—I don’t know a great deal about wine,’ she confessed, and his brows rose.

‘No? I would have thought such occasions as this would have been second nature to you.’

Was that an edge to his voice or was it her imagination running riot again? she wondered desperately. His remark proved one thing at least—Michelle’s outward grooming of her had been impeccable. He obviously thought she was much older than she was. Now all she had to do was to live up to that belief—provide him with the light-hearted flirtation that he would expect from a female companion at dinner.

‘Perhaps I find wine of less interest than people,’ she ventured, making herself smile at him.

‘And some people of more interest than others,’ he said, and this time there was no mistaking the satirical note in his voice. ‘It’s a pity, for example, that I don’t share Mr—er—Fairclough’s interest in hunting matters. Perhaps that might make me more acceptable to you as a companion.’

Oh God, what a mess she was making of it all! Lacey put down her knife and fork, feeling she would choke if she took another mouthful. She realised her father was watching them, a slight anxious frown wrinkling his forehead, and she felt a pang of self-recrimination as she realised the stress he was undergoing and the importance that the success of this weekend had assumed his mind. Somehow she must make an effort to do and be what he wanted, and to win over this unsmiling man who was totally outside her admittedly limited experience.

Frantically she searched her memory for some of the scraps of worldly wisdom that the girls at the convent had let drop when they were recounting the details of their latest conquests. Hadn’t someone said it was sexy to look straight into a man’s eyes as you smiled at him? Deliberately she caught and held his gaze, allowing her eyes to widen endlessly while her mouth curved slowly into warmth and charm.

‘Horses aren’t my sole preoccupation,’ she protested with a little shrug.

For a moment as he returned her look unwaveringly, she thought painfully that she had failed, then he smiled too—a cynical twist of her lips, but a smile—and lifted his glass to her in a toast to which she was forced to respond.

‘My last doubt is removed,’ he said musingly.

‘Doubt?’ Lacey looked at him from under her lashes, a favourite trick of Vanessa’s.

‘That you and I will eventually find a topic that will arouse the—interest of us both.’

A little quiver of uncertainty jangled the nerve-endings along her spine and curled around the nape of her neck. Almost involuntarily she lifted her hand to rub her neck, and remembered too late the revealing nature of her dress. She hurriedly folded her hands in her lap again, stealing a glance at Troy Andreakis, but his attention seemed to be centred on his wine glass.

‘Is this your first visit to Kings Winston, Mr Andreakis?’ Surely that was a safe subject.

‘No, I was here last autumn, but only for a day or two. I am glad to have a chance of a longer visit so that I can see something of the surrounding countryside.’

Lacey’s heart sank. It seemed that his visit might not be confined to simply a weekend after all.

‘I’m surprised at your interest. I didn’t picture you as a nature-lover,’ she said more tartly than she had intended.

His mouth curled slightly again. ‘Because I rejected your flowers? On the contrary, I can appreciate beauty as well as any man. However’—the dark eyes swept over her again—‘as I said, I prefer it in its natural state.’ Her eyes met his, frankly indignant, and he laughed softly. ‘What a creature of contrasts you are, pethi mou—from gamine to femme fatale in the course of an hour or so. What is real about you, I wonder, and what is an illusion?’

She was thankful that the arrival of the sweet course diverted his attention momentarily and gave her a chance to regain her equilibrium. So much for Michelle’s efforts to transform her, she thought wretchedly. The scheme had been doomed to failure from the start. She simply did not have the poise and confidence to hoodwink a man like Troy Andreakis. She was staring miserably at the untouched portion of Crème Chantilly on her plate when she realised he was speaking to her again.

‘I think you owe me something for spilling water all over my bedroom and then running away,’ he said. ‘I’m willing to settle for a tour of the local beauty spots in your company tomorrow—unless you object and prefer to buy my silence in some other way.’

‘I don’t object,’ she said rather woodenly. ‘It—it will be delightful.’

There was a disturbing pause while he looked at her again with that faint, cynical amusement.

‘You know,’ he said softly, ‘you have almost convinced me that it will be.’

She was thankful that her family still adhered to the old custom of leaving the men to enjoy brandy and cigars while the women drank coffee in the drawing room. She was kept busy handing round cups and when everyone was served found herself a seat beside Fran Trevor, who was looking like a vivacious robin in her long cherry-coloured dress.

‘Hello, love,’ she exclaimed as Lacey sat down. ‘What a gorgeous dress! Is that what comes of having a French stepmother? I envy you, if so. Mother took one look at me in this and started muttering direly about modesty vests—whatever they are.’

Lacey sighed. ‘I think my sympathies are with your mother,’ she said uncomfortably. ‘I feel an absolute fool.’

Fran looked at her shrewdly. ‘Well, I assure you, you don’t look one. And that terrifying Mr Andreakis obviously didn’t think so. I’m glad he’s your guest, and not ours. I wouldn’t have a clue what to say to him. Does he ride, by the way?’

‘I don’t think so. He—he said he wasn’t interested in hunting, at any rate.’

Fran shrugged. ‘Ah well, you can’t have everything. Are you going to come and exercise Starlight for me tomorrow? I’m going to be tied up with these people from the Bull.’

Lacey gave a little groan. ‘Oh Fran, I wish I could, but I’m committed to going for a drive with Mr Andreakis.’

Fran whistled humorously. ‘I should be so committed! Honestly, love, you are the limit. Pursued by millionaires and still you look glum!’

Lacey wanted to tell her that the pursuit was actually being conducted from the opposite quarter, but she had to remain silent. She had learned long ago not to chatter indiscreetly about Vernon–Carey matters. Instead she shrugged carelessly.

‘I’m his host’s daughter. I suppose he feels he has to be polite.’

‘Hmm.’ Fran eyed her. ‘I wonder if he’d be as “polite” if you had a squint and legs like tree-trunks. Besides, people like Andreakis don’t have to bother with things like politeness. They deal in power, and that’s what matters in their world.’

And in mine, Lacey thought rebelliously.

She walked over to replace a cup on the tray, and encountered a taut glance from Michelle. ‘Eh bien?’

Lacey gave a slight shrug. ‘I’ve done as I was told. I suppose it’s too much to hope that I can be given my freedom for the rest of the evening.’

Michelle’s eyes snapped. ‘Are you quite mad?’ she questioned glacially. ‘What would our guests think if you were to disappear in the middle of the evening? Besides, I have already been asked if you will play for us later. Everyone will be most disappointed if you refuse.’

Lacey bent her head defeatedly. At least if she was at the piano, it would release her from close attendance on Troy Andreakis.

‘Very well,’ she agreed listlessly. ‘Is it all right if I go to my room for some aspirin? I have a slight headache.’

‘Certainement. You are by no means a prisoner. Please do not dramatise the situation.’ Michelle gave her a final, inimical look before turning to smile graciously at Mrs Taylor who was approaching them.

Lacey was glad to escape from the stuffiness of the drawing room. Michelle, who loathed the British climate, invariably had the central heating turned full on in the winter months and tonight was no exception. She was walking rather wearily across the hall when she heard the sound of chairs being moved and a crescendo of voices as the dining room door was opened. Lacey picked up her long skirt and fled up the stairs. She had no wish to be caught loitering in the hall—by anyone, she thought crossly as she safely gained the upper landing.

It was with a real sense of refuge that she reached her bedroom. Her fingers had just closed on the handle of her bedroom door when the voice she least wanted to hear spoke lazily just behind her.

‘Running out on the party, Miss Vernon?’

She swung round, her heart thudding in sudden ridiculous panic.

‘You followed me,’ she accused before she could stop herself, then stood, aghast at what she had said, conscious that his lips were twisting in faint amusement.

‘Alas, no,’ he murmured. ‘I was lured here by my cigarette case, not by your charms, Miss Vernon, potent though they are.’

His eyes went over her with a kind of lingering insolence that made her want to cover her body with her hands.

‘I’m sorry,’ she managed at last. ‘If you would excuse me …’

His hand closed over hers, preventing her from opening her bedroom door.

‘You haven’t answered my question yet,’ he reminded her.

‘Question?’ she repeated lamely, then flushed as she remembered. ‘No, I’m not “running out”. I have a headache, and I’ve come to get something for it.’

‘I am desolated to hear it,’ he said with a complete absence of expression. ‘May I recommend prevention rather than cure as a policy for the future.’

‘Prevention?’ she echoed bewilderedly.

‘My advice would be to avoid alcohol, to which you are patently not accustomed.’ His tone was smooth. ‘Also hair styles which rely for their effectiveness on quantities of hairpins.’

Her hand was released, and she recoiled instinctively as she felt his hands moving with detestable assurance among the lacquered coils of her hair.

‘What are you doing?’ She sounded breathless and very young, and saw his teeth gleam suddenly in a smile.

‘Curing your headache,’ he replied laconically, and Lacey tensed as the long shining strands, released from their restraint, spilled past her shoulders.

‘Oh!’ She lifted a helpless hand to check on the complete ruin of Barbara’s careful creation. ‘Oh, how dare you!’

‘Oh, I dare.’ Totally ignoring her flushed face and eyes filled with angry tears, he reached out and lifted one gleaming tendril between his finger and thumb. ‘You have hair like silk, pethi mou, why not take pride in it, instead of torturing it into shapes that only serve to make you look older than the child you are.’

‘I’m not a child!’ she defended herself hotly, forcing herself to forget all her own misgivings about her appearance that night.

‘Aren’t you?’ he said sardonically. He let the long tress of hair fall back on her shoulder, and his fingers followed it to touch the curve of her throat in a caress that, although fleeting, seemed to burn her flesh. A long tremulous quiver shook her body, and, dazed, she heard him laugh softly as if he was quite aware of her reaction. His hand moved almost inexorably along her shoulder to the wide, soft folds of the shoulder-strap which constituted half of her bodice, and she tensed unbelievingly, her eyes flying to his face in swift, outraged denial, as she felt him begin to slide the material aside.

‘No!’ she got out, pulling herself away almost wildly from the intimate exploration of his touch.

‘Why not?’ His voice was quiet but with an underlying sensuous warmth that disturbed her as much as the frank appraisal in his dark eyes. ‘Your room is here, and I can guarantee no one would disturb us.’

‘You’re—insulting.’ Her voice shook uncontrollably.

‘How have you been insulted? I’ve merely credited your intelligence by making my intentions clear, instead of merely seducing you as I might have done.’

‘I think you must be mad!’ Backed against the door, her shoulders pressed against its panels as if she would draw some reserve of strength from its solidarity, she looked incredibly young and defenceless. ‘I think your previous—conquests must have gone to your head, Mr Andreakis.’

He laughed. ‘How charmingly old-fashioned! I don’t look for conquests, however. Submissiveness is the last quality I look for when I take a woman to my bed.’

‘That is no concern of mine,’ she said, lifting her chin with a kind of forlorn dignity. ‘But I am afraid you will have to look elsewhere for your latest—seduction.’

‘Andithetos, pethi mou,’ he said, almost gently, then, as she tried to slip past him, to return to safety and sanity downstairs, his hands reached for her, bruising her bare arms and dragging her with merciless strength against the hardness of his body. For a long moment he held her, writhing impotently in his grip, while his eyes searched her face as if he was etching her features on some inner consciousness, then his mouth came down on hers, parting her lips with sensual ruthlessness and destroying for ever any innocent illusions she might have had about what a kiss would be.

When he let her go, Lacey stood motionless for a moment, her eyes enormous with shock in her pale face, then she pressed her hand almost convulsively over her swollen mouth and ran from him, only to collide with someone else standing at the head of the stairs.

‘Lacey!’ Michelle’s voice was taut. ‘Where have you been for this age?’ Her eyes narrowed as they swept over her stepdaughter. ‘Mon dieu, your hair! What have you done …’

‘It was my doing, Lady Vernon.’ Troy Andreakis joined them unhurriedly, his dark face cool and imperturbable, leaving Lacey wondering dazedly whether she had merely imagined the last few outrageous moments. ‘A sovereign remedy for headaches—passed down in our family for generations.’

His eyes, faint amusement in their depths, seemed to challenge Lacey, daring her to take exception to his behaviour. She turned impulsively to her stepmother and paused, whatever protest she had planned to make trembling unsaid upon her lips, hardly able to believe the unmistakable look of triumph she had surprised on Michelle’s face. Lacey realised then what Troy Andreakis had meant when he had told her that they would not be disturbed. Michelle knew already all that there was to know, and condoned it, as if she had been an actual witness to that shattering kiss. Lacey felt cold and sick. And would Michelle also have condoned the lovemaking which would have been the most probable aftermath to the kiss, if she had not made her escape? It seemed only too likely.

Michelle gave a little smile. ‘It seems to have been very successful,’ she said smoothly. ‘But perhaps you should tidy yourself a little, ma petite, before you join us downstairs. We are all waiting to hear you play.’

Lacey murmured something unintelligible and fled to her room. Some ten minutes later she stood back and looked at her reflection. It was as if the clock had been turned back and the girl who stood there slim and straight in her deep blue dress, with the long silver-blonde hair brushed straight and shining over her shoulders, was the only one who had existed that evening. As she turned away, her foot caught the crumpled folds of the discarded black dress lying on the floor. For a moment she hesitated, then, as anger and humiliation welled up inside her again, she bent and picked it up, wrenching at the delicate fabric until it tore irretrievably. With a grim smile, she let it drop back to the floor. She would never be forced into that particular charade again, she vowed.

From now on, any contest would be played according to her rules, she told herself defiantly, then shivered as in spite of herself the dark relentless face of her adversary forced itself into her mind, and her fingers strayed almost wonderingly to the softness of her mouth which he had made so totally his own.

In her little talks on morals to the girls at the convent, Reverend Mother had always stressed that a girl’s best protection was her own innocence, yet hers had proved at best the shakiest of defences, Lacey thought bitterly. And even Reverend Mother had not visualised a situation where that innocence might be placed on sale to a man like Troy Andreakis.

She gave a little trembling sigh. All she could hope to do was keep out of his way as much as possible and see to it that she was never alone with him again. After all, he would not be staying at Kings Winston for ever, and soon, very soon, she would never have to set eyes on him again.