Kitabı oku: «The Longest Pleasure»

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

Copyright

PROLOGUE

IT had been the best summer Helen could ever remember. Walking across the stackyard, feeling the sun beating down on her bare shoulders, she thought how perfect it had been. Long, lazy days of sunshine, weather more reminiscent of the South of France than the West of England. Since she had come home from school six weeks ago, she had wakened every morning to blue skies and dewy air, and a shimmer of mist rising from the fields around Castle Howarth.

Castle Howarth. Helen smiled. Her grandmother’s country home, and her home too since her parents had both been drowned on a sailing trip when she was little more than a baby. It wasn’t really a castle; just a rather rambling mansion much too large for one old lady and the few servants she still retained.

When she was younger, Helen had thought it was the most marvellous place imaginable, a veritable rabbit-warren of rooms and passages, ideal for games of hide-and-seek, and sardines, and for letting off steam on rainy winter afternoons. She could even remember riding her bicycle along those winding corridors, losing herself in the maze of halls and galleries that surrounded the music room, and the drawing rooms, and the fantastic mirror-lined ballroom where Nan used to dance when she had first been presented.

Of course, she had grown out of such things now, Helen reflected idly, picking up a straw and putting it between her teeth. These days, she was much too old for childish games, even though the temptation to slide down the banisters from time to time still existed. But, at fifteen, she had become aware of herself as a young woman, and other interests had claimed her attention.

Rafe Fleming, for instance, she acknowledged dreamily, the corners of her generous mouth tilting in an unknowingly sensual smile. She would never have believed she would ever like him, let alone seek his company at every opportunity. Which just went to prove she had grown up at last, she decided. She could meet him now on equal terms. She was no longer the poor-little-rich-girl he loved to torment.

She supposed she must have been about four years old when she first met Rafe Fleming. Her parents had been dead for almost a year, and gradually she had begun to adapt to her new life at Castle Howarth. Things had not been so different, except that now she lived in the country, instead of in London. Miss Paget still looked after her, and as her parents had always lived full social lives, she didn’t miss them as much as she might have done. She had probably been a rather precocious child, she reflected ruefully; spoilt, certainly, and inclined to expect her own way in all things, due no doubt to the fact that she had had no brothers or sisters.

Her first encounter with Rafe took place in the gazebo. After spending a rather lonely winter couped up in the house, she had been granted permission by her grandmother to play in the gardens. Wrapped up warmly against the cool April air, she had been walking her dolls in the rose garden when she had espied the domed, ornamental roof of the summer-house. Set beyond a hedge of cypresses, it had looked exactly like an enchanted castle to the infant Helen, and it had been something of an anti-climax to find it was already occupied. A boy of perhaps ten or eleven was sprawled on the floor of the gazebo, reading, and Helen had regarded him without liking and with a definite air of superiority.

‘Who are you?’

The boy started, evidently unused to being disturbed, but with the advantage of hindsight, Helen realised he had not immediately jumped to the offensive. ‘Rafe Fleming,’ he answered. ‘Who’re you?’

‘I’m Helen Michaels. Lady Elizabeth Sinclair’s granddaughter!’ Helen remembered the words now with a grimace of distaste. ‘This is my house, and my garden. And I want you to go.’

‘Do you?’ Rafe had made no attempt to obey her childish instructions, rolling on to his back and supporting himself on his elbows, regarding her with what she now knew had been a mixture of humour and insolence. ‘Well, well! And are you going to make me?’

He had been good-looking even in those days, Helen reflected. Tall for his age, with lean features and ash-fair hair, and thin wrists jutting from the sleeves of his jerkin. But she had not realised it then. At that moment, she had wanted nothing so much as for her grandmother to appear and order him out of the summer-house. Little as she was, she knew she had no chance of displacing him herself, and the longer he lay regarding her with narrowed mocking eyes, the more frustrated she became.

‘You’re not s’posed to be here,’ she insisted, standing her ground, but Rafe was not impressed.

‘Get lost,’ he retorted, turning back to the magazine he had been reading, and it was all Helen could do not to stamp her foot in fury.

Of course, she had been obliged to leave him then, with tears welling up in her eyes and threatening to disgrace her. But she had gone straight to her grandmother and reported the matter to her, secure in the knowledge that Nan would sort it out.

However, her grandmother had proved to have a blind spot where Rafe Fleming was concerned. ‘I expect you startled him,’ she assured her indignant granddaughter, after drying Helen’s tears and consoling her with a stick of aniseed. ‘After all, Rafe has lived at Castle Howarth most of his life, and I suppose he feels he has a privileged position. His father works for me, you see, darling, and until you came, there were no other children on the estate.’

Helen didn’t see how that gave him the right to order her about, but her grandmother would not be pressed, and in the weeks and months that followed, her resentment grew. He always seemed to be around when she didn’t want him, teasing her and mocking her, and making fun of her, particularly when she attempted to put him in his place. That first encounter had set the seal on their relationship, and nothing she could say or do could change the situation. Which was a pity because she liked Mr Fleming, her grandmother’s estate manager, and Rafe’s adopted father.

She had learned Rafe was adopted quite by accident one afternoon, when she came upon her grandmother talking to him by the lily pond. Lady Elizabeth was asking how he was getting on at school, and Rafe was admitting, not without some aggression, that he wasn’t interested in education.

‘Why not?’ Lady Elizabeth wanted to know, and Helen, crouched behind the rhododendrons, listened with some amazement to his reply.

‘Why should I be?’ he had countered indifferently, plucking the head off one of the blooms hanging above his head, and shredding its delicate petals. ‘You don’t need any brains to plough a field or muck out the cowshed! What do I want with learning? I can pick up all I need to know right here.’

Helen had been shocked that he should dare to speak to her grandmother so insolently. She had waited in anticipation for Lady Elizabeth to tell him to apologise, maybe even to box his ears—an expression Paget was prone to use, when referring to a more corporal form of punishment—but her grandmother did neither. Instead, she had laid a hand on Rafe’s shoulder, and said quietly:

‘You’re going to Kingsmead, and there’s an end of it. The Flemings may have adopted you, but you are not going to waste the brain God has given you. I’ve spoken to Tom. Term starts in September. Be ready.’

After that, Helen had some peace, in term time at least. Kingsmead, she learned, was the local boys’ public school, and although Rafe did not board, he was too busy with homework and school activities to spend much time baiting her. For her part, she attended a kindergarten in the nearby town of Yelversley, and then, when she was old enough, she was sent to a girls’ school in Kent.’

‘Why do I have to board?’ she had objected, when she first learned of her grandmother’s plans. ‘Rafe Fleming doesn’t. Why can’t I go to Ladymead?’

‘Because you are my granddaughter, and your mother went to St Agnes,’ replied Lady Elizabeth firmly. ‘Now, run along and take Hector for a walk, there’s a good girl. He’s getting fat and lazy, and I don’t have the energy to take him out as often as I should.’

Hector was her grandmother’s pekinese, a fluffy scrap of orange-coloured fur, who could still terrorise the postman when he chose. Curiously enough, the dog had never gone for Rafe’s ankles, even though he had called Hector a lot of unsavoury names. He preferred real dogs, he once told her, when she had run across him exercising his father’s golden retriever at the same time she was taking Hector for a walk. Not poor imitations, he had added, laughing at her flushed resentful face, and Helen had wished she had a Dobermann, with all the instincts of a killer.

Then, three years ago, Rafe had gone to university in Warwick. To begin with, Helen had not noticed much difference. He was still home for the holidays when she was—at Christmas and Easter, at least—and although at Christmas they didn’t have much contact, she had been aware of him watching her with a distinctly jaundiced eye, when she helped her grandmother distribute the gifts at the party Lady Elizabeth gave for the estate workers. Helen knew he would not have been there at all had her grandmother not asked him to help with the tree. But she had, and afterwards he had been obliged to stay, unable to make his escape without offending the old lady.

The Easter following, he was home again, but this time he was not alone. He had brought another young man with him; one of his friends from college, her grandmother informed her, after granting the boys permission to use the tennis court. ‘You don’t mind, do you, Helen?’ she ventured, as an afterthought. ‘I’m sure they’d give you a game, too, if you asked them.’

Helen would have cut off her right arm before asking Rafe Fleming for anything, but her grandmother was not to know that. So far as the old lady was concerned, their initial antagonism towards one another had long since been forgotten, and Helen knew she would have been most disturbed if she had suspected the hatred her granddaughter still felt towards the young man she obviously favoured. Though why her grandmother should favour Rafe, when he treated her so offhandedly, Helen couldn’t imagine. She could only assume it was her friendship with Tom Fleming that gave his adopted son such licence.

When she arrived home for the summer holidays, however, Helen discovered Rafe was not there. He had taken a job in France for three months, her grandmother told her, a faint trace of disapproval in her voice, and Helen guessed the old lady was disappointed because he had not chosen to work for her.

For her part, Helen had mixed emotions. She was delighted Rafe was not to be around, of course, but she bitterly regretted the impulse she had had to invite one of her schoolfriends to spend the vacation with her. Tracy Grant’s mother was dead, and her father lived and worked in Central America. Because there was trouble there at the moment, Mr Grant had suggested Tracy should spend the holiday at school, and Helen had seized on Tracy’s dilemma as the solution to her problems.

However, once she discovered Rafe was not to be around, Helen’s doubts took root. She discovered there was a world of difference between a friendship formed in school—compounded by school activities and school discipline—and one that relied on a genuine liking for one another and a shared enjoyment of mutual interests.

Helen and Tracy, it transpired, had little in common. Having been brought up in the country, Helen enjoyed country pursuits. She rode well; she enjoyed taking long walks with the dogs; she had a natural love of nature. Tracy didn’t. Her interest in animals only stretched to the mink coat she intended to own one day, and horses frankly terrified her.

Helen liked sports, too. She played hockey and tennis at school; she belonged to the local squash club; and she had even learned how to play golf, after accompanying her grandmother to the club for the past three years. Which was just as well, she had reflected on occasion. Having a weakness for stodgy foods, she found getting plenty of exercise helped to alleviate its effects, and she often put on leg-warmers and a leotard and worked-out until her body was soaked with sweat.

Tracy, meanwhile, was unnaturally thin, and any kind of physical activity bored her. She liked nothing so much as to lie on the couch watching television all day, eating sweets, or surreptitiously puffing on the forbidden cigarettes she bought at the shop in town. She would have bought them in the village, except that Helen had objected. She knew if her grandmother discovered Tracy smoked there would be the devil to pay, and she seemed to spend her time that summer flapping her arms in rooms where Tracy had been, trying to get rid of the smoke.

The worst moment had come when Rafe had arrived home the weekend before all of them were due to return to their studies. He had obviously turned up to spend a few days with his parents before going back to college, but apparently he felt obliged to come up to the house to see Lady Elizabeth.

It was a wet day at the end of September, and for once Helen was confined to the house, too. Tracy had been watching television, as usual, but she had joined Helen on the window-seat only moments before Rafe came riding up the drive on his motorbike. Helen hadn’t even known he had a motorbike, and she watched with almost as much interest as Tracy as he flicked down the metal rest and parked the bike on the gravelled forecourt before approaching the house.

He was wearing leathers, and the slick black material suited his dark complexion. As he crossed the forecourt, he tipped his chin and removed the concealing helmet, and Tracy’s lips parted as his silky thatch of silvery pale hair was revealed.

‘Who’s that?’ she exclaimed, pressing her face against the windows, and as she did so, Rafe looked up and saw them. Helen wanted to die at the look of derision that marred his lean features as he recognised her. Then, he lifted his hand in a mocking salute before disappearing through the gate that led into the yard at the back of the building.

She didn’t see him again, even though Tracy grew very impatient at her obstinacy. ‘Just because you’ve got some kind of grudge against him doesn’t mean I can’t find him attractive, does it?’ she argued angrily. ‘The first decent boy I’ve seen since I came to this dump, and you won’t even introduce me!’

‘Introduce yourself,’ retorted Helen tightly, holding on to her temper with difficulty. ‘And in case you hadn’t noticed, he’s not a boy; he’s a man! He’s nineteen, Tracy. Hardly likely to be interested in a kid of thirteen!’

The Christmas after, Helen herself didn’t come home. She spent the holiday skiing in Switzerland, and then joined her grandmother at an hotel in London for a long weekend before returning to St Agnes. At Easter, she didn’t see Rafe at all, and the summer after that, Rafe again found employment on the continent.

By the time this summer had come round, Helen had begun to believe there was to be no further contact between herself and Rafe Fleming. Oh, she had occasionally seen him when she was home, but only from a distance, and it was years since they had had any real conversation. He was twenty-one now, of course, and probably past the age when he could take a delight in making fun of her. In any case, she was older too, and she firmly believed that nothing he said could ever affect her again.

Until this summer, that is. Chewing ruminatively on the straw between her teeth, Helen had to admit that she had been wrong. But wrong in the nicest possible way, she amended. From the minute she had seen him at Yelversley station, sent, he told her, by her grandmother to meet her off the train, she had been aware of him in a way that was entirely new to her. To date, she had had little to do with the opposite sex, and she had listened with wonder to the stories her schoolfriends told about boys they had gone out with. It had seemed to her a great deal of fuss over nothing, and she had adapted to her maturing body’s needs without even considering the emotional upheaval taking place inside her. But that was before she met Rafe again.

It had all been so amazing, thought Helen now, wrapping her arms about herself in an excess of excitement. She had been dismayed when she saw him, and yet as soon as he spoke to her, as soon as he showed he didn’t regard her as a child any longer, everything had changed.

Of course, she had been suspicious at first. Who wouldn’t be? The boy who had pulled her hair and hid her toys and called her names was still too fresh in her thoughts. But when Rafe spoke to her openly and without malice, when the mocking smile he always seemed to wear in her presence didn’t appear, she started to relax, and her burgeoning femininity could not remain immune to his undoubted sexual attraction.

And he was attractive, she reflected, her breathing quickening as it always did when she contemplated his lean physique. He was tall, about six feet, she surmised, with a taut muscled body that looked good in the thin cotton shirts and tight-fitting jeans he wore about the estate. Because he had worked outdoors all summer, his skin was darkly tanned, a stunning contrast to the ash-pale lightness of his hair.

He was really dishy—that was the expression Sandra Venables had used when Helen overheard her discussing Rafe with Mrs Pride, the cook. Sandra was her grandmother’s new maid, and Helen didn’t really like her. She was too sly; too knowing; too conscious of her own appearance, which Helen grudgingly had to admit was quite something. Small, no more than five foot one or two, Sandra made up for her lack of height in other ways. She had a narrow waist and shapely legs, and the most enormous breasts Helen had ever seen. Top-heavy, thought Helen disdainfully, viewing her own more modest curves with some resignation. Nevertheless, she envied the other girl’s self-confidence, and she suspected she would never have the courage to wear the bodice of her dress unbuttoned so that the dusky shadow between her breasts could be clearly seen.

Helen had noticed Sandra always took particular notice of her appearance when Mrs Pride asked her to take a flask of tea out to Billy Dobkins, the gardener. Not that Billy Dobkins would notice how she looked. He was too old and crippled with arthritis to pay attention to anyone except himself. But he had a son; young Billy, he was called, though Helen knew he was in his thirties now and married himself. He sometimes came to help his father, to supplement the wages he earned driving a delivery truck for the local supermarket, and Helen had surmised that it was young Billy who had attracted Sandra’s interest.

She really was man-crazy, decided Helen, not liking the direction of her thoughts. The other girl might only be a couple of years older than she was, but Sandra was years older in experience. She probably knew more about boys now than she ever would, reflected Helen ruefully. But, she had a mind to change at least a part of that—with Rafe’s assistance.

Of course, she wasn’t at all sure her grandmother would approve of what she planned to do. It was one thing to encourage her and Rafe to be friends, and quite another to accept the fact that her granddaughter was attracted to the son of her estate manager. And yet, Lady Elizabeth never seemed to object when she and Rafe were together. Because Rafe was working at the home-farm, he was often about, and Helen had fallen into the habit of always making herself available whenever he was around. They had even played tennis together once or twice—though he always beat her—and her grandmother occasionally invited him to tea, to discuss his future now that he had got his degree.

On those occasions, Helen had been quite content to sit and listen, drinking in the sight of his lazily attractive features, imagining how he would react if she reached out and ran her fingers through the sometimes unruly thickness of his hair. Not that she ever let him see how she was feeling. If he looked in her direction, she invariably averted her eyes, hoping with an urgency bordering on panic that her grandmother would attribute her flushed cheeks to the unusually warm weather. Nevertheless, she did gain a great deal of pleasure from just looking at him, and if Rafe was aware of her covert appraisal, he gave no sign of it.

In spite of her absorption with his appearance, Helen also learned quite a lot about him during those outdoor gatherings. Because she had never asked, she had not known the subjects he had been studying at university, but now she discovered he had gained a double first in biological sciences, which evidently endorsed the faith her grandmother had had in him all those years before. What was less palatable to accept was the news that he had been offered a job with a chemical company in the north of England, and that as soon as the holidays were over, he would be moving away from Castle Howarth. Which meant she had less than two weeks left to make him as aware of her as she was of him, she realised hollowly. If only she had more experience; if only she was as sexy as Sandra.

Drawing a steadying breath now, she glanced round the empty stackyard. It was deserted, as she had expected, the men who had been haymaking all afternoon retiring to the farmhouse kitchen where Mrs Robinson, the farmer’s wife, would be reviving them with mugs of beer and plates of her home-made scones. Helen’s mouth watered at the thought of Mrs Robinson’s home-made scones, but she put the thought aside. She was aware she had eaten too many fattening things these holidays already, and her shorts were infinitely tighter now than they had been at the end of July.

But she wasn’t here to think about food, she told herself severely. She already knew Rafe had not accompanied the other men up to the house. It was a heavensent opportunity. She had sauntered down here in her scantiest vest and mini-skirt to meet Rafe on his way to the farmhouse, only to be told, with a knowing smile, that he was still stacking hay in the barn.

The light in the barn filtered down through the slats, throwing bars of sunlight across the floor. Dust motes danced in its muted brilliance, thousands of tiny particles forming a moving waterfall, yet seemingly suspended in the air.

To Helen’s surprise, the barn seemed deserted too, and she stood for a moment in the doorway, wondering if the men had been mistaken. Perhaps Rafe was in the loft, she considered, taking a step forward and opening her mouth to call his name. But before she could do so, she heard something—a sound, a muffled giggle, and then the unmistakable ripple of Rafe’s attractive laughter.

She froze, glad that the beams of sunlight did not reach her where she stood in the shadows. It was obvious Rafe was here, in the loft as she had suspected, but he was not alone. That girlish giggle was too familiar. She had heard Sandra’s laughter before. But never with Rafe? Never with Rafe!

Her breath catching in her throat, she would have left then, but a few stray words drifting down to her kept her rigid. ‘She’s crazy about you!’ Sandra gurgled carelessly. ‘Haven’t you seen the way she watches you? My God! If her grandmother only knew! And she thinks I’m the shameless one!’

‘You are,’ retorted Rafe, his voice muffled; as if his face was buried between those huge breasts, thought Helen sickly, and Sandra’s moan of approval seemed to confirm it.

‘Well, I don’t care. I know what I want,’ declared Sandra after a moment. ‘Hmm—take your clothes off, Rafe. You know I don’t like it when you just use me like this.’

‘You like being used,’ Rafe replied, a certain harshness in his voice now, and Helen put her hands over her ears. She didn’t want to hear any more. She had already heard too much. And although she despised Rafe for falling for a loud-mouthed little tart like Sandra Venables, what hurt most was that they had been talking about her!

‘Oh—Rafe——’

Sandra’s cry rang in Helen’s ears long after she had put the width of the long meadow between herself and what was happening in the barn. In all honesty, she had only a faint idea of what was happening, but she had seen animals mating, and she could imagine the rest. In her mind, it all added up to something ugly and unacceptable, and her stomach heaved in protest at such a rude awakening.

Helen was lying back on her elbows, her eyes closed, her face dewed with the perspiration that prolonged retching had provoked, when she became aware of a shadow blocking the warmth of the sun. She opened her eyes at once, seeking the source of the sudden barrier, and then wished she hadn’t when she met Rafe’s accusing gaze.

She would have scrambled to her feet at once, but his booted foot balanced precariously on her midriff kept her where she was, while his eyes raked over her. ‘How does it feel,’ he taunted, his expression grimmer than she had ever seen it, ‘to have someone creep up on you unannounced? It’s not much fun, is it? In fact, it’s bloody sick!’

‘Well, if it’s any consolation, you made me sick!’ she retorted in a small voice, realising there was no point in pretending ignorance, and his face contorted.

‘That’s what you get when you play Peeping Tom!’ he grated, allowing his weight to bear down painfully on her middle for a moment before withdrawing his foot completely. ‘What’s wrong with you, Helen? What did you hope to see?’

‘I didn’t hope to see anything,’ she exclaimed, pushing herself into a sitting position, and hunching her shoulders against his hostile stare. ‘I came to find you, that’s all. I didn’t realise you had a prior engagement!’

‘So why didn’t you make your presence known? Why were you hanging about in the doorway? Don’t tell me you didn’t know we were there, because I won’t believe you!’

Helen’s indignation gave her the strength to look up at him then, and her eyes were wide with anguish. ‘Do you actually imagine I would have followed you into the barn if I’d known that—that creature was with you?’

Rafe’s green eyes were hard. ‘Why not?’

‘Why you——’ Helen stumbled to her feet to face him, her chest heaving painfully beneath the thin vest. ‘How—how dare you even suggest such a thing? Just who the hell do you think you are?’

Rafe’s lips twisted. ‘I wondered how long it would be before that line was uttered! My God, and I let your grandmother persuade me you had changed! I should have known better. You’re still the spoiled, selfish little bitch you always were!’

Helen’s hand came up and struck his cheek almost without her volition. The first realisation of what she had done came with the stinging pain in her palm, and she looked down at her hand half-incredulously before transferring her disbelieving attention to the reddening weals on his face.

‘I——’ she began, but she was not allowed to finish what she had been going to say. She thought she had been about to apologise, but afterwards she was never actually sure. What happened next wiped all coherent thought from her brain, and by the time he released her, her head was spinning so badly it was an effort to even keep her feet.

She remembered Rafe reaching for her, and she remembered lifting her arms to protect herself. She was sure he was going to retaliate and she was half prepared for him to hit her, but he didn’t. Instead, he jerked her towards him, clamping her shaking body to the muscled strength of his, and fastening his mouth to hers with grim determination.

‘Is this what you want?’ he snarled, and she felt a hot moist pressure forcing its way between her lips and her teeth and into her mouth. It was his tongue, and she almost gagged when he thrust it back towards her throat in an ugly parody of sexual possession. ‘You should have told me!’ he taunted, and her skirt rode up to her hips as he forced his leg between her thighs. ‘Sandra said this was what you wanted, but I didn’t believe her!’

‘God! I—don’t!’ she choked, dragging her mouth from his with a supreme effort, and trying to turn her head away. But it was useless. He was so much bigger and stronger than she was, and she couldn’t escape his hand behind her head, forcing her face back to his. His mouth was devouring her, possessing her lips with a feverish urgency, making her senses swim beneath a torrent of brutal adult emotion. She hated him for hurting her; she fought his rough passion all the way; and yet, in some remote corner of her mind, she sensed he despised himself for touching her as much as she did, and for that she knew a reluctant feeling of compassion. She would never forgive him; but she could pity him.

He let go of her as suddenly as he had grabbed her. So suddenly, in fact, that Helen’s legs would not support her. She sagged down weakly on to the grass, her head turned instinctively away from him, and she was not aware that he had left her until the silence told her so. Only then did she realise how much she was shaking; only then did she feel the tears on her cheeks and taste her own blood in her mouth. She felt bruised and abused, her girlish fantasies torn apart by a savage storm of reality. But no one—no one—least of all her grandmother, would ever hear of this from her lips …

CHAPTER ONE

‘TELEPHONE, Helen!’

At the summons, the slim dark girl who had been working on a painting in the storeroom at the back of the shop came obediently to the door. ‘For me?’

‘For you,’ agreed Melanie Forster, holding out the phone. ‘Not your tame viscount though, darling. It is a man, but not one I recognise, actually.’

‘A man?’

Helen wiped her hands on the cloth she had been using to clean the painting as a frown furrowed her forehead. She couldn’t imagine any man who might be calling her at work that Melanie wouldn’t recognise, and just for a moment a frisson of alarm curled up her spine.

Then, impatient at her fears, she reached for the receiver. ‘Helen Michaels,’ she said briefly. ‘You wanted to speak to me?’

‘Yes.’ She knew a moment’s relief that the male voice was as unfamiliar to her as it had been to her friend, but the respite was short-lived. ‘I have a telegram for you, Miss Michaels. From Castle Howarth in Wiltshire. It reads: Lady Elizabeth Sinclair died this morning at 4 a.m. Funeral, Friday, 11 a.m. Fleming.’

Helen realised afterwards that she must have fainted, for when she opened her eyes she was lying on a chaise-longue in the back room, with Mr Stubbs, their handyman-cum-caretaker, leaning anxiously over her and Melanie wringing her hands just behind him.

‘Oh, thank heaven!’ Melanie’s relief was audible as her friend’s lids flickered, and Helen blinked a little bewilderedly as she took in her surroundings.

‘There you are, Miss Forster. I told you it was most probably the fumes of that chemical that did it,’ declared Mr Stubbs, stepping back and shifting the electric fan heater nearer. He straightened his rotund little body and nodded. ‘No need to call the doctor; no need at all. What Miss Michaels needs is a hot cup of tea. Like an ice-box in here, it is. I’m away to make a pot now.’

‘Thank you, Stubbs.’ Melanie cast a resigned glance after the busy little man, and then came to squat down beside the couch. ‘So—how are you feeling, love? I hope you realise you scared me half to death. In all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never known you to pass out!”

A spasm of pain crossed Helen’s face briefly as the reasons for why she must be lying on the couch came back in a deluge. But she managed to control her emotions for Melanie’s sake and, sniffing, she said a little shakily: ‘I don’t make a habit of it.’

‘Thank God!’ Melanie shook her head. ‘But you’re all right now? Who was it for Pete’s sake?’

Helen managed to lever herself up against the buttoned velvet upholstery, and then said quietly: ‘It was a telegram. My grandmother died this morning.’

‘She did?’ Melanie moved to perch on the edge of the cushion. ‘That would be the old lady who lived in Wiltshire, right? But surely, you must have known that she was ill.’

‘No——’ Helen moistened her lips. ‘At least—well, she is—was—quite old. But I didn’t realise she—she——’

‘It happens to all of us, sooner or later,’ said Melanie consolingly, and then grimaced. ‘Oh, that sounds awful, but you know what I mean. Still, I can see it’s been quite a shock for you. Even though you didn’t see much of her, did you?’

‘Don’t remind me,’ groaned Helen, turning her face against the buttoned velvet as a wave of guilt swept over her. It was more than a year since she had seen her grandmother, and then only briefly, during one of the old lady’s infrequent trips to see her solicitor in the capital. And it was almost three years since Helen had last visited Castle Howarth. Her life in London filled her days to the exclusion of anything else, and besides, since Tom Fleming died she had had no desire to visit the estate and meet his successor.

Which reminded her of the telegram once again. Rafe Fleming’s doing, certainly, she guessed. There was no doubt that he was the ‘Fleming’ behind that cruel little missive. No one but he would have used such bald words to convey so distressing a message.

Mr Stubbs’ reappearance with a tray of tea prevented Melanie from asking any further questions and Helen was grateful. At the moment, she was having the greatest difficulty in coming to terms with the fact that Lady Elizabeth was dead, and her throat constricted tightly at the knowledge that no one—not even Paget—had troubled to call her before it was too late.

‘You’ll go to the funeral, of course,’ said Melanie, after the caretaker had departed again and Helen was sipping a cup of the strong sweet liquid he had provided. ‘When is it? Wednesday? Thursday?’

‘It’s Friday, actually,’ admitted Helen in a low voice. ‘And—yes. I suppose I’ll have to.’ She frowned as another thought struck her. ‘But how can I? You’re leaving for Switzerland in the morning!’ There was some relief in the remembrance.

‘My holiday could be postponed,’ retorted Melanie flatly. ‘But, in any case, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t shut up shop for a couple of days. It’s cold enough, goodness knows, and people don’t buy antiques in the middle of winter. Not in any great quantity anyway.’

‘Even so——’

‘Even so—nothing.’ Melanie was adamant. ‘How do you think it would look if you didn’t go to your own grandmother’s funeral? You are her only surviving relative, aren’t you? Of course you must go. I insist!’

Helen bent her head. ‘I’ll think about it.’

‘You won’t think about it at all.’ Melanie was outraged. ‘Oh, I know why you’re looking so upset. You’re feeling guilty because you’re going to inherit whatever it is she has left. The house, for example. Didn’t you say you used to live there when you were a child?’

‘Until I was eighteen,’ agreed Helen reluctantly, forced to face the truth of what Melanie was saying. Castle Howarth would be hers now however little she wanted it. The property; the farms; the people on the estate; they would all now become so much more than the source of the generous allowance her grandmother had always made her.

It was thinking of that allowance that brought another surge of guilt to engulf her. Dear God, she had always taken that monthly cheque so much for granted. Of course, when she first moved to London, it had been a lifeline, but after she and Melanie opened the shop, there had been no real need for outside support. Yet, the cheques had continued to arrive, and she had continued to spend them, moving into a large apartment and buying more—and more costly—clothes. She ran a Porsche sports car instead of just a Mini, and she had her hair done regularly by the most fashionable hairdresser in town. She had spent her grandmother’s money like it was water, and it was only now that Nan was dead that she realised how selfish—and self-seeking—she had become.

‘So you will go,’ said Melanie softly, interrupting her friend’s train of thought, and Helen put her teacup aside and swung her feet to the floor.

‘Of course,’ she answered dully, feeling the faint throbbing in her temples that heralded a headache. ‘As a matter of fact, I think I’ll take the rest of the day off, if you don’t mind. I’m feeling pretty grotty. Is that okay?’

‘Need you ask?’ Melanie gave her friend a worried look. ‘Look—let me call you a cab, hmm? You can’t drive home in that state. You look positively ghostly!’

Helen nodded, pressing down on her hands and forcing herself to her feet. ‘As a matter of fact, I came by cab this morning,’ she said. ‘Adam is supposed to be picking me up at six o’clock. We were going to have a drink at his club, and then go on to that recital at the Farraday. You remember?’

‘Well, you won’t be going to any recital this evening,’ declared Melanie authoritatively. ‘Lord Kenmore is going to be disappointed. Do you want me to ring him? Or shall I just point him in your direction when he calls at six?’

Helen felt an unwilling smile lift the corners of her mouth. ‘I’ll ring him myself,’ she said, glancing at her watch. ‘It’s only half past three. He won’t have left yet.’

Then, she frowned as another thought occurred to her. If her grandmother had died during the night, why hadn’t she been informed immediately? It had to have been at least ten hours after the old lady’s death that any attempt was made to contact her. And it hurt. It really hurt.

Helen’s apartment was in Belgravia, a bare fifteen minutes’ ride from the shop, which was just off Bond Street. The taxi dropped her at the foot of the shallow steps that led up to swing-glass doors which in turn gave access to the marble-tiled lobby. A bank of lifts faced her, and managing to sidestep the uniformed commissionaire, who liked to chat to his clients, she slipped into one of the steel-lined cubicles.

Her apartment was on the twelfth floor of a fourteen-floor block. Letting herself into the split-level lounge, she thought how awful it was that her grandmother had never even seen where she lived. But in recent years, their relationship had not been the way it used to be, and apart from cards at Christmas and birthdays, their contacts had been few and far between. Something else she had to thank Rafe Fleming for, Helen thought with sudden bitterness. He had always come between her and her grandmother, right from the very beginning; and he continued to do so now, even though she was dead.

But not for long, Helen silently asserted. She had not had time to give the matter too much thought as yet, but her grandmother’s death was going to change a lot of things. Not least, Rafe Fleming’s situation. For reasons best known to himself, and for which Helen had always nurtured the gravest suspicions, Rafe had returned to Castle Howarth three years ago when Tom Fleming died. And, in spite of the perfectly good job he already had with Chater Chemicals, he had agreed to take his father’s place. To his credit, he had not asked for the job. Lady Elizabeth had made it clear that she had offered him the position. But the reasons why he should give up a career in microbiological research to take charge of a country estate had never been satisfactorily explained, and Helen had her own theories, which were hardly complimentary to him.

Still, that was all in the past now, she reflected bleakly, closing the door behind her. Then, shedding her sheepskin jacket, she walked along the galleried landing, which overlooked the generous proportions of her living room two steps below. But for once the beauty of her apartment gave her no pleasure. She had designed the colour scheme herself, sticking to cream and gold and pastel colours, so that the room had an air of space and elegance. The long windows overlooking the immediate environs of Cavendish Court and the busy city beyond added another dimension, and at parties her view was usually a talking point. But this afternoon, with darkness shrouding the streets below and the threat of snow in the wind, Helen couldn’t wait to draw the curtains and put on the lamps. Anything to banish the feelings of sorrow and remorse which had been her constant companions ever since she received that shocking message.

Dropping her coat on to a pale green suede sofa, Helen crossed the room to pour herself a stiff drink. Two decanters, one containing brandy, the other Scotch, stood on a silver tray, and she added two cubes of ice to a measure of the latter before lifting the crystal tumbler to her lips.

The raw spirit caught her throat, and she coughed as it took her breath. But it did the trick, and pretty soon a soothing warmth invaded her stomach. Helen rarely drank alcohol. A glass of wine at dinner was all she usually required, and the spirits were kept here mainly for Adam and her friends. Still, she poured herself a second drink before reaching for the telephone. She had to talk to Adam, and she didn’t want to break down in the middle of their conversation.

As she had surmised, Adam was still at his office in Regent Street. She didn’t exactly know what he did there—something to do with the property he owned, which was quite considerable. In any event, he spent two or three days every week at his office, and the rest of the time he was a free agent. Helen had often accused him of only going into the office to thwart any charge that he was a complete playboy, and Adam invariably agreed with her. They both knew he was happiest at the wheel of his yacht or skiing down a mountainside in Italy. ‘It’s what comes of being the last in a line of aristocratic layabouts!’ he generally responded, and he said it so disarmingly she always forgave him.

‘Helen!’ he exclaimed now, after his secretary had put her through. ‘I didn’t expect to hear from you. Is something wrong?’

Helen took a deep breath. ‘I won’t be able to go to the recital with you this evening, Adam. I—well, I’ve had some rather bad news, and I don’t feel like going anywhere.’

‘If you say so, old love.’ Adam’s voice was reassuringly sympathetic. ‘What’s happened?’

‘It’s my grandmother,’ said Helen quickly. ‘She—she died this morning. I got a telegram at the shop.’

‘At the shop?’ Adam paused. ‘Do I take it you’re not at the shop now?’

‘No. I’m at home. Melanie insisted. I took a cab.’

‘You should have called me,’ exclaimed Adam at once. ‘You know I’d have run you home. Heavens, it must have been quite a shock. Isn’t that the old lady who lived near my uncle’s place at Warminster?’

‘Not far from there,’ agreed Helen flatly, taking another mouthful of the whisky. ‘Anyway, I just wanted you to know not to pick me up from work. I think I’ll have an early night instead. I’ve got all sorts of arrangements to make for tomorrow.’

‘Is that when the funeral is?’

‘No. Not until Friday actually. But, I’ve got to go down there.’ Her voice broke and she took another steadying breath before continuing: ‘I am her next of kin, you see.’

‘Well, of course, old love.’ Adam was warmly understanding. ‘I’ll take you down there myself. Do you want to leave in the morning? We can stay at my uncle’s place, if you’d rather. Dear old Willie! I doubt if he’ll even notice that we’re——’

Helen took a deep breath. ‘No, Adam.’

There was a moment’s silence, and then he said rather stiffly: ‘No?’ and Helen made a helpless gesture.

‘I don’t want you to come with me, Adam,’ she said, realising as she did so that this was really why she had needed the whisky. ‘Oh—I know you mean well, and I’m grateful for your offer, but this is something I have to do alone.’

‘Why?’ Adam took only a second to absorb what she was saying before adding tersely: ‘Helen, I don’t think you realise what you’re saying. Aren’t you letting your emotions get the better of you?’

‘Perhaps I am.’ Helen sighed. ‘But—well, my grandmother never knew you, Adam. She never even met you! I can’t go down to Castle Howarth now and introduce you as the man I’m going to marry. I—I can’t!’

‘You mean, because of what people will say?’ He sounded surprised. ‘I didn’t realise you were ashamed of me.’

‘Oh, don’t be silly!’ Helen’s nerves were already stretched to their fullest extent, and offending Adam was the last thing she had intended. ‘Darling, try to understand, please! The people on the estate are a close-knit community. Like a family, almost. They—they wouldn’t take kindly to—to a stranger attending my grandmother’s funeral.’

There was another pregnant silence, and then Adam seemed to relent. ‘Oh, well—if that’s how you feel,’ he conceded. ‘I don’t want to make the situation any more painful for you than it is already. But I want to see you before you leave, early night or not.’

Helen’s shoulders sagged. ‘All right.’ She paused, and then added: ‘Do you want to come for supper? It can only be steak and salad, I’m afraid, but you could bring a bottle of wine.’

‘I know just the one,’ declared Adam at once, his good humour quickly restored. It was one of the things that had first attracted her to him: his unruffled temperament and buoyant personality. ‘How does six-thirty sound?’ he suggested. ‘Too early? Or too late?’

It was earlier than she had anticipated, but bearing in mind the fact that she intended he should leave earlier, too, she did not demur. But then another thought struck her. ‘The recital!’ she exclaimed. ‘What about the tickets?’

‘I can listen to Vivaldi any time,’ Adam assured her carelessly, dismissing her concern about the performance. ‘See you in a couple of hours, my sweet. I’m looking forward to it.’

He rang off, but Helen replaced her receiver with rather less enthusiasm. It was sweet of Adam to want to show her how much she meant to him, of course, but for once she wished he had been more perceptive. She would have preferred to be alone this evening. She didn’t feel like talking, or stirring herself to make a meal for the two of them. All she really wanted to do was have a bath and go to bed, and try to forget that the woman who had been the only mother she had ever known had died that morning, alone and unloved.

By the time Adam arrived, however, Helen was feeling distinctly more relaxed. A long, lazy bath, followed by another Scotch—this time with soda—had done much to ease her introspection, and although she had spent little time over her appearance, she was reasonably sure Adam would not be disappointed.

Maturity—and the hectic life she led—had succeeded in banishing any lingering doubts she might have nurtured over her face and figure. The breasts she had once fretted over were now full and rounded, accentuating her narrow waist and the long, seductive length of her legs. Her face, while not being conventionally pretty, was nonetheless striking for all that, her wide almost purple eyes fringed by silky black lashes. A narrow nose, high cheekbones, and a generous mouth, completed features with the delicacy of colour of a magnolia, but it was the glorious abundance of her hair that she was sure caused her a second glance. It was still as dark and lustrous as it had ever been, and in spite of the ups and downs of fashion, she always wore it long and coiled into a knot at the nape of her neck. She still plaited it from time to time, allowing the thick chunky braid to hang over one shoulder. But as she seldom liked to be reminded of the naive girl she used to be, she usually chose a style with less significance.

When she opened the door to her fiancé, however, her cheeks were still flushed from her bath—and the amount of alcohol she had consumed. The unusual colour gave her face a feverish fragility, and Adam’s eyes darkened appreciatively as he reached for her. But for once, Helen evaded his embrace, averting her face so that his mouth merely grazed the warm skin of her temple.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked, and she thought, rather guiltily, it was a measure of his concern for her that he showed no impatience at her withdrawal. She must have hurt him, and yet his refined handsome features revealed only sympathy and compassion. She wished she could confide in him. She wished she could tell him how she was feeling. She wanted to be totally honest with him. But something—some awful flaw in her character perhaps—prevented her from explaining the real reasons why she and her grandmother had lost touch with one another.

‘I’m just—tired,’ she said now, leading the way down the shallow carpeted stairs into the centre of the living room. ‘It’s been quite a day. But then, you know that.’

‘Yes.’ Adam followed her, taking off the camel-hair overcoat he was wearing over a tweed suit, and dropping it on to a low padded stool. ‘Poor Helen! It must have been quite traumatic. Didn’t anyone warn you the old girl was ill?’

‘I don’t know that she was,’ replied Helen shortly, feeling her tension coming back in spite of herself. Shrugging, she curled her silk-trousered legs beneath her and sank into the corner of one of the suede sofas. ‘I told you. I got a telegram to say she was dead. That’s all I know about it.’

Adam frowned, taking up a position in front of a carved cabinet. ‘You mean—you haven’t phoned?’ he exclaimed in surprise. He shook his head. ‘I assumed you would.’

‘No.’ Helen bent her head and then, remembering her manners, she added swiftly: ‘Help yourself to a drink. I’m sure you must be frozen.’

‘Well, it is damn cold out tonight,’ agreed Adam, taking her at her word and turning to the tray. ‘But I managed to park in the square, so it wasn’t too far to walk. I shouldn’t be surprised if we have snow before morning.’

‘I hope not.’ Helen spoke automatically, but she meant it. She didn’t want to have to take the train to Yelversley. With her own car, she was so much more independent.

‘You’re driving down then,’ Adam remarked, taking a mouthful of the Scotch he had poured before coming to join her on the sofa. ‘You will drive carefully, won’t you, darling? The M3 is so frantic!’

‘I’ll be careful,’ said Helen, with a tight smile, wondering what he was really thinking. He hadn’t questioned her decision not to phone, yet he must be curious as to why she wouldn’t have done so. Perhaps if Adam had been more inquisitive, she would have found it easier to be entirely honest with him, she consoled herself uneasily. As it was, he allowed her to direct the conversation, and it was so much simpler not to have to explain.

‘I thought we’d eat about seven o’clock,’ she said now, changing the subject completely, and Adam groaned.

‘Dammit, I’ve left the wine in the car!’ he exclaimed, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead. ‘That’s what comes of being too eager. I’ll have to go and get it.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Helen at once. ‘As a matter of fact, I’d just as soon have water. I’ve got a bit of a headache.’

‘From the whisky, no doubt,’ remarked Adam drily, and Helen’s eyes darted to his face. ‘I smelt it,’ he added. ‘As soon as I came in. I guess the old lady’s death meant more to you than I thought.’

That was a bit too close to the truth for comfort and, uncoiling herself, Helen rose to her feet. ‘You could be right,’ she declared, purposely keeping her tone light. And then, making for the door, she added: ‘I must check on the steaks. They should have defrosted by now.’

Adam came into the kitchen as she was spreading the thick slices of meat under the grill. It wasn’t a large kitchen, used primarily by Mrs Argyll, Helen’s daily. Because she was out a lot of the time, Helen didn’t employ a full-time housekeeper, but the friendly little Scotswoman could turn her hand to anything. If she knew her employer was to be home for the evening, she generally left a casserole in the oven, or a cold meal that could be easily heated in the microwave oven. But this evening she had expected Helen to be out, and Helen would have to explain why two healthy steaks had disappeared from the freezer.

‘Something smells good,’ Adam observed now, perching his fastidious frame on one of the leather-topped stools beside the breakfast bar. ‘At least we’ll never starve after we’re married.’

‘Cooking steaks and tossing a salad are hardly culinary feats,’ responded Helen wryly, glad he was not pursuing his earlier topic. ‘You’re a much better cook than I am, and you know it.’

‘More inventive, perhaps,’ Adam conceded, taking another swallow from his glass. And then, just as she was about to make some teasing comment, he added: ‘Tell me: this affair of your grandmother; it won’t make any difference to our plans, will it? I mean, you won’t have any qualms about selling the estate?’

Helen stiffened. ‘Selling the estate?’ she echoed faintly. And then, more staunchly: ‘Why should I sell the estate? It was my home.’

‘Was, darling. Was being the operative word,’ said Adam smoothly. ‘And let’s face it, it’s years since you lived there. Almost ten, isn’t it?’

‘Seven,’ said Helen tightly. ‘I left when I was eighteen. You know that.’

‘All right. Seven, then.’ Adam finished his drink, cradling the glass between his palms. ‘But for the past—I don’t know how many years; at least as long as I’ve known you—you haven’t even visited your grandmother, let alone cared about the estate!’

Helen expelled her breath unsteadily. ‘I know.’

‘So …’ Adam spread his hands. ‘You must see that selling the place is the most sensible solution. If death duties don’t take the decision out of your hands, that is.’

‘Death duties!’ Helen stared at him. ‘Is that likely?’

‘Well, I don’t know the old lady’s financial situation, do I, so I can’t say.’ Adam shrugged. ‘But unless she had considerable private funds, I’d say it was possible.’

‘Private funds?’ Helen’s stomach hollowed. She had no idea if her grandmother had had a private income. Lady Elizabeth had never seemed short of money, but she had not wasted it either. And as long as Helen could remember, she had always lived in only one wing of the house.

‘Don’t look so shocked, love.’ Adam dropped his glass on to the bar’s leather counter and came round to her. ‘You must have given some thought to what this would mean. Is it so important to you?’

Helen quivered. If anyone had asked her that question yesterday, she would have said no, but now it was different. For some unfathomable reason, the idea of selling Castle Howarth was like the final betrayal of all Lady Elizabeth had meant to her. She would not have wanted her to sell it, and if there was any other way, she had to find it.

Torn by emotions suddenly too strong to resist, she let Adam pull her into his arms. For the first time since hearing the news that afternoon, she felt the hot sting of tears against her cheeks. Nan was dead; she acknowledged it bitterly. She would never speak to her again. Never sit with her, and talk with her, and share with her all the thousand-and-one things they used to share when she was a child. How had it all gone so wrong, she wondered. At what point had their relationship begun its downward slide? What had happened in the years between that she should be blaming herself now, because the old lady had died without her being there?

‘Hey…’ Adam’s hand beneath her chin caused her to try and take a grip on her emotions. ‘If it means that much to you, we’ll keep it; whatever it costs.’ He bestowed a tender kiss at the corner of her mouth and smiled a gentle smile. ‘Come on. This isn’t like you.’

It wasn’t, Helen knew. She was not an emotional person. Oh, she got angry from time to time, just like anyone else, but it was years since she had cried—about anything. Adam always said he liked her cool competent way of dealing with things, and it must be quite a surprise for him to discover she was so vulnerable. But grief was not like other emotions, she decided. And until today she had not realised how painful it could be.

The sound of the telephone solved both their problems: Adam’s because he wasn’t entirely sure how to deal with her; and Helen’s because she was glad of an excuse to escape from his embrace. Tonight she felt in no mood for Adam’s lovemaking. Her affection for him had not changed; it was simply that the present situation had left her bereft of feeling. She needed time to absorb this new development. Time to come to terms with the way it would affect both their lives.