“Is it a deal?”

“I—guess it has to be,” Joanna whispered.

“Graciously spoken, as always,” he murmured. “What did you do with your wedding ring?”

“It’s in my pocket.”

Gabriel held out a hand. “Give it to me.”

He slid the ring onto her finger.

“I’m sure you’ve no wish to repeat our vows…. However, I feel I should seal this solemn moment somehow…. So I’ll kiss the bride.”

SARA CRAVEN was born in south Devon, England, and grew up surrounded by books, in a house by the sea. After leaving grammar school she worked as a local journalist, covering everything from flower shows to murders. She started writing for Harlequin in 1975. Apart from writing, her passions include films, music, cooking and eating in good restaurants. She now lives in Somerset.

Sara Craven has recently become the latest (and last ever) winner of the British quiz show Mastermind.

Marriage at a Distance
Sara Craven

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Endpage

CHAPTER ONE

THE air in the study was stale and cold. It was gloomy, too, with the curtains at the long windows half drawn against a February dusk.

But the girl who sat curled up in the big leather chair beside the fireplace had not switched on any of the lamps, or lit the neatly laid fire waiting in the grate.

Her only response to the chill in the room had been to spread an old velvet smoking jacket over her legs like a rug. And every so often she looked down at it, touching the worn pile gently, breathing the faint aroma of cigars that rose from it.

Impossible to think that Lionel would never wear it again. That he would never come in through that door, large, loud and unrelentingly kind, rubbing his hands together and exclaiming about the weather, his face red from tramping over the hills with the dogs, or riding out on his latest hunter.

When the new chestnut had come back yesterday without him, Sadie, his girl groom, had said dourly that she’d warned him the horse was too fresh. But the worst they’d expected was that Lionel had been thrown, perhaps suffered a broken collarbone.

Instead, as Dr Fraser had told them, the massive heart attack that he’d suffered had probably knocked him from the saddle. It was also, he’d added gently, the way Lionel would have wanted to go.

Joanna could accept that. Lionel had always been restless, she thought. Always active. Since his retirement as chairman of Verne Investments five years ago, he’d been forever looking for ways to fill his days. He would never have wanted to be chronically ill, perhaps bedridden, the rush and bustle he’d thrived on denied him.

But that did not make it any less of a shock for those left behind, she thought, the muscles in her throat tightening.

And the question endlessly revolving in her tired mind was, What’s going to happen to me now?

Because Lionel’s death had changed everything. Taken all the old certainties away with him.

Until yesterday she’d been Joanna Verne, his daughter-in-law. The girl who ran the house for him and dealt with all the boring domestic issues he hated to be plagued with.

Twenty-four hours later she was little better than a displaced person. The estranged wife of Lionel’s son and heir, Gabriel Verne, who had spent the last two years of their inimical separation storming round the globe, building on the success of Verne Investments, turning his father and himself from the merely rich to the mega-rich.

Gabriel, who would now be coming back to claim Westroe Manor, and also to rid himself finally of the wife he’d never wanted. And her stepmother, she acknowledged wryly.

In the distance she heard the doorbell jangle, and she pushed the encumbering folds of the jacket away and got to her feet.

She’d asked Henry Fortescue, Lionel’s solicitor, to call, and she didn’t want him to find her lurking here in the dark like this. She owed it to herself—and to Lionel—to put a brave face on things.

She moved swiftly, rattling the curtains along their poles to exclude the last remnants of grey daylight, switching on the central pendant, and kneeling to put a match to the kindling. By the time Mr Fortescue was shown into the room by Mrs Ashby, the flames were licking at the coal and the study looked altogether more cheerful.

Henry Fortescue’s face was strained and sad. He and Lionel had been close since boyhood, she remembered sympathetically as she rose from the hearthrug, dusting her hands on her denim jeans.

He came across to her and took her hand. ‘Joanna, my dear. I’m so sorry—so very sorry. I can still hardly believe it.’

‘Nor I.’ She patted his sleeve. ‘I’m going to have a whisky. Will you join me?’

The surprise on his face brought a reluctant smile to her lips. She said with gentle irony, ‘I am old enough. And I think we could both do with one.’

‘And I’m sure you’re right.’ He smiled back at her with an effort. ‘But only a very small one, please. I’m driving.’

‘Highland water with it?’ Joanna busied herself with the decanter and glasses on a corner table.

‘Oh, yes. I wouldn’t insult Lionel’s memory by diluting his best malt with soda.’

He raised the glass she handed him with slight awkwardness. ‘What shall we drink to?’

‘I think—absent friends, don’t you?’ They shared the toast, then sat opposite each other on either side of the fireplace.

After a pause, he said, ‘And how is Mrs Elcott?’

Joanna bit her lip. ‘In her room. She’s—devastated.’

‘I’m sure she is,’ Henry Fortescue said with a certain dryness. ‘It must be intensely frustrating for her to know that her hopes will never now be fulfilled.’

Joanna raised her eyebrows. ‘That, dearest Mr Fortescue, was almost indiscreet,’ she observed with mock reproof.

‘I intended it to be,’ he returned robustly. ‘I knew exactly what she was after and I didn’t like it, either as Lionel’s friend or his lawyer.’

Joanna sighed. ‘Lionel, as we both know, was too kind for his own good. Look how he’s always treated me.’

He frowned. ‘I hope you’re not equating your situation with your stepmother’s. It was perfectly natural for Lionel to offer you a home after your father died. Your mother was his favourite cousin, after all. But Cynthia had no claim on his generosity at all. Why, she and Jeremy had only been married a matter of months when the accident happened. She was a total stranger to him.’

He shook his head sternly. ‘She was a young, healthy woman. Still is, for that matter. There was nothing to prevent her finding another secretarial job—making a life for herself. But instead she moved herself in here—on your coat-tails, as it were.’ He snorted. ‘She should have been the one running the house all this time. I know that was Lionel’s intention.’

‘Oh, I never minded.’ Joanna tasted her drink, savouring the smoky warmth caressing her throat. ‘Besides, housekeeping has never been Cynthia’s forte.’

‘And what is?’ His tone was sceptical.

Joanna wrinkled her nose. ‘Being decorative, I suppose.’

Which I never was, she thought with a pang of pain, remembering her shrinking teen self waiting to be introduced to her father’s new wife, only to be devastated by a sweeping, dismissive look and a laughing, ‘Goodness, what a Plain Jane’.

‘Anyway, none of it will be for much longer,’ Joanna went on hurriedly. ‘I hope she hasn’t lost her secretarial skills, at least, because I can’t see Gabriel allowing her to become his pensioner.’ She paused. ‘Or myself, of course.’

Mr Fortescue shifted uncomfortably. ‘Joanna—Mrs Verne—you will naturally have certain rights…’

‘Alimony—things like that.’ She forced a smile. ‘I don’t want them. And please don’t call me Mrs Verne. I’m reverting to my maiden name as from now.’

‘Is that really necessary?’ He sounded troubled.

‘Yes,’ Joanna said calmly. ‘Oh, yes.’ She looked down at the amber liquid in her glass. ‘The main reason I asked you here this evening was to beg a favour. I want you to forward a letter from me to Gabriel. Obviously you’ll be in touch with him, and I—I’m not.’

She bit her lip. ‘While Lionel was here it was impossible to discuss divorce. You know how he felt about it. But everything’s different now.’

He looked at her gravely. ‘I know he always hoped that you and Gabriel would be reconciled. He blamed himself very much for the breakdown in your relationship. Felt he’d pushed you both into marriage before you were ready.’

Joanna sat up rather straighter. She said crisply, ‘Even if Gabriel and I had gone through a ten-year engagement with a cooling-off period, it would still have been a disaster. We were completely unsuited.’

She got to her feet and went over to the desk, picking up a sealed envelope. ‘I’m offering him a quick, clean-break divorce with no blame attached on either side.’ Her smile was small and wintry. ‘Considering his mileage in the gossip columns over the past two years, I call that generous.’

He said forcefully, ‘As a lawyer, I call it foolhardy.’

‘Ah, but you’re Gabriel’s lawyer now, not mine, remember.’ She handed him the envelope. ‘If you would forward it for me, I’d be glad. There’s no reason to delay any longer.’

He looked down at the letter, frowning a little. ‘Or you could always give it to him yourself.’ He paused, his gaze direct, almost compassionate. ‘You do realise that he’s coming back for the funeral.’

Joanna could feel the colour drain from her face. ‘I didn’t think he would. Not after that terrible quarrel before he left,’ she said at last. ‘Stupid of me.’

‘However bitter the feelings at the time, my dear, Gabriel would hardly absent himself at a time like this. Lionel was loved and respected by the local people, and any sign of disrespect, particularly from his heir, would cause a lot of resentment.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, of course.’ A small harsh laugh choked its way out of her. ‘I—I had no idea he cared so much for the conventions.’

‘He’s now the owner of Westroe Manor. He knows his obligations.’

She said icily, ‘That is not a word I associate with my former husband.’

She saw a shadow of disapproval on his face, and resumed her seat. ‘I’m sorry. I’m a bit thrown, that’s all. I just thought—I assumed that I’d be allowed a little time—some leeway—to make my own plans before his return.’

‘What are your plans?’ His voice was gentle.

‘I don’t know yet.’ Joanna shook her head. ‘I keep trying to think—to decide something. But my mind just goes round in circles.’

‘It’s early days.’

‘Ah, no,’ she said. ‘You’ve just proved to me that it’s later than I think. I shall really have to concentrate.’ She paused. ‘Do you know—have you heard when Gabriel is due?’

‘I believe,’ he said carefully, ‘that he will be here the day after tomorrow.’ He hesitated. ‘He has asked for the reading of the will to be delayed until after the funeral.’

‘How very traditional.’ Joanna gripped her hands together in her lap, aware that they were shaking. ‘He really does mean to play Lord of the Manor.’

‘I don’t think there was ever any doubt of that.’ Henry Fortescue finished his whisky and put the tumbler aside. ‘Do you still wish me to deliver your letter?’

‘Under the circumstances, it’s probably easier for me to do it myself,’ she acknowledged wearily. ‘I’m sorry for wasting your time.’

‘You never do that, Joanna. And I intended to call on you, anyway.’ He shook hands with her, gravely studying her pale face and shadowed eyes. ‘A word of advice,’ he added gently. ‘I wouldn’t be too hasty about dropping your husband’s name, at least until the funeral is over. Remember what I said about local opinion. The next few days are bound to be hard enough, without creating extra difficulties—resentments—for yourself.’

‘Yes,’ she said, almost inaudibly. ‘I’m sure you’re right. Thank you.’

‘I’ll see myself out.’ He patted her hand and went. Presently she heard him talking to Mrs Ashby, and then the sound of the front door closing.

She leaned back in the big chair. It wasn’t just her hands any more. Her whole body was trembling violently—uncontrollably.

The shock of Lionel’s sudden death had stunned her into overlooking its most direct consequence, she realised numbly.

Gabriel hadn’t been near Westroe Manor for two years, making the breach between them absolute, and she’d presumed he would take his time over his return, that he would be too busy being the Superman of the financial world all day and the playboy of the western world all night to concern himself with his old home. Especially a home that contained his unwanted and discarded wife.

Did he even know that she was still living there? she wondered. Or that she’d been managing the house and staff for his father?

But of course he did, she corrected herself derisively. Gabriel made it his business to know everything.

A sudden image of his thin, dark face, with those insolent, heavy-lidded eyes, tawny as a leopard’s, and that narrow-lipped, mocking mouth flared into her mind, and was instantly dismissed.

She did not want to remember Gabriel’s mouth, or his hands, or the lean, vibrant body which had so fleetingly made her his possession.

The events of the few brief nights she’d spent with him were stamped on her consciousness for ever, however many times she’d tried to erase them. And so were the contemptuous words with which he’d finally ended them.

‘I think I’ll do us both a favour, and find some other form of entertainment.’ His icy drawl had cut across her quivering senses like the lash of a whip.

And he’d been as good as his word, she thought bitterly. He’d made no secret of his infidelities, staying away for longer and longer periods that even Lionel could not pretend had any connection with work any more.

And then, one day, Gabriel had returned. But only to collect the rest of his things. He was leaving, he said, permanently this time.

Inevitably there’d been a showdown—one blazing, terrifying row. Father and son had faced each other like enemies. Harsh, unforgivable things had been said on both sides, while she’d crouched between them, her hands over her ears, begging them to stop.

‘You’ll stay here, damn you,’ Lionel had roared. ‘And do your duty by your wife—if she’s prepared to forgive you. Or you’ll never enter this house again.’

She’d looked up at Gabriel, her lips mutely forming the word ‘Please’, not knowing even then if she was begging him to go or to stay. The tawny eyes had flicked over her, bathing her in flame.

Then: ‘I’m sorry,’ Gabriel said derisively. ‘But there are some sacrifices no man should be called on to make.’

And he’d gone.

She’d wanted to go too, distressed at the trouble the failure of their marriage had caused and tormented by her memories, but Lionel had forbidden it.

‘You’re my daughter-in-law, and the mistress of this house,’ he’d stated, his tone brooking no opposition. ‘Your home remains here.’

But perhaps she should have stood up to him. Insisted on leaving. Her final school examination results had been respectable enough to win her a training course at a polytechnic, if not a place at university. By now she could have embarked on a career. Had a life of her own. But she’d stayed, feeling that she owed Lionel something more than loyalty, because he’d placed himself at odds with his only son for her sake.

Not that their marriage breakdown had been the only point at issue, she reminded herself wearily. Lionel’s relationship with Gabriel had always been a volatile one. As father and son, apart from the shrewd business brains they shared, they had always been chalk and cheese.

They didn’t even look alike. Lionel had been ruggedly built and fair-haired, with a florid complexion. Gabriel was equally tall, but his body was lean, like whipcord. And his dark, saturnine good looks were wholly derived from his Italian mother.

Temperamentally, they’d been poles apart too. Lionel had been bluff, outspoken and sentimental. A man who enjoyed life openly and always had a good word for his neighbours.

Gabriel, on the other hand…

Ah, she thought. What was Gabriel? Had she ever really known?

There were the surface attributes, of course. The quiet, rather drawling voice, the attractive, crooked smile, the athleticism, the raw courage he displayed on the polo field and riding in point-to-points, the icy nerve he brought to his business dealings. But none of these gave any real clue to what was going on in his mind.

He seemed, she thought, to watch the world from behind a screen of faint amusement. There’d always been a reserve, a control in his behaviour, even when he’d made love to her—after the first time, at least, she thought, her throat tightening harshly, and this had forced her, in turn, further behind her own barriers of shyness and tension.

Not that she could altogether blame him, she made herself concede. He hadn’t wanted to marry her. The situation had been forced on him.

Lionel had just retired as chairman of Verne Investments and he’d needed Gabriel to succeed him, but only on his own terms.

Joanna had always been aware of their constant conflict over Gabriel’s hedonistic lifestyle, the partying, the high-profile sport, the procession of spectacular girlfriends. The head of Verne Investments needed a more sober, stable image, Lionel had declared sternly. And becoming a married man would be the first step in his rehabilitation.

And I was there, Joanna thought bitterly. Already groomed for stardom, though I didn’t know it. And with a stupid, schoolgirl crush on Gabriel that I conveniently mistook for the real thing.

And for Lionel it solved two problems at once— Gabriel’s need for a suitable wife, and his own wish to see me provided for in the future.

No wonder he’d swept them into it, she thought painfully. His motives, as always, had been of the purest, but the pressure was there just the same. And Gabriel’s ambition coupled with her own agonising naïveté had set the seal on the whole disaster.

She had been eighteen. He was ten years older. And from the day, four years earlier, when she’d gone to live at Westroe Manor, he’d been her god—a magical being who would suddenly arrive and turn her life to radiance.

He’d taught her to ride, played tennis with her, forcing her to improve her game, drunk her first champagne with her, swept her off to London to have her soft, straight brown hair properly cut, bolstered her uncertain dress sense and nursed her, straight-faced, through her first hangover.

He had also shielded her from Cynthia’s occasional ill-tempered or patronising jibes, turning them aside with some cool, cutting rejoinder.

Looking back, Joanna thought that had probably had more to do with his dislike of Cynthia than any feeling of protectiveness towards herself. Yet at the time she’d seen him as her own white knight, riding to the rescue.

And she’d been too dazzled to realise that he was treating her just like the younger sister he’d never had.

Instead I thought I was Cinderella, she mocked herself, and that Gabriel was Prince Charming. And that Lionel, my fairy godfather, would somehow turn this cold-blooded business arrangement into a love-match, and we’d live happily ever after.

But her honeymoon in the Mauritian villa hired for them, had sent all her illusions crashing round her ears.

Beginning, she thought, hugging her arms defensively round her body, with her wedding night that wasn’t.

At the time she’d thought he was just being considerate. That he’d realised the demands of the wedding and the subsequent long flight had exhausted her when he’d told her quietly to go to bed and get some sleep, while he used an adjoining room. She’d even been grateful.

They’d spent the following day quietly at the villa, relaxing at the side of the pool under sunshades. But when evening came, Joanna had been able to feel tension beginning to build inside her.

She’d mentally told herself off for being an idiot. She knew what the mechanics of sex entailed, of course, but nothing of the sweeping emotions that transformed it into love.

They’d had a late and lingering dinner on the verandah overlooking the garden. Joanna had refused the brandy Gabriel offered her with their coffee, and instantly regretted it. Maybe it would have dispelled the colony of butterflies which had taken up residence inside her.

Gabriel, too, had been quiet over their meal, and was sitting, staring into the velvety darkness, cradling his glass in one hand.

For a moment she’d wondered if he was nervous too, then dismissed the idea. Gabriel, after all, was hardly a novice in these matters, she’d told herself, swallowing.

At last, she’d pushed back her chair. ‘I—I think I’ll go to bed,’ she said.

‘Fine.’ His smile was abstracted, as if his thoughts were far away.

‘Are you going to stay here?’ Her voice quivered a little.

He turned his head slowly and looked at her. He was frowning slightly, and there was a faint hardness about the lines of his mouth.

He said quietly, ‘For a while—yes.’

Her throat seemed to have closed up, making speech impossible, so she made herself smile and nod, then escaped to her room.

She showered, and put on the nightgown bought specially for this momentous occasion—crisp and delicate in white broderie anglaise—then slid under the sheet which was the bed’s only covering to wait for Gabriel.

The minutes ticked by—became half an hour—and then an hour. In spite of herself, Joanna could feel her eyelids becoming heavy, her body sinking down into the mattress.

No, she thought, sitting up. I’m not going to sleep.

She allowed another fifteen minutes to pass, then left the bed and padded barefoot to the door. The passage outside was in darkness, but she could see a glimmer of light shining under the door of the next room.

Swallowing, she turned the handle and walked in.

Gabriel was in bed, reading, propped up by a mountain of pillows, the sheet pulled to cover his hips, his olive skin in dark contrast to the whiteness of the linen.

Something clenched inside her at the sight of him. Something alien—dangerous—exciting.

There was a ring on her hand telling her that she was his wife. But he seemed in no hurry to be her husband.

His smile was edged, almost wary as he looked at her. ‘What is it, Jo?’

‘I—I wondered where you were.’

‘Not very far away, as you see.’

‘Yes.’ The drum of her heartbeat was almost painful. ‘But why here?’

He said gently, ‘It’s late. Let’s talk tomorrow.’

She walked forward and stood beside the bed, her eyes fixed on him as if she was seeing him for the first time, observing the strength of bone and muscle beneath the smooth skin. The way the shadowing of body hair on his chest narrowed to a vee over his abdomen. And, she realised, how he’d positioned the book he was holding to conceal the fact that he was physically aroused.

‘Go to bed, Jo.’ There was a snap in his voice.

She reached out and touched his bare shoulder, feeling the muscles bunch under her fingers.

She said softly, ‘Won’t you kiss me goodnight first?’

And she leaned forward and put her mouth on his, softly, almost experimentally.

For a moment he was completely still, then, with a sound like a groan, his arms went round her, pulling her roughly down to him so that she was cradled across his body.

His lips were parting hers without any of the usual gentleness he showed her. She felt the graze of his teeth against her bottom lip, the heated thrust of his tongue.

Excitement warred with apprehension inside her.

Gabriel tossed the covering sheet away and lowered her to the mattress, kneeling over her. He took the hem of her nightdress, tugging the garment upwards and over her head, then throwing it aside.

She wasn’t used to being naked in front of anyone, and she was paralysed with shyness. She wanted Gabriel to hold her. To kiss her and reassure her. She wanted him to tell her he loved her.

But he did none of these things. Instead, he began to touch her, his hands shaking as they cupped her breasts, traced the curve of her stomach and swept downwards to her thighs.

Joanna felt a faint stir of wondering response deep within her. She looked up at him and suddenly saw the face of a stranger, harsh and strangely remote, with eyes feral as a jungle cat’s. As he entered her, her body resisted momentarily the breach of its innocence, and she gave a sob of mingled pain and fright.

He checked suddenly, looking down at her with something like horror. He whispered harshly, ‘Oh, dear God…’

Then he began to move inside her, to some stark, driven rhythm of his own, until, at last, his release was torn from him.

He rolled away from her and lay with his back turned to her while his ragged breathing steadied. Then he got up and went into the bathroom, and she heard the shower running.

A ritual cleansing, Joanna thought, to wash away all contact with her. And she turned her face into the pillow and wept.

She supposed she must have cried herself to sleep, because the next time she opened her eyes it was sunrise. She was alone in the bedroom, but she could see Gabriel sitting on the balcony, in his robe, watching the sun come up, a dark silhouette against the passionate sky.

She slipped out of bed, put on the crumpled nightgown rescued from the floor and went to him.

‘Gabriel.’ Her voice barely rose above a whisper, and she saw his back stiffen in awareness.

‘Go back to bed.’ He didn’t look round at her. ‘You’ll catch cold.’

‘I don’t understand.’ She forced the words through a throat aching with tears. ‘What have I done wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ he said quietly. ‘The fault is all mine. I should have stopped this bloody marriage at the outset—never allowed it to happen.’ His sigh was harsh, almost anguished. ‘Dear God, what a mess. What a total—damnable shambles.’

It was as if he’d turned and struck her. She went back into the bedroom, pulled the sheet over her head, and lay like a stone until the servants started moving about.

And then she got up quietly, to pull the remnants of her pride around her and face the first day of the rest of her life.

CHAPTER TWO

JOANNA stirred in the chair and shivered. The hopeful fire had burned down, and she replenished it with a couple of fast-burning beech logs.

But the real cold was inside her, in her bones. In her heart.

She shook her head in irritation. Why was she thinking these things—allowing herself to remember—probing into old wounds?

Perhaps, she thought, grimacing, because they’d never properly healed the first time. Now there’s a dangerous admission.

Wrapping her arms across herself, she began to walk slowly up and down the room, head bent. Her hair brushed her cheek and she combed it back with impatient fingers. She was still wearing it in the same sleek mid-length bob. A change, she decided abruptly, was well overdue.

Something short, she thought, and businesslike, be-fitting her job-seeking status.

She had filled in for the secretary more than once at the estate office, so she knew the rudiments of word-processing and the preparation of spreadsheets.

What she should look for, she thought detachedly, was a position similar to the one she’d filled here, but minus the personal involvement. Housekeepers who could drive and had basic secretarial skills would surely be in demand. And didn’t the National Trust employ people to live in their properties and care for them?

I would like to do that, she thought. I would like to care for the fabric of another old house, as I’ve looked after this. It’ll be handed back to Gabriel in good shape.

She had marked time for the past two years, but if that led to a career then the time would have been well spent after all. It was only a pity she couldn’t find a suitable post before she was forced to confront Gabriel again.

Gabriel. Every pathway in her mind seemed suddenly to lead back to him, she thought angrily. But that was understandable, in a way. After all, in another forty-eight hours he would be here, taking possession.

Another uncontrollable shiver went through her as the words lodged in her brain. For a brief nightmare second she could almost feel his physical presence. She could feel his hands touching her, as if she were some rare and delicate object which had taken his fleeting interest but which he would decide, in the end, not to buy. Her head seemed to fill with the scent—the taste of him.

And she remembered his face, stark, almost pagan in the golden Mauritian moonlight, as he’d lifted himself above her. The way he’d suddenly become some fierce, dominating stranger, obsessed with an emotion she did not share or even understand.

But he had never treated her like that again.

Nor had either of them referred to what had happened, or the bitter words which had followed. Instead, by some tacit agreement, they’d treated the honeymoon as if it was just another holiday. They’d swum, gone sightseeing, bargain-hunted in local markets and sampled the Mauritian specialities in the restaurants like all the other tourists.

In the daytime, he’d seemed to revert to the Gabriel she’d always known, so that she’d been able to relax, even enjoy herself a little. Except that she’d known the night would always come and she would find herself lying alone in the enormous bed, listening to the gentle swish of the ceiling fan as it revolved above her and wondering if he was asleep.

It was their last night on the island when he’d eventually turned to her again.

This time he’d been gentle, almost objective as he’d touched her. There’d been no pain when he entered her, but she’d been rigid in his arms, wanting to respond—longing to share this ultimate secret with him—but not daring to. Because she’d known from his own words that it was a mistake—that he didn’t really want her. He needed sexual release and she was just an available female body. And that knowledge had imprisoned her in a constraint that this polite, controlled, dutiful coupling could not release.

At one point, she’d heard him ask quietly, ‘Do you want me to stop?’

And her own stilted reply. ‘No, it’s all right—really.’

For a moment he’d been very still, staring down at her, then he’d closed his eyes and begun to drive towards his climax.

In a way things had become easier when they returned home. For one thing they hadn’t been in each other’s undiluted company any more.

But there had been inherent problems in the situation—Cynthia’s almost prurient interest in their relationship for one, and Lionel’s jovial hints about grandchildren for another.

If they’d been in love, passionately and physically involved with each other, they could have laughed about it. As it was, Joanna had found it acutely embarrassing. What Gabriel thought he’d kept to himself.

He had begun to stay overnight in London instead of driving down, and she’d had to find excuses not to join him.

When he was there, in bed with her in the room they’d shared for form’s sake, she’d lie awake half the night, dreading he was going to touch her, then fretting because he’d simply wished her goodnight, turned on his side and instantly fallen asleep.

When he wasn’t there, the darkness she’d stared into had been filled with images of him, the challenging grace of his naked body arched above some other woman.

And there had to be someone. Painful common sense had told her that. Gabriel was not a natural celibate, and the spaces between their lovemaking—if it could be called that—were becoming longer.

She remembered the very last time with painful vividness. They’d been to a party—someone’s twenty-first birthday—and she’d drunk too much champagne. For once Joanna had felt her inhibitions slipping away. She’d laughed, flirted, and danced with everyone, suddenly aware as she did so that Gabriel was watching her, leaning against a wall, drink in hand. For a moment, she’d faltered, bracing herself for his disapproval, then realised that he was smiling faintly, his eyes hooded, speculative. She’d laughed back at him, and, obeying an impulse, spun around on the ball of her foot so that the skirt of her indigo crêpe dress billowed round her slim legs, blowing him a kiss as she faced him again. And she’d seen him, in return, lift his glass in a silent toast.

In the car going home, she’d kicked off her high-heeled shoes and slid down in her seat, allowing her head to droop towards his shoulder.

She’d half expected him to move away, but he’d stayed where he was and so had she, watching the passing hedgerows through half-closed eyes, moving her cheek gently against the smooth silky texture of his jacket, and humming snatches of the music she’d been dancing to.

They hadn’t talked, but that in itself had imposed a kind of intimacy, as if there was no need for words.

Or, she’d thought afterwards, as if they had been in a dream.

When they’d got back to the Manor, Gabriel had parked by the front entrance and come round to open Joanna’s door. She’d been scrabbling around on the floor.

‘I’ve lost my shoe.’

‘Look for it tomorrow.’

‘But the gravel—’ She stopped abruptly as he lifted her out of the car into his arms, and carried her up the short flight of stone steps into the house.

She expected him to set her down in the hall, but he kept going up the stairs, then along the gallery to their bedroom.

She could feel her heart hammering suddenly. The effect of the champagne had dissipated and she was sober again, half-frightened, half-excited.

Gabriel carried her across the room and put her on the bed, following her down onto the yielding mattress. For a moment he lay beside her, one hand cupping her face, making her look at him. His eyes were lambent, intent, as if, she thought, he was looking into her soul. The silence that surrounded them was charged. The light from the shaded lamps seemed to shimmer and dance.

Joanna was trembling inside, almost dizzy with expectancy. She lifted her own hand and stroked his cheek lightly with her fingertips, and she saw him hesitate, the lean body suddenly tense, the dark face unfathomable.

And she remembered, just in time, as he must also have done, the bitter truth about their marriage, and that to yield to the sweet, potent forces in her blood—to draw him down into her arms—into her body—would be an unendurable complication.

Because nothing’s basically changed, she thought, her throat tightening. He’s had a good time at the party tonight and he wants to end the evening in the traditional way. That’s all.

And I—I can’t let myself want him. I couldn’t bear to be hurt like that—to spend the rest of my life waiting for him, needing him, and being disappointed. Being betrayed.

It’s better the way it is. At least I still have my pride.

She moved abruptly, pushing herself away from him.

He reached for her. ‘Joanna.’ His voice was gentle, almost rueful.

She said in a small, high voice, ‘I—I’m sorry. I’m not feeling very well.’

She slid off the bed, a hand pressed to her mouth, and ran across to the bathroom, closing the door and bolting it behind her.

It wasn’t altogether a lie. She felt sick with self-betrayal.

She ran the taps in the basin and splashed water onto her face and wrists. After a decent interval she flushed the lavatory and emerged from the bathroom, dabbing her lips with a tissue.

Gabriel, still fully dressed, was standing by the window, looking out into the darkness. He turned, brows raised, and surveyed her.

Joanna gave him a tremulous smile. ‘That was awful. It must have been the champagne.’

‘Naturally,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing else, after all, that could have turned your stomach.’

She halted uncomfortably, disturbed by his unwavering scrutiny.

‘I hope you’ve never had leanings towards becoming an actress,’ he went on conversationally. ‘You’re not very good at it.’

She felt colour invade her face. ‘I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Your recent performance as the dying swan,’ he said derisively. ‘But you won’t have to sink to any more of these undignified ploys to keep me at bay. Enough is quite enough.’

He paused, the tawny eyes sweeping her contemptuously. ‘I think I’ll do us both a favour, and find some other form of entertainment.’

He walked past her to the door. ‘I’m going back to London. You can tell my father I had an early meeting, or make up what story you like. It really makes no difference.’ His smile flickered at her like a cold flame. ‘Goodbye, my sweet wife.’

Joanna realised dazedly that she was standing in the middle of the study with her eyes shut and her hands pressed tightly to her ears, as if—two years on—she could somehow shut out the sound, the image of that night, and by doing so reduce its pain.

But that, she reminded herself bleakly, had never been possible. And with Gabriel’s return it would all begin again. The day after tomorrow, Henry Fortescue had said. Forty-eight hours, maybe less, and she would have to face him.

Yes—on the positive side—forty-eight hours and the official dissolution of their marriage could begin.

She would leave the letter she had written him on the desk for him to find.

She took a long look around her. The chances were she would never enter this room again. The house that had been her home was hers no longer.

I have to move out, she thought. Move out—and move on.

And, whatever emotional furore Gabriel’s return would cause, there were still practical details to be dealt with.

She went out of the study, crossing the big panelled hall to the dining room, where Mrs Ashby was laying the table for dinner.

The housekeeper’s elderly face was drawn, her eyes red-rimmed. Joanna remembered with compassion that she had lived at Westroe in one capacity or another for over thirty years, arriving when Gabriel was still a baby.

The smile she sent Joanna was a travesty of her usual cheerfulness. ‘Will Mrs Elcott be down for dinner, madam? Or should I prepare a tray?’

‘I honestly don’t know, but I’ll find out.’ Joanna paused. ‘Mr Verne will be here for the funeral, Grace. Would you get a room ready for him, please?’

Grace Ashby shook her head. ‘What a sad home-coming for him, madam.’ She hesitated awkwardly. ‘I suppose it should be Mr Lionel’s room, but all his things are still there. I—I haven’t had the heart to touch anything, and that’s a fact.’

‘Just prepare the room he used to have for the time being,’ Joanna said gently. ‘He can decide for himself what he wants to do once things—settle down a bit.’ She sighed. ‘Now, I’ll go and tackle Mrs Elcott.’

The lamps had been lit in Cynthia’s bedroom, and she was reclining against her pillows in a pale blue wrap, watching television. A copy of Vogue was open on the bed beside her, together with a half-eaten box of chocolates.

‘Hi.’ Joanna smiled at her, trying not to wince at the over-heated, perfume-laden atmosphere. ‘How are you feeling? I came to see if you felt like coming down to dinner this evening.’

‘I’ll have a bowl of soup up here.’ Cynthia gave her a tragic look. ‘I’m afraid I can’t face anything more solid.’

And nor could I if I’d eaten my way through nearly a pound of chocolates, Joanna thought with irony.

Aloud, she said, ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘It’s not your fault.’ Cynthia waved a hand. ‘Some of us are just more sensitive than others. It’s the burden we have to bear in life.’

She thought of another one. ‘And how many more visitors can we expect today?’ she demanded peevishly. ‘The doorbell seems to have been ringing non-stop. It’s been quite impossible for me to rest.’

‘It’s natural for people to express their condolences,’ Joanna said levelly. ‘Lionel was very much loved.’

‘You think you have to tell me that?’ Cynthia snatched a handful of tissues from a box and applied them to her perfectly dry eyes. ‘Really, Joanna, you can be so tactless. I sometimes wonder if you have a heart at all.’ She paused. ‘I notice none of them came up to see me. I suppose I can expect to be disregarded from now on.’ She sighed. ‘And things might have been so different.’

‘They’re going to be.’ Joanna cleared a handful of lingerie and filmy stockings from a chair and sat down. ‘My last visitor was Henry Fortescue.’

‘Old Fortescue?’ Cynthia sat up abruptly, her wrap slipping from her shoulder. ‘Did he mention Lionel’s will, by any chance? Give a hint how things had been left?’

Joanna was used to her stepmother by now, but there were still moments when Cynthia’s capacity for self-interest left her stunned.

‘No,’ she returned tautly. ‘The will’s going to be read after the funeral.’ She swallowed. ‘When Gabriel is here.’

‘Of course.’ Cynthia gave a slow, sly smile. ‘The return of the prodigal heir. No wonder you’re so edgy.’

Joanna was about to retort irritably that she wasn’t edgy at all, but stopped herself just in time.

‘How do you feel about seeing him again?’ Cynthia helped herself to another chocolate. ‘And, more importantly, how’s he going to feel about seeing you? He must blame you for the fact that he hasn’t been near the place for two years.’ She began to roll the paper wrapping into a tiny ball. ‘After all, he hasn’t just been separated from you, but from his father as well, and now the separation’s permanent.’

‘You don’t have to remind me of that,’ Joanna said bleakly. ‘I should have been the one to go.’

‘Oh, don’t be a fool,’ Cynthia said impatiently. ‘Lionel would never have allowed that.’ She examined a fleck on her nail. ‘You do realise he was madly in love with your mother, don’t you?’

Joanna stared at her in silent shock. ‘What are you talking about?’ she asked eventually.

‘Your father told me all about it.’ Cynthia shrugged nonchalantly. ‘It was one of those boy-girl things, and the families discouraged it because they were first cousins, but Jeremy reckoned he carried a torch for her all his life.’ She gave Joanna a sidelong smile. ‘Why do you think I brought you here after your father was killed? I knew all I had to do was tug a few heartstrings and we’d have a home for life.’

‘I think that had more to do with Lionel’s strong sense of family than any secret passion,’ Joanna said dismissively. ‘You’re surely not suggesting he married Valentina on some kind of rebound?’

Cynthia shrugged again, giving an irritable hitch to her slipping wrap. ‘God knows why he married her, because of all the ill-matched couples…’ She pursed her lips. ‘Can you imagine? A Roman beauty, descended from centuries of aristocratic decadence, buried alive in the English countryside. She must have thought she’d died and gone to hell.’

‘And yet they stayed together,’ Joanna objected.

‘By the skin of their teeth.’ Cynthia yawned, and ate another chocolate. ‘Jeremy told me they used to have the most spectacular rows—real plate-throwing, screaming jobs. You can see why Gabriel’s no angel, in spite of his name.’

She paused, her expression soulful. ‘I think that is why poor Lionel was so scared of actual commitment for a second time. If only we’d had more time together, I might have been able to reassure him.’

At the same time keeping a close watch for flying pigs, Joanna thought drily.

Whatever her stepmother’s ego might suggest, Joanna herself had never seen in Lionel’s behaviour towards Cynthia anything more than a rather studied courtesy. On the other hand, the full-length portrait of his late wife still occupied pride of place on the wall of the Jacobean Room, with its big carved four-poster bed, which they’d shared during their marriage and he’d occupied until his own death.

Cynthia directed a malicious look at her. ‘Did Gabriel ever bung any plates in your direction? No, I suppose he was far too civilised—although I often thought there was something pretty volcanic seething under that calm exterior.’

Joanna’s lips tightened in distaste. ‘I wouldn’t know.’

Cynthia laughed. ‘Oh, I’m quite sure of that, darling. Another marriage from hell,’ she added reflectively. ‘Gabriel must have cursed the day he allowed himself to be manoeuvred into it.’

‘Probably.’ Joanna got to her feet. ‘And soon you’ll have every opportunity to ask him about it. Although I doubt if he’ll tell you.’

‘I wouldn’t be too certain about that.’ Cynthia stretched like a cat in the big bed. ‘There’s less than six years’ difference in our ages, you know. He might welcome—a confidante.’

There was something in her voice that stopped Joanna in her tracks.

‘What exactly are you saying?’ she asked slowly. ‘That having failed with the father you’re going after the son?’

Cynthia’s blue eyes took on a steely glint. ‘Crudely put, my sweet, but not altogether inaccurate,’ she retorted. ‘God knows, I’ve got to do something. Unlike you, I can’t count on Lionel’s will to rescue me. If we’d been officially engaged it would have been very different, of course. I might have had some claim. Although I’m pretty certain he’s left me Larkspur Cottage. Certainly I dropped enough hints.’

She paused. ‘And why should you quibble, anyway? You don’t want Gabriel, so why be a dog in the manger?’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ Joanna had a feeling of total unreality. ‘And please don’t let the fact that we’re still married to each other stand in your way either.’

‘No, I shan’t,’ Cynthia returned. ‘And neither, I suspect, will Gabriel.’

It was all Joanna could do not to bang the bedroom door as she left.

Her heart was hammering, and she felt oddly nauseous as she went into her own room to change for dinner.

Gabriel and Cynthia, she thought. Cynthia and Gabriel.

Could such a relationship exist in the realms of possibility?

She swallowed past the sudden constriction in her throat, trying to think dispassionately about her stepmother as she reached into the wardrobe and extracted a woollen long-sleeved blouse and a plain black skirt.

Cynthia was thirty-seven against Gabriel’s thirty-two, she thought, but she didn’t look her age. She never had. She was a regular patron of the nearby health farm, using the gym almost as much as the beauty salon. She played tennis in the summer, squash in the winter, and golf all the year round. Her clothes and make-up were always immaculate, and her blond hair skilfully highlighted.

Superficially, at least, she was a far more obvious and decorative chatelaine for the Manor than Joanna had ever been—or ever could be, she thought, giving her straight brown hair, pale skin and clear hazel eyes a disparaging glance in the mirror.

And Cynthia was undoubtedly a man’s woman. She wasn’t simply attractive, she had a deep, inbuilt sex appeal that announced itself in her voice, her body language and mannerisms whenever she was in male company.

Lionel might have been resistant to her allure, but he’d been an exception. Joanna had seen sensible, responsible men become quite silly when Cynthia turned her honeyed charm on them.

My own father, for one, she thought sadly.

From the first, Cynthia had pursued Lionel quite single-mindedly. But what would have happened if she’d made Gabriel the object of her attentions instead? Lionel might not have approved, but would he really have raised any serious opposition to their marriage—if that had been what they both wanted?

Gabriel never wanted me, she thought. So why not Cynthia?

I’m divorcing him, so what can it possibly matter who he chooses—the second time around?

And then she saw the sudden flare of colour along her cheekbones, felt the angry knock of her heart against her ribcage and the burn of anger in her eyes.

And she knew that beyond all logic and reason, and without any doubt, it mattered a great deal.

A realisation which terrified her.

CHAPTER THREE

DINNER was a sombre and solitary affair. Joanna drank the vegetable soup and picked at the grilled chicken breast, conscious all the time of the empty chair at the head of the table.

Jess and Molly, Lionel’s two retrievers, lay dejectedly in the doorway, silky golden heads pillowed in bewilderment on their paws.

‘Poor old girls.’ She bent to give them each a consolatory pat as she left the room. ‘No one’s been taking much notice of you, and you don’t understand any of it. Never mind, I’ll take you both up on the hill later.’

She drank her coffee by the drawing room fire, the dogs stretched on the rug at her feet. The morning paper lay on the table beside her, still neatly folded. Usually she and Lionel would have been arguing companionably over the crossword by now, she thought, with a pang of desolation.

She drew a sharp breath. ‘I’ve got to stop looking back,’ she whispered fiercely to herself. ‘Because that brings nothing but pain.’

The future was something she dared not contemplate. Which left only the emptiness of the present.

She knew she would deal with that unwelcome moment of revelation she’d experienced before dinner. It was essential to rationalise and somehow dismiss it before Gabriel came back.

I’m in an emotional low, she told herself. I’m bound to be vulnerable—prey to all kinds of ridiculous imaginings.

Or maybe Cynthia’s right, and I’m just a dog in the manger.

I could live with that, she thought. But not with the possibility that Gabriel is still of importance in my life.

Determinedly, and deliberately, she switched her attention to another of Cynthia’s bombshells—that Lionel had been affected his whole life through by his passion for Joanna’s mother. Could it be true? she wondered.

Certainly she’d never heard him say anything that gave credence to such an idea. However tempestuous his marriage had been, she’d always believed that he’d loved Valentina Alessio. And he had never seriously contemplated putting another woman in her place—whatever Cynthia might choose to think.

Henry Fortescue had described Mary Verne as Lionel’s favourite cousin, and that was how she still planned to regard their relationship.

A low whine from one of the dogs reminded her that she’d promised to take them out.

She pulled on some boots, shrugged on her waxed jacket, and wound a scarf round her neck.

She collected a flashlight and let herself out by the side door, the dogs capering joyfully round her. They went through the garden, across the field, and onto the hill via the rickety wooden stile.

The temperature had fallen, and a damp, icy wind was blowing, making Joanna shiver in spite of her jacket.

Cold enough for snow, she thought as she followed the gambolling dogs up the well-worn track.

‘Don’t get too excited,’ she warned them. ‘We’ll go as far as the Hermitage and then I’m turning back.’

It was a stiff climb, and the ground was slippery and treacherous with loose stones. She was breathless when she reached the awkward huddle of rocks on the summit, and quite glad to lean her back against the largest boulder and shelter from the penetrating wind.

The dogs were hurtling about in the dead bracken, yelping excitedly. Joanna clicked off the flashlight to save the battery, and shoved it in her pocket.

It was a good spot for star-gazing, but tonight the sky was busy with scudding clouds.

Joanna looked back the way she had come. The Manor lay below her in the valley. There was a light in the kitchen wing, and one from Cynthia’s bedroom, but the rest of the house was in darkness.

A week ago it would have been ablaze with lights. Lionel had liked brightness and warmth, and had never mastered the theory that electricity switches operated in an ‘off’ position too.

The blank windows said more plainly than anything else that the master was no longer at home.

The wind mourned softly among the fallen stones. Local legend said that centuries before a man had come to this place and built himself a stone shelter where he could pray and do penance for his sins in complete solitude, and that the keening of the wind was the hermit weeping for his past wickedness.

And so would I, thought Joanna, adjusting her scarf more securely. She called the dogs and they came trotting to her side. As she reached for her torch they stiffened, and she heard them growl softly.

‘Easy,’ she told them. ‘It’s only a sheep—or a deer.’

They were too well-behaved to go chasing livestock, but something had clearly spooked them. Or someone, Joanna thought with sudden alarm, as she heard the rattle of a stray pebble nearby. Her fingers tightened around the unlit torch. Normally she’d expect to have the hill to herself on a night like this.

Perhaps it was the hermit, who was said to wander across the top of the hill in robe and cowl, usually when the moon was full, she thought, her mouth twisting in self-derision.

She said clearly, ‘Jess—Moll—it’s all right.’

For a moment they were still under her restraining hand, then with a whimper of excitement they leapt forward into the darkness. A moment later she heard them barking hysterically a short distance away.

‘Damnation.’ She switched on the torch and followed them, cursing herself for not having brought their leashes.

She could only hope they hadn’t flushed some hardy courting couple out of the bracken.

She could see their quarry now, a tall, dark figure, standing quietly while the dogs leapt about him, yelping in joyous welcome.

She hurried into speech. ‘Good evening. I do hope they’re not annoying you. They’re not usually like this with strangers.’

For a moment he neither moved nor spoke, then he put down a hand and the dogs sank to their haunches, their faces lifted worshipfully towards him.

And Joanna knew in that instant, with a sudden sick dread, exactly who was standing in front of her in the darkness.

He said quietly, ‘They’re not annoying me, Joanna. And I’m hardly a stranger.’

The breath caught in her throat. She took a quick step backwards, the torch swinging up to illumine his face and confirm her worst fear.

Her voice was a scratchy whisper. ‘Gabriel?’

‘Congratulations. You have an excellent memory.’

She disregarded the jibe. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘My father died yesterday.’ A harshness invaded the usually cool drawl. ‘I’ve come to attend his funeral.’

‘But we weren’t expecting you—not for another two days.’

‘I decided to end my self-imposed exile and take an earlier flight. I hope it won’t cause you too much inconvenience.’

She swallowed. ‘No—no, of course not.’

‘Said with no conviction at all,’ he murmured. ‘Not that it makes a ha’p’orth of difference. I’m here, and I intend to spend the night under my own roof. And if that’s a problem for you, Joanna, you’re just going to have to sort it out.’

She said tautly, ‘You’re forty-eight hours early, that’s all. No big deal. And if anyone’s going to be inconvenienced it will be Mrs Ashby. I’d better go down and warn her.’ She paused. ‘Moll—Jess—come on.’

The retrievers didn’t budge. Gabriel laughed softly. ‘They seemed to have transferred their allegiance.’

She said, ‘Like all good subjects at the start of a new reign.’

‘Is that how you see yourself too?’ There was faint amusement in his voice. ‘Can I expect the same unquestioning obedience?’

She said shortly, ‘You can expect nothing,’ and plunged off down the path, aware that her face had warmed.

Don’t you ever learn? she castigated herself. Why bandy words with him when you always lose? Don’t let him wind you up.

He caught up with her easily, the dogs pacing at his heels. ‘Take it easy. You might fall.’

And break my neck? she thought bitterly. I’m not that lucky.

She said, ‘What were you doing up there anyway?’

‘I’ve spent the past twenty-four hours cooped up in boardrooms and shut in a plane,’ he returned shortly. ‘I needed to breathe—and to think.’

And to grieve, she realised, with sudden remorse.

She said haltingly, ‘I—I’m sorry I intruded.’

‘Where else would you take the dogs?’ His tone was dismissive.

They continued on downhill. Even with the torch-light to guide her, Joanna found the slope hard going. She was burdened by her awareness of Gabriel walking beside her, close enough to touch, but not touching—inhibited by her fear that if she put a foot wrong he would reach out a hand to her, and that invisible, necessary barrier would be shattered.

She needed to say something—to break the silence. ‘You might have telephoned,’ she remarked. ‘Told us to expect you.’

He said lightly, ‘I decided against it. You might have changed the locks.’

‘That isn’t very amusing.’ Her tone was chilly.

‘Who said I was joking?’ He paused, then said more gently, ‘Look, forget I said that. I suspect this is going to be a bloody difficult few days, Jo. Let’s do what we can to preserve the outward decencies, whatever our private feelings. For Lionel’s sake.’

‘You don’t have to bludgeon me with his memory,’ she said raggedly. ‘I’ll behave.’ She drew a breath. ‘I’ll go on ahead, give Mrs Ashby a hand. Have you had dinner?’

‘I had something on the plane. It successfully destroyed my appetite for the foreseeable future.’

‘Oh.’ She hesitated. ‘Well, when you bring the dogs in, will you dry off their paws, please? You’ll find their towels—’

‘In the rear cloakroom,’ he supplied. ‘Where they’ve always been. I’ve been gone for two years, Joanna. It’s hardly a lifetime.’

She bit her lip. ‘I thought it might have slipped your memory, that’s all.’

‘Oh, no, Joanna.’ His voice was quiet, almost reflective. ‘I think I can safely promise you that I haven’t forgotten a thing. Not the smallest detail.’

In the brief silence which followed, her sharply in-drawn breath was clearly audible.

He nodded, as if satisfied, then added, ‘Now, go and break the good news to Mrs Ashby. Like the dogs, she’ll be pleased to see me.’

Joanna turned and, half-stumbling, half-running, made her way back to the house.

Mrs Ashby’s reaction to the news was all Gabriel could have wished. She shed a few tears, smiled through them, made a few disjointed remarks, and bustled off to prepare his room.

Joanna knew she should have offered to help, but as she couldn’t in honesty share the good woman’s raptures she decided to keep her distance.

He’s been back five minutes, she thought, and he’s managed to unnerve me already. By the end of the week I’ll be a basket case.

When Gabriel himself returned, she was sitting in the drawing room, having dragged together the threads of her composure. She’d discarded her jacket and boots but resisted the impulse to tidy her wind-blown hair, or disguise the pallor of her face with cosmetics.

‘Well, this is a cosy, domestic scene.’

Joanna glanced up from the book she’d snatched up at random, and was pretending to read, to find him lounging in the doorway, watching her, his eyes hooded, his face inscrutable.

‘It’s better than you realise,’ she returned, trying to sound casual, in spite of the sudden dryness in her throat. ‘Grace has brought in a tray of fresh coffee. May I pour some for you?’

‘No, don’t get up. I’ll do it.’ He walked over to the side table and busied himself with the cafetière and cream jug. ‘She wanted to serve up a fatted calf, but I persuaded her just coffee would be fine.’

To her annoyance, the cup he handed her was just as she liked it. His memory for detail was indeed disturbingly good, she reflected uneasily.

Gabriel looked down at the book she was holding and whistled appreciatively.

‘Wisden? Is this interest in cricketing statistics a new departure?’

‘Not particularly.’ Joanna flushed with annoyance. Of all the damned things she could have chosen, she thought angrily. She closed the book with a bang, and put it down. ‘Actually, I began watching the game to keep your father company.’

His smile was tight-lipped. ‘Of course,’ he drawled. ‘The perfect daughter.’ He paused, then added softly, ‘In-law.’

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I think.’

He seated himself opposite her on one of the big chintz-covered sofas which flanked the fireplace. The dogs, who’d followed him into the room, lay down on the rug between them.

For the first time Joanna was able to take a real look at him, studying him covertly from under her lashes.

He’d changed, she thought. The lines beside his mouth had deepened, and his features had lost any last trace of boyishness. He looked not just older, but harder.

He glanced up, meeting her gaze meditatively, and she hurried into speech.

‘You were a long time coming down from the hill.’

His brows lifted. ‘Did you miss me?’ he drawled. ‘I’m flattered.’

She bit her lip. ‘That isn’t what I meant.’

His mouth twisted. ‘I didn’t really think it would be.’ He drank some coffee. ‘I went down the other way—to pick up my car. I’d left it in the lay-by at Combe Gate.’

‘Oh,’ Joanna said rather blankly. ‘I see.’

‘No,’ he said gently. ‘I don’t think you do. I wasn’t sure in my own mind whether I was ready to come back to this house yet, or if I preferred to spend the night in Midhampton. I went up onto the hill to spy out the lie of the land, and then you came along and the dogs recognised me. That seemed to make the decision for me.’

She said slowly, ‘If I’d been alone would you have said anything? Let me know you were there?’

‘Ah,’ he said lightly. ‘That we shall never know.’

‘Well—I think your decision was the right one.’ She paused. ‘Your room will be ready by now. I—I expect after all that travelling you’d appreciate an early night.’

‘Not particularly,’ he said. ‘I think, don’t you, that we should talk? Settle a few things?’

‘Yes,’ she said, her heart sinking. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘Gabriel, you may not want to hear this from me, but I really loved your father, and I—I’m devastated by what’s happened.’

He stared down at the cup and saucer he was holding. ‘Well, at least we agree on something.’

‘I had no idea he had any kind of heart trouble.’

Gabriel shrugged a shoulder. ‘I presume he didn’t want to worry you.’

She stared at him. ‘Then—you knew?’ she asked incredulously.

‘Yes.’ His voice was even. His tawny gaze met hers in direct challenge. ‘I’ve been seeing him quite regularly in London. The last time was a couple of weeks ago, when he came up to consult a specialist who recommended a by-pass operation.’ He paused. ‘But unfortunately fate intervened.’

He gave her a speculative look. ‘Our meetings have clearly come as an unpleasant shock to you. If you’d hoped the breach between us was total, and I’d be cut off with the proverbial shilling, you’re going to be disappointed.’

She stood up, spilling coffee down her skirt. ‘How dare you say that?’ Her voice shook. ‘I never thought—never wanted you to be apart from him. I’ve been blaming myself terribly…’

‘And scalding yourself as penance, it seems,’ Gabriel said grimly. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘No, of course not.’ She dabbed crossly at her damp skirt with a hankie. ‘God, how stupid.’

‘Sit down,’ he said more gently. ‘And calm down.’

‘I was perfectly calm,’ she said, off the edge of her voice, ‘until you started your—rotten insinuations.’

‘Mea culpa.’ His tone was almost casual. ‘Consider yourself absolved—of that particular crime anyway. And don’t throw any more coffee about,’ he added, as her head lifted in shock and she glared at him.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.