‘I have no intention of marrying you!’

Lizzie French is astounded when her widowed father decides to marry again. It only serves to remind her that maybe it’s time she found her own other half! But that doesn’t mean she’s about to accept tycoon Noah Jordan’s outrageous marriage proposal…

“We’ll have to go to the register office tomorrow morning to make the arrangements.”

“Noah, you’re not listening to me. I have absolutely no intention of marrying you on Wednesday or—”

“Thursday might be better,” Noah agreed.

“Or any other day,” Lizzie insisted.

“I’ve got an appointment first thing, but after that I’m free until the evening,” he continued, disregarding her objection.

“I am busy on Thursday.”

“You see, the great thing about having the ceremony on Thursday, Elizabeth, is that Francesca and Peter will be back from Stratford. We can... No, you can invite them to be our witnesses. What could be more perfect?”

He was serious. He really meant it....

LIZ FIELDING was born in Berkshire, England, and educated at a convent school in Maidenhead. At twenty she took off for Africa to work as a secretary in Lusaka, where she met her civil-engineer husband, John. They spent the following ten years working in Africa and the Middle East. She began writing during the long evenings when her husband was working away on contract. Liz and her husband are now settled in Wales with their children, Amy and William.

Conflict of Hearts

Liz Fielding

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Table of Contents

Cover

“We’ll have to go to the register office tomorrow morning to make the arrangements.”

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

LIZZIE FRENCH jumped involuntarily as the church door clanged noisily behind a latecomer. Had he come? She had almost given up hope, but now, heart-in-mouth, she turned.

Too late. Whoever had entered the church had slipped into one of the pews at the back and was already hidden from sight.

‘It was a middle-aged lady in a puce hat that perfectly matches her complexion.’ Startled by this wickedly telling description of the vicar’s wife, Lizzie involuntarily glanced at the man standing beside her.

Noah Jordan’s dark brows were lifted just a fraction, his mouth turned down slightly at the corners in a mocking expression that might just have been an apology that he was the bearer of such disappointing news. But somehow she didn’t think so.

She jerked her eyes back to the page in front of her, determined to shut the man out of her mind. But Noah Jordan refused to be shut out. Even as she stared at the order of service the grey sleeve of his morning coat brushed against the smooth golden skin of her shoulder while he turned the page for her, silently indicating the place with the tip of one long finger.

She could almost hear him laughing at her. And her father actually expected her to go and stay with the wretched man while he was away on his honeymoon... If only Peter would come!

She shifted, uncomfortably aware that she was being assessed by a pair of hawkish grey eyes that would miss nothing—certainly not the angry flush that coloured her cheeks. It was all too easy to imagine him examining a painting from a dubious source with just that look. The signature might be right, the provenance perfect, and yet...

Well, let him look. She didn’t care one jot what he thought. Noah Jordan might have a reputation as a man with an infinite capacity to charm, but he hadn’t charmed her. Not one bit.

Lizzie made a determined effort to concentrate on the service, and there were no more late arrivals to set her heart jangling. Only the unexpectedly disturbing touch of Noah’s cool hand against her skin as he took her arm and they followed her father and his new bride into the vestry to sign the register.

‘You don’t much approve of this, do you?’ Amidst the congratulations and kisses, Noah’s words jolted her back to reality.

“I...” What could she say—Your sister is going to break my father’s heart, and I know what that will do to him because I’ve been there before?

Her father hadn’t believed her, so why should Noah Jordan? And so, for today, to make her father happy, she had smiled and played bridesmaid. But those probing, eagle-sharp eyes hadn’t been fooled. Was that what puzzled him? Did he find it so impossible to believe that anyone would not welcome his dazzling sister as a stepmother?

Her eyes fell upon the laughing bride. She looked so happy, so radiant, so totally in love. But then she was a supremely gifted actress. ‘Does it matter?’ Lizzie asked. She made no further effort to pretend. The man could apparently see straight through her.

‘Not to me. To your father... to Olivia it might,’ he drawled, his voice making her skin tingle as if he were rubbing velvet the wrong way. ‘What do you object to particularly?’

She raised her chin a little. ‘She’s a lot younger than Dad,’ she said. ‘It seems an odd match.’ But if she’d hoped to divert him with the kind of gossip she overheard in the village shop she was mistaken.

‘A lot younger?’ he repeated thoughtfully, but he was unimpressed by this argument. ‘She’s thirty-four, Elizabeth. Hardly a girl.’ His mouth compressed into a thin line. ‘She won’t run off and leave him for a younger man, if that’s what is on that devious little mind of yours.’

Elizabeth. How she hated that. No one but her mother had ever called her that, except when she was in deep trouble. But then she was—in the deepest trouble. ‘My father is nearly fifty,’ she responded frostily.

His eyes creased to betray his wry, exasperated amusement at this remark. ‘Olivia told me that he was a little over forty-five. I wonder which James would agree with?’

Oh, she knew that. Her father was as susceptible to flattery as the next man. But he would still be forty-nine next birthday. And, having nailed her objection so firmly to the mast, she wasn’t about to back down just because Noah Jordan thought it was ridiculous. Besides, it served as well as anything else to cover the anger. That was private. Not for public consumption.

Her public face had smiled and smiled, and no one had suspected her true feelings. Why should they? Olivia was such an accomplished actress; who would ever guess what she was really like? But somehow this man knew the smile that Lizzie had painted on was only a mask.

‘The age difference is still—’ she pressed on, then stopped abruptly at the derision that momentarily twisted his mouth.

‘Too great?’ He completed her objection with the faintest touch of ridicule in his voice. ‘Perhaps you think your father should have settled for some comfortable widow-lady and be content with carpet slippers and cocoa at bedtime?’

Under his taunting eyes she felt the colour rise again to her cheeks. Her father was an attractive man and it had been five years since her mother’s death; he deserved a second chance at happiness. She had been glad for him that Olivia was beautiful, desirable. It was no more than he deserved after all the unhappiness since his first wife had died. That wasn’t the reason for the cold anger that sat like a lump of lead in her stomach. But she was saved from the necessity of answering by the cause of her misery.

‘Noah, darling, what on earth have you said to Lizzie to make the child blush so?’ Olivia chided, with a soft laugh as she turned on her new husband’s arm.

‘This is a wedding, Olivia,’ he responded, with a smile that creased his cheeks—a smile that came all too readily for his beautiful sister. ‘Making the bridesmaid blush is all part of the fun.’

‘Is it, indeed?’ Olivia reached up and tapped his cheek warningly. ‘Well, my dear, just make sure that’s the only tradition involving bridesmaids and fun that you keep alive on this occasion.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Lizzie breathed, with feeling, as Olivia turned away.

‘She has no need.’ Noah Jordan’s voice was as low as hers. ‘My duty was done when I gave away the bride. It’s the best man’s responsibility to see that the bridesmaid...has fun.’

The hateful blush deepened, but Noah was regarding the portly figure of her father’s business manager, who had been conscripted to this duty. And for once genuine amusement unexpectedly lit the depths of those probing eyes as he considered what fun was likely to be had in that direction.

This totally unexpected betrayal of a sense of humour somehow irritated Lizzie even more than his attitude to her. ‘I compliment you on your hearing, Mr Jordan,’ she snapped.

‘All my senses are in perfect working order, Elizabeth,’ he replied gravely. ‘Including the most important.’

‘Which is?’ she enquired, a little archly, then sincerely wished she hadn’t as his brow rose a fraction higher.

The pause before he replied was infinitesimally brief. Yet it was there. ‘Common sense, of course,’ he said abruptly. ‘And, since people will think it a little odd if you continue to refer to me as “Mr Jordan”, you’d better get used to calling me Noah.’

‘Maybe I would, if you’d stop calling me Elizabeth in quite that tone of voice.’

‘And what “tone of voice” is that?’ he asked softly.

Disapproving. As if she had been summoned by the headmistress for breaking a window. But he didn’t need to be told. He knew exactly what tone of voice he was using. He reserved it especially for her.

But the organ had struck up. ‘We’ll resume this discussion on the drive to London, shall we?’ Noah said, and, before she could tell him exactly what he could do with his drive to London, he had taken a firm grip on her arm and was leading her back down the aisle behind the bride and groom.

Toasts had been drunk and speeches made, and the guests were helping themselves from the buffet laid out in the marquee. But Lizzie wasn’t hungry, despite the long hours that had elapsed since breakfast. Peter had not come, and all she wanted was the opportunity to escape the almost unbearable bonhomie. Her unhappiness was private. It had no place at a wedding. She lowered herself onto her favourite seat, half-hidden in an arbour that overlooked the rose garden.

‘Lizzie...’ She heard Olivia’s voice calling from a little way off and stayed very still, hoping to remain unnoticed. But the voice came nearer, and she dashed a tear from her cheek and stood up to reveal herself rather than submit to the ignominy of being found hiding. ‘Lizzie, my dear, there you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I wanted to have a word...just the two of us before—’

‘Are you going now?’ Lizzie asked, a little stiffly.

Olivia’s brow wrinkled slightly at the chill in her voice. ‘No, darling.’ Lizzie almost winced at the theatricality of the endearment. It would be so easy to be fooled, especially when you wanted to be, and for a while she had been... ‘You’d better come and sit down, darling. There’s something I have to tell you. Perhaps you’ve guessed...’ Lizzie made no reply. ‘James should have done it,’ she pressed on. ‘He’s really been very naughty...’

Naughty! Lizzie thought she might just throw up. But whatever it was that Olivia wanted to say would have to wait as, beyond the fragile beauty of the bride, Lizzie at last saw her heart’s desire.

‘Peter!’ Abandoning her new stepmother, she scooped up her long skirts and ran across the lawn towards the tall, slender figure of Peter Hallam. He stopped and turned as he heard her voice, and she flung herself into his arms. ‘Oh, Peter!’ And she was not sure whether to laugh or cry. ‘You came. I knew you would.’

He didn’t hold her close to him, but put her down and stood back, lifting his shoulder a little awkwardly. ‘I was coming home anyway,’ he said, looking around anywhere not to meet her eyes. ‘I can’t wait to meet the bride. I saw her in Camille last year. You must be very happy, Lizzie.’

He was still angry with her. Hiding the hurt at this cool reception, she told herself that a little reserve was to be expected. Nevertheless, if he hadn’t cared he wouldn’t have flown the Atlantic just to come to her father’s wedding. But her smile was a little hesitant as she put her hand on his arm. ‘It’s good to see you, Peter.’

‘Is it?’

He wanted her to grovel a little. A spark of resentment took her by surprise, but she took a deep breath and swallowed her pride. ‘If the invitation to come to New York is still open, I’ve got all the time in the world now...’

She faltered as he stiffened. ‘Lizzie... I’ve got something to tell you... It was all rather sudden...’ Then something like relief swept across his features. ‘Fran!’ he called, and waved. ‘We’re over here.’

Lizzie watched, at first with confusion and then with a growing sense of impending disaster, as a pretty dark-haired young woman crossed the lawn towards them.

‘Peter, honey, I’ve been looking for you. I don’t know a soul here, and your parents didn’t exactly roll out the red carpet—’

‘Well, here’s someone for you to meet,’ he said quickly.

‘I told you all about little Lizzie French, what a great cook she is...’ He attempted a light-hearted laugh. ‘Perhaps you should ask her how she does it... Lizzie, this is Francesca.’ He took the girl’s hand, and his mouth tightened briefly before he added, ‘My wife. I just know you two are going to love one another.’

In the small, hollow silence that followed Fran extended a slender hand. ‘You are little Lizzie?’ she queried. Five feet and nine inches tall, Lizzie hadn’t been ‘little’ for a very long time, and she was a good three inches taller than the young woman before her.

‘It’s just a silly joke,’ Peter said immediately. One that she and Peter had shared, as they had once shared everything. But shock had done something to her vocal cords, and her words were scarcely audible. His wife. The word echoed like the clang of doom. Wife... Wife... Wife...

‘Have you known Peter long?’ she managed, although her tongue was like a lump of wood in her mouth. Anything to stop that word...

‘About six months. We work together at the bank.’

‘Fran is an investment analyst,’ Peter said. ‘A graduate of Harvard Business School,’ he added, as if it mattered.

‘Oh.’

‘What do you do, Lizzie?’ Fran asked.

‘Nothing much.’ She wasn’t prepared to compete.

‘Lizzie keeps house for her father, Fran,’ Peter interposed.

Fran glanced around, taking in the rambling red-brick house that had been extended through the centuries until it had become an impossible hotchpotch of styles—a nightmare to run, the bane and the love of Lizzie’s life. ‘Well, that must be a full-time job,’ she said. ‘Although I imagine your stepmother will take over now?’

Peter spoke before she could say something stupid, betray herself. ‘Of course she will. Now that your father doesn’t need you, Lizzie, you’ll be able to leave home and get on with your life.’ And Lizzie flinched at this jarring reminder that when Peter had needed her she had put her father first. But he didn’t need her any more. Neither of them did. ‘Perhaps you should get a job,’ he advised, and she caught the harsh note of bitterness in the words.

‘Like Fran?’ she asked, still too shell-shocked to make her excuses and walk away.

‘You wouldn’t make much of an investment analyst, Lizzie,’ he said. ‘You never could weigh up the risks.’ Did he have to rub in the fact that he believed she had made the wrong choice? How deeply she must have hurt him to make him so cruel. ‘You’re just too much of a home body, I guess.’

A home body! A flash of anger dulled the pain. He had never complained in the past. He had always enjoyed coming to the house, eating the food she cooked for him no matter what time of the day or night he arrived. ‘Maybe you should look for something in catering,’ he suggested, his memory clearly running along the same lines as hers.

‘I’ll certainly think about it.’ Lizzie was smiling so hard that she thought her face must crack in half. But under the tense, searching eyes of his new wife she sought for something witty to say—a disguise for her broken heart. If only her head wasn’t stuffed with cotton wool. Rescue came from an unexpected source.

‘Elizabeth, I’m sorry to rush you, but we have to leave quite soon.’ Noah’s hand on her shoulder made her jump.

‘Leave?’ she repeated, still too dazed for anything to make much sense.

He didn’t answer her. ‘It’s Hallam, isn’t it? Noah Jordan. I’ve just been talking to your parents. I understand congratulations are in order.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, clearly relieved to break the tension. ‘May I introduce my wife Francesca?’

Noah transferred his gaze to Peter’s new wife and took her hand, holding it, it seemed to Lizzie, for ever. Then he seemed to recollect himself. ‘I apologise for dragging Elizabeth away, but I’m taking her to see Tosca tonight—a treat for all the hard work she’s put into organising the wedding for Olivia.’ He glanced at Lizzie. His heavy-lidded eyes gave no hint of his intention, but there was something about the determined cut of his mouth that suggested she would be wise to follow his lead.

‘Tosca?’ Fran repeated. ‘That is absolutely my favourite opera,’ she declared, obviously relieved to have a topic of conversation that had nothing to do with the unknown politics of a small village. ‘I have a recording of my mother singing—’

‘Your mother is a singer?’ Lizzie felt Noah’s long fingers tighten against her shoulder as he asked the question.

‘Was. Not professional, of course, although she was very good. I have a recording of her singing and my father playing the piano.’ She gave an awkward little smile. ‘It’s about all I have of them. They died when I was very young.’

Noah’s eyes were fastened on the girl’s face. ‘Then you must come with us tonight.’

‘We couldn’t possibly...’ Peter began, staring at Lizzie, his brows tugged together in a bewildered frown.

‘I have a box with two empty seats. It would be a pity to waste them.’

‘Oh, Peter, please!’ Fran begged. ‘Mr Jordan wouldn’t have asked if he didn’t mean it.’ She turned eagerly back to Noah. ‘Would you?’

Noah offered a reassuring smile. ‘We’d love to have you as our guests.’ He turned to Lizzie. ‘Wouldn’t we, darling?’

Darling? She was beginning to seriously hate that word. But before she could react he had slipped his arm about her waist. ‘Seven o’clock at the Coliseum. If we miss you in the foyer, I’ll leave a pass at the box office.’ He raised a hand, and before Lizzie knew what was happening she was being propelled across the lawn towards the house.

‘Lizzie...?’ Peter’s slightly puzzled voice trailed after her.

‘Don’t look back,’ Noah rapped out, quite unnecessarily. Lizzie had no desire to look back. The picture of Peter standing confused and unhappy beside his bride would haunt her for ever. The dreadful suspicion that he had married Francesca on the rebound simply to spite her... She half stumbled across the grass in her haste to get as far away from them as possible.

As they reached the French windows that led to the drawing room, Noah turned her to him. Tears were turning his image into a watery blur as his fingers touched her chin and raised it a fraction, exposing her to the full force of a pair of seeking grey eyes. And while she stood there, held like a rabbit helpless in a pair of headlamps, he bent and kissed her.

His lips were cool and firm and dry against hers, and she caught the faintest scent of something indefinable that seemed to be the very essence of Noah Jordan. Shock held her rooted to the spot. Peter had kissed her many times, tenderly, warmly. But Noah Jordan’s mouth was totally demanding, provoking a flicker of some undreamt-of desire...

She clutched at his wide shoulders as her head was forced back over his arm, shutting her eyes tightly in a desperate attempt to blot out what was happening, the realisation that it would be all too easy to respond. That she wanted to... But then it was over, his hand at her back as he swept her into the drawing room.

‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’ she demanded, turning on him angrily in her confusion. ‘How dare you kiss me like that?’

‘It’s something people do at weddings,’ he said carelessly. ‘Kiss the bridesmaid. Or hadn’t you noticed?’

She brushed aside his reference to the chaste salutes of family friends. ‘It wasn’t... the same.’

‘No?’ His expression was disquieting. ‘Perhaps not. I promise not to let it go to my head.’

‘You...’ She tugged at her arm. ‘Oh...let me go,’ she stormed. ‘I want—’

He swung her back into his arms, forcing her to face him, meeting her angry expression head-on. ‘Everyone within a hundred yards could see what you wanted, Elizabeth. Including his wife. That’s why I kissed you—to save the face of a young woman who has been pitch-forked by that young fool into a very awkward situation. You’ve made the start of one marriage difficult enough. I don’t intend to let you upset another. So you’d better go and change. Right now.’

So, she was right. Olivia had run to her brother and arranged this little plan to get her out of the way. It certainly explained his undisguised hostility. Well, she wasn’t about to fall into line and co-operate with her eviction from her own home. ‘Change?’ she demanded. ‘Why on earth would I want to change?’

‘Because I have no intention of driving to London with you dressed like that. I’ll come and pick up your bags in a few minutes. You’ll need something long for tonight, by the way. It’s a gala.’

She stood her ground. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mr Jordan. You’re not driving me to London, or anywhere else for that matter. And I loathe the opera,’ she added, without the slightest qualm at uttering such fiction.

‘Noah,’ he insisted, ignoring her protest. ‘My sister has married your father. We’re practically related. That’s why I have been lumbered with you.’

‘Rubbish,’ she said. ‘And you can consider yourself unlumbered. I’m perfectly happy here.’

One dark brow kinked at the vehemence of her reply, then his hands grasped her shoulders and forcibly propelled her towards the hall. ‘Causing as much mischief as you can, no doubt. Think again. Staying here is not an option.’ The hard edge to his voice left no room for doubt.

‘But...’ It was ridiculous. When her father had first broached the idea that she should stay with Noah for a few weeks after the wedding she hadn’t made a fuss. She had made other plans—to visit New York with Peter...

She gave a little gasp as she was jolted back to reality. Her plans had been nothing but daydreams. But she still had a month while Olivia and her father were away to make her own arrangements. ‘The house shouldn’t be left empty,’ she objected.

‘I may have misread the situation, but I don’t think you were planning on house-sitting for the next month, Elizabeth.’

She flushed angrily. ‘My plans are none of your business.’

‘I wish that were true,’ he replied, with feeling. ‘However, if you’d had the good manners to stay and listen to Olivia, instead of making a fool of yourself over Hallam, you would know that there’s been a last-minute change of plan. She has been advised not to fly. Which is why, like it or not, you’re coming to London with me. Right now.’

‘Not to fly? Why on earth...?’ Lizzie felt the angry flush drain from her cheeks. There could be only one reason why a perfectly fit woman shouldn’t fly. ‘She’s pregnant!’

Noah eyed her sudden pallor. ‘You didn’t know?’

‘Obviously not. Presumably, after all the lectures about the dangers of unwanted pregnancies, Dad found it difficult to tell me.’

A small muscle tightened at the side of his mouth. ‘This baby may not have been planned, but if you believe that it’s unwanted I suggest you think again. When I had lunch with your father last week he was overjoyed at the possibility of a son. I certainly understand why he wouldn’t want any more daughters.’ He glanced around him. ‘Although I can see that you might be a little piqued at having to step aside and surrender all this for such a late arrival.’

‘Step aside?’ Lizzie repeated, too bewildered for a moment to respond more vigorously to his barely cloaked aggression. A baby? For a moment—just a moment—she thought that everything might, after all, work out. Then she knew, understood the full horror of that triumphant telephone call the day after the wedding had been announced, when Olivia had thought that she was in the house alone.

‘We’re saved, darling. I’ve got the man in the palm of my hand. Lord, but it took some acting to convince the old fool... But it’s the perfect cover...’

There had been a pause and Olivia had laughed softly. ‘I can’t run away from my honeymoon, my darling, much as I’d like to. But after that, well...I’m keeping my London flat so I can see you any time I want. The only fly in the ointment is Daddy’s little girl...she’s so protective...but I’m working on a little plan to deal with her...’ And after a few more seconds there had been the little ting as the phone had been replaced.

And Olivia hadn’t wasted any time putting her plan into action. The next day her father had called her into the study and suggested that she might like to spend a few weeks in London. It would give Olivia a chance to take control of the house, he had explained. With Lizzie there...well, the staff would naturally look first to her... He knew she would understand.

Olivia’s brother had kindly offered to put Lizzie up at his London home for a few weeks, he told her. There had been just a touch of awkwardness about his smile. She had spent too much time looking after her old dad, he’d said, and patted her hand. Noah would see that she had some real fun.

How reasonable it would have sounded if she hadn’t known better. It was then that she had made the mistake of trying to tell her father what Olivia was really like beneath that sugar-sweet exterior.

Now she stared at Noah. Whatever ‘little plan’ Olivia had devised, her brother was quite obviously a part of it. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, turning abruptly away.

‘Quick as you can, Elizabeth. And don’t forget the long dress.’

She glared at him, but didn’t bother to reply. She would be quick, but not because he demanded it. Her own desperate need to get away from all of them was encouragement enough. And she certainly wouldn’t be needing a long dress.

She regarded her reflection in the cheval-glass in the corner of her bedroom with distaste. Was it only a few hours ago when she had stood in that same spot, certain that if Peter responded to her olive branch, came to the wedding, it might just be possible to make a life for herself, to be strong for the time when her father would need her again?

She stripped off the cream silk dress and threw it on the bed, then tore the tiny rosebuds from her hair, angrily brushing it until she had obliterated every vestige of the hairdresser’s art and it hung as straight and plain as a yard of tap water down her back. Then she felt marginally better, back in control, because if they all thought that she was going to fall in with the plans Olivia had made to dispose of ‘Daddy’s little girl’ they could think again.

She would spend a few nights with an old school-friend who lived on the outskirts of London. It would give her time to sort herself out and make some decisions about the future. She certainly wasn’t going anywhere with Noah Jordan. Not even, she thought, with just the tiniest regret, to the opera.

Then she took a deep breath and, dressed in her most comfortable jeans and a defiant scarlet T-shirt, she descended to the hall.

Noah was waiting at the foot of the stairs. He took in her change of appearance with a single, exasperated glance, and for just a moment she felt a touch of something between anger and shame. She’d wanted to shout her rage to the world. Too late she realised that flaunting her pain was simply emphasising her humiliation.

But there was no time for self-analysis because he seized her arm and thrust her back up the stairs before she could utter more than the feeblest protest. He didn’t bother to ask which room was hers. He simply flung open every door he passed until he came to the one where her silk dress had slipped and crumpled into an untidy heap on the rosebud-strewn carpet, betraying her misery.

He stepped over it without comment, flung open her wardrobe and began to flip through the remaining contents.

‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’ she demanded as she regained the use of her tongue, furiously pushing herself between him and her clothes.

‘I’m not about to walk out of here with you in a pair of jeans—’

‘Mr Jordan, you’re not about to walk out of here with me, full stop!’

He ignored this outburst and reached over her head to lift a soft voile print dress from its hanger. ‘Put this on.’ He turned back to the wardrobe. ‘Is this the only evening dress you have?’

She regarded the pink taffeta garment with loathing. ‘That’s none of your business.’

He flipped it across his arm without comment and glanced around. ‘Where are your bags?’

‘Downstairs. In the boot room,’ she said, crossing her fingers, fairly sure that he wouldn’t know where that was.

He glanced at his watch. ‘Very well. I’ll see you downstairs in three minutes.’

‘And if I refuse to change?’ she flung at his retreating back.

He turned in the doorway and regarded her with a slow look that travelled from the toes of her hard-worn trainers to the top of her defiant head, and quite unexpectedly her lips began to burn with the memory of that fierce kiss. Her hand flew to cover her mouth, as if somehow he might be able to tell. He followed the movement and his eyes snapped ominously. ‘I’ll change you myself,’ he said abruptly. ‘Anything else?’

‘I...’ She tried to speak, but the word came out as little more than a hoarse croak. She cleared her throat, but he wasn’t interested.

‘No? Two and a half minutes.’ Then he was gone.

And she made it, adding a dashing straw hat for good measure, and drawing on a pair of white lace gloves as she raced to the head of the stairs. Having decided to change, there was no point in being half-hearted about it. Then, as he heard her and turned, she slowed and sauntered down as if she had had all the time in the world. Noah’s face was in shadow, so even if she cared she could not have seen his expression.

‘Now we’ll go and say goodbye to Olivia and James,’ he said firmly.

‘I’m sure they won’t notice one way or the other,’ she said, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice.

‘Would you have it any other way?’ It was a rebuke, and it brought hot little patches of colour to Lizzie’s cheeks. ‘But then, if Peter Hallam had flung himself into your willing arms instead of spoiling the perfect scenario by arriving with his brand-new wife, you wouldn’t have been noticing much either, would you?’

‘How can you be so beastly?’

‘It takes years of practice,’ he assured her.

‘Don’t be so modest, Mr Jordan,’ she said fervently. ‘You clearly have a natural talent for it.’

His brows rose a fraction. ‘Careful, Miss Sweetness. Your claws are showing.’

‘Miss Sweetness’? What was that supposed to mean? She clenched her teeth, determined not to rise to such an obvious attempt to bait her. Why on earth did the man have to be so unpleasant? Even if Olivia had told him that she had tried to interfere with the wedding plans, surely he must know what his sister was like? It wasn’t her fault, so why was she attracting such venom from the man?

But he was right about one thing. Despite the fact that her father had barely spoken to her since her attempt to open his eyes, she wouldn’t make things worse between them. None of this was his fault. And he had misery enough in store.

So she took a deep breath and braced herself, knowing that there must be pitying speculation about her feelings since Peter’s arrival with his new bride. Every bead would turn as she made her way across the lawn. So she had better be smiling. Noah took her arm and tucked it into his, holding it there when she would have pulled away.

‘Forget any plans you have to make a scene, Elizabeth, or, I promise you, I will put you over my knee and spank you.’

Startled, she turned to stare at him. What did he think she was going to do—fling herself down on the grass and drum her heels like a spoilt child who’d lost her dolly? ‘I’d just like to get this over with,’ she said. ‘As quickly as possible.’

But Noah refused to be hurried. Despite his insistence that they were short of time, he stopped to shake hands and say goodbye to a number of new acquaintances, and she was able to witness at first hand his undoubted charisma. By the time he delivered her to her father she was certainly the object of considerable speculation. But pity had nothing to do with it.

How was it, everyone clearly wanted to know, that little Lizzie French was leaving the wedding on the arm of the one man that every other woman would have given her eye-teeth to be with?

CHAPTER TWO

JAMES FRENCH turned as his daughter approached. ‘Lizzie, there you are. Are you leaving now?’ he said, a little awkwardly.

She wanted to fling her arms about his neck and hug him—longed to be able to tell him how happy she was for him, but the lie would stick in her throat. Lord, how she wished that she hadn’t overheard that conversation.

‘Noah has explained about the honeymoon having to be cancelled,’ she said stiffly, turning quickly as she saw the painful reproach in his eyes. ‘If you’d told me sooner, Olivia, I could have arranged...’ She lifted her shoulders in a tiny shrug. ‘But there’s plenty of food in the freezer. You won’t starve.’

‘Olivia has arranged a hamper...’ James French took hold of his new wife’s hand and squeezed it reassuringly. ‘She’s been quite amazing.’

‘Amazing,’ Lizzie agreed dully. She had helped, encouraged, supported her father for the better part of five difficult years, until the long black tunnel of depression he had been living in had begun to open out and he had been able to begin to work again, to live again. But Olivia had picked up the telephone and ordered a hamper from Fortnum’s and she was ‘amazing’. Well, Olivia would soon discover that life at Dove Court was not the bed of roses that she had obviously imagined.

The object of her speculation was talking quietly to Noah. ‘I know it’s a lot to ask.’

‘It’s no trouble. Just forget about everything but yourself and James.’ Noah caught Lizzie’s blue eyes regarding him sceptically and he straightened. ‘Shall we go?’ he said abruptly.

‘If you’re quite ready,’ she murmured, and reluctantly submitted to the hollow ritual of cheek-kissing.

‘Lizzie...’ Olivia hesitated for just a moment under her expressionless eyes, then shook her head. ‘Nothing. Just...enjoy yourself,’ she urged. ‘You haven’t had much fun...’

‘Fun’. The word rang tauntingly in her ears as they made their way back to the house.

‘Noah...’ Olivia had followed them, and her summons made him pause and turn.

‘Get in the car, Elizabeth. I’ll be with you in a minute.’

She made her way towards the vintage drophead Bentley, gleaming silver, its top down in the glorious summer sunshine. Her pink dress lay on the back seat along with Noah’s top hat. He was welcome to it.

She kept walking until she was in the cooler shade of the garage. Her car was at the far end and she climbed in, fitted the key and turned it. The engine obediently whirred, but did not catch. She tried again. Shock was beginning to overtake her. She was trembling, and her fingers slipped on the key as she tried for the third time to start the car.

The door beside her opened and she leaned back in the driving seat, admitting defeat. ‘What have you done?’ she asked.

‘Anticipated your every move.’ Noah leaned against the roof of her Metro and held out a small metal object for her inspection. ‘It’s called a rotor arm. I’m afraid you car won’t start without it.’

She stared uncomprehendingly for a moment. ‘How did you know?’

‘You lied about the luggage. Since you were planning to leave, this was the obvious place to look. I’ve already moved it to my car.’ He stood back, his face expressionless. ‘Shall we go?’

‘I’m not going anywhere with you,’ she protested. ‘I’m going to stay with a friend in Islington for a few days until I sort myself out. And I’m perfectly capable of driving myself.’

‘Nonsense,’ he snapped. ‘You’re in no condition to drive anywhere.’

‘I’m just fine.’

‘Really?’ He grasped her wrist and held her hand in front of her eyes. ‘You’re shaking, Elizabeth. And how many glasses of champagne did you drink?’

‘I wasn’t counting,’ she snapped back.

‘There was no need to. I don’t imagine you were planning to drive yourself down the M40 into London on this Saturday evening. You were going to let Peter Hallam do that.’

Damn the man! Why did he have to be right about everything? She took a deep breath. ‘You can give me a lift,’ she compromised.

‘How generous of you.’ And, with an ironic little twist to his mouth, he straightened and opened the door wide for her. She slipped out of her seat and fled across the yard to his car, not waiting for him to open the door.

‘Ready?’ he asked as he climbed in beside her. She took a last long look at the garden and the people standing about in small knots—friends, relations, people she had known all her life. Then she saw Peter. As if he could feel her eyes upon him, he turned and stared at her. Then Fran followed his glance and she also stared at Lizzie, her brow drawn down in a small frown. Noah had seen it too.

‘Fasten your seatbelt, Elizabeth,’ he said abruptly. She did so, then sank back against the old leather and closed her eyes. ‘And take off your hat, or you’ll lose it. There’s a scarf in the glove box.’

Would she never have a moment of peace to shed a tear for what she had thrown away? Apparently not. When she made no immediate move to obey he leaned across and removed her hat for her, flipping it onto the rear seat to keep his top hat company. Then he opened the glove compartment and thrust a long silk chiffon scarf at her.

‘Here.’ She continued to stare fiercely at her gloves, unwilling to betray her weakness, but he caught her chin and turned her face towards him. She blinked furiously, but too late.

For a moment he stared as the tears welled onto her cheeks, then with an impatient gesture he wiped them from her face with the pads of his thumbs. And he wrapped the scarf around her hair in a movement so practised that she was certain he had done it a hundred times before, holding her against his chest as he tied it at the nape of her neck. ‘Just how old are you, Elizabeth?’ he asked.

‘Twenty-one.’ Her voice was muffled against the lapel of his morning coat, her ear only hearing the steady thump of his heart.

‘As old as that?’ The doubt in his voice touched off a dangerous spark of anger, driving her away from the deceptive comfort of his broad shoulder. She fought down an intense desire to slap the man, but only because she knew without a shadow of a doubt that he would slap her back. ‘Far too old to be mooning over a calf-love. Did you actually believe him when he said he would marry you?’ She stared at him. ‘Surely your mother told you that a young man in the grip of his libido will promise anything to get his way?’

Dark colour seared her cheek-bones. ‘Doubtless you speak from experience.’

‘No, Elizabeth. I’m old enough to take care not to make promises I have no intention of keeping.’

‘I can imagine. Although your status as a confirmed bachelor is so public I can’t imagine that expectations on that score can be very high.’

‘I have never failed to make my position clear.’

‘That’s all right, then.’

‘It saves complications.’

‘What about love? Doesn’t that complicate things?’ she demanded.

‘Love?’ He turned away, switched on the ignition, pressed the starter and the car purred into life. ‘I learned a long time ago to distrust the word. Much safer to treat the whole idea as a spectator sport—on a par with bungee-jumping or free-fall parachuting.’

‘Didn’t I read somewhere that you once were a member of the Dangerous Sports Club?’

‘Did you?’ He shrugged. ‘I didn’t say I never participated, Elizabeth, only that I knew the risks involved.’ His lips tightened in a horrible parody of his smile as she drew in a sharp breath. ‘Have I shocked you? Well, you’re very young. Still naive enough to believe in such rubbish. You’ll learn.’

‘Just how old do you have to be before you get that cynical?’ she asked.

‘Not very old,’ he said, with feeling, and she thought for the most fleeting moment that she had managed to dent his insufferable arrogance. But then the blade-edged smile was firmly back in place. ‘I’m not quite in my dotage, but by your own demanding standards, Elizabeth, I’m far too old for you,’ he replied very firmly. ‘I can assure you that whatever you may hear to the contrary you will be perfectly safe under my roof. I wouldn’t touch you with a bargepole.’

‘You...’ She barely managed to stop herself from telling him in the most graphic terms what he could do with his bargepole. ‘You kissed me,’ she pointed out, and achieved a certain sharp satisfaction in contradicting him.

‘And I shall do so again if the situation requires it,’ he replied, unmoved. ‘But we’ll both know that it doesn’t mean a thing.’

The slow burn of anger helped, she found. While she kept her mind simmering on the obnoxious Noah Jordan she could almost forget about Peter.

‘You kiss very... thoroughly...’ she said, deliberately provoking him. ‘I’m sure I shall learn a lot.’

‘And you kiss like a virgin.’

She pressed her tongue hard against her teeth to stop herself from screaming at him that there was a very good reason for that.

‘Kissed once when I wasn’t looking,’ she misquoted a little shakily, ‘and never kissed again, even though I was looking all the time?’

‘No doubt you’ll improve with practice.’ For a moment she thought that she detected that errant touch of humour in his voice. But his face, when she turned, was stony.

‘Don’t bother to apply for the position of coach. It isn’t vacant.’

‘On the contrary.’ Her blush deepened painfully under his searching glance, but she refused to be intimidated. ‘However, tonight I think we must do our best to convince the new Mrs Hallam that it has already been filled.’ He slowed as they reached the main road, and for a moment concentrated on the traffic. Once they were moving along smoothly again he continued. ‘After that you can do whatever you like.’

‘What would you suggest?’ she prompted. Anything rather than dwell on the thought of Mrs Hallam, she thought.

His eyes lingered on her for a moment, then he turned away. ‘I hardly think I’m the best person to advise you,’ he said abruptly.

‘You’ve been pretty free with your advice until now,’ she declared.

He shrugged. ‘I suggest you do whatever is necessary to take your mind off Peter Hallam. Isn’t there something you’ve always wanted to do, but never had the chance?’

Another reminder that it was time to be moving on? ‘So long as it isn’t bungee-jumping or free-fall parachuting?’ she offered sourly.

‘You’re young enough to survive a few painful landings.’ Heartache wasn’t fatal, then? She thought it was a little early to say. She was still numb with shock. But fighting with Noah Jordan was certainly a very effective diversion. He threw her a fleeting glance. ‘Have you ever lived away from home? Actually worked for a living?’

He made her sound like a parasite. ‘No. But it looks as if I’m about to get my first taste of both. I don’t have much choice, do I? I’ve been given my marching orders.’

‘Marching orders?’ His surprise was very convincing, but she wasn’t fooled.

‘Frankly, Noah, I don’t understand why you’re taking so much interest.’

His mouth thinned. ‘Like you, Elizabeth, I had my arm twisted.’

‘Well, you can consider it untwisted. Just take me to Islington.’ He didn’t bother to reply, and for a while they travelled in silence. Then Lizzie glanced at the man beside her. ‘Was I really so transparent? Back there?’ she was finally driven to ask.

He threw her a cursory look. ‘As the Crystal Palace with all the lights on.’ She paled. ‘I assumed you wanted an honest answer.’

‘There’s honest,’ she replied stiffly, ‘and there’s brutal.’ She stared straight ahead. ‘I’ll never be able to look that girl in the face again.’

‘You’re going to have to. I invited them to join us tonight.’

‘They won’t miss me.’

‘On the contrary, your absence would be impossible to attribute to anything other than...pique.’

‘Pique?’

‘Jealousy is such a nasty word.’

Lizzie frowned. Jealous? She had always imagined jealousy to be a sour, hateful emotion. This hollow, empty feeling had none of that. But there was no time to consider the matter as Noah claimed her attention.

‘You will be charming to Francesca, you will behave towards Peter like the doting little sister he has doubtless portrayed you as to his wife, and you will treat me...’ He said nothing for a moment, but as they slowed and came to a halt for the motorway roundabout he raised heavy lids to run an assessing glance over her. It was unnerving.

Something in that look—the slightest darkening of a pair of steely eyes—brought a fierce glow to her cheeks and played havoc with her pulse, sending it crashing into overdrive. Whatever he wanted from her, she didn’t think she was going to like it.

A blast on a car horn behind them made her jump. Noah raised an apologetic hand and turned his attention back to the road.

‘What?’ Lizzie demanded.

‘You will treat me as if we are lovers,’ he said with absolute conviction.

Lizzie swallowed, hard. She’d been right. She didn’t like it one bit. ‘And how am I supposed to do that from the end of a bargepole?’

‘You can safely leave all the details to me.’ If Noah had meant to be reassuring he failed signally. His kiss still burned like a brand on her lips, and the suggestion that there was more to come sent a tremor of apprehension rippling through her midriff. ‘So?’ he asked once he had negotiated the slip-road. ‘What do you plan to do with yourself in London?’

‘I haven’t had much time to make plans,’ she said.

‘But surely you...?’ Then he went on, ‘No, of course you wouldn’t have made any plans for London. You were planning on a trip to New York with young Mr Hallam.’ His chiselled features were rock-hard. ‘Well, Olivia asked me to make sure you had some fun.’ He made it sound like hard labour. ‘I’m sure I’ll think of something. I’ll have to. It’s clear that you’ve never had to stand on your own two feet.’

Her denial was whipped away by the wind as he put his foot down and the Bentley cruised majestically past a row of lorries. It couldn’t matter less, Lizzie thought, but he was so wrong about her. She had stood very firmly on her own two feet ever since her mother had died. And she had been a very firm prop for her father too.

‘That really won’t be necessary, Noah. I shall be staying with my friend until I find somewhere to live. And I’m quite capable of keeping myself occupied.’

At least money wouldn’t be a problem. She had hardly touched the allowance that her father had given her since she had taken over the running of the house, and her mother had left her some money. A dowry, she had called it. Well, she wouldn’t be needing a dowry now. But she needed somewhere to live as a matter of urgency.

It was impossible to conduct a conversation in an open car travelling at high speed, but even when they reached the end of the motorway and slowed for London traffic Noah seemed disinclined to resume their conversation, deep in his own brooding thoughts. Finally she was driven to break the silence.

‘Islington was that way,’ she pointed out as they passed a road sign.

‘If I ever need a navigator I’ll bear you in mind. But we’re not going to Islington.’

‘You may not be... I certainly am.’ He ignored her. ‘You disabled my car so that I was forced to come with you,’ she went on a little desperately. ‘Now you must take me to my friend’s flat, or drop me at the nearest underground station if you prefer. I can easily make my own way from there.’

‘Must?’ For a moment the word hung between them, then, with the slightest shrug, he let it go. ‘It’s a sunny Saturday evening in August, Elizabeth. Do you suppose your friend is sitting at home on the off chance that you might decide to descend upon her and demand a bed for the night?’

The thought had already crossed her own mind, but she had no intention of admitting it. She would rather stay at a hotel than accept this man’s hospitality. ‘She’s always inviting me to come up for the weekend,’ she protested.

‘But, since she’s not expecting you, you have to address the possibility that she may be out.’

‘She’ll come back.’

‘This is London, Elizabeth, not some leafy country village. Sitting around on doorsteps surrounded by your baggage is not to be recommended. And I did promise your father...’ He clearly wished he hadn’t. ‘Besides, you and I have a date with a lady called Tosca.’

‘I told you—’

‘You told me that you loathe the opera,’ he interrupted a touch acerbically. ‘The collection of records and CDs in your room is simply for decoration?’

She bitterly regretted her impetuous lie as it came back to haunt her. ‘No,’ she admitted.

‘No,’ he agreed, with an assurance that set her teeth on edge. ‘I had planned to take you to see a show, but Olivia said you would much prefer the opera.’

Olivia. How clever of her. But she wasn’t to be won over that easily. As Noah brought his car to a halt Lizzie looked up at the impressive terrace—anywhere rather than face those all-seeing eyes. The façade was as polished as the man. Even the tubs of brilliant flowers that flanked the doorway shone as if they had just been dusted. She distrusted such perfection. ‘I would prefer it if you took me to my friend’s flat,’ she persisted stubbornly.

‘Nonsense. One night in a crowded bedsit, sharing a bathroom with heaven knows how many other people, would drive you mad. You’re simply not used to it. Besides, your invitation was for a weekend. What will you do then? If you think you can go creeping back to Daddy...’

Go back? She could never go back. She might be invited for the odd weekend, or Sunday lunch. But Dove Court would never be her home again. ‘I intend to find a job, somewhere to live in London.’

‘And how long do you imagine that will take? Or do you believe employers will be falling over themselves to offer you work?’ he mocked.

‘No, but...’ But what? Still she didn’t move, unwilling to put her main objection into words. She had seen the heads turn as they’d left the wedding. One or two raised eyebrows. And his kiss was still burned into her memory. And it was his stated intention to convince Peter that he was her lover. It might be ridiculous... It was ridiculous...

Noah had no such inhibitions. He lightly touched her cheek, turning her to face him. ‘If I were in the market for a girl on the rebound, Elizabeth, I can assure you that I would have had you eating out of my hand by now.’

Her blue eyes widened and, ignoring the odd little tremor low in her stomach, which had been provoked by the touch of his hand against her skin, she managed a small laugh. ‘You’re remarkably confident of your attraction,’ she said.

He regarded her solemnly. ‘Don’t you believe I could do it?’

And then he smiled. All the way up until little pouches creased beneath his eyes. Impossible to fake that. And his mouth was bracketed by strong, deep lines carved into his cheeks. She swallowed hard.

‘Just what are you in the market for, Noah?’ she asked, a little shakily, avoiding the need to give him a direct answer.

The smile abruptly disappeared, and he removed his hand from her chin. ‘Nothing. My life is exactly the way I like it. Except for you.’ He got out of the car and came round to open her door. Before she could respond the front door swung open and a middle-aged woman stood in the entrance.

Noah turned. ‘And, as you see, you will be adequately chaperoned. Mrs Harper, this is Miss Elizabeth French,’ he said, his hand in the small of her back propelling her up the steps to the front door. ‘You’d better take her straight up to her room; we’re going out at seven.’

‘Of course, Mr Jordan. This way, Miss French.’

Lizzie hesitated. ‘Noah, this is—’

‘Mr Harper will bring your bags up in a moment,’ he said, not allowing her to finish, his eyes daring her to defy him. She was trapped. At least for tonight. She would have to go through with his horrible plan. But tomorrow she would leave. Nothing would stop her.

‘How did the wedding go?’ Mrs Harper asked as she led the way up the stairs. ‘Such a lovely day for it. I’m sure Miss Olivia must have looked quite beautiful. Your father is a lucky man.’

She chattered on, not waiting for answers to her questions. ‘Now, these are your rooms. This is the sitting room. Your bedroom is through there, and your bathroom. I expect you’ll want a shower after driving with the top down. Miss Olivia always says that she feels as if she’s covered in “essence of motorway” after driving with Mr Jordan.’ She chuckled. ‘I’ll go and fetch you a tray of tea.’

The woman’s endless chatter was oddly comforting—normal in a world that had turned upside down. ‘Thank you, Mrs Harper.’

The woman took the bags that her husband brought to the door and hung Lizzie’s dress over the wardrobe door. ‘Shall I unpack for you?’

‘Oh, no. I can do that. Thank you,’ Lizzie repeated a little belatedly as the woman withdrew.

She stared at the pale pink taffeta dress. It had been bought when she’d had to accompany her father to a formal dinner a couple of years earlier and had been worn only once. It was a little creased, but otherwise fine.

She pulled a face. No, it wasn’t. It was awful. It had been her father’s choice, and had been too young for her even then. But when she had protested he’d said that he wanted everyone to be sure she was his daughter, that he was not some foolish middle-aged man out with a bimbo. It had been hard enough to get him out of the house; she hadn’t been about to argue over the dress. Well, it would have to do—it was all she had. She quickly stowed the remainder of her belongings and went to take her shower.

Ten minutes later she emerged from the bathroom to find a tray laid with a pot of tea and a plate of tiny sandwiches waiting for her. Her dress had disappeared.

As she sipped her tea she sat at the dressing table wondering what to do with her hair. It was ridiculously long, she decided, twisting it up into a simple chignon. If she left it loose, with the pink dress it would simply emphasise the ‘Alice in Wonderland’ look. There was a tap on the door.

‘Come in,’ she called. It was Mrs Harper with her dress. And another gown, black and elegant, on a padded satin hanger.

‘I’ve pressed your dress, Miss French,’ she said, ‘but...’ The woman was clearly embarrassed. ‘Mr Jordan suggested you might... um...prefer to wear this.’

‘Prefer’? She had the feeling that he had said something a great deal stronger than that. A closer look at her dress had doubtless warned him that she wouldn’t look like anyone’s lover in such a garment—certainly not that of the urbane, the very sophisticated Mr Jordan.

What would he consider suitable? she wondered, regarding the black dress with interest. It was an exquisite, ankle-length black shift in the finest silk jersey, with long, straight sleeves, a scooped-out neck and not a single detail to distract from the purity of the line. It was simply beautiful.

But then, the man was a world-renowned art dealer. He had appeared in his own series on the television, discussing the merits of twentieth-century art, the unexpected success of which had been the devastating charm of the presenter rather than the subject matter. His good taste had never been in doubt.

‘Thank you, Mrs Harper. If s... very kind of Mr Jordan.’

The woman was clearly relieved at her reaction. ‘It should fit you well enough. Miss Olivia isn’t quite as slender as you, but that fabric clings rather, so I’m sure you’ll get away with it.’

‘This is Olivia’s dress?’ She hadn’t given a thought as to where the gown might have come from. But Olivia had been staying with Noah for the last few weeks while her own apartment had been decorated. Something in her voice must have betrayed her.

‘It will look lovely on you, Miss French,’ Mrs Harper pressed, a little anxiously. ‘I know Miss Olivia wouldn’t mind...’

Lizzie minded. She minded a great deal. But that wasn’t Mrs Harper’s problem. ‘Please call me Lizzie,’ she said, offering a reassuring smile. And Mrs Harper smiled with relief and left.

She quickly made up her eyes and flicked blusher over her cheek-bones, leaving her tan to take care of the rest. Then, ignoring the black shift, she slipped into the pink taffeta dress. It was a little tight across the bodice; she had fulfilled the early promise of womanhood since she had last worn it. She tugged up the zip and then, very slowly, released her breath. It held, and for a moment she regarded her reflection with a certain amount of grim satisfaction.

Then she fastened a pair of pearl studs to her ears and touched the oval locket that she always wore about her throat before going down the broad staircase in search of her nemesis. She was now quite cheerfully prepared to convince the world that she was Noah’s lover. But somehow she didn’t think he would be quite so eager.

He was staring at a painting as she entered the drawing room, his thick dark hair a crisp counterpoint to the immaculate perfection of black broadcloth that emphasised his wide, square shoulders. For a moment she was struck by the sheer grace, almost beauty of the man. How easy it would be to fall under his spell, if he chose to cast it, she thought. Then he turned as he heard her move towards him.

The feeling was clearly not reciprocated. Regarding Lizzie in silence, Noah’s glance moved quite deliberately in a chilling inspection of her appearance. She lifted her chin a little and stood her ground, although the fine hairs at the nape of her neck stirred as she sensed that her defiance had made him very angry indeed.

But as he moved towards her it wasn’t her dress that claimed his attention. It was the locket.

He laid the tip of one finger against it, his eyes dark as thunderclouds as he fixed her to the spot. Then, without warning, he grasped it in his hand and jerked it from her throat, the old, delicate chain offering no resistance to this brutal treatment.

‘No!’ Lizzie’s hand instinctively reached out to retrieve the precious object. But his hand snapped shut, and he dropped the locket into his pocket.

‘What were you going to do, Elizabeth? Show Francesca your pretty antique locket? It’s old and no doubt the clasp is worn, and if by chance it should happen to fall open...’ He turned away in disgust. Lizzie swallowed.

‘Please give it back to me.’

‘I’ll have it repaired,’ he said abruptly.

‘That doesn’t matter. I just want it back.’

‘You can have it when Mr and Mrs Hallam are safely back across the Atlantic.’ He indicated the sideboard. ‘Would you like a drink? I have a feeling that we’re both going to need one to get through this evening.’

‘You invited them. You have the drink.’ She turned away, unable to bear to look at him, staring instead at the painting that had claimed his attention—a very traditional portrait of a young woman. Oddly out of place amongst Noah’s collection of modern art, the sitter looked vaguely familiar... She took a step towards it.

‘Sherry? Gin and tonic?’ he persisted.

She didn’t drink very much, but her throat was dry. ‘A tonic water,’ she conceded.

She heard the chink of ice, the fizz of tonic, then he walked across the magnificent Aubusson carpet until he was standing beside her. ‘Elizabeth?’

‘Thank you,’ she said, turning to take the crystal tumbler from his hand.

‘You’re entirely welcome.’ And he poured the contents of the glass down the demure décolletage of her gown.

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