His Convenient Marriage (8 page)

'Markham?' Miles brows rose sharply. 'You mean he's connected to the spectacular lady we encountered last night?'

'Yes.' Chessie bit her hp. 'He's her stepson. His father's had a stroke, very sadly, so they've had to come back from Spain. And Alastair's come down from London to make Wenmore Court more—wheelchair-friendly.'

'And renew some old acquaintances.'

'Well, yes. Naturally.' Chessie lifted her chin. 'There's no harm in that, surely.'

'I think,' Miles said gently, 'that might depend on the acquaintance.'

'Are you claiming exclusive rights to my company on the basis of this—pseudo-engagement?' Her voice shook slightly.

'I'm not claiming anything at the moment.' Miles drained his cup, and replaced it on the tray. 'But when I do, you'll be in no doubt,' he added pleasantly.

He allowed her to assimilate that for a moment, then:

'How did your talk with Jenny go, by the way? Did you resolve anything?'

She could hardly tell him to mind his own business when she'd confided in him so readily twelve hours before.

'It wasn't a good time,' she said shortly. 'I'm going to take things up with her tonight.'

'Unless any more old friends drop by,' he murmured. 'You know, Francesca—'

His voice halted abruptly. Glancing across at him in sur¬prise, Chessie saw that he'd picked up the cream envelope and was staring at it, his face suddenly taut.

'Is something the matter?' If he can spy, she thought, then I can ask questions.

It was a moment before he answered, and when he looked at her Chessie had the odd impression that he wasn't really seeing her. That he'd been away somewhere else, and his journey had not been a happy one.

'Not a thing,' he said coolly. 'Except that I need to shower, and get a shave and a change of clothes. And you, of course, have work to do.'

'Yes,' she said, and summoned a brief smile. 'Your walk in the garden must have been—stimulating.'

'It was,' he returned. 'Very. It happens like that, some¬times.'

She walked past him to the communicating door on the other side of the room that led into her office. She paused in the doorway, and looked back, just in time to see Miles slipping the cream envelope into the pocket of his trousers, his face cold and abstracted.

Clearly, it was something he needed to deal with in real privacy, she thought as she closed the door quietly, and sat down at the computer.

And, as she so badly needed to remember, it was no concern of hers.

Chessie found it irritatingly difficult to concentrate that morning. She faltered over the names of some of the Eastern European characters in the story, although they should have been perfectly familiar to her by now. Also, the plot had reached a high point of drama and crisis, and some of the scenes were correspondingly tough and violent, which disturbed her as it had never done in the past.

I must be feeling ultra-sensitive today, she thought, crossly deleting another mistake.

She was almost glad when the last page was transcribed, saved to disk and printed off to join the mounting pile of manuscript in her out-tray.

She was dealing with the correspondence when Mrs. Chubb popped her head round the door.

'Visitor,' she announced in a stage whisper.

'Oh.' Chessie got up from her chair. 'I forgot to ask him about that. Is the room ready?'

'Not that one.' Mrs. Chubb flapped a dismissive hand. 'Madam's come calling. Strolled up the drive while I was doing the brasses, and asked for Mr. Hunter. They're in the drawing room, and he wants you too.'

As she reached the drawing-room door, Chessie paused, smoothing back her hair with her fingers and taking a deep breath. Then, teeth gritted, she went in.

Miles, casually dressed in jeans and a white shirt, was standing by the empty fireplace, leaning against the mantel shelf.

Linnet, decorative in honey-coloured silk, was draped across one of the sofas that flanked the hearth.

'Such a bore, but no one was prepared to help at all,' she was saying, gesturing helplessly with one crimson-tipped hand. 'In the end I had to call one of the London nursing agencies, and they have someone who can start almost at once, thank heaven.'

'It must be a weight off your mind,' Miles agreed gravely. He looked across at Chessie, his expression giving nothing away. 'Hello, darling. I hope we can offer Lady Markham some lunch.'

'As long as it's not too inconvenient,' Linnet fluttered.

'I'm sure I must be disrupting your latest oeuvre.' She turned to survey Chessie, absorbing her simple blue chambray shift dress. 'In housekeeper mode today, sweetie?'

'That's what I'm paid for,' Chessie said lightly. 'Would soup and omelettes do?'

'I'd really prefer eggs Benedict,' Linnet said sunnily. 'But whatever you can manage will be fine, Chessie, dear.'

'Great,' Chessie returned with equal cheerfulness. 'Ome¬lettes it is, then.'

The contents of the freezer in the storeroom adjoining the big kitchen were looking depleted. It looked to Chessie, hunting out the last carton of her home-made vegetable soup, as if she had a weekend of intensive cooking ahead of her.

She put the soup on the stove to heat through gently, set a bottle of Chablis to chill, then dashed to the dining room with the bleached linen place mats and napkins, and a hand¬ful of cutlery.

Back in the kitchen, she diced ham, grated cheese and chopped peppers, onions, tomatoes and salad potatoes to spice up the omelettes.

'Everything under control?' Miles appeared in the door¬way behind her as she was whisking the eggs in a large bowl.

'The food certainly is,' she said crisply. 'I can't vouch for my temper.'

He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe. 'Then con¬sider this your baptism of fire.'

'I prefer to remain unscorched.' She drew a steadying breath. 'I'm sure you'll excuse me if I don't join the lunch party. I'll have a sandwich in my office.'

'Then think again,' he said calmly. 'And lay a place for yourself in the dining room. I told you that I'd expect my future wife to help me entertain my guests.'

She said between her teeth, 'I am not your future wife.'

'Lady Markham thinks you are,' he said softly. 'Because you told her so, Francesca. And, as I've made clear, you'll behave accordingly until I decide otherwise. So it's lunch for three and no arguments.'

She gave him a defiant glance. 'Is that an order—sir?'

He had the audacity to grin at her. 'Yes, ma'am.' He limped forward and perched on the edge of the table beside her. 'I'm seeing a totally new side to you, Chessie,' he remarked. 'All these months, you've behaved like a polite, efficient mouse. Yet now...'

'Overnight I've turned into a rat?' She glared at him.

Miles laughed. 'I was thinking of something altogether more feline—a tigress, maybe.'

Chessie looked down at the froth of eggs in her bowl. There was something about this turn in the conversation— a note in his voice perhaps—that disturbed her. That, and his proximity.

She said crisply, 'Now you're being absurd. And if you want me to feed your guest, I'd better get on.'

'Presently,' he said, and his voice was soft, the blue eyes narrowed in speculation. 'I've seen your claws, Chessie. But now I'm wondering if I might just make you purr.'

The egg whisk dropped from her hand, clattering to the tiled floor as he reached for her, pulling her into his arms with a stark purpose that defied resistance. She was held against him, trapped between the hard muscularity of his thighs. One arm lay across her back like a band of steel. His other hand shaped the slender curve of her hip as he smiled into her eyes.

Her lips parted to protest—perhaps even to plead—but the words were stifled by his mouth. At first it was a quest—a slow, controlled exploration. Firm but tender. Serious and teasing.

So many sensations—emotions—building inside her as he quietly and deliberately ravished her mouth. She hung in his arms, her limbs turning to water, tiny sparks of light dancing behind her closed eyelids. And her hands, braced against his chest in a vain attempt to push him away, crept upwards to fasten on his shoulders.

And everything changed. He pulled her closer still, kiss¬ing her deeply, hungrily, making no more concessions to her relative inexperience, or the fact that it was still the first intimate contact between them.

Ruthlessly, her lips were pressured apart so that he could plunder all the inner sweetness of her mouth. There was no gentleness in him now. No coolness either. Just a fierce need driving him beyond tenderness, beyond consideration.

The high dam of his reserve had been breached, and she was caught in the torrent. Drowning now in unguessed-at desires of her own, her aroused nipples blooming against the wall of his chest, her fingers biting frantically into his shoulders.

Gasping, tasting him, breathing him, drawing the male scent of him deep into her lungs as the world spun dizzily around her. The warmth of his skin blazed through her thin dress. She felt the sudden clamour of her pulses, the surge of the dark, heavy blood through her veins.

And then, as if a light had been switched off, it was over, and she was free. Taking a shaky step backwards, then another. Staring at him with ever-widening eyes. Lifting a mechanical hand to touch her swollen mouth. Hearing noth¬ing but the raggedness of her own breathing. And his. In a silence that seemed to go on for ever.

When at last he spoke, his mocking drawl scored her senses like a sharp blade. 'Well—that was—instructive.'

Her breasts were aching against the cling of her dress, her nipples white-hot pinnacles of excitement. And he could see that. Would know...

She crossed her arms across her body, hiding the evi¬dence of her self-betrayal from his cynical scrutiny.

'Why?' she whispered hoarsely. 'Why did you do that? How did you dare...?'

'Because we were both curious,' he said. 'And now we know.' His smile was suddenly mocking. 'Besides, our be¬trothal needed a little local colour, if only to prevent the worldly wise Lady Markham becoming suspicious.'

'What are you talking about?' There were tears not far away, constricting her throat, burning her eyes.

'Most newly engaged couples can't keep their hands off each other.' Miles' shrug was almost casual. 'Your trans¬parent innocence was doing my street cred no good at all.' He gave her a measuring glance. 'At least you look now as if you know you're a woman.'

'And is that supposed to be your excuse—your rationale for—for assaulting me.' Her legs were weak, shaking under her. Her mouth was throbbing, and she was trembling wildly inside, ashamed of her own response. Of the destruc¬tion of her defences. And wanting to hit back.

His brows lifted over blue eyes turned suddenly cold. 'Is that how you see it? Just remember, my sweet hypocrite, that I was the one who called a halt. And if we didn't have a guest, and a cleaner roaming the house,' he added softly, 'I would not have stopped, and you wouldn't have wanted me to.'

He allowed her to digest that, then sent her a smile, swift and impersonal. 'Now, I'll leave you to get on with lunch.'

Alone, Chessie slumped against the kitchen table, her hands pressed to her hot cheeks. The temptation to sweep the entire preparations for the meal into the bin, then pack her bags and walk out was almost overwhelming. But she couldn't do that because she'd signed a contract, which required a minimum of a month's notice. And there seemed little doubt that Miles would enforce it, if necessary.

So, she had four weeks to endure before she could le¬gitimately make her escape.

She groaned softly. Twenty-four hours ago, she'd been settled. Not ecstatically happy, perhaps, but resigned—even contented. Now her life was in chaos, and heading for melt¬down.

And the worst of it was that Miles' final jibe had been no more than the truth, she thought unhappily. For the first time in her life, she had wanted everything that a man had to give—and more. And she would have offered her entire self in return.

If he had allowed it, she realised, wincing.

Well, she would never let him get so near her again. For her remaining time in his house, she would revert to being the calm, efficient employee. She would fill the freezer, run the house, and finish transcribing the new book. And she would ensure a smooth transition for her replacement.

She retrieved the egg whisk from the floor and washed it, wiping the small pool of beaten egg from the tiles. There was a smear on her dress, too, and she didn't have time to change, but what the hell? Her appearance was immaterial after all, she thought with a faint shrug. Although she would have to comb her dishevelled hair, and disguise the more obvious signs of Miles' kisses.

She made a salad from mixed leaves, heated a French stick in the oven, then poured the steaming soup into pot¬tery bowls and carried them through to the dining room.

'This is actually quite good,' Linnet approved as she tasted it. 'I'd no idea you could cook, Chessie.'

'I had to learn,' Chessie returned. 'And fast.'

'Of course you did,' Linnet said in a tone of such gentle understanding that Chessie longed to slap her senseless. 'And to have to do all this cleaning as well, when you'd always had a housekeeper of your own in the past.' She totted. 'You must be absolutely worn out.'

Chessie raised her eyebrows innocently, 'Oh, didn't you notice Mrs. Chubb on your way in? She's the real treasure round here.'

'Well, I wouldn't describe her in those terms,' Linnet said with a touch of tartness. 'And I'd have got rid of her surly brute of a husband too, only Robert wouldn't allow it for some reason.'

'Probably because Mr. Chubb is one of the top gardeners in the county, and his family has worked for the Markhams for generations,' Chessie commented pensively. 'You're re¬ally lucky to have him. More bread?'

But Linnet was not finished yet. 'All the same, it must have been hard on you, having to take a subservient posi¬tion in your old home. Although everything seems to be working out for you now.

'What a pity your poor father couldn't say the same.' She sighed. 'It's all such a tragedy, although Robert pre¬dicted it years ago, of course. He was so shrewd about these things. But somehow one felt that your father might just get away with it. He seemed to have a gift for survival.'