Beaumont Brides Collection (15 page)

‘Would you like to live out here?’

‘It’s only five miles from Broomhill, Luke and I’m sure Melanie can drive. You did ask for seclusion and in the height of the summer you’ll be glad of the privacy. Both of you.’

She didn’t wait for him to agree but opened the car door, swinging her long legs out, apparently determined that he should look at the place properly.

He had hated the suit she wore when she came to his office, but right now he wished she was wearing it. He had enjoyed her struggle with the skirt, the briefest glimpse of a stocking top.

For a moment he watched as she walked across to the edge of the drive. She had a great walk, swinging her legs from the hips in a smooth, fluid action. It made him wonder what she would be like in bed. Then he remembered her hot eyes and knew. Wanted to feel her beneath him, her thighs opening to welcome him. The knowledge was like a kick in the midriff, robbing him of the ability to breathe.

It’s even got a little beach of its own, Luke,’ she said, impatient with his reluctance to come and see, she turned and looked back over her shoulder at him. ‘For heaven’s sake, Melanie will love it.’

He climbed out of the car and walked over to where she was standing. The beach was a pale yellow postage stamp of sand where the dark, spray-soaked rocks parted to form a tiny bay.

‘Small is right,’ he agreed. ‘And is it ever warm enough to swim?’ She was intent on the little beach, a pair of gulls trawling a rock pool in search of lunch.

He was content to look at her small white hands curving over the top of the parapet. Her nails were perfect little ovals. Even without nail polish they were as pink as the inside of sea shells. His own hands, beside them, were permanently darkened by the sun, scarred and hardened, a legacy of his short but glorious career as a field geologist.

‘Well?’ he demanded.

‘You know it is,’ she said, lifting her eyes to meet his, not backing down at his silent challenge. ‘Unless of course you’ve gone soft in the warm waters of the Pacific?’

He knew then that he’d made a serious mistake. It had been a mistake to allow her to take her father’s place in the negotiations. To fill his mind with questions to which there could be no answers.

Felicity Beaumont was to have played a supporting role in his scenario, to provide the last little twist of the knife in his destruction of Edward Beaumont. But she was beginning to assume an importance out of all proportion.

‘Don’t rely on it. When was the last time you swam off this coast?’

‘Me?’ For a fraction of a second she hesitated. ‘I can’t swim.’

And she hadn’t even crossed her fingers as she lied. ‘Isn’t that a little foolhardy for someone who works at the end of the pier?’ Luke asked.

‘I hadn’t thought about it.’

She was so damned cool.

‘Maybe you should. It’s a dangerous place.’

The inference that she was at the end of the pier without a life belt was too obvious to be missed. There was no need to press the point. Instead he turned, resting his elbows against the stonework and looked up at the house.

‘According to the agent, Winterbourne Manor has a heated pool. Perhaps you’d like me to give you some lessons?’ he offered, very gently.

He saw her swallow nervously. That would teach her not to cross her fingers.

‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Devlin,’ she said, abandoning his given name in an attempt to shoehorn the formality back into their relationship.

‘Luke,’ he prodded her, not allowing her to get away with it.

‘But you haven’t taken it yet. And as you pointed out, it’s quite isolated.’ He didn’t disagree, he didn’t do anything. He just let her keep talking. ‘And I suppose it would be very large for just two people,’ she persisted, in the manner of a child who has just learned to swim and is determined to make the width of the pool. Sinking further with every stroke. But refusing to give up. ‘It’s sure to cost a fortune to heat.’

‘Particularly the swimming pool.’

‘Yes,’ she said and blushed, as well she might, although he had enjoyed the performance. It was plucky, full of grit. He had particularly enjoyed his own comparison of it with a child learning to swim.

It fitted very nicely with some old publicity photographs of Elaine French swimming with her two daughters in the private pool of their London home. Fizz must have been about four and she had been like a little fish.

‘Actually the house does have two of the features I was looking for. You seemed to think it would be foolish of me to expect more.’

‘Two?’

He generously upgraded isolated. ‘It’s secluded and it has a view of the sea.’

‘But it won’t be easy to run. And it’s bound to be terribly draughty -’

‘Why don’t we go inside and find out?’ And taking her, gently but firmly by the arm, he led her towards the huge studded oak door.

Winterbourne Manor was one of those warm stone houses that looked as if it belonged in the landscape, nestling into a natural contour, taking advantage of the shelter it offered, sitting low against the sudden storms that could whip up the channel and batter themselves out on the Downs.

Built long ago of the local buff-grey stone, the house had weathered until it blended so perfectly with its surroundings that nothing jarred or looked out of place. Fizz reached for the bell, but Luke forestalled her, producing a key.

‘Where are the owners?’ she asked, surprised.

‘In America, apparently. They inherited it over a year ago. They’ve kept on the housekeeper but she’s visiting her sister for a couple of days.’

‘And the agent handed over the key? Just like that?’

He gave her an odd look. ‘He’s desperate to let the place. Or sell it. And perhaps he had the good sense not to offend me by suggesting I might run off with the silver.’

‘If you did he’d know where to look for you.’

‘Perhaps that was it,’ he agreed, softly and discovered that making her blush was a pleasure he hadn’t anticipated.

She turned away, making a great performance of looking at the house. But he didn’t need to look at it. Winterbourne Manor exuded a warmth that had nothing to do with the efficient central heating and the ruthless exclusion of draughts. Fizz was right. It was beautiful.

‘Well? Where would you like to start?’ she asked.

‘You’re the practical one, where do you suggest?’

‘The kitchen?’

‘I’m disappointed, Fizz. The housekeeper is part of the package. I’ll leave the kitchen to her, thanks all the same. Really practical people look at the plumbing first.’

‘The plumbing? You want to hunt for stopcocks?’

For just a moment he cherished the delightful picture of the beautiful Miss Beaumont covered in cobwebs and dust as she braved the spiders in some back scullery.

‘Not stopcocks,’ he said. ‘But I do insist on a shower that does more than dribble.’

‘Oh.’ She looked up the broad oak staircase that had been built, like the house, to last centuries.

‘Upstairs then.’

The sudden wobble in her voice had surprised him. Despite her inclination to snap she was clearly as aware of the sexual tension between them as he was. Maybe that was the reason for the snappiness. He would have to be careful or she would shy away like a skittish colt.

‘Upstairs,’ he agreed, with a smile that caught him unawares and found a brief answering echo in her eyes. Then she turned quickly and ran lightly up the shallow steps.

He let her go, taking pleasure in the swing of her neat bottom beneath the short leather jacket, imagined those twin cheeks cupped in his hands as he pulled her hard against him. The strength of his desire for her took him by surprise and he caught his breath, swallowed.

She had paused on a half landing to glance out of a tall stained-glass window. The winter sun filtered through the leaded panes, spattering the wall behind her with coloured light, turning her chestnut hair to dark copper and he felt the life force stir within him.

He hadn’t expected seducing Edward Beaumont’s daughter to be difficult.

It wasn’t that he was especially conceited, but his enquiries had produced no evidence of a recent relationship and he knew that girls who lived in the shadow of a glamorous sister were usually grateful to be noticed. But he hadn’t expected to enjoy it.

The hair stirred on the nape of his neck as he realised that he was in danger of enjoying it too much.

He refused to think about it. He had done his thinking. It was time to act and he took the stairs two at a time until he was standing behind her, but taking care not to actually touch her, so that he could see what had caught her eye.

A hundred yards or so away, where the formal gardens gave way to woodland, snowdrops had colonised the area beneath the trees. Drifts of delicate white flowers that sparkled in the thin sunshine.

‘Pretty, but not practical,’ he chided, gently. ‘And admiring the garden definitely comes under the heading of time wasting.’

‘Some things are never a waste of time.’ She turned her head on her long neck to look up at him, her eyes wide, her lips slightly parted in unconscious invitation.

He felt an almost overwhelming longing to kiss her, to taste her, to gather her up and feel her tremble against him. He restrained the urge with difficulty.

He wanted her to fall in love. Making her wait would bring her into his arms all the quicker. The trick would be to keep a clear head.

It was an exciting and oddly disturbing prospect.

He smiled. ‘Perhaps we could exchange notes on our favourite ways to waste time over lunch. In the meantime, enjoy your snowdrops. I’ll check upstairs. It doesn’t need two of us.’

He looked. The bedrooms had a faded elegance that could only be the real thing, each one furnished by generations of occupants, each generation discarding this, adding that. But some pieces must have been bought when the house was new.

In the master bedroom, the four-poster bed had sufficient gravitas to make even the most sceptical believe that it might have been slept in by the first Queen Elizabeth.

A second suite, with its own luxurious bathroom and a small dressing room was similarly furnished, although in a lighter, more feminine style. It was all quite lovely and looking around Luke was saddened that such wonderful family home should be reduced to being let out on a short lease.

‘Luke?’ He stirred as Fizz appeared in the doorway. ‘Is everything all right? You were rather a long time. Does the shower work?’

‘It’s fine.’ He arranged his face into a smile and turned to face her. ‘What do you think of this?’ he asked, with a flourish towards the smaller four-poster. They both looked at it. ‘It’s entirely possible that Melanie will never forgive me if I deny her the chance to sleep in a genuine four-poster bed,’ he prompted.

‘If you don’t tell her, she’ll never know. Besides, it’s bit on the short side,’ she said, disparagingly. He’d expected a bit more enthusiasm, but she barely glanced at the bed before looking at her watch. ‘Have you seen enough, Luke? Time’s getting on,’ she said. Then he saw the faint flush that heated her cheeks and he smiled to himself, deep inside.

She rather fancied the bed herself. He would do what he could to accommodate her.

‘I haven’t looked downstairs yet, but I’ll be quick, I promise. You must be hungry.’

*****

Twenty minutes later they pulled up outside a small inn high on the downs.

‘I thought you only wanted to rent something temporarily,’ Fizz said, flicking at the list crossly. Luke Devlin seemed determined to waste the afternoon touring around the rest of the houses on the list, but right now she would have traded any amount of roast potatoes in return for her sandwich in the safety of her little office at the end of the pier.

Except it was no longer safe.

Luke Devlin had invaded it as surely as he had invaded the rest of her life. But she had had enough to hearing about what Melanie would like. The bed had been the final straw.

‘Winterbourne had absolutely everything you asked for. It might not be the easiest place on earth to run, but it has a housekeeper who will do it all for you.’

‘And its own private beach.’

He caught her eye. He was teasing again. ‘A very small one, admittedly,’ she said, stiffly.

‘You don’t have to sell it to me, but I still think Melanie would rather have something close to town.’

Melanie.

‘I told you, you should have brought her with you,’ she said. ‘If she’d seen it I’m sure she would have fallen in love with it.’

‘Like you,’ he said, dryly. ‘Although it would probably have been the four-poster bed that swayed it for her, not the gardens.’

‘Four-poster bed?’ she queried, blankly, as if she hadn’t even noticed it.

The truth was that everything about the small Tudor manor house had been quite beautiful, the wood panelling glowing with the patina of centuries of caring hands as the sun had streamed through the windows in long raking beams.

Their eyes met and Luke’s brow rose so slightly that she might have imagined it. But she knew she hadn’t.

 ‘It was beautiful,’ she conceded.