Love in Disguise Part 16

'I would rather you didn't do your entertaining on the doorstep, Miss Wilmot.'

She flushed scarlet. 'Roger is just going,' she said, and gave him a slight push down the steps.

'Same time, same place on Monday?' he called.

'No.'

'Tuesday, then?'

Aware of Mark still beside her, Anthea nodded-she could always telephone Roger later and opt out of the arrangement-and watched with relief as he drove away with a roar of the exhaust.

'I'm sorry about that,' she apologised, stepping into the hall. 'I didn't think you would be home so early.'

'I didn't go out.'

With surprise she saw he was still wearing the suit she had seen earlier that evening, and glancing through the half open door of the library saw a thick haze of tobacco smoke. 'You haven't been with those men the whole time?' she burst out.

'Yes. And I'm exhausted.'

'Have you had dinner?'

'Sandwiches. The Dicksons had gone out for the evening -as I was supposed to do-and I got one of the maids to prepare something.'

'Would you like me to make you an omelette?'

'No, thanks.' He moved towards the Library, but though his words were incisive his footsteps faltered. She longed to run over and hold him, but forced herself to remain where she was, though nothing could prevent her from speaking. 'Do let me make you a hot drink, Mr. Allen. Sit down and I'll bring it in to you.'

She hurried to the kitchen before he could stop her. There was some chicken broth in the refrigerator and she heated it up while she made an omelette and set it on a hot, covered plate. Then she took the tray into the library.

He looked at it and frowned. 'I told you I didn't want anything to eat.'

Ignoring him, she set the tray on a small table and drew it towards him. In normal circumstances she would have left him to eat alone, but an urge stronger than she could control made her perch on the edge of a chair and deliberately stare at the tray. With a sigh he picked up the soup spoon and drank, then tackled the omelette. He ate three- quarters of it before setting down his knife and fork and pushing the tray away. He looked less tired, but when he took off his glasses to rub his eyes she saw that they were red-rimmed.

'Don't put them on again,' she said quickly as he went to do so. Surprised, he stopped with his hands in mid-air and she said hastily: 'I'm sure it will do your eyes good to rest them for a while. I was always told people shouldn't wear their glasses all the time.'

'I bet you just made that up.'

'How did you guess?'

'Because you're occasionally as transparent as a sheet of glass!'

'Not as breakable, I hope?'

'Perhaps I should have said toughened glass. That's what all women are made of. It's the men who shatter easily.'

'You always talk rot when you start generalising.' She drew a sharp breath. 'I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. I keep forgetting I work for you.'

'I forget it too.' His look was oblique. 'It will be strange when your replacement takes over. I don't suppose-you'd care for the job on a permanent basis?'

Her heart thumped, but she kept her voice low: only in that way could she prevent it from sounding shaky. 'You'd be horrified if I accepted. You're just suggesting it because you're tired.'

There was a short silence before he spoke. 'You're quite right, Miss Wilmot. I don't mean it.'

The finality in his voice filled her with depression and she stood up.

'What's die hurry?' he enquired.

'I thought you wanted to go to bed. You look tired.'

'I am. But too tired to sleep. It's been a gruelling evening.'

'Is anything wrong?'

'I'm afraid so.'

Mark didn't elaborate and she knew better than to ask him what he meant. But she could not stop one comment escaping her. 'They were policemen, weren't they?'

His head lifted and his eyes stared at her myopically, dark grey and shining. 'Fate plays strange tricks,' he murmured, and she knew he was speaking to himself rather than to her. 'You work for years to create an empire and then you find it's built on shifting sand. You try to strengthen it with concrete-steel-anything you can get your hands on-but nothing you can do can stop it from collapsing, and all the work of a lifetime is destroyed. I don't know what's worse, Anthea; to destroy yourself or to destroy another person.'

'Most people would rather destroy another person,' she said steadily, and wondered if he knew he had called her by her Christian name. 'It really depends on your conscience.'

'You need to be very rich or very poor to be able to afford a conscience,' he said carefully.

'You are very rich.'

He sighed and leaned his head on the chair back. 'Would you like to put on some music? The tape deck is behind me. Choose anything you like.'

She went to the shelf and looked along the line of tapes before choosing the Elgar Violin Concerto. The hauntingly plaintive notes filled the room and she remained behind Mark's chair, seeing the light of the standard lamp shining on his hair and resisting the urge to run her hand through it. She came round the side of the chair and as she did, his fingers reached out and caught hers. The movement swung her off balance and she stumbled. His hand tightened and he pulled her on to his lap and sought her mouth, kissing her as though all along he had been hungry for her touch.

She tried to resist him, but it was hopeless and with a little sigh she gave in to him. Her arms crept around his neck and her lips moved beneath his as she responded to his urgency without holding back. Around them the music swelled and reverberated, but they were lost in a world of their own making: mouth on mouth, limb against limb, breath intermingling with breath.

It was a long time later when she shakily moved off his lap. The top of her dress had slipped down and there were the faint marks of his touch on her breasts, which still throbbed with desire for him. He stood up and lowered his head until his lips rested against one pink mark.

'You'd better go to bed,' he said huskily, 'while I can still let you go there alone.'

The presumption that she would not stop him wounded her, and she hit out at him in the only way she could.

'Don't read too much in a kiss. My generation doesn't take it as seriously as yours, remember.'

He straightened immediately. 'Don't confuse passion with permanence,' he drawled.

'Especially as permanence is the last thing you want,' she added. 'You're wise to stick to married women!'

His answer was a derisive laugh and it echoed in-her ears as she slammed the door behind her and ran to the safety of her room. His kisses tonight, unlike the ones he had given her before, could not be so quickly dismissed. These were kisses to which she had openly responded, and she was honest enough to admit that it was his control rather than her own which had stopped her from final surrender. The knowledge should have horrified her, yet her only regret was that now she would never know the happiness of complete fulfilment with him. How much she loved him! How deeply she ached to comfort him and how terribly frightened she was for what the future might hold in store for him.

Trembling, she sat on the bed and remembered what he said about building an empire on shifting sand. She did not know how he had begun his meteoric rise to success but was half aware it had come about solely from his own efforts. Were there shadows in his past which were now casting shadows on the present? From what he had said it looked as if the entire edifice he had created was going to come crashing down on him. But if this were so, why was he having merger talks with Jasper Goderick? Was it an attempt to ward off public suspicion while he tried to retrieve his lost fortunes, or was he hoping to be bought out and to save something from the debacle?

If only she were more cognisant of the true facts of his work instead of relying on intuition and a small amount of knowledge. Poor Mark. Without power and success, what would his future be? Would he have the courage to begin again, and would Claudine remain with him? The thought of Claudine almost destroyed her pity for him-but not quite-and the tears that poured down her face were not just for her own unrequited love but for all that he himself seemed about to lose.

In the morning Anthea telephoned Chrissy and asked her to go and see Betsy Evans and find out how long it would be before she was able to start work.

'I saw her last night,' Chrissy said, 'and the doctor told her she could begin in a fortnight. There's no trouble about the job, is there, Miss Anthea?'

'No trouble at all,' Anthea said hastily. 'I was just checking to make sure how much longer I'd have to stay on.'

'Getting fed up, are you?'

'A bit. I-I miss my friends.'

'Well, it won't be long before you're back home,' Chrissy replied comfortingly. 'I take it you will be coming home?'

'Not permanently, Chrissy. Only till I find a place of my own.'

Anthea hung up. Two more weeks before Betsy could take over. She was not sure she had the strength of mind to remain here that long. Yet not to stay might make Mark suspicious of her feelings. He was too astute not to guess her reasons if she suddenly said she was leaving.

With an enormous effort of will power she went about her normal duties. It was a pity they were spending the weekend here instead of at the Manor, where she would have been far less likely to bump into him. The prospect of an unexpected encounter was so nerve-racking that at noon she deliberately went in search of him.

He was at his desk in the library, surrounded by the inevitable plethora of documents. He looked as if his night had been as sleepless as her own, and he rose as she came in, the first sign he had ever given that she was a woman and not his housekeeper.

'About last night---- ' she began in a rush.

'I owe you an apology,' he said, before she could continue. 'I intended to tell you first thing this morning, but I got caught up with work. I'm extremely sorry for what happened. I promise you it will never occur again. My only excuse is that I was tired and upset. It made me susceptible to your-to your ..... You're very beautiful,' he concluded.

Remembering her unashamed response to his lovemaking, Anthea said: 'Nerves can play havoc with one's senses. I was upset too. I suppose it was because I'd been out with Roger and I-I must have missed him.'

'I hope I was not too inadequate a stand-in?' he questioned, reverting to his usual sarcasm.

'You weren't inadequate at all,' she said brightly. 'You were so good that I think it might be dangerous for us to repeat the performance.' She looked at the floor. 'Miss Evans hopes to start work for you in a couple of weeks. I'll stay here until then, but it would be best if we saw as little as possible of each other.'

'As you wish. But as I said before, you need have no fear that there will be a repetition of last night.'

He sat down again and picked up his pen, not raising his head as Anthea opened the door and went out.

In the evening Mark dined at home with Claudine and spent Sunday with her too, closeted in the library. He made no attempt to hide the documents on his desk from her, and Anthea wondered whether he had told the woman what might be happening. The glimpse she had of Claudine provided no answer, for she looked as beautiful and composed as always.

It was only Mark who looked haggard, and as the following week went by, this was accompanied by unusual irritability. His mood subtly affected the household, as if everyone was responding to his worries though they were not even aware that he had any. But it made tempers run high, and Monsieur Marcel sharpened his knives with extra ferocity, while Dickson became more reserved than ever.

A prey to anxieties of her own, Anthea decided not to put off her date on Tuesday with Roger. It would do her good to go out with someone who was totally unaware of the problems she was having to cope with. If she could pretend hard enough that she was having a good time, perhaps she might actually start to believe it.

But it was harder to put on an act than she had realised, and halfway through dinner Roger bluntly asked what was wrong with her.

'The university,' she lied. 'I'm not sure I'll be able to put my mind to studying. It's been more than a year since I gave it up.'

'But you were doing research for your father for most of that time. I bet you're not half as rusty as you think.'

'I wish you were my tutor,' she smiled. 'I'd have no worries then!'

'You've got no worries now,' he said firmly. 'You're the brainiest and brightest girl I know.'

'You wouldn't like to put that in writing, would you!'

'Do you need affirmation? Where's all your confidence gone, sweetheart?'

'Down the sink, I'm afraid. The sooner I quit housekeeping the better.'

'Amen to that,' he replied. 'I knew it would get you down sooner or later. Next time you take on the duties of running a house, make sure it's your own-or better still, mine!' He leaned across the table. 'Any chance?'

She shook her head. "Fraid not. Just friends, Roger, nothing more.'

He accepted the rebuff with grace, but later as he drove her back to Eaton Square, he returned to the subject. 'I still hope to make you change your mind about me. I love you, Anthea, and until I know you're in love with someone else, I won't give up.'

It was a temptation to tell him that she was; it would at least stop him from wasting his time. But pride kept her silent. It was bad enough to love a man who saw her only as an irritating female with an occasional ability to arouse him, without openly admitting this to anyone else.

'How are you fixed for Wednesday evening?' Roger continued.

The thought of another evening of pretence was more than she could bear at the moment, and she murmured that she was not sure what her employer's plans were but would phone him as soon as she knew. 'But I'll be back in Reading in a fortnight,' she assured him, 'and I'll see you then.'

'Try and make it before. I don't want to wait two weeks.'

Silently acknowledging that the next time she saw him would be the last-she had definitely decided it was unfair to go on seeing him when she did not reciprocate his feelings-Anthea let herself into the house and was about to lock the door when she heard voices in the drawing-room. Claudine had not yet gone. Anthea glanced at her watch and frowned. It was lucky Jasper Goderick did not know his wife was such a frequent visitor here.

Unwilling to use the lift and make a noise, Anthea climbed the stairs to the top floor. But once she was in bed, sleep refused to come, and she tossed and turned the next hour away. At three o'clock an even greater restlessness sent her downstairs to the kitchen to make herself some hot milk.

She was in the butler's pantry when she heard a noise coming from the main hall. The hair on her scalp prickled and she tilted her head and listened. Yes, there was definitely someone in the front part of the house. She tiptoed to the green baize door and inched it open. Her heart was pounding and she wished she had something heavy to hold instead of this ridiculous glass of milk. She looked around, but there was not even a walking stick in sight; nothing but a gilt console table and a pair of spindly-legged chairs which, if used as a weapon, looked more likely to collapse into pieces than to knock anyone unconscious.

'I can't stay with him any longer! Help me, Mark. You're the only one who can.'

The words-poignant and dramatic-stopped Anthea dead, and with horror she realised that what she had taken to be a burglar was in fact Claudine. She must have gone to the cloakroom-those were obviously the soft footsteps she had heard-and now had returned to the drawing-room and left the door ajar. Yet how late it was for her to be here! Didn't she care about her reputation?

'You can't leave Jasper yet.' Mark was speaking, his voice as insistent as Claudine's. 'It's important that he doesn't suspect anything for the moment.'

'How much longer do I have to stay with him?'

'I'll let you know when it's safe to leave.'

'Are you sure he doesn't suspect?'

'Positive.' Mark was incisive. 'That's why you've got to stay with him for the time being. Everything depends on it.'

'Oh, Mark!' Claudine's voice was full of tears. 'I don't know what I'd do without you. If only---'

Anthea did not wait to hear any more. Swiftly she turned away, and as she did so, the telephone rang. The sound was so unnerving that she stopped, transfixed. Who could be ringing at such an hour? A transatlantic call for Mark, perhaps-or was it Maude to say something had happened to her father? Still rooted to the spot by fear, she heard the ringing cut off and Mark's voice, abrupt and loud. It was impossible to make out the conversation, but it ended in a matter of seconds and she heard him speaking to Claudine.

'It was your maid. Jasper's come home!'

'At this time of night? That's impossible! He was in Australia. Planes don't arrive at this hour.'

'He got in a few minutes ago. It sounds as if he left it deliberately late before coming back from the airport. The maid said he asked where you were and---'