Stolen Summer

Stolen Summer Anne Mather Mills & Boon are excited to present The Anne Mather Collection – the complete works by this classic author made available to download for the very first time! These books span six decades of a phenomenal writing career, and every story is available to read unedited and untouched from their original release. More than an infatuation…Shelley is flattered when younger man Ben tells her she is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. But surely his interest in her is nothing more than pure lust? After all, she was once his teenage crush…But the gorgeous vet is not free to act on his desires and Shelley doesn’t want to be the one to ruin his engagement. But as their intense passion deepens, doing the right thing may be no longer an option… Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author ANNE MATHER Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the publishing industry, having written over one hundred and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages. This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful, passionate writing has given. We are sure you will love them all! I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun— staggered by what’s happened. I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was. These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit. We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is [email protected] (mailto:[email protected]) and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers. Stolen Summer Anne Mather www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) Table of Contents Cover (#udf092ef3-8ace-55a4-829f-dfb43ae95a7b) About the Author (#u6faaa1e4-7964-54f7-9484-66c7ddedcdd9) Title Page (#u8e52c856-a548-5477-b27d-8e2f5ada4e7c) CHAPTER ONE (#u3a5344ea-1693-54f4-80f9-8705208e0470) CHAPTER TWO (#u6d7bf88b-232f-5eb4-961a-360545fb3485) CHAPTER THREE (#u2f00865f-e6c1-5e90-9d29-8cbfea183033) CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo) Copyright (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_98e2a22a-485a-518e-b2e5-44a22930d1df) IT was a little after four o’clock when Shelley reached the turn-off Marsha had indicated in her letter. ‘Just a few miles beyond the Ripon roundabout,’ she had written. ‘Just look for the sign for Bedale and Leyburn. It’s the A684. You can’t miss it!’ And she hadn’t, reflected Shelley thankfully, glad there was only about an hour of her journey left. In spite of the high speeds she had been able to maintain on the motorway, she was tired, and she half wished she had taken Marsha’s advice and come up by train instead. But at least this way she would have a car to use while she was here, Shelley reminded herself firmly. And she might be glad of that, bearing in mind Marsha’s own description of the area in which she lived. Craygill was not served by buses, and there were no convenient underground stations within walking distance of her home. Indeed, Shelley had always been amazed that her friend had adapted herself to life in a Yorkshire dale so easily, after spending the first thirty-eight years of her existence in London. But, evidently, Marsha liked it. Her letters were always full of the enjoyment she got from working in such picturesque surroundings, and the infrequent visits she had made back to the capital had never tempted her to remain. And ever since she had decided to go and live in the area, to be near her son, Marsha had been trying to persuade Shelley to come and visit. ‘You’re like everyone else,’ she exclaimed. ‘You think there’s nothing worth seeing north of Watford!’ she declared, completely forgetting that Shelley had been born and bred in Teesdale, and had lived there for the first six years of her life. Not that Shelley could remember those early years too well. Her father, the younger son of a farming family, disappointed all his relatives by showing more interest in books and learning than in how many ewes his father was breeding. Nevertheless, he stuck in at school and eventually gained a place in a university, returning home at twenty-two to teach in the local school. But there were changes being made. Small schools were being closed and the pupils bussed to larger establishments. Shelley’s father, married by this time and responsible for a family, found himself out of a job, and rather than accept his parent’s charity, he had moved south, to Hampshire, and resumed his teaching career. The only time afterwards that Shelley remembered visiting the farm at Tarnside was when she was twelve, and her grandfather died. Her parents went north for the funeral, but it had not been a comfortable occasion. Her father’s elder brother, Uncle George, seemed to imagine the only reason they had come was to stake some claim to the farm, that he had worked for since he was a boy. There had been a lot of unpleasantness after the funeral was over, and although her grandmother had tried to adjudicate between the two brothers, they had not parted on the best of terms. Neither Shelley, nor her parents, had gone back to Tarnside, and these days Shelley had no idea if her uncle was even still alive. Her own parents were dead, killed in an avalanche during a ski-ing holiday in Austria, just after she had started working for the Courier. It had been a crushing blow to the twenty-one-year-old Shelley, particularly as she had been a much-loved only child. But it was a blessing that because of her job with the London daily newspaper she was no longer living at home. After a tearful weekend, going through the rooms which held so many happy memories, she put sentiment aside and sold the house, using the money to move out of the bed-sitter—which had been all she could afford—and into a flat of her own. It had been a painful business, but at least that way she was able to keep some of her most treasured possessions; and the furniture in her bedroom, and the chesterfield, where her mother used to sit and sew, were a constant reminder of her childhood. Of course, that was all in the past now, Shelley mused reminiscently, as she drove through Aiskew into Bedale, and admired the blue face of the church clock that looked down over the High Street. ‘Four-fifteen,’ she murmured, resisting the temptation to stop for some refreshment. Marsha had said she would have tea waiting for her, and it wouldn’t be fair to waste time so close to her destination. Marsha! A faint smile touched her lips as she thought about the woman who had brought her to this enchanting part of England. And it was enchanting, with its sun-dappled fields and blossom-covered hedges, all burgeoning now as spring gave way to early summer. She had not expected it to be quite so civilised, after her recollections of Teesdale, but the countryside around the little market town was infinitely pleasing. Crakehall; Patrick Brompton; even the names were delightful. She was so grateful to Marsha for inviting her. It was exactly the sort of change she needed. Once again, Marsha had come to her rescue, and she looked forward to the day when she could repay her in some way. She had first met Marsha just a few weeks after her parents were killed. Marsha had stormed into the office to complain about an article one of the Courier’s correspondents had written about her, and because it was February and many of the staff had succumbed to the current ‘flu epidemic, Shelley had been asked to deal with her. In fact, the interview had not turned out at all as she had anticipated. Having heard of Marsha Manning, having admired her work for some time, Shelley was able to understand the painter’s anger at being patronised, at being called an artist, and at being described as a lonely woman, taking out her frustration in oils and canvas. The fact that Marsha’s marriage had broken up only months before the article was written had fuelled the reporter’s penchant for drama, and what had begun as a serious discussion of Marsha’s work had deteriorated into little more than a libellous attack on her private life. From the start, Shelley had sympathised with the other woman, and although there was more than ten years difference in their ages, and Marsha was much more worldly-wise and cynical, nevertheless, a curious friendship had grown up between them. It was a friendship strengthened by their mutual sense of loss—Shelley had missed her parents dreadfully in those early days, and Marsha was still recovering from a rather messy divorce. A casual invitation to lunch had initiated an association that had become one of the most important elements in Shelley’s life, and the years since then had only fortified the affection they had for one another. In a way, Shelley admitted, Marsha had taken the place of her parents. Not as a mother; she was too young for that; but perhaps as an understanding older sister, someone Shelley could turn to for advice about the things—and people—that were important to her. She had grown used to turning up at Marsha’s studio at all hours of the day and night, knowing she was always welcome. They might not always talk; sometimes, when Marsha was engrossed in her work, Shelley would just sit and watch her; but she was there, she cared, and that was what was important. Naturally, Marsha had been the recipient of many confidences, not least those of a personal nature. As well as a willing ear, she offered a shoulder to cry on, something Shelley had been grateful for when her problems got too tough. Of course, Shelley was working in a tough profession, that became tougher still when she left the Courier and joined the staff of Capitol Television. As a very junior associate-producer she had to suffer a lot of back-biting and jealousy, particularly when it became known that the station manager, Mike Berlitz, had a more than professional interest in her career. In the meantime, Marsha’s career flourished. Her paintings—impressionist landscapes mostly—were proving popular with critics, and she was invited to show a collection of her work at the Shultz Gallery, a very singular honour indeed. Her son, who was away at school, returned home for his mother’s exhibition, and Shelley attended the opening with them, proud to be a part of Marsha’s well-deserved success. It had been a less pleasant surprise when, four years ago, Marsha had decided to move to Wensleydale. With the success of her work, and the fact that she had nothing to keep her in London, she had decided to move north to be near her son, who had left university now, and joined a veterinary practice there. ‘Shades of James Herriot,’ she had said ruefully, smiling at Shelley’s shocked expression. ‘Darling, don’t look like that. Craygill is not the end of the earth. It’s just a couple of hundred miles up the motorway, with a magical mystery tour at the end of it.’ But Shelley had been less enthusiastic. Her work was demanding, and she seldom had time for holidays. Besides, the idea of driving hundreds of miles just to spend a few days in rural surroundings had seemed too much trouble, and although she and Marsha spoke together often over the ‘phone, their meetings had been confined to Marsha’s visits to London. Until now, Shelley acknowledged wearily, the ache behind her eyes becoming an actual physical strain. It would have been easier if the winding country roads had been at the start of her journey, she conceded. Right now, even the undoubted beauty of her surroundings was little compensation. She wanted to get to her destination, take a hot bath, and go to bed. Marsha would understand. Marsha always had. That was why she had invited her. The signs for Leyburn brought her into a busy market place, where several roads converged. Not much further now, she told herself encouragingly, turning her sleek little sports saloon on to the road for Aysgarth. Fifteen miles, at the most. With a bit of luck she’d be there soon after five o’clock. As luck would have it, the roads were not busy once she left the town behind. But the constant convolutions of the route made any relaxation impossible, and she felt the sweat break out on her forehead as the throbbing in her head increased. And then, without warning, the fanbelt snapped. One minute she was driving smoothly along a cathedral-like avenue of trees, and the next she heard the distinctive clatter as the rubber tore free of its housing, leaving her without any means to cool her already heated engine. ‘Damn, damn, damn!’ With a exclamation of disgust, Shelley drew the Ford into the side of the road and switched off the ignition. She had passed a village a couple of miles back, but she didn’t remember seeing a garage there. In any case, the idea of setting out to walk for any distance with an aching back and a throbbing head did not bear thinking about, and she decided she would have to wait until another car came by. Pushing open her door, she got out, stretching her long slim body with real relief. As a matter of fact, she felt better out of the stuffy confines of the car. Leaning against the bonnet, she tipped back her head and let the cooling air blow refreshingly over her shoulders and sighed. Perhaps she should have taken a break, after all, she reflected. The fanbelt just might have lasted, if she hadn’t sustained the pressure. The sound of a car’s engine caused her to take notice, but the shabby estate car, driven by a woman, swept by without pause. Oh, well, thought Shelley resignedly, it was going in the wrong direction anyway. Another vehicle would be along shortly. And this time she’d make sure the driver saw her. But, in fact, several cars passed her without stopping; tourists, she suspected, with wives and children who regarded Shelley with unconcealed curiosity. Perhaps her appearance put them off, she thought uneasily. She was so accustomed to the kinks and mores of London society, she had seen nothing unusual in the very masculine lines of her black Edwardian-style pants suit, but here, miles from her normal habitat, she did feel slightly out of place. The tawny-red brilliance of her hair fought a losing battle with the loose peacock blue shirt that fell open at her throat, and although it had been neat when she left her flat that morning, by now her agitation had made a bird’s nest of its knot. There was nothing else for it, she reflected wearily. She would have to walk, after all. At least, to the nearest’ phone box. Perhaps if she could reach Marsha, she would come out and pick her up. They could arrange for the car to be dealt with later. Her spirits marginally less bleak, Shelley collected her bulky shoulder bag from the back of the car and locked the doors. Then, with a determined expellation of air from her lungs, she set off, not deigning to lift her thumb, even when a dust-smeared Land-Rover accelerated past her. Thank heavens it’s not raining, she thought, glancing down at the expensive suede boots which encased her legs to the knee. She had not expected to go hiking, and their velvety exterior would soon have been spoiled by trudging through muddy water. She supposed she should be ‘thankful for small mercies’, as her mother used to say. It would not hurt her to get some exercise. Even if the doctor had warned her not to subject herself to any stress, he meant stress of a different kind. Not the simple aggravation aroused at being forced to use her legs. It was a few seconds before she realised the Land-Rover that had passed her had stopped up ahead. She had been involved with her own problems, and she had not noticed the stationary vehicle. But now, as she approached, the driver got out and walked round the back of the automobile to meet her, his expression half amused as he took in her appearance. He was a young man, in his mid-twenties, she estimated, with dark blond hair, combed smoothly from a side parting. He was tall and lean and muscular, with hard tanned features and good bone structure. He was not conventionally handsome. The contours of his face were too irregular for that. But he was very attractive, with a thin-lipped mouth and heavily-lidded eyes, that were somehow oddly familiar. Gathering her self-possession, Shelley gave him her most scintillating smile. If he was about to offer her a lift, she was not going to refuse it, even if she was a little chary about accepting help from a solitary stranger. She would have preferred to get assistance from one of those men who had had their wives sitting beside them, but they had not offered it. Besides, after living in London for almost ten years, she felt reasonably capable of handling any situation, and younger men, with ambitions, could usually be crushed by her intellect. ‘You couldn’t tell me where I might find a garage, could you?’ she enquired now, before he could speak. ‘I’ve broken the fanbelt on my car, and I’m a stranger to the area.’ ‘Yes?’ The humour in the man’s expression deepened, and Shelley felt a rising sense of irritation. She was more accustomed to being the object of male admiration, rather than a source of amusement, and he had far too much self-confidence for someone of his age. ‘Yes,’ she replied, a little tersely, running an annoyingly nervous hand around the back of her neck. ‘You probably saw my car a few yards back. A red XR3, with black lines along the side.’ ‘I saw it,’ he agreed, and apparently making a sterling effort to control his levity, he gestured towards his own vehicle. ‘Get in. I’ll give you a lift to Low Burton. There’s a garage there, that can probably help you. If not, I may be able to take you wherever you want to go.’ Shelley hesitated. ‘How far is Low Burton?’ The man shrugged. ‘About half a mile.’ ‘So near?’ ‘Well—maybe three-quarters,’ he conceded carelessly. ‘But it’s quite a climb—unless you’re used to it, of course.’ Shelley looked at him sharply, detecting criticism in his words, but there was no mockery in his expression now. On the contrary, he had pushed his hands into the waistline pockets of his tight-fitting jeans and was regarding her with a certain amount of sympathy—an intent appraisal that Shelley, in spite of her resentment, found disturbingly mature. ‘And—you think this garage may have what I need?’ she asked stiffly, feeling at a disadvantage and not liking it. ‘I should think so.’ The man inclined his head. ‘We have grass track racing in these parts occasionally, and Jack Smedley gets a lot of business that way. I shouldn’t think a broken fanbelt will present too many problems to him.’ ‘Oh—all right.’ Glad for once of her five-feet nine inches which meant, with her heeled boots, that they were almost on eye-level terms, Shelley acquiesced. ‘Thank you,’ she added belatedly, as he closed the Land-Rover’s passenger door behind her, and she heard him say drily: ‘It’s a pleasure!’ The Land-Rover was not a very salubrious form of transport. It smelled of what Shelley could only imagine were animals, and a glance over her shoulder essayed the information that some creature or other had been carried in the back quite recently. There was a mess of straw strewn over the floor, and distinct signs of a certain lack of continence. It made her wonder if she had not been a little premature in accepting a lift, and perhaps her erstwhile knight errant should have warned her of the disadvantages before he offered her a ride. But it was an uncharitable notion, and she speedily dismissed it. After all, the seat she was sitting on was clean, and it was saving her an obviously arduous climb. And the young man beside her probably found nothing distasteful about good, wholesome, country scents, and he himself was perfectly presentable. Permitting herself a brief glance in his direction, Shelley had to admit he was nothing at all like the image she had kept of her father’s brother. Yet he was, apparently, a farmer—or a farmer’s son. He obviously spent a lot of time out of doors, evidenced by his dark tan, which was so unusual against the lightness of his hair. And the shirt he was wearing, that was rolled back along his forearms and opened at the neck to expose the strong column of his throat, revealed the taut muscles flexing beneath his skin, skin that was lightly covered by sun-bleached hair. Her gaze dropped to his legs, long and powerful beneath the blue denim. They would be taut and muscled, too, she knew. He was probably the local heart-throb, she decided wryly, deliberately mocking her own unwilling interest. A nice boy, but definitely much too young for her, even had she been looking for diversion—which she wasn’t. Shaking her head, she looked away, but not before he had intercepted her appraisal. For a moment, her green-eyed gaze was caught and held by the silvery greyness of his. Then, feeling obliged to say something, if only to dispel her own disconcertment, Shelley found the words to break the pregnant silence. ‘It’s my first visit to Wensleydale,’ she said, transferring her attention to the window. ‘I didn’t realise it was quite so pretty. Do you—live around here, Mr——’ ‘Seton,’ he supplied evenly. ‘Ben Seton. And yes. I live in Low Burton, actually.’ ‘You do?’ Shelley looked at him again, but this time she avoided those disturbing eyes. ‘So you do know the area very well indeed.’ ‘Well enough,’ he conceded, with a faint smile, and Shelley found herself resenting his cool composure. ‘Didn’t you believe me?’ ‘Why shouldn’t I?’ Shelley lifted one disdainful shoulder. ‘This is hardly the sort of vehicle you’d abduct anybody in!’ He grinned then, a satisfying relaxation of his features that caused an unwilling ripple of reaction to slide along Shelley’s spine. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, though she suspected he was nothing of the sort. ‘I’m so used to this old heap, I didn’t think you might object to it.’ ‘I don’t—object to it.’ Shelley made an effort to be civil. ‘I’m sure it serves its purpose admirably.’ ‘Oh, it does.’ The humour was still there in his expression. ‘Though I have to admit,’ he added, ‘it’s some time since I used the back for anything other than hauling animals!’ Shelly pressed her lips together. ‘I only meant—it smells,’ she said shortly, and he inclined his head. ‘Not what you’re used to, I’m sure,’ he commented lazily, and sensitive to any scepticism, Shelley’s patience snapped. ‘No, it’s not,’ she retorted sharply. ‘I’m from London, actually. I’m a television producer.’ She waited for him to absorb this, and then continued less aggressively: ‘So you see, riding around in muck-laden farm vehicles is hardly an everyday occurrence for me.’ ‘I’m sure it’s not.’ His response was as deferential as she could have wished, yet she still had the uneasy suspicion he was only humouring her. Did he believe her? Or did he think she was only making it up to impress him? It was infuriating to realise that she cared what he thought. ‘I’m going to stay with Miss Manning at Craygill,’ she appended, refusing to admit she was trying to verify her statement. ‘Marsha Manning, that is. You may have heard of her. She’s a paint——’ ‘I’ve heard of her,’ he interrupted carelessly, cutting off her explanation. ‘This is Low Burton, just ahead, by the way. Jack Smedley’s place is just off the square.’ He slowed to take a particularly sharp bend and when the road straightened out again, Shelley saw the dry stone wall of a churchyard on her left. The road ran between the wall of the church and the wall of the rectory opposite, before cottages appeared on either side, their gardens bright with blossom. Shelley identified lobelia and aubretia, and showers of snow-on-the-mountain, before the cottages too gave way to narrow town houses, with leaded window panes and polished letter-boxes. Her attention to her surroundings precluded any further conversation, and she was relieved. She was not usually so touchy about her job, and she seldom, if ever, felt the need to brag about her importance. But this man—whoever he was—had the ability to tear away the fa?ade she had erected around herself during the past ten years, and reduce her to the state of defending her position. A few yards further on they entered the small market square, with a clock-tower chiming the hour, and a handful of cars parked near a group of municipal buildings. There were shops, and a small supermarket, and a collection of public houses and, just around the corner, the blue-and-white sign indicating Smedley’s Garage. ‘Would you like me to find out if he has what you want?’ her companion asked, bringing the Land-Rover to a halt by the petrol pumps. Shelley hesitated only a moment, and then shook her head. ‘That’s okay,’ she said. ‘I can manage,’ even though she was tempted to take advantage of his offer. It would be easier for him to approach the garage owner, who he obviously knew, and explain what was required, but Shelley felt the need to demonstrate her independence. She had no intention of providing him with any more amusement. She had already proved herself to be both vain and shrewish, and no doubt his friends would enjoy his story of a helpless older woman, bowled over by his charm. Men always liked to exaggerate, and her behaviour would hardly invite his discretion. Now, opening her bag, she searched for her wallet. ‘Will you let me buy you a drink, Mr Seton,’ she began, determined to restore the relationship to its proper footing, but once again he prevented her. ‘That won’t be necessary,’ he said, a faint edge to his voice now, as he flicked the flap of her bag back into place. Closing his fingers over the soft leather, he successfully trapped her hand inside, and his eyes were steel-hard as they met her frustrated gaze. ‘Never let it be said that a dalesman couldn’t offer a lady assistance, without requiring some payment for it.’ Her hand struggled to be free, and he let go of the bag again. ‘Enjoy your holiday,’ he added, as she thrust open her door. ‘Who knows—we may see one another again!’ ‘I should think that will be highly unlikely!’ Shelley muttered under her breath, as she climbed out of the Land-Rover. And, although she didn’t look back as she strode confidently into the garage, she was conscious of his eyes upon her, until she was out of sight. CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_4286ed17-8549-5bde-9af6-5ed2dded573f) IT was six o’clock by the time Shelley reached Craygill, and she unutterably relieved when, on the outskirts of the tiny hamlet, she found the house she was looking for. Marsha had said to look out for two stone gateposts, because the sign indicating the house was worn and scarcely readable from the driving seat of a car. But Shelley saw the crumbling notice for Askrigg House as she turned between the stone sentinels, and she accelerated up the gravelled drive, to the detriment of the car’s paintwork. Marsha appeared at the door of the rambling old building as Shelley reached the circular forecourt before the house. Dressed in paint-smeared slacks and an equally disreputable smock, she looked so endearingly familiar that Shelley could hardly wait to get out of the car to embrace her. ‘Where have you been?’ Marsha exclaimed fiercely, after they had exchanged their initial greetings. ‘My dear, I’ve been practically frantic! Your daily woman said you left London at eleven o’clock this morning. I’ve been expecting you since four, and anticipating the worst since half-past-five!’ ‘Oh, love, I’m sorry!’ Leaving her suitcases at Marsha’s suggestion, Shelley ran a weary hand over the untidy coil of her hair as she accompanied her friend into the house. There was ivy on the walls, and honeysuckle growing over the door, but she scarcely registered her surroundings. ‘It was further than I thought, and I was feeling so tired, I thought I wasn’t going to make it. Then, about a dozen miles back, the fanbelt broke, and I had to—to get a lift into Low Burton, to find a garage that could fix it.’ ‘Smedley’s, no doubt,’ remarked Marsha, nodding as she led the way through a darkly panelled hall into a pleasant, airy, living room. ‘Oh—Sarah!’ This as a plum-cheeked girl straightened from setting a tray of tea on the low table in front of the fireplace. ‘Will you collect Miss Hoyt’s luggage from her car, and put it up in her room? And tell Mrs Carr we’ll probably want dinner a little later than usual. Say—about eight o’clock.’ ‘Yes, Miss Manning.’ The girl gave Shelley a swift assessing look as she left the room. She was evidently curious about her employer’s new house guest, and Marsha pulled a rueful face when Shelley arched her brows enquiringly. ‘Don’t mind Sarah,’ she said, as soon as the door had closed behind her. She helped Shelley off with her thigh-length jacket and folded it over the back of a chair. ‘If you intend to dress as a fashion model here, you’ll have to get used to people staring.’ She smiled to allay Shelley’s protests. ‘Oh, darling, it’s so good to see you. Even if it could have been in happier circumstances!’ ‘I’m fine—really,’ said Shelley, sinking down gratefully into the soft cushions of a chintz-covered armchair. ‘Mmm, you’ve no idea how good it is to relax at last! I seem to have been travelling for days!’ ‘It must have been infuriating, losing the fanbelt so close to your destination,’ agreed Marsha, sympathising. ‘Who gave you a lift?’ ‘Oh—just a man,’ said Shelley dismissively, annoyed with herself for re-opening the topic. For some ridiculous reason, she was loath to discuss that particular episode at the moment, probably because Ben Seton had already occupied far too much of her time. ‘What a comfortable room this is, Marsha,’ she added, changing the subject. ‘And what a clever idea—filling the fireplace with flowers!’ Marsha was diverted, and seating herself opposite, beside the tea tray, she became absorbed with the cups. ‘Milk and sugar?’ she asked. ‘Or would you prefer something stronger?’ ‘If I have something stronger, I’ll probably fall asleep,’ confessed Shelley lightly. ‘Honestly, tea is just what I need.’ ‘Good.’ Marsha filled two cups and after offering Shelley a hot, buttered scone, she lay back in her chair and regarded her friend with evident satisfaction. ‘You’re here at last,’ she said, her grey eyes warm with affection. ‘And not before time. Shelley, why didn’t you tell me what was going on?’ Shelley sighed, nibbling the half scone she had accepted without any real appetite. ‘There was nothing to tell,’ she answered flatly. ‘It was just an accumulation of circumstances, and Mike’s wife dying like that, seemed to bring them all to a head.’ Marsha shook her head. ‘I thought you were in love with him.’ ‘So did I.’ Shelley lifted her slim shoulders. ‘But I wasn’t.’ Marsha shook her head. ‘You’ve lost weight.’ ‘A few pounds.’ Shelley was offhand. ‘I could afford it. I spend too much of my life sitting down.’ ‘Nevertheless …’ Marsha finished her tea and propped her elbows on her knees. ‘The—specialist you saw would not have ordered you to take a complete rest if he hadn’t considered you needed it.’ ‘The shrink, you mean?’ prompted Shelley drily. ‘Don’t be afraid to say it, Marsha. I guess I got myself into quite a state, one way and another. And having Guy Livingstone on my back hasn’t helped. He can’t wait to step into my shoes.’ ‘Mice on a treadmill!’ Marsha sighed. ‘Shelley, don’t you sometimes wonder if you were really cut out to be a career woman! I mean—don’t get me wrong—but there is another life, outside your profession.’ ‘That! From you!’ Shelley put the remains of her scone aside and looked at her friend incredulously. ‘You’re not exactly a walking recommendation of the eternal wife and mother!’ ‘I know, I know.’ Marsha was not offended. ‘But just because my marriage to Tom didn’t work out, doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the institution when it does.’ She shrugged. ‘I suppose, living around here, has given me a different outlook on life. Oh—I’m not saying that if Tom and I were still together, things would be any different. But he did give me Dickon, and I’m eternally grateful for that.’ ‘You don’t have to get married to have a baby,’ pointed out Shelley wryly. Then, smiling, she added: ‘How is Dickon anyway? I’m looking forward to meeting him again.’ ‘And he’s keen to meet you,’ declared Marsha eagerly. ‘Do you remember when we all went to that exhibition of mine at the Shultz Gallery? He talked about you for days afterwards. I think he had quite a crush on you!’ Shelley laughed. It was the first time she had really relaxed for months, and it was so good to anticipate the weeks ahead, with nothing more arduous to occupy her mind than how she was going to fill her days. ‘He’s engaged now,’ Marsha continued reflectively, her thoughts evidently still with her son. ‘She’s a nice girl. Her name is Jennifer Chater. She’s the daughter of one of his partners in the practice.’ ‘The veterinary practice,’ said Shelley nodding. ‘When will he be home?’ ‘Oh, Dickon doesn’t live here,’ said Marsha quickly. ‘In winter, we often get snowed in, and he has to be available for calls. He bought a house in Low Burton, just after he joined Langley and Chater.’ ‘Low Burton,’ echoed Shelley faintly, wondering if she would ever hear the name without thinking of Ben Seton. ‘And—will he and Jennifer live there, after they’re married?’ ‘Initially, perhaps,’ agreed Marsha doubtfully. ‘But it’s not very big. Not big enough for a family,’ she added, her eyes twinkling. ‘I can’t wait to become a grandmother! But I don’t suppose I have any choice.’ ‘Are they getting married soon?’ asked Shelley, willing to talk about anything that would not remind her of the young man in the Land-Rover, and Marsha shrugged. ‘Provisionally the date is set for sometime in October,’ she replied. ‘But it really depends on Jennifer’s father. He hasn’t been at all well lately, and consequently Dickon thinks they ought to wait and see what happens.’ ‘I see.’ Shelley sighed. ‘Is he coming over this evening?’ ‘He was, but now he’s not.’ Marsha sounded regretful, but Shelley couldn’t deny a sudden feeling of relief. Although she didn’t feel nearly as exhausted now as she had earlier, she was glad there was only to be the two of them for dinner. ‘As a matter of fact, he rang, just before you arrived,’ Marsha added. ‘I thought it might be you, but of course, it wasn’t. He had intended to join us for dinner, but something’s come up. He said to give you his regards, and that he’ll probably see us tomorrow.’ In spite of being tired, Shelley did not sleep as well as she had expected. She and Marsha had enjoyed a leisurely dinner, served by Marsha’s housekeeper, Mrs Carr, and then adjourned to the living room to continue their conversation over a nightcap. The brandy, plus the half bottle of wine she had consumed, should have assured her of a decent night’s rest, but once her head touched the pillow, Shelley’s brain sprang into action. No matter how determinedly she endeavoured to relax, the events of the day persistently disturbed her rest, and the absence of any sounds but the wind through the beech trees at the bottom of Marsha’s garden and the occasional cry of an owl, accentuated the strangeness of her surroundings. She was used to the sound of traffic, to the constant hum of a city that never sleeps. Here the stillness was almost deafening, and every creak of the old house was magnified a dozen times. She eventually got up and took a sleeping pill, just as the birds were beginning their dawn chorus. She supposed it was around four, but she was too weary to pay much attention to the time. She crawled back under the feather duvet and lost consciousness almost immediately, only to wake with a dry mouth and an aching head, when someone pulled back the flowered curtains. It was Sarah, Shelley saw through slitted lids, and she thought how appropriate it was that the girl should be the one to see her like this. Struggling up against her pillows, she was instantly aware of how haggard she must look without make-up, and with the vivid tangle of her hair loose about her shoulders. No fashion model now, she acknowledged drily, as Sarah’s sharp eyes took in her appearance. Just a rather worn-looking woman, stripped of the protection her sophistication had given her. ‘Good morning, miss.’ Sarah left the window to come back to the bed, and now Shelley noticed the tray of tea the girl had set on the table beside her. ‘Good morning,’ she responded, pulling up the strap of her nightgown, which had fallen over one shoulder, and trying to ignore the painful throbbing of her head. ‘What time is it?’ ‘Eight-thirty, miss,’ answered Sarah at once, seemingly enjoying the reversal of their positions. She lifted the tray and set it across Shelley’s legs. ‘Shall I pour this for you, or can you manage it yourself?’ ‘I think I can do it,’ murmured Shelley evenly, refusing to be drawn by the girl’s pertness. And, as Sarah tossed her head carelessly, and marched towards the door, Marsha herself put her head around it. ‘Oh, you are awake!’ she exclaimed, coming into the room as the maid departed, revealing she was still in her dressing gown. ‘I asked Mrs Carr to send you up some tea, just in case you were awake. But, as you are, perhaps you’d like breakfast as well.’ ‘Oh, no.’ Shelley put the tray of tea aside and threaded long slim fingers through her hair. She refrained from mentioning that she hadn’t been awake until Sarah chose to disturb her. If it was half-past-eight, it was late enough. ‘Honestly, Marsha, I’m not an invalid. And I’m not going to spend my holiday lying in bed. I’ll come downstairs and have some coffee and toast, if I may. Just give me fifteen minutes to take a shower and put some clothes on.’ ‘Don’t bother to dress!’ Marsha waved a dismissing hand. ‘My dear, there’s only the two of us, and I rarely put my clothes on before ten o’clock—unless I’m feeling very virtuous, which isn’t often.’ She smiled. ‘Mrs Carr sets the table in the morning room, and I usually spend an hour or so going over the papers. I get half a dozen delivered. It’s the only way to keep up to date with the news.’ ‘All right.’ Shelley was not prepared to argue. As soon as Marsha had gone, she intended to take a couple of headache capsules, and it would be rather pleasant just to take things easy for once. ‘Good.’ Marsha was pleased. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to wash your hands.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘See you downstairs in five minutes.’ After her friend had gone, Shelley slid out of bed and padded across to the window. She had left her bag on the window seat, and she perched there as she rummaged for the small carton that contained the paracetamol capsules. Swallowing two, she looked out of the window, thinking how ironic it was that even in these idyllic surroundings she was still a prey to her nerves. But it would pass, she told herself firmly. The psychiatrist had said that all she needed was a complete rest, away from the petty jealousies she had never really learned to live with, and away from Mike, whose emotional blackmail simply wasn’t going to work. After rinsing her face and cleaning her teeth in the bathroom, Shelley picked up her kimono-style wrapper from the end of the bed, and slid her arms into the sleeves. Made of jade-green satin and appliqu?d with white flowers around the wide sleeves and the hem, it was her favourite robe, not least because Marsha herself had bought it for her in Tokyo almost five years ago. A brief appraisal of her appearance necessitated that she take a brush to her hair, and she grimaced at her reflection as the thick coarse strands resisted her efforts. She had often been tempted to have her hair cut, but although she had it trimmed from time to time, it still hung well below her shoulders. Usually, she wore it in a loose coil at the nape of her neck or occasionally, as the day before, she wound it into a knot on top of her head, which made her look even taller. Abandoning the task, she pushed heelless mules on to her feet, and opened her door. Marsha had briefly explained the lay-out of the house to her the night before, and Shelley easily made her way to the head of the stairs, and descended slowly. The balustrade was smooth, after years of use and Mrs Carr’s polishing, and a warm red carpet underfoot gave colour to the panelled wall that mounted beside her. Some of Marsha’s paintings had been hung to provide their own illumination, and someone had filled a copper urn with armfuls of white and purple lilac, that scented the air with its perfume. Downstairs, she found the morning room easily. The door was standing ajar, and she could see a round table spread with a white tablecloth and smell the delicious aroma of coffee. Marsha had evidently gone to tell Mrs Carr that her guest would not be requiring breakfast in bed, and Shelley entered the room without hesitation, halting abruptly at the sight of a man, lounging at the side of the table which had been hidden from the door. He had a newspaper propped in front of him, and all Shelley could initially see was one leg, encased in cream denim, the foot resting carelessly on the leg of the chair beside him, and one arm, which revealed he was wearing a matching denim shirt. The sleeve of his shirt was rolled back almost to his elbow, exposing a lean brown arm, and his wrist was encircled by a slim gold watch which, in spite of its leather strap, looked rather exclusive. It was the sort of present Marsha would buy, Shelley suspected, guessing who it must be. But she was unwilling to face anyone else in her present state of undress, and she would have withdrawn unseen had he not chosen that moment to lower the newspaper. ‘You!’ Shelley’s instinctive embarrassment at being caught out gave way to blank astonishment at the sight of the man, who was now withdrawing his foot from its resting place and getting to his feet. It was the man from the Land-Rover—Ben Seton—and for several seconds she forgot her appearance in the numbness of disbelief. ‘Good morning, Miss Hoyt—or can I call you Shelley?’ he enquired, evidently deriving as much amusement from her reaction today as he had from her frustration the day before, and Shelley fought to regain her sense of balance. What was he doing here? she asked herself abstractedly. How had he found her? And how did he know her name, when she herself hadn’t told him. Marsha! she thought intuitively. Marsha must know he was here. And with that awareness, came another sickening realisation … As if her sudden, dawning knowledge was written in her eyes for him to read, he put the newspaper aside, and came easily across the room to stand in front of her. Without her heels, he seemed much taller than he had done the day before, and she knew an ominous feeling of presentiment when he put his hands upon her shoulders. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and she knew now why his eyes had briefly seemed so familiar. ‘I know I should have told you yesterday, but when you didn’t recognise me, I decided you deserved all you got.’ His lips tilted, and his teeth were very white against his dark skin. ‘I was going to come over last evening for dinner, but I took pity on you, after all. I guessed—after the day you had had—you might not be able to stand any more shocks.’ Shelley didn’t know which emotion she felt strongest—anger, at his deliberate deception; resentment, that he should still be treating her with the same mixture of good humour and tolerance he had displayed the day before; or panic, at the fact he had come back into her life and overthrown her resolution not to think of him again. ‘Are you angry with me?’ he asked softly, and aware that Marsha could come upon them at any time, and she was in no state to deal with that, Shelley gave a helpless shake of her head. ‘I—why—you were only about seventeen, when I saw you last,’ she stammered, looking up at him and then wishing she hadn’t. He really had the most fantastic eyes, dark grey at the moment, and fringed with thick silvery lashes, that accentuated their beauty. A person could drown in those eyes, she thought unwillingly, unable to drag her gaze away, until his tightening fingers on her shoulders brought her quickly to her senses. ‘W-where is your mother?’ ‘In the kitchen,’ said Marsha’s son flatly, allowing her to step back from his hands, and Shelley, reminded of her unwelcome state of undress, wrapped the folds of her kimono closer about her. Even so, she was intensely conscious of the revealing thinness of her garments, and of the fact that her nipples were standing taut against the material. ‘I should get dressed,’ she said distractedly, half turning towards the door, but his hand about her wrist prevented her from leaving. ‘Don’t,’ he said, his thumb moving insistently over the vulnerable inner veins, and although she knew he was probably unaware of what he was doing, her breath caught painfully in her throat. The sound of footsteps crossing the hall outside made Shelley put some distance between them. By the time Marsha appeared in the doorway, she had taken a seat at the table, and the older woman looked at them delightedly, evidently sensing nothing amiss. ‘Isn’t this a surprise, Shelley?’ she exclaimed, bustling into the room to set a third place at the table. ‘I see you two have renewed your acquaintance. I’m surprised you recognised Dickon. It must be eight or nine years since you last met.’ ‘Eight,’ said her son drily, returning to the chair he had occupied before Shelley’s intervention. ‘But Shelley hasn’t changed. I’d have recognised her anywhere.’ Shelley managed a tight smile, but the look she cast in his direction was apprehensive. ‘How gallant!’ she said, her elbows on the table protecting her body from his gaze. ‘Your son has inherited your flare for understatement, Marsha. It’s very kind, but it’s not the truth.’ Marsha laughed. ‘Oh, Dickon has always been able to charm his way out of any situation,’ she declared, not without a certain amount of motherly pride, and her son expelled an exasperated breath. ‘My name’s Benedict, Mother, not Dickon.’ His eyes moved briefly to Shelley’s averted head and then back again. ‘I doubt if your guest even knows my proper surname.’ ‘Does it matter?’ Marsha pulled a face at him. ‘Shelley doesn’t care if you call yourself Benedict Manning or Benedict Seton, and I, for one, prefer the name Dickon to Ben.’ She shrugged. ‘Benedict was your father’s choice. I wanted to call you Richard.’ ‘Well, I prefer Ben,’ he retorted, as the maid came into the room carrying a fresh pot of coffee and a rack of toast. ‘What do you think, Sarah? Do I look more like a Ben than a Dickon?’ ‘Oh, Mr Benedict, I don’t know,’ the girl simpered girlishly, her eyes darting triumphantly in Shelley’s direction, almost as if she might be envying her his attention. ‘But Mrs Carr did say to ask you if you wanted sausages as well as bacon for breakfast. ‘Cos if you do, I’ve got to run down to the village and see if Mrs Peart’s is open.’ ‘Bacon is fine,’ Ben assured her firmly, and his mother pursed her lips. ‘Honestly, that girl is impossible sometimes,’ she exclaimed, after Sarah had left the room. ‘And you encourage her, Dickon. You know perfectly well she was not supposed to add that rider about having to run down to the village! If you wanted sausages, you should have asked for them. It wouldn’t have taken her more than five minutes to ride down to the stores on her bicycle!’ ‘But I didn’t want sausages, Mother,’ Ben responded patiently. ‘I’m only having bacon because you insisted. Where is it, by the way? I don’t have all day.’ ‘Oh—I’d better go and speak to Mrs Carr,’ declared Marsha, pushing back her chair, and before Shelley could prevent her, she had left the room once again. ‘You didn’t tell my mother about me giving you a lift yesterday, did you?’ Ben asked, as soon as Marsha was out of earshot, and Shelley made an involuntary gesture. ‘How could I? I didn’t know who you were,’ she reminded him, deliberately keeping her tone light. But her stomach was churning and she suspected he was not deceived. ‘Why not tell her just now?’ he persisted, watching the delicate colour invade her throat. ‘I assume she does know you snapped a fanbelt. She was very concerned about your whereabouts when I rang last night.’ ‘I told her what happened,’ Shelley countered defensively. ‘And that I’d been given a lift into Low Burton.’ She tilted her head. ‘Why didn’t you tell her last night?’ ‘Touch?.’ Ben acknowledged her offensive with a wry smile. ‘For the same reasons you didn’t, I suppose,’ he replied softly. ‘I didn’t want to talk about it. Not then, anyway.’ Shelley felt as if she was losing her grip on the conversation, and forcing a careless smile, she said: ‘I suppose we both took the easy way out.’ Dismissing the subject, she cupped her chin in her hands: ‘Marsha tells me you’re engaged to be married. How exciting! When am I going to meet your fianc?e?’ ‘Don’t patronise me, Shelley!’ The sudden anger in his voice was unmistakable, and she pressed her hand to her throat in an effort to control the erratic racing of her heart. It was crazy to allow this situation to develop any further, and her mouth was dry as she reached for the pot of coffee. ‘Do you want some?’ she asked, hoping she would not spill it, but with a shake of his head, he got abruptly to his feet. ‘I’ll tell my mother I can’t wait any longer,’ he said, subjecting her to a devastating appraisal. He strode towards the door. ‘Oh—and Shelley——’This, with his fingers on the handle and his temple pressed against the jamb: ‘You’re nothing like my mother, so don’t act like her. And you haven’t changed. You’re still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen!’ CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_c0442f83-90d1-5550-aa0d-d0f1c50263e5) THE following evening, Shelley examined her reflection with some misgivings. Was what she was wearing suitable for a simple family dinner, she wondered. The dark blue Dior silk was very plain, but it was also very flattering, and the last thing she wanted to do was look as if she was trying too hard. The dress was cut with style and elegance, moulding the seductive fullness of her breasts and flaring over her slim hips. It had seemed the most appropriate choice in her wardrobe, but now she was not so sure. Marsha had said any old thing would do, but Shelley didn’t have ‘any old thing’. Most of her clothes were expensive, bought with her position in mind. She could hardly appear in a shirt and jeans when she was going to meet Ben’s fianc?e. Turning away from the mirror, Shelley cast an abstracted look about the bedroom. Where had she put her shoes? And thank goodness she had done her make-up earlier. Right now, she knew her hands were shaking, and any attempt to apply the dusky amber eyeshadow and burnt coral lip-gloss would have surely ended in disaster. Her hair, too, had benefited from the wax conditioning she had given it before her shower. Now, knotted securely on top of her head, it gave her height and confidence, even its colour muted by the severe style. She looked her age, she thought reassuringly, glancing at her reflection once again. She was completely unaware that by twisting back her hair, she had exposed the porcelain-like purity of her profile. The sound of a car outside brought her swiftly to the window, but she concealed herself behind the curtain when a dark red Porsche drew round in a circle and came to a halt on the forecourt. Feeling horribly like one of those women who live their lives through observing others, Shelley would have turned away then, if Marsha’s son had not immediately emerged from the vehicle. In beige corded pants and a matching jacket, he looked every bit as disturbing as she remembered, the breeze lifting the thick swathe of sun-bleached hair and depositing several strands across his forehead. Oh, dear! she thought unsteadily, feeling the bones of her shoulders digging into the wall behind her. This was madness! But she could not tear her eyes away as he walked round the car and opened the door for the girl at the other side. Jennifer Chater was wearing a strappy sun-dress, which exposed the warm-brown skin of her arms and throat. Her hair was dark, a curly halo around her head, and although she was not tall, she was nicely proportioned, with vivacious features, narrow hips, and small high breasts. But most of all, she looked young, and Shelley breathed a sigh of relief. Nothing could point the differences between them more than to compare the wrap-around d?colletage and narrow sleeves of her sophisticated—no, mature—gown with Jennifer’s candy-striped cotton. Shelley looked elegant, but Jennifer looked fresh and youthful, the veneer of girlish innocence not yet tarnished by experience. And she was evidently in love with Ben, unable to prevent herself from clinging to his arm as they circled the car and came into the house. Lucky girl, thought Shelley tautly, as she moved back into the room. But not before noticing that Ben lifted his eyes to her windows, as he passed beneath, and her ragged nerves reacted anew to the possibility that he might have seen her. She had to go down. She knew it. But that didn’t make it any easier. Marsha had said they would eat at seven-thirty, and that Ben and Jennifer would arrive a little earlier, so they could all have a drink beforehand. It was almost twenty-five past seven now. She couldn’t delay any longer. They would think she had planned to make an entrance. A final check that her tights were smooth, and that the hem of her dress was not too short for a woman of almost thirty-one, Shelley left her room and went down the stairs. Her perfume, a delicate fragrance by Yves Saint Laurent, encircled her in its aura, and she drew a little comfort from the fact that she looked, and smelt, like a successful female executive. It was ridiculous to allow a young man of Ben Seton’s age to upset her, she thought impatiently. Obviously, her precarious mental state had produced other complications. Tonight, she would prove she was definitely on the mend. She heard the sound of voices coming from the library, and steeling herself for that initial entry, she walked across the hall with her head held high. The door was open, making it easier for her to step inside unnoticed, she thought, but Marsha would not let it happen. ‘Shelley!’ she exclaimed, immediately drawing the attention of the other three occupants of the room, and now Shelley saw there was another man present. Tall and dark and distinguished, with flecks of grey marking the line of his temples, the newcomer was regarding her with evident approval, and Marsha was not unaware of this as she moved to greet her friend. ‘Don’t you look lovely!’ she exclaimed generously, dismissing Shelley’s admiration of her own silk blouse and velvet skirt without enthusiasm. ‘Come along. Jennifer and Charles are dying to meet you. I told you Charles was joining us, didn’t I? Charles Brandeth, our local G.P.?’ ‘You know you didn’t, Marsha,’ responded Shelley, in a low voice, and Marsha’s eyes danced. ‘Oh, well—come and meet him now,’ she invited incorrigibly. ‘He’s a widower, actually. His wife died several years ago. He has no family, and he’s awfully nice.’ ‘Marsha!’ murmured Shelley warningly, but she had no choice than to go and be introduced, first to Ben’s fianc?e, and then to the village doctor. Conscious that Ben’s eyes had been on her from the moment she came into the room, Shelley was careful to look only at Jennifer as they were introduced. She was a pretty little thing, Shelley conceded, aware that her opinion would not bear closer scrutiny, and she would probably make Ben an ideal wife. Being a veterinary’s daughter, she already knew the odd hours he would have to work, and no doubt she was prepared for the demands his job would make on their lives. ‘I believe you and Ben’s mother are old friends,’ she said now, after they had shaken hands, and Shelley immediately felt her age. ‘How long are you staying? Don’t you find Craygill rather boring after the exciting life you must have in London?’ ‘Oh, Jennifer, don’t say that!’ exclaimed Marsha, making light of the girl’s rather tactless comments. ‘I’m hoping Shelley will stay all summer. If you start reminding her of what she’s missing in London, I shan’t stand a chance!’ ‘I’m sure Miss Hoyt is appreciating the benefit of our rustic charms, Marsha,’ Charles Brandeth intervened smoothly. ‘How are you this evening, Miss Hoyt? I’ve been looking forward to making your acquaintance.’ ‘Thank you.’ Shelley managed a small smile, and as Jennifer turned away to speak to Marsha, Ben took her place. His hand beneath her elbow sent tremors of apprehension up her arm, and his voice was disruptively intimate as he said: ‘Come and get a drink. I want to talk to you.’ ‘I—can’t.’ Shelley’s breath caught in her throat as she looked at him. The message in his eyes was quite unmistakable, and although for the past two days she had been trying to convince herself that the compliment he had paid her when he was leaving the other morning had been objective, she could no longer delude herself that this was so. ‘Ben—please——’ ‘Are you getting Shelley a drink, Dickon?’ enquired his mother behind them, and Jennifer started to laugh at something Charles had said. With a feeling of relief, Shelley moved so that Ben was forced to release her, and the situation resumed perspective as she restored a sense of balance. ‘You’ll never believe it, darling,’ exclaimed Jennifer, unaware that she did not have her fianc?’s undivided attention, ‘but Charles has just been telling me that Mrs Simmons called him out to look at Arthur! Arthur is Mrs Simmons’ cat,’ she added, for their guest’s benefit. ‘Isn’t it priceless! She behaves as if that cat was human!’ ‘She’s a lonely old woman,’ responded Ben tersely, responding to his mother’s frantic gestures, and crossing the room to where a tray of drinks was waiting. ‘What will you have, Shelley? I think we’ve got most things here.’ ‘A—glass of white wine would be lovely,’ replied Shelley nervously, linking her hands together. Then, finding his fianc?e’s eyes upon her, she added quickly: ‘What do you do—er—Jennifer? Do you work with Ben and your father?’ ‘No.’ Jennifer shook her head. ‘I work in a solicitor’s office actually. But I expect I’ll give that up after we’re married. Ben will need someone to answer his calls and take messages. Both Daddy and Uncle Bill are near to retirement, and when they do, Ben will be the senior partner in the practice.’ ‘I see.’ Shelley was nodding as Ben joined them with her drink, his fingers brushing hers as he handed her the glass. His hands were cool and hard, but they burned Shelley’s flesh, and she wondered if he was as aware as she was of the electricity flowing between them. ‘I was just telling Shelley that when Daddy and Uncle Bill retire, you’ll be taking on a junior partner,’ said Jennifer, taking hold of his arm, as if she couldn’t bear not to be in contact with him. ‘We’re getting married in October. You must come to the wedding.’ ‘Oh—I—that’s very nice of you, but——’ ‘It’s not a definite date,’ said Ben flatly, as Shelley struggled to find words to excuse herself. ‘It really depends on Jennifer’s father. You do want him to be at the wedding, don’t you?’ he added, as the girl clinging to his arm started to protest. ‘Well, of course I do, but——’ ‘Dickon, don’t be so aggressive!’ Marsha came to soothe Jennifer’s ruffled feelings. ‘Honestly, these two!’ she exclaimed, to no one in particular. ‘They can’t even agree on a date for their own wedding!’ ‘Personally, I have a great respect for elopements,’ put in Charles Brandeth provokingly. ‘No guests; no fuss; no——’ ‘—thanks!’ declared Marsha, putting an end to his pronouncement. ‘You wouldn’t want to cheat me out of my part in my only son’s nuptials, would you? I want to see Dickon in a morning suit, Charles, walking down the aisle of the church in Low Burton. And Jennifer, of course. My dear, you’ll look delightful in white with your dark hair.’ ‘Mummy’s already seen a dress she thinks would suit me,’ put in Jennifer eagerly. ‘It’s in Harrogate. Maybe you’d like to come with us one day to see it, Mrs Seton. I know Mummy would appreciate your opinion.’ Shelley sipped her wine as the conversation ebbed and flowed around her. She took little part in it, and she was glad to withdraw inside herself and assimilate her position. Even so, she couldn’t help but notice that Ben spoke seldom also, and she was half afraid someone else would notice the intentness of his eyes when they rested upon her. She was imagining things, she told herself. She had to be. But the fact remained that he disturbed her in a way she found quite intolerable. Sarah’s appearance, to announce that dinner was served, interrupted her troubled speculations, and Ben’s mother was not slow to notice that the maid’s eyes lingered longest on her son. ‘Shall we go in?’ she suggested, touching Shelley’s sleeve and drawing her with her. ‘Really, that girl!’ she added, in an undertone. ‘It doesn’t seem to occur to her that I might object!’ ‘Object?’ Shelley moistened her lips. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Sarah,’ hissed Marsha impatiently. ‘Haven’t you noticed the covetous glances she keeps directing at Dickon? I keep telling myself she’s only seventeen and doesn’t know any better, but she’s beginning to annoy me.’ ‘Oh.’ Shelley felt a chill run down her spine. ‘I see.’ ‘I blame Dickon partly,’ Marsha added, as they entered the dining room. ‘I mean—he teases the girl and she takes him seriously. But he is engaged now, and Sarah should realise he’s not interested in her!’ ‘Yes.’ Shelley absorbed what the other woman was saying with a distinctly hollow feeling. She wondered if Marsha would be confiding in her if she suspected Shelley’s own involvement. Unwilling, perhaps, but none the less fundamental because of that. Struggling with her conscience, Shelley tried to pay attention to her surroundings. The dining table looked lovely. Mrs Carr had arranged the place settings on Venetian lace mats, and the china and cutlery was reflected in the table’s polished surface. Scarlet napkins tucked into crystal goblets marked every place, and a centrepiece of roses and carnations seemed to oscillate in the glow of two tall candles. ‘It’s really not dark enough to need the candles, but I thought they looked pretty,’ remarked Marsha, directing everyone to their seats. ‘Shelley—you sit here beside me, with Charles next to you, and Jennifer, you sit opposite Shelley.’ She smiled up at her son. ‘I’m sure you can find your own place, darling.’ With Marsha occupying the principal position at the head of the table, Shelley found herself almost opposite Ben as he took his place beside his fianc?e. Marsha had arranged it so that as Charles had no one else beside him, he was obliged to talk to Shelley, and throughout the start of the meal, she seemed to spend her time answering his questions. ‘It must be very interesting, working in the media,’ he eventually commented predictably, and Shelley, who was used to this kind of query, gave a practised smile. ‘I like it,’ she said, though without the enthusiasm she had once possessed. ‘Any kind of communication is important in a society that seems to spend its time withdrawing from human contact.’ ‘Is that what we do?’ Charles arched his rather heavily marked brows. ‘What makes you think so?’ ‘Oh——’ Shelley was loath to get involved in dogma. ‘Isn’t it obvious? Every aim of Western civilisation seems designed to discommunicate man from his neighbour. The age of the computer signalled the start of increasing isolation.’ ‘Do go on.’ Charles was intrigued, but Shelley was reluctant. A gap had occurred in the conversation Marsha had been having with Jennifer, and now everyone’s attention was focused on her. ‘I’m sure you don’t want to hear my views,’ she averred, in some embarrassment, endeavouring to swallow a piece of asparagus that seemed to have lodged in her throat. She took a mouthful of her wine, wishing she had made some non-committal comment, and then was immeasurably grateful when Ben intervened. ‘I think what Shelley means is that computers are set to make a drastic change in our lifestyle,’ he remarked. ‘Right now, we are barely scraping the surface of what they can do for us. I was reading the other day, that by the turn of the century computers will handle a household budget, re-ordering any commodity as its needed from another computer at a store. They’re even talking of computers that can diagnose simple illnesses, to save doctors making house calls. You’d better watch out, Charles. You could be out of a job.’ ‘Not me.’ Charles grimaced. ‘By that time, I’ll have retired, thank God!’ He shook his head. ‘It’s a frightening thought though, isn’t it? No need to go shopping; no need to visit your doctor. I guess it all began when the cinemas started to close.’ ‘For which we can thank television,’ said Ben drily, and Shelley, who had disposed of the asparagus at last and was beginning to relax again, caught her breath. ‘You can’t avoid the fact that television has a lot to answer for,’ he added, holding her gaze with lazy irony. ‘Wasn’t it the medium that started this lack of communication? I seem to remember it being accused of killing the art of conversation.’ ‘Well, yes. But people are better informed because of it,’ exclaimed Shelley defensively. ‘Do you have any idea how many prospective voters are reached at election time, by the simple formula of networking a politician’s views?’ ‘And do you think that’s a good thing?’ enquired Ben sardonically. ‘Do you think it’s fair to expose the ordinary man in the street to a stream of fanatics spouting their own particular brand of insanity?’ ‘People are free to choose,’ protested Shelley. ‘They can always turn the set off. They don’t have to listen.’ ‘But they do.’ Ben arched one eyebrow. ‘Aren’t you forgetting? Not everyone is mentally capable of deciding what to believe and what not?’ ‘That’s a very supercilious statement——’ ‘It’s realistic——’ ‘It’s intellectual snobbery!’ ‘So you’d let anyone hear—or see—anything?’ Shelley flushed. ‘I’m not saying that.’ ‘What are you saying then?’ ‘I’ve heard that some entertainers refuse to appear on the box because it kills their material,’ put in Charles soothingly. ‘What kind of programming are you involved in, Shelley? Does light entertainment come into your sphere?’ ‘Oh, really!’ Jennifer raised her eyes heavenward. ‘I’m sure Shelley didn’t come here to spend her time defending what she does, Ben. She probably finds talking about her work just as boring as I do! This is a dinner party—not a political debate!’ There was a pregnant silence after this pronouncement, and Shelley wished the floor would open up and swallow her. She had not wanted to talk about her work; she never did. But it was difficult to avoid the inevitable interest it inspired. ‘I’m sorry——’ she was beginning awkwardly, when once again Ben came to her rescue. ‘It was my fault,’ he said, giving her a rueful smile. ‘I’m afraid you’re probably right. I am supercilious.’ He glanced at Marsha. ‘That’s what comes of being my mother’s son.’ ‘Don’t involve me in this,’ exclaimed Marsha, glad to use his words to ease the situation, and Sarah’s appearance to clear the plates, provided a welcome diversion. The conversation moved to the wine, and Marsha’s preference for French vintages. ‘Well, I may not be a purist like you,’ said Charles, ‘but I prefer the German wines myself. Did I tell you I’ve been invited to join a wine-tasting tour of the Rhine valley in October?’ ‘No, you didn’t.’ Marsha was fascinated, and Shelley was relieved to be able to apply herself to the slice of lamb on her plate. She would have liked to take no further part in the conversation, but Jennifer decided otherwise. Apparently sensing her fianc?’s hostility towards her, she leant across the table and said confidingly: ‘I hope I didn’t offend you just now. But you did come up here to get away from your work, didn’t you? Mrs Seton says you need a complete rest, that you haven’t to do anything at all for at least three months!’ Shelley laid down her knife and fork. Put like that, it sounded as if she was on the verge of enforced retirement. She supposed Jennifer meant well, but she couldn’t help the unwilling suspicion that the girl was using every opportunity to point out the differences between them—not least, the fact that she was young and energetic, while Shelley was old and wearing out fast. ‘Not quite that,’ Shelley said now, cradling her glass between her fingers. ‘I just have to take things easy for a while. I’ve been—overworking.’ ‘She’s not an invalid!’ said Ben shortly, regarding his fianc?e with impatient eyes. ‘Mental stress involves the brain, not the body!’ Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/anne-mather/stolen-summer/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.