she didn’t want to change. She’d made a new life for herself—made it in tears and torment, but she was safe inside it. Safe inside the life Vasilis had given her. That was what she wanted to cling to.
Anatole is my past. I can’t—I won’t—have him as my future!
She dared not. Too much—oh, far too much—was at stake for her to allow that. More than she could bear to pay again.
Her resolve was put to the test yet again the following Friday—the day the Barcourts had invited her and Nicky over. Her hope that Anatole had forgotten proved to be in vain. He arrived in time to drive them over. And at the rambling Elizabethan mansion the Barcourts’ welcome to Anatole could not have been friendlier.
‘I’m glad you could come this evening, Mr Kyrgiakis. We were all so sorry to hear about your uncle—he was well liked, and very well respected.’ Mrs Barcourt smiled kindly at Anatole as she greeted him, then led the way into the oak-panelled drawing room.
Nicky was scooped up by the nursery party, who were rushing off to see the puppies with the nanny, and Giles’s sister Isabel, as cheerful as her brother, launched into a panegyric about the beneficial effects a puppy had on childhood, adding that Nicky should also learn to ride—as soon as he could. Giles agreed enthusiastically, volunteering their old pony, Bramble, for the job.
‘Don’t you agree?’ Isabel said to Anatole.
‘I’m sure my young cousin would love it,’ he answered. ‘But it is Christine’s decision.’
He glanced at her and she smiled awkwardly. What the Barcourts were making of Anatole, she had no idea—knew only that they were asking no questions about him and seeming to take his presence for granted.
But her relief lasted only until after dinner, when their hostess announced they would leave the menfolk to their port and drew Christine and Isabel off to the drawing room. There, a bottle of very good madeira was produced, and Isabel went off to see her children.
Mrs Barcourt, Christine realised with dismay, was about to start her interrogation.
‘My dear, what a good-looking young man! Such a shame we’ve seen nothing of him until now!’ she exclaimed. She bent to absent-mindedly stroke the ancient, long-haired cat lounging on the hearth rug. ‘I take it we’ll be seeing a lot more of him now?’
Her smile was nothing but friendly. The question was clearly leading...
Christine clutched her glass. ‘He would like to get to know Nicky,’ she managed to get out.
Her hostess nodded sympathetically. ‘Very understandable,’ she said. ‘And very good for Nicky too.’ She paused. ‘It’s early days, I know, but you will need to think of the future, Christine—as I’m sure you realise.’
She stroked the cat again, then looked at her guest, her expression open.
‘A stepfather would be excellent for Nicky—but you must choose wisely.’ She made a face and spoke frankly, as Christine had known she would. ‘Not Giles,’ she said, with a little shake of her head. ‘Fond though he is of Nicky, you wouldn’t suit each other, you know.’
Christine’s expression changed. ‘No, no... I know that.’
Her hostess nodded. ‘I know you do, my dear, and I’m glad of it.’ She sat back, picking up her glass. ‘You and Anatole seem to get on very well...’ She trailed off.
Christine had no idea what to say, but Mrs Barcourt did.
‘Well, I shall say no more except that I can see no reason not to look forward to getting to know him better. You must both come over again before long. Ah, Isabel—there you are!’ she exclaimed as her daughter breezed in. ‘How is little Nicky?’
‘Begging for a sleepover, and my brood are egging him on! What do you say, Christine?’
Christine, abjectly grateful for the change of subject, could only nod. ‘If you’re sure it’s no trouble?’
‘Not in the least,’ Isabel answered cheerfully. ‘And tomorrow morning he can try out Bramble, if you’re all right with that. Loads of kiddie riding kit here!’
Christine nodded weakly. But belatedly she realised that if Nicky slept here tonight she would be without his protective presence herself.
It was something she felt more strongly at the end of the evening, when she sat beside Anatole in his car, heading home.
He glanced at her. She’d looked enchanting all evening, wearing a soft dark blue velvet dress, calf-length in a ballerina style, with a double strand of very good pearls—presumably a gift from his uncle—and pearl ear studs. Her hair was in a low chignon, with pearl clips. Simple, elegant—and breathtakingly lovely.
Young Giles Barcourt had thought so too, Anatole thought, with an atavistic male instinct. Was that why he’d felt the need to make a point of emphasising his family link with Christine? Staking his claim to her?
Re-staking it.
She is mine. She’s always been mine!
Certainty streamed through him. Possessiveness.
Remorse and regret.
Why did I let her go—why did I not rush to her and claim her from Vasilis before he married her? Instead I gave in to anger and to my determination not to be forced into marriage and fatherhood.
Well, he hadn’t been ready then—but he was ready now. More than ready. All he needed was to persuade Christine that he was right. And if words could not do so, then other means might.
He made some anodyne remark to her now—about the evening, about the pair of Gainsboroughs hanging in the dining room that Vasilis had itched to see cleaned—and said that he agreed with their hosts that perhaps they were best left covered in thick varnish. He had the gratification of hearing Christine chuckle, and then she asked if he’d spotted the very handsome Stubbs in pride of place over the fireplace.
‘Indeed,’ he replied. ‘Do you think Bramble is one of the descendants?’ It was a humorous remark, and intended to be so.
‘I hope not!’ Christine returned. ‘That Stubbs stallion looks very fearsome!’
‘Do you mind Nicky learning to ride?’ Anatole asked as he steered the car along the dark country lanes back to the house.
She shook her head. ‘I’m very grateful to Giles and Isabel,’ she acknowledged. ‘I want Nicky to grow up here, so riding will certainly make him feel at home. And he’s very attached to Giles—’
The moment she spoke, she wished she hadn’t. Even in the dim interior she could see Anatole’s face tighten. She recalled Mrs Barcourt’s words to her—not about her son, who was perfectly well understood between them, but about Anatole. Dear God, surely she and Anatole weren’t coming across as a couple, were they? Please, please not! The very last thing she could bear was any speculation in that direction.
It was bad enough coping with the pressure from Anatole, let alone any expectations from the Barcourts. Consternation filled her about how she was going to handle Anatole’s comings and goings—even if they were
