Jack’s family had a huge amount of wealth behind them and owned a number of houses around the country, including the Cambridge town house overlooking Jesus Green and the River Cam that Jack and his sister, Clare, had grown up in. She’d never been to this property before though. They’d not been together long enough for her to see inside the entire portfolio of his life.
‘What a—er—lovely place,’ she said, cringing at the insincerity in her voice.
‘Thank you,’ he replied coolly, ignoring her accidental rudeness and walking straight through to the sitting room.
She followed him in, noticing that the décor was just as unpleasantly depressing in here.
‘Was this place your grandfather’s?’
‘Yes,’ he said. There was tension in his face, and a flash of sorrow. ‘He left me this house and Clare the one in Edinburgh.’
Emma recalled how Jack had loved spending time with his grandfather, a shrewd businessman and a greatly respected peer of the realm. He’d always had an easy smile and kind word for her—unlike Jack’s parents—and she’d got on well with him the few times she’d met him. Jack had notably inherited the man’s good looks, as well as his business acumen.
‘I was sorry to read about him passing, Jack,’ she said, wanting to try and soothe the glimmer of pain she saw there, but knowing there wasn’t any way to do that without overstepping the mark. He’d been very careful up until this point not to touch her and, judging by his tense body language, would probably reject any attempt she made to reach out to him.
She needed to keep her head here. This wasn’t going to be an easy ride for either of them, so rising above the emotion of it was probably the best thing they could do. In fact they really ought to treat this whole mess like a business transaction, nothing more, if they were going to get through it with their hearts intact.
The mere thought of what they had ahead of them made her spirits plummet and she dropped into the nearest heavily brocaded sofa, sinking back against the comforting softness of the cushions and pulling her legs up under her.
‘Have you seen Clare recently?’ she asked, for want of a topic to move them on from the tense atmosphere that now stretched between them.
‘Not since Grandfather’s funeral,’ he replied, his brow drawn into a frown. ‘She’s doing well though—settled in Edinburgh and happy.’ He looked at her directly now, locking his gaze with hers. ‘She misses you, you know.’
Sadness sank through her, right down to her toes. ‘I miss her too. It’s been a long time since we talked. I’ve been busy—’
She stopped herself from saying any more, embarrassed by how pathetic that weak justification sounded.
In truth, she’d deliberately let her friendship with Clare slip away from her.
A couple of months after Emma’s father had passed away, Clare had gone off to university in Edinburgh and Emma had stayed at home, giving up her own place in an Art course there, which had made it easier to disassociate herself from her friend. Not that Clare hadn’t put up a fight about being routinely ignored and pushed away, sounding more and more hurt and bewildered every time Emma made a lame excuse about why she couldn’t go up to Scotland and visit her.
There had been a good reason for letting their friendship lapse as she had though. Clare hadn’t known about her and Jack’s whirlwind relationship. Emma hadn’t known quite how to tell her friend about it at the time—in her youthful innocence she hadn’t even known how to feel about it all herself—and she’d been sure Clare wouldn’t have responded well to hearing how she’d snuck around with her brother behind her back, then how much she’d hurt Jack by walking away from their marriage.
Emma couldn’t have borne being around her friend, whose smile struck such an unnerving resemblance to Jack’s own it had caused Emma physical pain to see it, and not being able to talk about him to her. It would have been lying by omission. So instead she’d cut her friend out of her life.
The thought of it now made her hot with shame.
‘How’s your mother?’ Jack asked stiffly, breaking into her thoughts.
She realised she was worrying at her nail, a habit she’d picked up after her father had died, and forced herself to lay her hands back in her lap.
‘She’s fine, thanks,’ she said, deciding not to go into how fragile her mother had become after losing her wealth, good standing and her husband in one fell swoop. She liked to pretend none of it had happened now and had banned Emma from talking about it. ‘She’s living in France with her new husband, except for this week—she’s staying with me while Philippe’s away and the house is being damp proofed and redecorated.’
Jack let out a sudden huff of agitation, apparently frustrated with their diversion into small talk. ‘Do you want a drink?’ Jack asked brusquely.
Clearly he did.
‘Er, yes. Thanks. I’ll have a whisky if you have it, neat.’ A strong shot of alcohol would be most welcome right now. It was supposed to be good for shock, wasn’t it?
Jack got up and moved restlessly around the room, gathering glasses and splashing large measures of whisky into them.
The low-level tension in the pit of her stomach intensified. She’d thought she’d be able to cope with being around him here, but his cool distantness towards her was making her nerves twang.
‘So how’s the electronics business in the good old US of A?’ she asked, wiggling her eyebrows at him in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere.
‘Profitable,’ was all he said, striding over to her and handing her a heavy cut-glass tumbler with a good two fingers of whisky in it.
‘Are you trying to get me drunk?’ she asked, shooting him a wry smile.
He didn’t smile back, just turned away and paced towards the window to stare out at the dark evening.
Her heart sank. Where had the impassioned, playful Jack she’d once known gone? He’d been replaced with this tightly controlled automaton of a man. There was no longer any sign of the wit and charm she’d loved him so much for.
Knocking back a good gulp of whisky, she turned in her seat to face him, determined not to let her discouragement get to her. ‘So you decided to come back and take on your social responsibilities as an earl, then?’ She rolled the glass between her hands, feeling the pattern of the cut glass press into her palms.
He turned his head to look at her, his gaze unnervingly piercing in the gloomy room.
‘Yes, well, after being responsible for running my own company for the last five years it’s made me realise how important it is to uphold a legacy,’ he said, folding his arms and leaning back against the window sill. ‘How much blood, sweat and tears goes into building a heritage. My ancestors put a lot of hard work into maintaining the estate they’d inherited and it’d be arrogant and short-sighted of me to turn my back on everything they strove so hard to preserve.’
She was surprised to hear him saying this. She’d expected him to be reluctant to return to take on his aristocratic responsibilities after working so hard to achieve such a powerful position
