and finding her there with him, in case he decided, after all, to—take advantage of the situation.
With the utmost caution she pushed his leg away, then slid, inch by wary inch, from beneath his arm, putting down a hand to balance herself before lowering herself slowly to the floor.
She sat motionless for a moment, listening intently, but he did not stir and there was no change in his even breathing.
In spite of the pounding in her head, she managed to get to her feet. Then, sandals in hand, she tiptoed to the door and let herself out into the dark house. She knew every step of the way, every creaking floorboard to avoid as she fled to her bedroom. Once safely inside, out of breath and feeling slightly sick, she turned the key in the lock, and for good measure pushed a small wooden chair under the handle.
Then she stripped, letting her clothes lie where they fell, and crept into bed, pulling the covers over her head.
All that damned brandy. She groaned, fighting her nausea and praying for the bed to keep still. I must have been insane. Why, anything could have happened while I was unconscious.
Only to her own bewilderment it was apparent that nothing had. Instead, Marc had let her sleep, peacefully and comfortably.
So he can’t have wanted me that much, after all, she thought, turning over and burying her face in the pillow. It’s the house—just the house. And found herself wondering why that particular realisation should sting so much?
She certainly didn’t need to be desired by a serial womaniser, she reminded herself forcefully.
She had to think, clearly and rationally, she told herself. Find a watertight reason for turning him down and dismissing him from her life, whatever the consequences for Monteagle’s future.
But her mind was still teeming with images and sensations, and it was difficult to focus somehow. To stop wondering what form his promised wooing of her might have taken. And to forget, as she must, the way he’d looked at her, the things he’d said, and—his touch. That, dear God, above all else.
Once he’d gone she’d be able to put him out of her mind, and devote herself to the on-going struggle to make Monteagle financially viable. She wouldn’t have time to think about anything else—especially ludicrous might-have-beens.
She stayed awake, her brain going in weary circles, until sunlight penetrated the curtains, then dressed and went downstairs to go for a walk round the lake. Every movement was a penance, but the fresh air might help to clear her head, she told herself optimistically.
The door of the sitting room remained closed, and to her relief she had the kitchen to herself too, as she made some strong black coffee and drank it, wincing.
She stood by the water, looking across at the grey mass of Monteagle’s half-ruined keep, wondering how much longer she could keep it standing without a substantial cash windfall.
Football pools, she thought. The Lottery. Quiz shows paying out thousands. What hadn’t she considered in her efforts, however forlorn the hope? And now no other avenues suggested themselves.
However, she looked at it, Helen thought wretchedly, she was between a rock and a hard place.
Time was running out, and she still couldn’t figure how to frame her refusal to Marc Delaroche.
With most men a simple ‘I don’t love you’ would be enough. But he didn’t want her love anyway. He wants Monteagle, she thought, her throat tightening, and maybe a son to inherit it. And a wife who’ll pretend not to notice when he becomes bored and starts to stray. Or when he stops coming back altogether.
And, if I’m truly honest with myself, that’s what really scares me—that I’ll begin to love him because I can’t help myself. That last night I felt safe and secure, for the first time in months, with his arms round me. And that in the end I’ll be left alone and lonely, because that’s what he does.
And I know now I couldn’t bear that. It would kill me.
And that’s something I can never let him guess—which is why I have to say no, once and finally.
She walked slowly back to the house. She would bathe, she thought as she went upstairs, and change. Put on a brave face.
She gave herself a little heartening nod, then flung open the bathroom door and marched in.
‘Bonjour,’ Marc said softly from the depths of the tub. He picked up the sponge and squeezed water over his head, letting it run in rivulets down his face and chest. ‘Have you come to say that you will marry me? If so, you could begin your wifely duties by washing my back.’
‘Oh, God,’ Helen said, appalled, and backed out into the passage, slamming the door behind her to shut off the sound of his laughter.
Daisy was at the sink in the kitchen, dealing with the cups and glasses from the previous night, when Helen arrived, flushed and breathless from her headlong dash downstairs.
‘Why,’ she demanded, ‘is Marc Delaroche still here? And what is he doing in my bathroom?’
‘My guess would be—having a bath.’ Daisy gave her a disapproving look. ‘I dare say he could do with a bit of pampering—after last night.’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
Daisy turned, hands on her hips, her gaze deepening into real severity. ‘The very idea, Miss Helen—making the poor young man sleep on that wretched sofa when there was a perfectly good bedroom all ready for him upstairs. And Sir Henry always was such a hospitable man too. He must be turning in his grave.’
Helen took a deep breath. ‘It’s not a question of hospitality—’ she began, but Daisy was firm.
‘He told me when I saw him this morning that you were expecting him, Miss Helen. Isn’t that so?’
Helen abandoned the struggle. ‘Yes,’ she acknowledged wearily. ‘I suppose it is. I—I just wasn’t sure when it would be.’
‘Ah, well,’ Daisy said comfortably. ‘That’s all right, then.’ She hesitated, giving Helen a shrewd glance. ‘I get the idea we’ll be seeing more of Mr Marc in future.’
Helen murmured something non-committal.
I saw more than I needed just now in the bathroom, she thought, filling the kettle and placing it on the stove.
She was just making coffee when the bell at the front entrance jangled with two imperative bursts.
‘Now, who on earth’s calling at this time on a Sunday?’ Daisy wiped her hands and moved towards the door. ‘Have you invited anyone else, Miss Helen?’
‘Not that I know of.’ Helen attempted lightness. ‘But maybe we’d better make up another room, just to be on the safe side.’
Of course it could be Lottie, curious to know how the previous evening had gone, so she turned, beaker in hand, prepared to be welcoming when Daisy returned. But the housekeeper was alone, her face set and stony. ‘It’s that Mr Newson,’ she said shortly. ‘He insists on having a word with you, so I’ve put him in the library.’
‘Oh.’
