turning abruptly towards the bedroom door to make her escape.
His mocking laugh followed her as she closed the door carefully behind her, and she bit her lip angrily as she walked down the corridor to get to her own room. The encounter had totally disconcerted her. No man had ever spoken to her or looked at her like that before, and she was aware that her pulses had quickened and that her mouth felt oddly dry.
She felt almost vindictively glad to picture his embarrassment when they met again later at her father’s dinner table. It would teach him to jump to conclusions, she told herself. But at the same time she was uncomfortably aware that the arrogant set of those muscular brown shoulders and the assurance of his heavy-lidded eyes had not suggested a man who would embarrass easily, or respond in any of the conventional ways. Lacey had to admit that she would have been happier if he had remained a totally unknown quantity to her—if, in fact, they had never met at all, and the prospect of the dinner party ahead, not to mention the entire weekend that faced her, filled her with a strange sense of dread.
When Lacey emerged from her bath that evening, she was surprised to find her stepmother’s maid waiting for her in her room.
‘Madame’s asked me to put your hair up for you, Miss Lacey,’ Barbara announced, setting a china bowl full of hairpins down on the dressing table.
‘Oh.’ Lacey digested this, a slight frown wrinkling her forehead. She usually wore her hair very simply, either hanging loose on her shoulders or in two bunches, as she had planned to wear it that night, the fastenings masked by small bunches of artificial daisies. The style was intended to complement the simplicity of the deep blue Empire line dress laid across the bed, and she wondered doubtfully whether a more sophisticated style would suit either her or the dress.
But Barbara was certainly skilful, she decided, as she watched the girl’s fingers transform her swathe of hair into a smooth coronet on top of her head, softening the severity of the style with two softly curling strands allowed to rest against her ears. It was the first time she had ever been offered Barbara’s services, which were usually Michelle’s exclusive prerogative and jealously guarded as such, and she wondered curiously why an exception had been made on this particular evening. Nor did Barbara’s ministrations stop at her hair. She gave Lacey a light but effective make-up as well, moisturising her skin and shadowing her eyelids, as well as applying lip gloss to the soft curve of her mouth.
When she had finished, Lacey gazed at herself in astonishment. She hardly recognised herself in this cool, aloof young woman with the mysterious eyes and shining crown of fair hair.
‘There, Miss Lacey.’ Barbara’s tone was plainly self-congratulatory. ‘Now if you’ll just get into your undies, I’ll fetch your dress.’ She handed Lacey a pair of briefs and some filmy tights.
‘Er—thank you, Barbara.’ Lacey flushed a little awkwardly, telling herself that she was perfectly able to dress herself unaided. ‘Where’s the rest of it?’
Barbara stared at her. ‘That’s all, miss. You couldn’t wear anything else with this dress.’
‘But that’s ridiculous. I always have in the past,’ Lacey swung round vexedly on the dressing stool and gasped as she saw the mass of clinging black fabric Barbara was holding carefully over her arm. ‘What’s that?’
‘Your dress, miss.’ Barbara sounded surprised. ‘Didn’t you think it would arrive in time?’
Lacey’s lips parted helplessly as she recognised that Barbara was holding out the daring gown with the minimal bodice that she had seen modelled at Jean Louis.
‘There’s been some mistake,’ she said eventually. ‘That dress is for Madame. I—I couldn’t wear anything like that.’
‘It’s definitely your dress, Miss Lacey. Madame said so when I unpacked the box, and besides, this isn’t her fitting. It must be a little surprise for you,’ she added encouragingly.
Lacey’s lips tightened. ‘Well, I still don’t intend to wear it,’ she declared. ‘Please take it away and bring me my blue dress instead.’
‘But, Miss Lacey,’ Barbara’s voice was anxious, ‘Madame said you had to wear it tonight. I don’t know what she’ll say if …’
‘That isn’t your problem, Barbara,’ Lacey said gently. ‘I’ll see my stepmother before I go down and explain. I’m sure there’s been a mistake of some kind.’
‘Mistake? What mistake?’ Michelle’s cool voice spoke from the doorway. She came gliding across the carpet, elegant in a silver gown, a cigarette held tensely in her fingers, and carrying a glass filled with some pale liquid in her other hand.
‘Miss Lacey doesn’t want to wear the Jean Louis model, madame.’ Barbara sounded subdued, as if she felt she would be blamed for Lacey’s rebellion.
Michelle’s eyebrows rose. ‘Eh bien? You may go, Barbara. I will deal with this.’
When the door had closed behind the girl, she set the glass down on the dressing table near the bowl of daffodils and stood, looking grimly down at her stepdaughter.
‘Were my instructions not clear?’ she asked.
‘Michelle!’ Lacey was totally appalled. ‘You surely can’t expect me to go downstairs wearing—that.’
‘Pourquoi pas?’ Michelle gave her a hard look. ‘It is an an expensive dress, and black will set off your hair and skin admirably.’
Slow colour crept up Lacey’s face. ‘You know why not,’ she protested.
Michelle gave a brief, metallic laugh. ‘A prude, ma chère? You are no longer at the convent, tu sais. Most girls of your age would give much to wear such a dress. What have you to be ashamed of? Your body is young, and your breasts are firm. You have the perfect figure for the gown, which is why I bought it for you. Now please dress yourself in it without further arguments. It is getting late.’
‘But, Michelle, what will people think—what will my father say?’
Michelle shrugged. ‘What should they think? That you look—charming. And your father will say nothing. He not only approves of the gown but he particularly wishes you to wear it tonight.’
‘But why?’
Michelle sighed elaborately. ‘It is his wish that you should make a favourable impression on one of his guests.’
‘By appearing half naked?’ Lacey’s mouth twisted in a sudden cynicism that belied her youth. ‘And who is this very important person—or am I not allowed to ask?’
But as soon as the words were uttered, she knew. There was only one person it could be—the strange man into whose room she had blundered with her unwanted welcome offering of flowers. She felt suddenly cold and sick, remembering how his eyes had assessed her earlier with all the assurance of a man for whom the female body held few secrets. To have to appear in front of him wearing the black dress would be a total humiliation.
‘You asked to be treated as a woman, but you persist in behaving like a child.’ Her stepmother’s tone was icy. ‘His name is Troy Andreakis.’
Lacey had been staring at the bowl of daffodils, trying to fight back her tears, but at the name her head came up sharply and
