found that she was shaking, too, but she watched with some trepidation as the two men faced one another with apparent recognition. They were not at all alike, she acknowledged inconsequently. The man Jude was so dark and aggressive, the other man mousey-fair and conciliatory. It was obvious in the way he held up his hand in mitigation, and the disarming smile of apology that split his gentler features.
‘I’m most awfully sorry, Jude,’ Sara heard him say contritely, soothing the fretful horse with his hand on its muzzle. ‘I had no idea you’d be coming along here right at this moment. Juniper wanted to take the hedge, and dammit, I just let him.’
Jude shook his head impatiently, but he was evidently mollified by the other man’s attitude. ‘You’ll kill yourself one of these days, Rupert,’ he declared roughly. ‘This may be a quiet road, but it’s not a private one, and I don’t think your father would approve of being presented with a bill for a new Mercedes, do you?’
‘Heavens, no!’ the young man grimaced. ‘Pater and I are not exactly on the best of terms as it is, right now, and Juniper breaking a leg would be the last straw!’
‘Yes, well—–’ Jude’s expression was not incomprehensible, Sara thought, bearing in mind that the horse was not his concern. ‘So long as we understand one another, hmm? I wouldn’t want Harriet upset.’
‘Lord, no,’ the young man chuckled, and watching them Sara wondered what kind of a relationship two such opposites could have. That they knew one another very well was obvious. What was less obvious was what they might have in common.
As if becoming aware that they had an audience, the fair man suddenly turned and looked in her direction, and Sara pressed her shoulders back in the seat and endeavoured not to notice. But to her astonishment Jude, observing the other man’s interest, invited him casually to come and meet her.
‘This is Sara Shelley,’ he said, introducing them through the open window of the car. ‘Sara, this is Rupert Hadley, Lord Hadley’s son.’
Once again his use of her name went unremarked beneath Sara’s astonishment at the introduction. This was Lord Hadley’s son! The son of the owner of that magnificent stately home on the hill! She could hardly believe it, and while all her instincts urged her to get out of the car to speak to him, Jude’s indolent stance against the door prevented her. How on earth could an employee of her aunt’s be familiar with the son of one of England’s aristocracy? It didn’t make sense, unless her assessment of the situation was lacking some vital clue.
‘So pleased to meet you, Miss Shelley.’
Rupert Hadley had put his hand through the window, and with a feeling of disbelief Sara offered her own. His hand, despite his hard riding, was quite soft, and she guessed the leather gauntlets he wore protected his skin from any abrasion.
‘How do you do?’ she responded politely, not quite knowing how she ought to address him, and his lips parted broadly to reveal uneven white teeth.
‘Are you staying with Miss Ferrars?’ he enquired, making no move to go, but before Sara could reply, Jude interposed for her.
‘Sara is Harriet’s niece,’ he declared, his grey eyes challenging her to contradict him. ‘She’s—er—she’s come to stay with us for a while. Her father died recently, and Harriet’s her only relation.’
‘I see.’ Rupert Hadley was evidently intrigued by the combination of silvery-tipped lashes and long green eyes, but as if he was in charge of the situation, Jude chose to break up the gathering.
‘We must be going,’ he said, walking round the car to slide in beside Sara again, and she stiffened instinctively when he leant half across her to make his farewells to the other man. ‘See you later, Rupert,’ he remarked, and Sara was aware again of a certain proprietorial note in his voice. But the brushing of his shoulder against her arm and the lean hardness of his thigh pressed briefly against hers during the exchange robbed her of any other speculations.
Rupert Hadley watched them go, a rather stolid figure in his tweed hacking jacket and fawn breeches. He didn’t wear a hat, Sara noticed, and his fair hair lifted slightly in the breeze as they passed. But it was not this that caused her to look back over her shoulder. It was the sudden uncanny feeling that she had seen his face before, and she was still giving this consideration when they turned between stone gateposts and negotiated the narrow drive which led to the forecourt in front of the house.
Knight’s Ferry had probably originally gained its name from the fact that the River Rowan glinted in the late afternoon sunlight only a dozen yards from its doors. Sara guessed there had once been a ferry to cross the wide stretch of calm water, but no doubt time, and the erection of bridges, had robbed it of any usage. Still, she could not deny a surge of pleasure as she looked at the mellowed old building, with its ivy-covered walls and leaded dormer windows, the turrets she had seen earlier like some medieval reminder of the days when fortification was a way of life. The house belonged to no particular period that she could identify, and she surmised it had been added to over the years. Now it sprawled like a matron gone to seed, large and comfortable, but lacking in elegance.
Sara was admiring the gardens when the door to the house opened, and a woman appeared at the head of a short flight of steps. Immediately, her momentary sense of reprieve was over, and she turned her attention to where Jude was unloading her suitcases, silently begging for his intercession.
‘Sara! Sara, my child! How good it is to see you after all this time!’ Harriet Ferrars’ words were warming and disarming, and Sara’s gaze was drawn back to her as the woman advanced towards her.
Her memories of Aunt Harriet were vague, and in her brief experience people generally aged quicker than memory allowed. That was why, although she knew the woman could not be much more than fifty, she had expected someone who looked middle-aged and matronly, a little like the house, she mused, struck by the simple comparison.
But Harriet Ferrars did not look middle-aged or matronly. Indeed, if Sara had not known the truth, she would have estimated her age to be somewhere in her thirties, and that only because of her carriage and maturity. Her face and figure were those of a much younger woman. Her skin was virtually unlined, and the two-piece suit she was wearing, in dusky blue silk jersey, accentuated the slender line of her hips and the shapely length of her legs. Her make-up was faultless, her hair, a rich chestnut brown, worn in a loose casual style. She was little like the girl’s image of her, and Sara knew a moment’s trepidation for the things that Jude had told her.
Then she was embraced with genuine affection, the kisses that were delivered on both cheeks leaving a delicate fragrance of Eau de Lancome behind them. ‘Sara,’ Harriet said again, drawing back and shaking her head. ‘My dear, you are simply delightful!’
Sara coloured, as much from the knowledge that Jude was watching them and could hear every word as from any embarrassment at the effusive comment.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured, forcing a smile. And then: ‘It’s good to see you again, too, Aunt Harriet.’
‘Yes.’ Harriet held her at arm’s length for a moment, surveying her with a thoroughness Sara found quite disconcerting. But after a moment her aunt released her, and tucked a confiding hand through her arm.
‘I was so sorry to hear about your father, my dear,’ she said, broaching the subject Sara least wanted to talk about. ‘It must have been a terrible shock for you. That’s why I sent for you. One needs relatives at a time like this.’
‘Shall I put the cases in the rose room?’ asked
