her leaving Mark’s room. But when he discovered that Mark wasn’t here it would be a very different story. He was likely to be livid, and that was putting it mildly.
She felt a leaden weight in the pit of her stomach.
Though he had never so much as raised his hand to her, preferring an icy silence or a cold reprimand when she displeased him, Loris had always shrunk from his anger.
But she was a twenty-four-year-old woman and independent, she reminded herself, not some schoolgirl. He had no right to tell her what or what not to do. No right to complain about her actions…
Except that it was his house. The last place she would have chosen to go off the rails and humiliate herself.
And that was exactly what she had done. It had been a stupid mistake. A one-night stand with no feelings on either side. She had been mentally condemning Mark, but she was no better. The only difference was that Mark’s decision to sleep with someone else had been premeditated. Whereas hers had been anything but.
So where did that leave her engagement?
In trouble.
With the beginnings of a headache, she longed for a cup of coffee but, resisting the temptation to ring for some and linger over it, she went through to the bathroom to shower.
She would have to show her face and give some kind of explanation sooner or later, so better to get it over with. Though what explanation could she give for spending the night with a virtual stranger? She couldn’t even explain to herself what had made her behave so out of character.
But perhaps it was better not to try and explain anything. Merely give the bare facts and then relieve them of her company, even if it meant staying at a hotel.
Having made the decision, she was starting to feel a shade better when it occurred to her that she couldn’t get back to London unless she left with Jonathan Drummond.
No! That wasn’t an option. She would sooner call a taxi. The thought of driving all that way with the man who had seduced her was insupportable. Not that she hadn’t been a willing victim, honesty forced her to admit. The blame was hers as much as his.
Belatedly it occurred to her to wonder how he was feeling. His behaviour hadn’t been exactly praiseworthy.
Possibly, depending on what kind of man he was, he would be embarrassed by what had happened? Maybe he’d be as anxious to leave as she was to have him go? He’d been wide awake when she had left his room, so with a bit of luck he would just dress and slip quietly away.
When she had dried herself, she made-up lightly to hide an unusual paleness before dressing in fine wool trousers the colour of tobacco, a cream blouse, and an embroidered waistcoat. Then, summoning up every ounce of composure she could muster, she lifted her chin and sallied forth.
Drawn like a magnet to the door of the room opposite, she stood listening. Not a sound. Did that mean he’d already gone? She fervently hoped so. Shamed and mortified by her own weakness, she dreaded the thought of having to meet him face to face again.
And there was another consideration. An important one. If he’d gone without anyone seeing him she wouldn’t have to divulge exactly who had slept in Mark’s room. That would save trouble all round. Though she had no reason to try and protect Jonathan Drummond, if Mark and her father were to learn his identity it could cost him dear. They would, she felt sure, pressure Cosby’s into getting rid of him on one pretext or another.
Needing to know for sure, she opened the door quietly and, holding her breath, peered inside. The room was blessedly empty, and the bathroom door, standing ajar, showed that was too.
Going over to the window, which overlooked the apron and the smooth green lawns at the front of the house, she peered out.
The rain had temporarily ceased, though the sky was heavy and overcast, threatening more. The garden looked battered and waterlogged, and shallow pools of water had gathered on the apron.
All the other sleek cars were still standing where they had been the previous night, but she could see no sign of the white saloon that Jonathan had been driving.
He must have gone back to London.
Sighing her relief, she made her way downstairs to the breakfast-room.
CHAPTER THREE
IN THE big, east-facing room all the lights were burning to counteract the dullness of the day. A few of the guests were still eating a late breakfast, while others lingered to converse over coffee, or glance through the Sunday papers.
There was no sign of her father, for which Loris was truly thankful. Though she recognised that it was cowardly, her impulse was to delay any showdown for as long as possible.
With a general, ‘Good morning,’ to the assembled company, she made her way to the end of the long table, where she froze in her tracks.
Sitting buttering toast and talking to her mother as though it was the most natural thing in the world, was Jonathan Drummond.
Fair hair smoothly brushed and shining under the lights, white teeth gleaming as he smiled in response to something Isobel had said, he looked infuriatingly attractive.
Glancing up, he saw her, and rose to his feet politely. ‘Good morning.’
He was dressed in a pair of charcoal trousers, a pale-green shirt and matching tie, and a jacket she recognised as Simon’s.
To her chagrin, he appeared cool and assured, every inch master of the situation.
Feeling the hot, embarrassed colour rising in her cheeks, somehow she answered, ‘Good morning.’ Then raggedly, ‘I thought you’d gone.’
‘Oh?’ He came around the end of the table and pulled out a chair for her.
Sinking into it, she said almost accusingly, ‘Your car wasn’t there.’
‘As I’d left it right in front of the entrance, I thought I’d better move it.’
Returning to his seat, and reaching for the marmalade, he added innocently, ‘Your mother suggested that as it was a hired car it might be better in one of the garages.’
To get it out of sight, no doubt, as it lowered the tone. The words were unspoken, but the sardonic twist to his lips said it all.
Refilling his coffee cup, Isobel smiled at him, the perfect hostess, making it clear that, though his car might not be up to scratch, she found him very personable.
To Loris, she said expansively, ‘Jonathan tells me he’s with Cosby’s…’
Wondering if her mother knew he was just a lowly PA, and deciding that she obviously didn’t, Loris said nothing.
‘I thought I remembered him from Ascot or somewhere, but obviously I was wrong…’
Ignoring the dishes keeping warm on the sideboard, Loris poured herself some coffee and drank it gratefully while her mother pursued, ‘I’ve just been saying how very kind it was of him to bring you all the way to Monkswood on such a night.’
Realising
