hate you!’ Colour came and went in her face, tears of rage spiking her lashes, trembling there before falling, streaking her cheeks and dripping off the end of her elegant nose. And she didn’t care. He knew how she felt about him and had denigrated it as a schoolgirlish infatuation, given her tattered emotions about as much concern as he would extend if she’d caught a head cold! Over and forgotten in a few days—nothing that couldn’t be cured by a few doses of fun with a few other juveniles! She couldn’t be more humiliated than that! And she repeated ferociously, ‘God, how I hate you!’
‘Then you must be heartily relieved that I didn’t take you up on your invitation, mustn’t you?’ His smile was sheer, infuriating irony. ‘And I’m sure young Carew could be prevailed upon to escort you this evening. Although if I were you I’d take care where he’s concerned; he’s a chancer, and I don’t think he’s entirely to be trusted, even though your father appears to do so—enough to pay him handsomely to chaperon you!’
His black eyes impaled her, as they were no doubt meant to do, and she went cold with the shock of discovering how hateful he could be.
He had set out to humiliate her and had effortlessly succeeded. How could he lie like that, say that Simon had to be paid to take her out? Was he trying to tell her that no man in his right mind would be seen with her unless he was paid to do so? She didn’t believe him; she couldn’t! And she dashed the tears from her face with the tips of her fingers as she flung at him grittily, ‘I wonder if you know how vile you really are! Do you always get your kicks out of hurting people?’
His reply was lost beneath the crunch of gravel as she ran back to the house, and she was too emotionally ragged as she entered the hall to notice her father until his thready voice burst through the pounding in her head. ‘Venny, now don’t worry, sweetheart, but could you call Dr Fielding?’
Venetia’s heart gave a massive, painful thump as her eyes flew to her father. He was standing at the foot of the stairs, leaning against the newel post, still in his dressing-gown, his face grey and slicked with perspiration.
‘Daddy! What’s wrong?’ The question was torn from her as she ran to him, picking up one of his hands and holding it against her cheek, fear in her wide, water-clear eyes.
‘Probably nothing more serious than a stomach-ache.’ His wan smile was meant to reassure her but it did nothing of the kind, and for the first time in a week she wasn’t aware of Carlo’s presence, hadn’t realised he’d followed her into the house until he spoke behind her, his voice calm.
‘Phone, Venetia. At once.’
Reluctantly, she dropped her father’s hand, stepping back on legs that felt distinctly unsteady, her eyes flying up to Carlo’s impassive features, willing him to tell her everything would be all right.
But he wasn’t looking her way, his eyes assessing the elderly man before lifting him effortlessly into his arms, still not looking at her as he commanded, ‘I said at once, Venetia.’
Guiltily, she ran over to the phone, her fingers shaking as she punched in the numbers of the surgery, gnawing on the corner of her mouth as she waited for the receiver to be lifted at the other end. And her incoherent babblings must have made some sense because the receptionist said that Dr Fielding was as good as on his way, and she turned away, butting into Potty, who was now standing directly behind her, her eyes anxious in her parchment-pale face.
‘Is he coming?’ she asked quickly, and Venetia nodded, her throat too choked with fear to allow her to speak.
‘Good. That’s all right, then.’ The housekeeper visibly relaxed, as if she was convinced that all the doctor had to do was wave a prescription. Venetia wished she had such blind, unquestioning faith. She couldn’t forget how desperately ill her father had looked.
And something of this must have shown in her face, because Potty stroked a strand of silky black hair away from her clammy forehead, her voice reassuring as she soothed, ‘It won’t be long before the doctor gets here, and Carlo’s with him. He took him to the library and asked me to fetch a blanket. Run along, now; go and hold his hand, why don’t you?’
Venetia tried to pull herself together as she watched the older woman hurry to complete her errand. It wouldn’t help her father if she appeared at his side looking distraught. And somehow, clinging on to the thought that Carlo was with him helped her. Nothing bad could happen while he was there. He wouldn’t let it!
Nothing this traumatic had happened to her in her entire life and she’d been young enough, inexperienced enough—until ten minutes ago—to believe it never would.
She had been only a few months old when her mother had died. The horse she had been riding had fallen at a gate, crushing the life out of the slender young woman. Venetia had been unaware of the tragedy, and her father had done all he could to ensure that she never felt the lack of a maternal parent too keenly. He had, all her life, lavished enough love, care and patience on her for two.
She remembered now the look on his face when, at the age of eleven, she had asked for a pony of her own. At the time, she hadn’t translated that haunted expression as fear. It hadn’t been until years later, when her undoubted equestrian skills had led her to take calculated risks, that she had finally put two and two together, tying the look of agony deep in his kindly eyes to the tragic death of her mother.
Parting with Bliss, her lovely grey mare, had been the hardest thing she had ever had to do; convincing her father that she was giving up riding because the sport was beginning to bore her had called upon all her acting abilities.
But it had been worth it for the look of soul-deep relief in his eyes. It had been the first completely unselfish act of her young life and she prayed it wouldn’t be her last.
She felt guilty as she recalled how, a full year before she had been due to leave the convent school, she had flatly refused to make any plans for future career training, and, when the time had come for her to wipe the cloistered dust of the convent from her feet, had brushed aside her father’s suggestion that she join the family business, working her way through every department right up to the top.
What she had wanted, she had lovingly teased him, was to stay home and have fun for at least six months before having to think of anything as dreary as working for her living. After the nuns’ stern discipline she had deserved that much, hadn’t she?
She knew she had disappointed him, although he had tried not to let it show. And now she regretted her frivolous attitude to life more keenly than she would ever have believed possible.
Potty caught up with her as she reached the library door, pushing a folded blanket into her arms.
‘Take this to him, while I wait around to show the doctor through,’ she instructed. ‘Then I’ll make us all a nice cup of tea. I dare say you could do with one. I know I could.’
Consciously relaxing her shoulders, Venetia pushed open the library door, giving a terse nod at Carlo’s, ‘Well, is he on his way?’
‘How are you feeling now?’ she wanted to know as she tucked the blanket around her father’s legs. He was stretched out on the chesterfield and he smiled at her.
‘Better. Fielding’s going to read me the riot act for wasting his time. I stayed in bed, hoping the pain would pass off, but it didn’t. Now he’s actually coming there’s no sign of it. Typical!’
‘It’s his job,’ Carlo said, moving into her line of vision.
