Zoë smiled; she liked Judge Master and, after the conversation she had overheard earlier, she appreciated his wife, who had defended her against the infamous Sara Blacket.
Justin rose to his feet and walked across to the cabinet in the corner of the oak-panelled study. ‘You will join me in a drink, Judge? I need one.’ He picked up a bottle of whisky, opened it and poured a large shot into a crystal tumbler before adding, ‘How about you, Zoë?’
She looked across at her husband; his back was to her, his shoulders tense, and, as she watched, his dark head tilted back as he lifted the glass to his mouth and drank. It was unusual for Justin to drink spirits—an occasional glass of wine was more his style.
‘Zoë.’ Justin turned, glass in hand. ‘Do you want one?’ he asked again, his expression austere.
‘No. You and the judge carry on. I’ll go and find Mary.’
Ten minutes later, she stood in the entrance hall and thanked Judge Master for all his help, but her glance kept straying to Justin at her side as she said goodbye to the couple. She had the oddest feeling that although he was there he was not really with her.
The door closed behind Judge and Mary Master and she sighed in relief.
‘At last it’s all over,’ she murmured, her eyes seeking her husband’s. He had been a tower of strength all through the death, the funeral, everything. She could never have managed without him, and all she wanted now was to feel the comfort of his arms around her.
Dressed in a perfectly tailored dark suit, a stark white shirt and the obligatory black tie, he looked all powerful, virile male, as though nothing could touch him or those he cared for. He was her rock, her comfort and her lover, and she had never needed him more than now. She stepped towards him.
‘I have some work to attend to, Zoë; I’ll see you at dinner.’
She shot him a pleading if puzzled glance and could have sworn that he was avoiding her eyes. ‘Yes, OK.’ But she doubted whether he heard her as she was talking to his back.
ZOË knocked on the heavy oak door, turned the handle, opened it and entered the study. Justin was sitting behind the huge mahogany desk in what used to be Uncle Bertie’s chair, his broad shoulders hunched, his head buried in a mass of papers.
He had removed his jacket and tie, and his white shirt was open at the neck, the sleeves rolled back to reveal sinewy forearms sprinkled with a downy covering of dark hair. He looked stern and somehow remote. She moved silently across the room but he sensed her presence, his proud head lifting.
‘Yes?’ he said distantly.
‘It’s eight—dinner is ready.’ She shook her head in disgust at his vacant look, her long blonde hair floating around her shoulders in a silvery cloud as she moved to his side and leant against his broad shoulder. Placing one slender arm around his other shoulder, she added, ‘You work far too hard, Justin, and it has got to stop.’ She pressed a swift kiss on the top of his head. ‘Come and eat.’
‘I have to work hard if I expect to keep my beautiful wife in the manner to which she is accustomed,’ he retorted, his sensuous mouth curving in a brief smile, and, getting to his feet, he spanned her tiny waist with his strong hands and swung her high in the air, as one would a child. ‘And that’s my mission in life.’
She grinned down into his handsome face, thrilled by the compliment. ‘Not any more, you don’t, if what Judge Master said about my trust fund is correct,’ she teased.
Justin looked up at her, all trace of amusement deserting his hard features, and abruptly he lowered her to the ground. ‘Yes, of course. Apparently I’ve married a woman of means,’ he drawled, stepping back and rolling down the sleeves of his shirt. ‘The tax man will certainly see it that way,’ he added with dry sarcasm, hooking his jacket with one hand as he headed for the door, and flinging over his shoulder, ‘Let’s eat.’
She stared at his retreating back for a moment, hurt by the obvious sarcasm in his tone. Was it possible that Justin was disappointed not to have received more in the will? No, he couldn’t be. He was a comfortably wealthy man in his own right.
Later, sitting opposite each other across the small table in the breakfast-room, sharing a simple, almost silent evening meal of beef goulash and rice followed by icecream, the thought haunted her, and by the time they were sipping their coffee she could contain herself no longer.
‘Justin, are you upset by the will?’ She had to ask. Absolute honesty was essential to a good marriage—or so all the books said—and she wanted their marriage to be perfect.
His black head lifted, his eyes capturing hers across the table. ‘No, certainly not. But why do you ask?’ he demanded, the hard tone of his voice jarring on her sensitive nerves.
‘Earlier, in the study, you didn’t seem too amused when…’
His mouth compressed. ‘Today is hardly a day for amusement; we have just buried your uncle,’ he prompted, in a voice he usually used to destroy some unsuspecting witness.
‘Please, Justin, you don’t have to remind me. I just thought…Well, maybe you felt left out.’ How could she tell him of the conversation she had overheard? Her own doubts…?
‘No, I assure you,’ he said, lowering his voice, ‘as far as the will is concerned, it was exactly as it should be. Bertie was my guide and mentor all through my career and before, and I am greatly honoured that he left me his law books.’
Zoë believed him; she knew his sentiment was genuine and she wanted to say so, but, as often happened though she was reluctant to admit it, her brilliantly clever husband left her tongue-tied. She only had to look into his deep brown eyes, or note the curve of his mouth as he spoke, and his effect on her was immediate. After two months of marriage her pulse still raced at the sight of him. Tonight a lock of black hair had fallen over his broad brow and unconsciously she reached across the table and brushed it back with her fingers.
Justin caught her hand in his and pressed a quick kiss to her palm, his glance flashing knowingly to her face. ‘You’ve had a long, hard day, Zoë. Leave the worrying to me and go to bed, hmm? I’ll join you later.’ He squeezed her hand before letting it go to resume drinking his coffee.
But the mention of bed reminded her of another problem she had. The house! Because of Uncle Bertie’s ill health when they had married there had been no honeymoon; Justin had simply moved in with them, here at Black Gables.
It was a massive old house, totally impractical and virtually impossible to heat. It contained fifteen bedrooms and several reception-rooms, plus a ballroom and a dozen attic rooms. In the extensive grounds were two cottages and a range of outbuildings, some with commercial use but long since left derelict.
Her uncle had insisted on having the master suite decorated for them, but unfortunately for Zoë it was built on the old-fashioned lines of two bedrooms joined by a dressing-room and bathroom. She would have much preferred to share a bed with her husband. Instead, she found that after making love Justin invariably went back to his own room…
‘About the house, Justin,’ she
