severity of her hairstyle, but if the intention had been to maximise the austerity of her appearance she had not succeeded. On the contrary, she looked quite wildly beautiful, a sensuous, sensual woman wrapped up in a sombre shell.
“That—mat’s what I was trying to tell you, my lord,’ Watkins mumbled, watching his employer’s reaction with anxious eyes. ‘Miss—Mrs—um—your wife arrived earlier this evening. I hope you don’t mind: I had Mrs Harvey prepare the guest suite in the west wing.’
Will was tempted to remind the old man that Francesca wasn’t his wife any more, but it was obvious from his fumbling form of address that he hadn’t forgotten. ‘It’s Mrs Quentin,’ he said. And then, arching a brow at Francesca he asked, ‘That is still how you like to be addressed?’
‘It will do,’ she agreed, with a tightening of her lips. ‘How are you, Will? I must say, you look well.’
‘Thank you.’ Will didn’t return the compliment, even if the awareness of her sophisticated appearance hung between them with an almost tangible air. ‘Do you want to tell me what you’re doing here, Francesca? I don’t remember issuing an invitation, and I’m afraid it’s not particularly convenient right now.’
The muscles in her cheeks contracted, almost as if he had hit her, and Will knew an unwarranted sense of guilt at the sight. Dammit, he thought, she ought not to have come here. He didn’t owe her anything. If she was short of money, she’d certainly come to the wrong place.
‘If you’ll excuse me, my lord.’ Watkins was of the old school, where it was never polite to be rude to a lady. Particularly not a lady who had once lived at Lingard Abbey, who had shared every aspect of his employer’s life, his ambitions, his bed...
‘Mrs—er—Mrs Harvey has prepared some sandwiches, my lord,’ he added swiftly, gesturing into the room behind Will. ‘There’s some tea—um—Mrs Quentin preferred it to coffee. Shall I fetch another cup?’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Will shortly, aware that he was behaving unnecessarily boorishly, but unable to do anything about it. For God’s sake, he thought, he’d got Emma and her parents coming for lunch tomorrow. Imagine having to tell them that he was playing host to his ex-wife.
‘Then if that’s all, my lord...’
‘Of course, of course.’ Will strove for normality and, avoiding looking at Francesca, he gave Watkins a constrained smile. ‘You get along to bed,’ he dismissed the old man pleasantly. ‘Oh—and perhaps you’d inform Mrs Harvey there’ll be three guests for lunch tomorrow.’
Watkins’ eyes darted to Francesca in some perplexity. ‘Three guests, my lord?’
‘Excluding Mrs Quentin,’ said Will flatly. ‘Goodnight, Watkins. I’ll make sure the doors are locked.’
Watkins nodded, offered Francesca a somewhat awkward farewell, and ambled off towards the leather-studded door that gave access to the kitchen and servants’ quarters. He walked slowly and Will had to stifle his impatience, but once the heavy door had swung to behind him he allowed Francesca the full weight of his frustration. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he snapped. ‘The Abbey is not a private hotel. You can’t just turn up here when it suits you. You walked out, Francesca. Lingard is no longer your home.’
‘I know that.’ Francesca crossed her arms at her waist and wrapped them about herself, almost as if she was cold. She looked beyond him, into the lamplit room, where the fire was glowing so invitingly. ‘Can’t we sit down, at least?’
Will glanced over his shoulder. As Watkins had said, Mrs Harvey had prepared a tray of tea and sandwiches, and it was presently waiting on the carved chest beside the sofa. It had apparently been placed there while Francesca was—where? Being shown to her room? Settling in? His jaw hardened. It irritated him that she should have come here. She had no rights where he, or this house, was concerned.
But something, some latent spark of humanity, perhaps, prevented him from asking her to leave at once. One night, he thought, but in the morning she was out of here. He had no desire to renew their acquaintance, whatever she might think.
Nevertheless, he stepped aside to allow her to enter the parlour, and she brushed past him with evident relief. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have said she was on the edge of hysteria. But Francesca didn’t have nerves; she was always in control of her emotions.
He hesitated before joining her. It was obvious he was going to have to speak to her at some time, but he objected to being forced to accommodate her tonight. Yet if he left it until the morning who knew how soon he would get rid of her? And with the Merritts expecting him at eleven he didn’t have a lot of time to spare.
So, despite his unwillingness, he pushed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and followed her into the room. But he deliberately left the door open. He had nothing to hide, and if she did it was just hard luck.
Francesca had seated herself on the sofa, at the end nearest the fire, and Will was surprised. Although it was a warm night outside, the parlour was cool, but as she was wearing a suit he wouldn’t have expected her to be cold. Yet it seemed as if she was. Every line of her hunched form pointed to it. And, although she helped herself to a cup of tea, she made no attempt to touch the sandwiches.
The parlour was not a large room by the Abbey’s standards, and the heat from the grate caused Will to loosen the collar of his shirt and pull the knot of his tie an inch or two away. He would have taken off his jacket, but he didn’t want her to get the impression that he was comfortable with the situation, so he remained where he was, behind the sofa opposite, with the width of the hearth between them.
‘Aren’t you going to sit down?’ she asked, glancing up at him, her elbows resting on her silk-clad knees, the teacup cradled between her palms. Her drawn features mirrored the anxiety that was evident in her eyes, and although he chided himself for feeling any sympathy for her he came around the sofa and straddled its hide-covered arm.
‘Okay,’ he said coolly. ‘I’m sitting down. So, what is this all about? I should warn you, Francesca, I’m not in the mood to play games. If you’ve got something to say, then for God’s sake get on with it.’
Her nostrils flared at his insensitivity, and once again Will felt a reluctant sense of compassion. It seemed that, whatever had brought her back to the Abbey she was either too ashamed—or too apprehensive of his reaction—to tell him, and she was looking for his support, not his sarcasm.
‘I drove up from London this evening,’ she ventured, and twin creases bracketed his mouth.
‘Yes. I gathered that,’ he said, wondering what this was leading to. ‘I assume that is your car parked on the forecourt.’
‘Well, it’s a friend’s car, actually,’ she offered, and his mouth flattened as he wondered which particular friend that was. Male, he assumed; Francesca had always had plenty of men friends. Though there were a couple of girls she had shared rooms with at college whom she’d used to keep in touch with. ‘I thought it was less likely to be noticed,’ she added. ‘He—er—he knows my registration, you see.’
Will’s brows drew together. ‘Who are we talking about now?’ be asked tersely. ‘This—friend?’
‘What friend? Oh—you mean the car!’ Francesca sipped her tea. ‘No, that belongs to Clare—one of the women I work with.’
Will
