he walked away, leaving her staring after him, open-mouthed, as she searched for a riposte that would reduce him to a pile of smoking ash, and failed dismally to find one.
Harriet did not return to the house immediately. She told herself that she needed to regain some measure of composure before she faced her grandfather’s hawk gaze again, and responded to the inevitable inquisition.
Yet it wasn’t Gregory Flint, or his possible reaction to recent events, which occupied the forefront of her mind as she made a long slow circuit of the lawns. And for once the gardens she knew and loved were not having their usual soothing effect.
Because Roan Zandros was getting in the way. How dared he look at her—speak to her like that? she asked herself furiously, defensively, especially when he’d had the unmitigated gall to appear at Gracemead uninvited and unwanted—a blatant intruder in her private and beloved world.
Well, she would have to teach him, and pretty damn quick, that his interference was unwarranted and unappreciated. Maybe a clause in the contract was needed, actually forbidding his return to Gracemead under any pretext.
He had to learn his place in their arrangement, and cosy visits were not on the agenda. Not now, and definitely not in the future.
She found her grandfather in the drawing room pouring sherry. He turned and looked at her, brows raised enquiringly. ‘You’re alone?’
‘Why, yes.’ She smiled brightly. ‘I turned out to be not much of a guide, so Roan’s conducting his own tour.’
He handed her a glass of her favourite fino, and gestured her to take a seat on the sofa facing his armchair. ‘You and your fiancé haven’t quarrelled already, I hope.’
‘Of course not,’ she denied swiftly. Too swiftly?
‘Because it occurred to me that you were a little taken aback to find him here,’ Gregory Flint went on. ‘I hope it wasn’t the subject of a disagreement between you.’
Harriet shrugged, trying for rueful amusement. ‘You don’t miss a thing, do you, darling?’
‘I try not to, my dear.’
‘Well, to be honest, I was a little miffed when I realised he’d stolen my thunder.’ Harriet turned it into a faintly wistful confession. ‘And I so much wanted to be the one to break the news to you about our engagement.’
‘I’m quite sure you did.’ There was a dry note in his voice, which did not escape her.
‘Not that it really matters,’ she added hastily. ‘Just as long as you approve of my choice.’
‘Let’s say that I find him a most interesting young man,’ Mr Flint said after a pause. ‘He tells me you met through his work.’
The exact nature of the encounter still had the power to make her grind her teeth, and her smile was taut. ‘We did indeed,’ she said. ‘And it made an unforgettable impression on me.’
‘So I gather.’ He leaned back in his armchair. ‘You feel, then, that he has real talent?’
‘Yes.’ At least she could be totally honest about that. ‘Yes, I do. He has this amazing use of colour—and emotion.’
‘And will that earn him sufficient money to support a wife—and a family?’
Well, he’d slipped that in under the wire, Harriet thought, her heartbeat quickening. ‘I believe so,’ she said. ‘And anyway, I shan’t be giving up my career.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘But has it occurred to you that your future husband might have his own ideas?’
Why—what’s he been saying? That was the question she was burning to ask. Instead she said lightly, ‘Even so, we still have to be practical.’
‘And you’ve always been that, Harriet.’ Pensively, Gregory Flint studied the colour of his sherry. ‘Finding solutions to any problems that presented themselves—fighting to stay ahead of the game. Quite admirable in a great many ways.
‘So, I find it all the more surprising that it should be the emotion in Roan’s work that has appealed to you, instead of its strictly commercial aspect. Heart instead of head for once. I congratulate you.’
He raised his glass. ‘And I drink to your future happiness, dear child. But at the same time I find myself wondering if you know—if you really know—exactly what you’re taking on.’
Harriet was still digesting that when Roan rejoined them, smiling pleasantly, his voice unruffled as he praised the gardens with obvious sincerity. And in a way that revealed he knew what he was talking about, she registered sourly.
But gardening couldn’t occupy the entire conversation, and throughout dinner she felt as if she was treading barefoot through broken glass, waiting for her grandfather to ask something—some question about their relationship—some small personal detail that she’d flounder over in humiliating self-betrayal. And what a wide range that offered, she thought.
But she eventually become aware that Roan was manipulating the conversation, quietly and skilfully, moving it away from topics about which she was woefully and dangerously ignorant to more general subjects.
And that under this guise he was actually imparting information—telling her stuff that, by rights, she should already know about the man she was to marry.
For one thing, he mentioned that his father was still alive, and living in Greece, adding casually that his parents had separated while he was a small child, but not elaborating any further.
But when he said that his late mother had been Vanessa Abbot, the celebrated miniaturist, Harriet had to struggle not to let her jaw drop.
Gregory Flint was clearly equally astonished, but all he said was, ‘That explains the artistic talent my granddaughter so admires. Once again, as the saying goes, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.’
But was it true? Harriet wondered grimly, observing from under lowered lashes the sardonic twist of Roan’s lips as he raised his glass and drank. Because she wouldn’t put it past her grandfather to check. And would his other claim to have attended a famous English public school stand up to scrutiny either?
Oh, God, she thought, seething, there would have been no need for any of this nonsense if Roan Zandros had simply—stayed away and minded his own business.
As dinner ended, Harriet heard with relief Roan accepting her grandfather’s surprisingly genial challenge to a game of chess. Wonderful game, she thought, played mainly in silence, which suited her just fine, because she wasn’t sure that her nervous system could stand any more questionable revelations.
She waited until they were well settled with their brandy over the ivory and ebony board, then smothered a manufactured yawn.
‘Oh dear,’ she said sweetly. ‘I’m afraid my hectic week is catching up with me. If you’ll both excuse me, I think I’ll have an early night.’
She blew a smiling kiss aimed somewhere between the pair of them, and headed out of the drawing room, longing only to reach the safety of her room.
But
