year. You must be very happy, Lizzie.’
He was still angry with her. Hiding the hurt at this cool reception, she told herself that a little reserve was to be expected. Nevertheless, if he hadn’t cared he wouldn’t have flown the Atlantic just to come to her father’s wedding. But her smile was a little hesitant as she put her hand on his arm. ‘It’s good to see you, Peter.’
‘Is it?’
He wanted her to grovel a little. A spark of resentment took her by surprise, but she took a deep breath and swallowed her pride. ‘If the invitation to come to New York is still open, I’ve got all the time in the world now...’
She faltered as he stiffened. ‘Lizzie... I’ve got something to tell you... It was all rather sudden...’ Then something like relief swept across his features. ‘Fran!’ he called, and waved. ‘We’re over here.’
Lizzie watched, at first with confusion and then with a growing sense of impending disaster, as a pretty dark-haired young woman crossed the lawn towards them.
‘Peter, honey, I’ve been looking for you. I don’t know a soul here, and your parents didn’t exactly roll out the red carpet—’
‘Well, here’s someone for you to meet,’ he said quickly.
‘I told you all about little Lizzie French, what a great cook she is...’ He attempted a light-hearted laugh. ‘Perhaps you should ask her how she does it... Lizzie, this is Francesca.’ He took the girl’s hand, and his mouth tightened briefly before he added, ‘My wife. I just know you two are going to love one another.’
In the small, hollow silence that followed Fran extended a slender hand. ‘You are little Lizzie?’ she queried. Five feet and nine inches tall, Lizzie hadn’t been ‘little’ for a very long time, and she was a good three inches taller than the young woman before her.
‘It’s just a silly joke,’ Peter said immediately. One that she and Peter had shared, as they had once shared everything. But shock had done something to her vocal cords, and her words were scarcely audible. His wife. The word echoed like the clang of doom. Wife... Wife... Wife...
‘Have you known Peter long?’ she managed, although her tongue was like a lump of wood in her mouth. Anything to stop that word...
‘About six months. We work together at the bank.’
‘Fran is an investment analyst,’ Peter said. ‘A graduate of Harvard Business School,’ he added, as if it mattered.
‘Oh.’
‘What do you do, Lizzie?’ Fran asked.
‘Nothing much.’ She wasn’t prepared to compete.
‘Lizzie keeps house for her father, Fran,’ Peter interposed.
Fran glanced around, taking in the rambling red-brick house that had been extended through the centuries until it had become an impossible hotchpotch of styles—a nightmare to run, the bane and the love of Lizzie’s life. ‘Well, that must be a full-time job,’ she said. ‘Although I imagine your stepmother will take over now?’
Peter spoke before she could say something stupid, betray herself. ‘Of course she will. Now that your father doesn’t need you, Lizzie, you’ll be able to leave home and get on with your life.’ And Lizzie flinched at this jarring reminder that when Peter had needed her she had put her father first. But he didn’t need her any more. Neither of them did. ‘Perhaps you should get a job,’ he advised, and she caught the harsh note of bitterness in the words.
‘Like Fran?’ she asked, still too shell-shocked to make her excuses and walk away.
‘You wouldn’t make much of an investment analyst, Lizzie,’ he said. ‘You never could weigh up the risks.’ Did he have to rub in the fact that he believed she had made the wrong choice? How deeply she must have hurt him to make him so cruel. ‘You’re just too much of a home body, I guess.’
A home body! A flash of anger dulled the pain. He had never complained in the past. He had always enjoyed coming to the house, eating the food she cooked for him no matter what time of the day or night he arrived. ‘Maybe you should look for something in catering,’ he suggested, his memory clearly running along the same lines as hers.
‘I’ll certainly think about it.’ Lizzie was smiling so hard that she thought her face must crack in half. But under the tense, searching eyes of his new wife she sought for something witty to say—a disguise for her broken heart. If only her head wasn’t stuffed with cotton wool. Rescue came from an unexpected source.
‘Elizabeth, I’m sorry to rush you, but we have to leave quite soon.’ Noah’s hand on her shoulder made her jump.
‘Leave?’ she repeated, still too dazed for anything to make much sense.
He didn’t answer her. ‘It’s Hallam, isn’t it? Noah Jordan. I’ve just been talking to your parents. I understand congratulations are in order.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, clearly relieved to break the tension. ‘May I introduce my wife Francesca?’
Noah transferred his gaze to Peter’s new wife and took her hand, holding it, it seemed to Lizzie, for ever. Then he seemed to recollect himself. ‘I apologise for dragging Elizabeth away, but I’m taking her to see Tosca tonight—a treat for all the hard work she’s put into organising the wedding for Olivia.’ He glanced at Lizzie. His heavy-lidded eyes gave no hint of his intention, but there was something about the determined cut of his mouth that suggested she would be wise to follow his lead.
‘Tosca?’ Fran repeated. ‘That is absolutely my favourite opera,’ she declared, obviously relieved to have a topic of conversation that had nothing to do with the unknown politics of a small village. ‘I have a recording of my mother singing—’
‘Your mother is a singer?’ Lizzie felt Noah’s long fingers tighten against her shoulder as he asked the question.
‘Was. Not professional, of course, although she was very good. I have a recording of her singing and my father playing the piano.’ She gave an awkward little smile. ‘It’s about all I have of them. They died when I was very young.’
Noah’s eyes were fastened on the girl’s face. ‘Then you must come with us tonight.’
‘We couldn’t possibly...’ Peter began, staring at Lizzie, his brows tugged together in a bewildered frown.
‘I have a box with two empty seats. It would be a pity to waste them.’
‘Oh, Peter, please!’ Fran begged. ‘Mr Jordan wouldn’t have asked if he didn’t mean it.’ She turned eagerly back to Noah. ‘Would you?’
Noah offered a reassuring smile. ‘We’d love to have you as our guests.’ He turned to Lizzie. ‘Wouldn’t we, darling?’
Darling? She was beginning to seriously hate that word. But before she could react he had slipped his arm about her waist. ‘Seven o’clock at the Coliseum. If we miss you in the foyer, I’ll leave a pass at the box office.’ He raised a hand, and before Lizzie knew what was happening she was being propelled across the lawn towards the house.
‘Lizzie...?’ Peter’s
