she replied dampeningly.
‘Not necessarily,’ retorted Emma, lifting the cup and scenting the aroma experimentally. ‘Hmm, this is good. Thank you. You're a darling!'
Mrs. Cook sniffed. ‘And you're spoiled, that's the trouble with you,’ she asserted, but there was an unwilling twinkle in her eyes. ‘And I'm away to my bed now, if you've everything you need. I have to get up in the morning.'
Emma wrinkled her nose. ‘All right, Mrs. Cook. And thanks again.'
Later, in her own room, Emma viewed her appearance without pleasure. She was horrified to discover that her nose was smudged with soot, and that her hair tumbled loosely almost to her waist. She extracted the few remaining hairpins and ran a brush through its tangled length. Loosened, it was the colour of burnt amber, thick and silky, glowing with health. But she invariably wore it in either a pleat or a chignon, and its colour was then subdued to a dark auburn. Victor preferred it confined. He didn't like loose hair. Maybe he considered it made her look rather young and unsophisticated. He could be sensitive about things like that.
Cupping her chin in her hands, she stared into the wide-spaced grey eyes which were reflected in the mirror. Without make-up her skin was creamy smooth, her lashes dark and thick, shadowing her cheeks. A tissue removed the smudges of soot from her nose and she regarded herself critically. Her hair did look more feminine loose like this, but a gust of wind would send it into wild disorder and Victor hated to find hairs on his immaculately tailored jackets. Her make-up was always very correct, foundation, powder and a bright but not vivid lipstick, and yet she was realizing now that without any colour added to her lips they looked fuller and more sensual…
She rose angrily to her feet. Whatever was she thinking of? What was the matter with her, sitting here assessing her potentialities? She was not a teenager, she was a mature woman of twenty-five, a woman moreover who was engaged to be married to a man quite a lot of years older than herself who was entirely satisfied with her the way she was. Why was she considering ways of improving her appearance? It was ridiculous, ludicrous, pathetic!
She began to take off her clothes quickly, but before going into the bathroom for her shower she glimpsed her naked body in the mirror and hesitated again. Her limbs were long and slender, her hips firm and curving, her breasts warmly rounded; was she a fool not to exploit her body more, to make herself attractive to other men as well as to Victor?
With determined steps she marched into the bathroom. Hell, she thought irritatedly, just because some man, some stranger, had suggested that it was high time she was married, she was allowing his uncultivated beliefs to intrude upon hers. She had not wanted to get married; she had been perfectly happy looking after her father until Victor came along. Why should she feel guilty because of that?
She drew off her diamond engagement ring and regarded it intently for a few minutes before turning on the shower. In any case, she told herself grimly, inadvertently stepping under the shower without her cap and soaking her loosened hair so that it clung in curling tendrils about her back and shoulders, the man she had encountered this evening was not at all the sort of person Victor would want her to associate with. Victor was not narrow-minded, he liked her to have friends of her own, and she did, but somehow she sensed that the dark stranger of the fog would not fall into that category.
THE next morning Emma slept late and she was awakened by the sound of raised voices in the hall downstairs. For several minutes she lay there listening, wondering if Mrs. Cook was having an altercation with the butcher, but then she realized it was Victor's voice.
Leaning over, she examined the clock on her bedside table, focusing on it with difficulty. It was after eleven-thirty, and she scrambled hastily out of bed, pulling on a soft brushed nylon housecoat over her nightdress, wondering apprehensively what Victor was doing here at this hour and what, if anything, Mrs. Cook had told him about the night before.
As she opened her bedroom door, she could hear Victor saying impatiently: ‘But what time will she be up? I can't hang about here all day. I have work to do.'
Emma went to the head of the stairs. ‘Victor!’ she exclaimed, beginning to descend slowly. ‘I didn't know you were coming this morning. I'm sorry I wasn't up when you arrived. I'm afraid I've overslept.'
Victor Harrison regarded her with disapproval, and Emma became self-consciously aware of her state of déshabille. Beside his sleek business suit she felt hopelessly out of place, and a feeling of embarrassment swept over her. But Victor always looked immaculate and as he was a tall, broad man, his clothes fitted him with elegance. Although he was in his late forties, and his hair was tinged with grey in places, he had a very distinguished appearance, and Emma had always admired him. His waistline was thickening now with so many business lunches to attend, but his height could stand it without it becoming too noticeable. When they went out together Emma always tried to emulate his elegant example.
But this morning the contrast between them was strongly marked, and Emma wished she had stopped and brushed her hair and put on some clothes before coming downstairs.
‘I came to see whether you'd like to have lunch with me,’ Victor said now, casting a dismissing glance in Mrs. Cook's direction. The housekeeper tactfully murmured something about coffee and disappeared into the kitchen, and sighing, Emma said: ‘Come into the lounge, Victor. We can't talk here.'
She led the way into a high-ceilinged room to the right of the hall where a warm fire burned in the grate. The flames reflected in the rosewood of the baby grand that stood in one corner, and cast shadows on the pale walls. Although the house was centrally heated, Emma's father insisted on keeping a fire in this room. It had been her mother's domain and Emma found the cheerful glow comforting as well as warming.
Victor followed her reluctantly, and she gave him an appealing smile. ‘I'm sorry, darling. I don't normally appear like this at lunchtime.'
‘I should hope not.’ Victor sighed, running a hand over his hair. ‘Did you get to Guildford last evening?'
Emma turned away so that he could not see her face, nodding. ‘Yes. Stafford was delighted to see me. I was glad I took the trouble.'
Victor accepted this without comment. It was obvious he did not connect the fact of her oversleeping with her visit to Guildford.
‘And how long will it take you – to – well – make yourself presentable?’ Victor was asking now, and she swung round frowning.
‘You'll wait?'
‘I shall have to, shan't I?’ Victor looked irritable.
‘Where are we lunching?'
‘The Dorchester.’ Victor thrust his hands into the pockets of his trousers. ‘Sir Malcolm wants to discuss the Messiter deal with me and this is his only opportunity. But as his daughter's in London at the moment, he suggested we make up a foursome for lunch.'
‘Oh, I see. A business lunch.’ Emma was less than enthusiastic. ‘Do I have to attend?'
Victor's square face became stiff. ‘You don't have to do anything, of course. I simply thought that as my fiancée you'd want to take an interest in my affairs.'
‘But, darling, your business affairs have nothing to do with me.'
‘On the contrary, they have everything to do with
