were only about seventeen, when I saw you last,’ she stammered, looking up at him and then wishing she hadn’t. He really had the most fantastic eyes, dark grey at the moment, and fringed with thick silvery lashes, that accentuated their beauty. A person could drown in those eyes, she thought unwillingly, unable to drag her gaze away, until his tightening fingers on her shoulders brought her quickly to her senses. ‘W-where is your mother?’
‘In the kitchen,’ said Marsha’s son flatly, allowing her to step back from his hands, and Shelley, reminded of her unwelcome state of undress, wrapped the folds of her kimono closer about her. Even so, she was intensely conscious of the revealing thinness of her garments, and of the fact that her nipples were standing taut against the material.
‘I should get dressed,’ she said distractedly, half turning towards the door, but his hand about her wrist prevented her from leaving.
‘Don’t,’ he said, his thumb moving insistently over the vulnerable inner veins, and although she knew he was probably unaware of what he was doing, her breath caught painfully in her throat.
The sound of footsteps crossing the hall outside made Shelley put some distance between them. By the time Marsha appeared in the doorway, she had taken a seat at the table, and the older woman looked at them delightedly, evidently sensing nothing amiss.
‘Isn’t this a surprise, Shelley?’ she exclaimed, bustling into the room to set a third place at the table. ‘I see you two have renewed your acquaintance. I’m surprised you recognised Dickon. It must be eight or nine years since you last met.’
‘Eight,’ said her son drily, returning to the chair he had occupied before Shelley’s intervention. ‘But Shelley hasn’t changed. I’d have recognised her anywhere.’
Shelley managed a tight smile, but the look she cast in his direction was apprehensive. ‘How gallant!’ she said, her elbows on the table protecting her body from his gaze. ‘Your son has inherited your flare for understatement, Marsha. It’s very kind, but it’s not the truth.’
Marsha laughed. ‘Oh, Dickon has always been able to charm his way out of any situation,’ she declared, not without a certain amount of motherly pride, and her son expelled an exasperated breath.
‘My name’s Benedict, Mother, not Dickon.’ His eyes moved briefly to Shelley’s averted head and then back again. ‘I doubt if your guest even knows my proper surname.’
‘Does it matter?’ Marsha pulled a face at him. ‘Shelley doesn’t care if you call yourself Benedict Manning or Benedict Seton, and I, for one, prefer the name Dickon to Ben.’ She shrugged. ‘Benedict was your father’s choice. I wanted to call you Richard.’
‘Well, I prefer Ben,’ he retorted, as the maid came into the room carrying a fresh pot of coffee and a rack of toast. ‘What do you think, Sarah? Do I look more like a Ben than a Dickon?’
‘Oh, Mr Benedict, I don’t know,’ the girl simpered girlishly, her eyes darting triumphantly in Shelley’s direction, almost as if she might be envying her his attention. ‘But Mrs Carr did say to ask you if you wanted sausages as well as bacon for breakfast. ‘Cos if you do, I’ve got to run down to the village and see if Mrs Peart’s is open.’
‘Bacon is fine,’ Ben assured her firmly, and his mother pursed her lips.
‘Honestly, that girl is impossible sometimes,’ she exclaimed, after Sarah had left the room. ‘And you encourage her, Dickon. You know perfectly well she was not supposed to add that rider about having to run down to the village! If you wanted sausages, you should have asked for them. It wouldn’t have taken her more than five minutes to ride down to the stores on her bicycle!’
‘But I didn’t want sausages, Mother,’ Ben responded patiently. ‘I’m only having bacon because you insisted. Where is it, by the way? I don’t have all day.’
‘Oh—I’d better go and speak to Mrs Carr,’ declared Marsha, pushing back her chair, and before Shelley could prevent her, she had left the room once again.
‘You didn’t tell my mother about me giving you a lift yesterday, did you?’ Ben asked, as soon as Marsha was out of earshot, and Shelley made an involuntary gesture.
‘How could I? I didn’t know who you were,’ she reminded him, deliberately keeping her tone light. But her stomach was churning and she suspected he was not deceived.
‘Why not tell her just now?’ he persisted, watching the delicate colour invade her throat. ‘I assume she does know you snapped a fanbelt. She was very concerned about your whereabouts when I rang last night.’
‘I told her what happened,’ Shelley countered defensively. ‘And that I’d been given a lift into Low Burton.’ She tilted her head. ‘Why didn’t you tell her last night?’
‘Touché.’ Ben acknowledged her offensive with a wry smile. ‘For the same reasons you didn’t, I suppose,’ he replied softly. ‘I didn’t want to talk about it. Not then, anyway.’
Shelley felt as if she was losing her grip on the conversation, and forcing a careless smile, she said: ‘I suppose we both took the easy way out.’ Dismissing the subject, she cupped her chin in her hands: ‘Marsha tells me you’re engaged to be married. How exciting! When am I going to meet your fiancée?’
‘Don’t patronise me, Shelley!’
The sudden anger in his voice was unmistakable, and she pressed her hand to her throat in an effort to control the erratic racing of her heart. It was crazy to allow this situation to develop any further, and her mouth was dry as she reached for the pot of coffee.
‘Do you want some?’ she asked, hoping she would not spill it, but with a shake of his head, he got abruptly to his feet.
‘I’ll tell my mother I can’t wait any longer,’ he said, subjecting her to a devastating appraisal. He strode towards the door. ‘Oh—and Shelley——’This, with his fingers on the handle and his temple pressed against the jamb: ‘You’re nothing like my mother, so don’t act like her. And you haven’t changed. You’re still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen!’
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