His Wedding-Night Heir(30)

She rose and walked to the door with studied grace, leaving Cally to stare after her.

She shouldn't waste time worrying over the things Adele said or did, she told herself as she sought out the bathroom and the aspirin. The older woman was pure bitch, from her painted toenails to the top of her expensively coiffured head, and always would be. She was only sorry she was obliged to share a roof with her, even for one night.

The tablets swallowed, she ran herself a bath in the big old-fashioned tub, and sank with a sigh into clean hot water. She'd used nearly half a bar of lily-scented soap and a handful of shampoo before she began to feel human again.

She might not be too happy about being a guest at the Hall, but she was certainly going to be unhappy in luxury, she decided, looking at the deep pile of white fluffy towels awaiting her. She dried herself quickly, then wrapped a fresh bath sheet round her body, sarong-style, and covered her damp hair with a turban.

She trailed back into her room, and paused with a small gasp—because Nick was there, standing by the bed, examining Adele's nightdress with a sardonic expression.

'Your choice?' he enquired pleasantly, holding it up, making her acutely aware how sheer it was.

'Oh, no.' She was cross to find herself stammering slightly, and self-consciously readjusting her towel. 'I don't wear that kind of thing. I—I think Lady Tempest meant to be kind.'

'But not necessarily to you,' Nick said softly.

'What do you mean?' She was defensive.

'Don't be naive, sweetheart,' he drawled. 'I imagine she thought you'd be wearing it for me.' And he watched the betraying wave of colour wash her face.

'But don't worry about it,' he added. 'I'll return it to her and try to find you something more appropriate. And tomorrow you can go shopping.'#p#分页标题#e#

He paused. 'However, what I really came to say is that the fire is now out, and the firemen have managed to salvage a big tin container from what's left of the dining room.'

'Oh—Grandfather's strong box!' She seized thankfully on the shift of focus. "That—that's marvellous. It's got all his private papers in it, plus our passports, our birth certificates, the insurance documents. Everything. He'll be so relieved.'

He nodded. 'Now, try and get some sleep. It will all seem better in the morning.'

'Nick,' she said, as he reached the door. 'About tonight—I don't know how to thank you...'

'Now, I can think of all kinds of ways,' he said mockingly. He held up the nightdress. 'Perhaps I should ask you to model this for me, after all. Except that you have a lot on your mind right now, and I'd prefer your undivided attention.'

He watched her blush deepen angrily, and went off grinning.

Alone, Cally removed the turban and towelled her hair almost savagely. Adele might be vile, she thought, but Nick was no better. At one moment he could be so kind. Almost caring. The next he'd be hateful and teasing, putting her at a disadvantage and enjoying her embarrassment.

But perhaps it was safer that way, she told herself, biting her lip. Wasn't that why she'd tried to move to London—because she'd let herself hope that he cared about her in all the ways that mattered, and had come perilously near to making a total fool of herself?

She couldn't let that happen again.

Yet when a knock sounded at the door, some ten minutes later, she froze, wondering whether he'd stopped teasing and decided to return after all. And, if so, how she could best deal with it.

Dry-mouthed, she called, 'Come in...'

But it was only Mrs Bridges, looking boot-faced. 'I came for the dishes, miss,' she said. 'And Sir Nicholas sent you this.' She held out the man's white shirt that had been folded over her arm. 'He told me to say that it only came from Jermyn Street yesterday, so it's never been worn,' she added coldly.

'Oh.' Cally said. She took the shirt. 'Well—thank him for me, please.'

When the housekeeper had gone, she unwound the towel and undid enough buttons to enable her to pull the shirt over her head, shivering a little as she felt the crisp fabric graze the tips of her breasts and brush her naked thighs.

The sleeves were covering her hands, so she rolled them back a little, then turned and looked at herself in the mirror. She saw a girl with a pale face and dishevelled hair. Whose long bare legs under the formal lines of the shirt presented a strangely erotic image.

A girl whose shadowed eyes hid a secret she could not tell.

For a moment she allowed herself to wish that the shirt wasn't brand-new, but somediing Nick had worn. Something that might still bear the imprint of his body, or carry the scent of his skin in its fibres, so that for this one night she could pretend she was sleeping in his arms.

But that, she told herself, would be the greatest foolishness of all.