Second Chance with the Millionaire(5)

His voice hadn't lost the soft drawl she remembered so vividly. Why on  earth had she and Neville made fun of it? It was pleasantly soft and  fell easily on her ears, causing her to suffer a momentary pang for her  own folly in antagonising him. Instinctively she recognised now that he  would have made a far better ally than Neville, that he could even have  been a refuge for her to lean on during those difficult months after her  mother's death.

Cross with herself for letting emotion get in the way of reality, she  interrupted breathlessly. 'I'm sure Saul doesn't mind you taking your  pony Tara … '

'Why should I?' he interrupted her in that same slow drawl. 'After all,  you've already taken damned near everything else. What's a pony?'

The way he looked at her, the ironic contempt in his voice, stunned her into dismayed silence.

This was not what she had expected at all, this gage flung down at her  feet for her to pick up. But what on earth could she say to him in her  own defence?

She glanced at Tara. 'Take Harriet down to the paddock, Tara, and tell your mother that Saul's arrived.

'We didn't expect you quite so soon, and I'm afraid everything's still  rather a mess. However, we'd be delighted if you'd have lunch with us.'

'My, my …  how you've changed.' Again that biting mockery. 'Or have you?  Those are very pretty party manners you've got somewhere along the way,  Lucy. You certainly didn't have them twelve years ago.'

His cynicism stung her into replying fiercely, 'Twelve years ago I was  still a child, Saul …  And what's more I had just lost my mother.'

Watching his eyes harden she bit her lip, angry with herself for being  so easily provoked. What on earth had happened to all her good  resolutions about proferring an olive branch?

Turning away from him to hide the hot tide of colour flooding her skin  from his penetrating glance, she mentally derided herself for the  sensations engulfing her.

The truth was that she had stupidly expected a more physically adult  version of the boy Saul she had remembered, but what she had got was a  man who seemed to share nothing other than a name with that boy she  remembered.

'I want you to have lunch with us,' Tara interrupted firmly, gazing up  at him. 'I want you to tell me all about your pony. What was his name?'

'Mustard.'

For some reason the slow smile he gave Tara made Lucy feel bleakly excluded and hurt.

'You're sure it's no trouble?'

He was looking at her now, his eyes still cold, smoothly assessing the  shape of her body beneath its covering of skimpy T-shirt and ancient  jeans, Lucy recognised. Anger flared hotly inside her, her mouth  hardening as she turned away from him. As she fought for self-control  she reminded herself that Saul had good reason to feel antagonistic  towards her; he would after all have based his assessment of her on the  girl she had been at twelve, and she could not really blame him for  looking for chinks in her armour. Even so, in some strange way it hurt  that he should have looked at her like that, dismissing the blood  relationship between them, to treat her with a sexual contempt which she  had found shatteringly demeaning.

Forcing a smile and ignoring the look he had given her she said calmly,  'No trouble at all. It will be about an hour or so before it's ready,  but if you like I'll introduce you to Mrs Isaacs before I go. She and I  have just been trying to clean the place up a bit.'

She just caught the look of surprise in his eyes before he suppressed it  and suddenly he looked more like the boy she remembered.

'Rather a demeaning role for you isn't it? Cleaning? Or were you hoping for a few more pickings?'

A sense of despair engulfed her as she heard the contempt in his voice.  How could she have thought that she simply had to extend to him the hand  of friendship to wipe out the past? Saul might have left behind the  awkward aggression she remembered, but in its place was something far  more lethal: a cold hardness that warned her that in his eyes she was  more foe than friend.

'If you're referring to the estate,' she told him quietly, 'my father was entitled to sell what he did.'                       
       
           



       

She wasn't going to add that privately she had not been in agreement  with her father's actions, but without raising her voice she added  significantly, 'He did after all have certain responsibilities.'

Saul looked at Tara and then equally softly told her, 'In the last few  months of his life your father raised almost two hundred thousand pounds  from selling off everything that was unentailed-that's an awful lot of  money to support one widow and her child …  Or are you telling me that  you're included in those responsibilities? Hasn't anyone ever told you  about the pleasure of being self-supporting, Lucy?'

She could feel her face sting, but even if Tara had not been looking on  there was no defence she could honourably make. How could she tell him  of her promise to her father to keep the family together, to look after  not only the children but Fanny as well?

'I'll take you to meet Mrs Isaacs.'

She caught the flash of bitterness in his eyes as she refused to respond  to his barb, but what else could she do? She had not realised how  bitter he would be about her father's actions, but without betraying the  secret of Oliver's birth there was nothing she could do.

She maintained a cool distance while she introduced him to Mrs Isaacs,  hesitating before offering to show him round the house. Mrs Isaacs was a  warm-hearted soul, but a devout gossip, and she didn't want it to get  round the village that there was bad feeling between herself and Saul,  which would be the conclusion Mrs Isaacs was bound to leap to if she did  not make the offer.

'I think I remember the layout pretty well. And I do have the plans so I  don't think I'll get into too much trouble. Thanks for the offer  though.'

He was dismissing her, Lucy thought irately; making it plain that he had  no desire whatsoever for her company-or her presence in what was now  his house.

'I'll see you at lunch time then.' Try as she might she could not quite  keep the corresponding stiffness out of her own voice, and as he dipped  his head in acknowledgment she recognised that he was entitled to the  mockingly victorious smile that twisted his mouth.

As she had half expected, when she got back to the Dower House Fanny was  still in bed. She wondered what the children had had for breakfast.

Concealing her exasperation, Lucy went up to warn her about their visitor.

'What's he like?'

'Tall dark and handsome,' Lucy responded flippantly, and then realised  that it was quite true; and more than that there was a masculine  strength about him that she found inordinately appealing.

Appealing? Nonsense! She was letting the fact that the responsibility  for Fanny and the children weighed heavily on her shoulders get to her.

It took her almost half an hour to persuade Fanny that she ought to join them for lunch.

'You'll have to meet him sooner or later,' she reminded her stepmother. You don't want people to talk.'

It was a good ploy and one that brought a petulant frown to her stepmother's forehead.

'How on earth are we going to feed him, Lucy?' she demanded. 'These Americans are used to eating well, you know.'

'And so he will,' Lucy responded tartly. 'We're having asparagus from the garden, fresh salmon, and strawberries and cream.'

The salmon had been a gift from one of their neighbours, a retired  colonel who had been a close friend of her father and who lived alone.

'I suppose the salmon was from Tom Bishop?' Fanny shook her head. 'That  poor man. You know, he really should marry again Lucy …  Living all alone  in that huge house, spending all his time fishing … '

∗ ∗ ∗

At one o'clock on the dot Saul rapped on the front door. Lucy, who had  been working nonstop from the moment she walked in the house, determined  that there was no way he was going to be able to look as slightingly on  her meal as he had done on her person, paused in the hallway and then  called to Tara to let him in.

'Take him into the drawing-room to your mother,' she instructed the  little girl, 'and then go and tell Oliver to come downstairs.' Oliver  was in his bedroom, organising his possessions.                       
       
           



       

She had been so busy she hadn't even had time to change, but now, from  the safety of the kitchen where she was checking on the light sauce she  had made to go with the salmon, she heard the drawing-room door and  judged it was safe to dash upstairs and do something about her  appearance.

Her wardrobe wasn't exactly bursting with fashionable clothes, her  lifestyle didn't require them, but the few clothes she did have were  good, carefully chosen and well cared for. Before her death her mother  had once remarked approvingly that Lucy had inherited her own eye for  colour and design, and the dress she hurriedly selected, a soft  wrap-over style in pastel hued silk with pleats falling from the hip,  was both elegant and feminine.