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She saw Guy look at her as she went downstairs, but he made no attempt to stop her going straight into the study.
In the sitting-room there was a mirror over the fireplace, and Campion flushed with mortification as she caught sight of her reflection there, and saw the way her nipples thrust against the combined covering of her bra and sweater.
Work, that was the answer, she thought feverishly, dragging her gaze away and hurrying into the study. What was it Guy had said to her this morning about Lynsey wanting to experiment with the power of her womanhood?
She found the pages they had discussed, and read them quickly. Her description of Lynsey’s burgeoning feeling for her cousin was flat and uninteresting. She closed her eyes, leaning
back in her chair. She saw Lynsey studying herself in the mirror in her room, admiring the curves of her flesh, perhaps touching the high, firm outline of her breasts, and wondering what it would be like if Francis…King Henry’s court had been a licentious one; a girl growing up there could not remain unaware of the reality of sexual communion.
Campion shivered; her body felt so tightly coiled that the tension made her ache. What had seemed impossible to describe now seemed easy; the words flowed from her, so quickly, she could barely capture them. She typed until her wrists ached, and then stared in surprise at the number of pages she had done.
Almost as though he had been waiting for the typewriter to stop clattering, Guy walked in. He reached out to pick up the pages, but she stopped him.
‘No! I haven’t read them myself yet,’ she told him, conscious of how strained and fierce her denial had been.
She didn’t want him reading what she had written until she had read it herself, until she had made sure there was nothing in it to betray her…
But why should there be? Why should that momentary and totally ridiculous surge of desire she had experienced at Guy’s touch have any bearing on what she had just written? It was impossible.
‘What were you doing? Standing outside the door, waiting for me to finish?’ she demanded, desperately trying to find a way to get back to normal.
‘No. You just happened to stop as I came in to ask what you fancied having for dinner. We can eat out, if you like.’
‘No. At least… Look, why don’t you go out. I’ll fix myself something later. I’m not hungry at the moment.’
‘Still trying to get rid of me?’
Her face flamed, and one of the pages she was reaching for slid out of her reach.
Guy retrieved it for her.
‘Small, firm breasts, mmm…I’m glad you liken them to unripened apples, because personally I much prefer a woman’s body when it’s fully developed and mature.’
Just briefly, his glance slid downwards, and Campion felt as though she would choke from shock and disbelief as it lingered briefly on the telltale curves of her own breasts.
Like a current of electricity, she felt her physical response to his glance. She turned away abruptly, not daring to look at him.
‘Lynsey is sixteen,’ she reminded him acidly, ‘and therefore hardly likely to be mature.’
Without looking at him, she knew that he was smiling.
‘She’s very real to you, isn’t she? You know, that’s one thing that never fails to fascinate me about writers—good writers, that is. They become so passionately involved with their characters; they put so much of themselves into them, I suppose. How much of you is in Lynsey, Campion?’
How deftly he had slipped that question beneath her guard!
‘Very little,’ she told him icily. ‘How could there be anything of me in Lynsey? As you yourself pointed out, she is a beautiful, self-confident woman.’
‘Are you trying to tell me you consider yourself to be lacking in self-confidence, Campion?’
She couldn’t believe the cruelty of the softly spoken words. How dared he make fun of her like this? How dared he speak to her in that soft, almost teasing voice, implying…implying what?
‘I’m tired, Guy.’
‘You need some food inside you. You’ll soon feel better. There’s some soup left.’
Why on earth couldn’t he see that she wanted him to leave her alone?
She moved her head, and felt the unaccustomed softness of her hair against her face.
