AllFreeNovel
Share Us
'Not really.' He chuckled at her expression. 'But you've had this bee in your bonnet ever since the place came up for sale and your father, providentially, left you a great deal of money. I was just making an educated guess.'
'I fell for the place at first sight,' she admitted, pulling a long face because he knew, and she knew, that that kind of impulse was out of character for her. 'What are your objections to the place?'
'To the house itself, none. But I'm lazy, I suppose, I don't like change. Too set in my ways— too old for you?' Sudden concern darkened his e
yes.
She said quickly. 'Rats! What's fifteen years? Anyway, I prefer older men.' She must do, or she would never have agreed to marry him. And if he was set in his ways then that was OK by her because she appreciated stability, order.
'Thank you.' The hand he placed over hers was comforting. Getting to his feet, he squeezed her fingers briefly. 'Put in your bid for Monk's Hall, if it makes you happy. If you get it, I'll fork out for any work that needs doing, out of whatever I get for this place. Fair?'
She was so taken aback by this sudden, total capitulation that she couldn't find words to tell him of her delight, her gratitude. She had expected an outright refusal to budge on the issue, a reasoned and logical argument explaining that selling up here and moving to Monk's Hall would be a retrograde step, a whole load of unnecessary hassle.
So she simply stared at him with glowing brown velvet eyes. She had misjudged him. She had steeled herself to hear him say that her passion for the old house on the coast was an aberration, a hiccup in the otherwise orderly workings of her mind. And she would reluctantly have had to agree with him.
'Would you like that drink now?' He was replenishing his own glass from the drinks tray and she shook her head, still speechless as she moved quickly across the room, her thick dark lashes spiked with tears of sheer happiness. He was an absolute poppet and she would make Monk's Hall a beautiful home for the two of them, a happy, secure place for their children to grow up in.
Emotionally, she flung her arms around him.
'Thank you, darling. The last thing I wanted to do was fight with you over where we should live. Thank you for understanding!'
'That's quite—quite all right,' he replied heavily, gently putting her aside. His bluntly good-looking features were red with embarrassment as he returned his attention to the sherry bottle. 'About that drink—'
'No, thanks,' Annie answered snippily. She felt hurt, like a dog who'd been kicked out into the cold. Norman hated emotional scenes, or anything remotely approaching them. Her calmness, the logical way she ordered her life, had been the first thing that had attracted him to her. He'd told her as much. But surely she could be allowed to express truly felt emotion once in a while?
'I'll go and see if I can help Joan with dinner,' she excused herself bleakly. For the first time ever a niggle of doubt about their relationship entered her mind.
But Joan, chopping mint for sauce, said, 'Everything's under control here, but if you'd fetch the washing in I'd be grateful,' and Annie escaped thankfully, glad to have a few moments on her own.
Unpegging bath towels, she decided wryly that Monk's Hall must have touched a vulnerable spot inside her, a spot so well hidden that she hadn't fully realised she had it. She had never felt passionately about anyone or anything until she'd set eyes on that house. She didn't count the painful episode with Hernando Carreras seven years ago. That was something she had learned from and put firmly to the back of her mind, yet never quite forgotten because the lesson she'd learned at seventeen had been salutary. But she wasn't ashamed of emotion and she didn't see why a natural display of affection should have embarrassed Norman. She didn't think it augured well for the future.
'You have a delectable nose, and I swear there's a blackbird about!'
She would have known that deep, husky voice anywhere and she went rigid, clutching the towels to her chest, not turning. She stood very still, but she was quivering inside. He had a terrible effect on her. But she did manage.
'I'm taking down the clothes, not hanging them out.' Her voice was creditably cool and steady. He had moved into her line of vision now, and the startlingly blue eyes seemed even more vivid out here, the thick hair darker, with a sheen like a raven's wing. And his mouth was teasing, softer than she remembered it, and she closed her eyes because looking at him completed a chemical reaction that sparked off an explosion deep inside her.
'And of course you won't be the maid much longer,' he remarked, his voice as dry as dust. 'You'll be queening it in the parlour. Do you like bread and honey—or do your tastes run more to caviar?'
'Are you trying to say something?' she rasped, gathering up the last of the towels. The allusion wasn't lost on her and she could cheerfully have hit him.
'Maybe.' A strongly defined dark eyebrow tilted upwards and the sensually wide mouth curled, revealing white, even teeth. 'Or maybe I'm wondering why a woman like you should be marrying a man like Cousin Norman. Security, is it?'
She dragged in a sharp shallow breath, her heart pattering wildly under her breastbone. He had moved in front of her, blocking the path, and to get past him she would have had to step on to Norman's neat rows of french beans. Her arms tightened around the bundle of towels. They smelt of fresh air and sunshine and, faintly, of fabric conditioner, and yet did nothing to mask the raw scent of masculine sexuality which this man seemed to exude from every pore.
'I find that remark thoroughly objectionable.' Her chin came up and her narrowed eyes glittered darkly, although she did manage to keep her voice coolly dismissive, masking her anger.
Infuriatingly, he chuckled. 'Cut the haughty act, Annie.' And he moved closer, crowding her, making her stomach churn, and a strong, tanned hand moved, lean fingers cupping her chin, setting her skin on fire, making her flesh pulse with unbearable sensation.
She jerked her head back savagely, sending silky Titian strands flying about her head, bright colour to balance the hectic scarlet that stained her cheekbones, darkening her eyes to jet. But, effortlessly, his fingers tightened, calmly stilling her frantic movements, holding her head rigid.
Stingingly, she was aware of the imprint of his fingers, of the slow, hypnotic movement of his thumb, moving with erotic lightness against her cheekbone, feathering her skin with searing sensation. Blindly, she closed her eyes, fighting to control the force of the feelings he was so heedlessly creating within her. She was shamingly aware of the way her lips were quivering, as if in invitation, and was unable to do anything about it.
'You are a beautiful woman,' he imparted, a wry note in his husky voice. 'But you lack that vibrancy, the glow that marks a woman in love.' His fingers tightened fractionally, making her eyes fly open, his own holding her unwilling gaze with aqua-marine intensity. 'You're not in love with Norman and yet you've agreed to marry him. Don't blame me if I draw my own conclusions.'
She almost spat at him then, but his next words, softly spoken but impregnated with deadly meaning, shocked her into total immobility.
'You're far more sexually aware of me than you are of him. And don't deny it,' he warned silkily, 'or I might be tempted to prove it.'
