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'Caroline's the only one left fit to carry the Farr name,' the formidable old matriarch had stated. 'Her mother's a simpering fool and as for her sister—well, Katie wouldn't say boo to a fly—let alone a goose!'
Dragooned into staying on for the old lady's eightieth birthday party, with which his visit had unfortunately coincided, he had felt sorry for the inhabitants of the lodge—Elinor's browbeaten daughter-in-law and younger grandchild, Katie. It must be galling to be watched over with such fierce contempt by the old lady who held the purse-strings so tightly in her bony, heavily be-ringed hands, to be compared so unfavourably with the do-no-wrong Caroline. He had been glad that a dose of flu had prevented her turning up.
Sorry, in another kind of way, for Elinor herself. The daughter of a general, she had joined her considerable private fortune to that of Ambrose Fair on their marriage. A marriage which had produced only one child. She must have been devastated when her son was killed on the hunting field when Caroline was a mere five years old, the baby, Katie, not quite one.
The death of Ambrose, her husband, a few months later would have been another shattering blow. But she had recovered, ruled what remained of her family with a rod of iron and, with the advice of his father, then chairman of the family-owned merchant bank, had tied everything up in trust funds.
Since his father's death he had taken his place as Elinor Farr's financial advisor, for the sake of the link of friendship between his father and the deceased Ambrose. Not, on the whole, an onerous task, his contact with the old lady being rare, his personal visits rarer.
His London office had dealt with the transfer of monies from one of the funds to provide the capital to buy Caroline Farr into partnership, and the last time he'd spoken to Elinor she'd been full of how well the agency was doing now that Caroline was running the business side of things.
But was it doing well? Or was the agency in trouble? Why else should one of the partners, sketchily trained, or, more likely, not trained at all, leave her executive persona behind, put on a stiff and starchy nanny uniform and sally forth to change other people's babies' nappies if the outfit wasn't desperately in need of the extra funds?
He picked up a pile of glossy estate agents' brochures and grinned. One way or another, he'd find out why she'd been driven to look for temporary, extracurricular employment. And it would be no hardship, no hardship at all. Even in that smothering grey suit and awful hat she'd been lovely to look at, and he'd glimpsed an impish sense of humour when she'd listed her so-called hobbies.
He could live with that. For a few weeks. He'd given himself three months' leave to settle permanently back in England, find the sort of home where Sophie could spend a happy childhood, so he'd be on hand at all times to oversee closely the new nanny's
doings.
And there was no danger he'd find himself in the same tricky situation he'd been plunged into with her sister, Katie.
Caroline was different. Older by five years, a mature woman, sophisticated, street-wise. She wouldn't give him any trouble.
Not that kind of trouble.
CHAPTER TWO
Caroline hadn't been in her new employment for more than five minutes before she was seething. Absolutely seething! The beastly man was at it again!
Quickly, Caroline scooped the baby up into her arms and held her close and felt the little face press into her neck, blowing bubbles. She cradled the back of the golden head with a gentle hand, keeping it safely where it was, regardless of tickling bubbles, blown raspberries and baby-type giggles. She would do anything to prevent the innocent little scrap from seeing her father coming on to a woman who was not her mother!
When she'd arrived at ten that morning Finn had shown her to her quarters, a suite within a suite. A large sunny bedroom holding all the usual furniture, plus a cot complete with teddy bear. En suite bathroom, nicely luxurious, with a baby bath on a stand. Plus a small sitting room, the carpet lavishly littered with toys, comfortable armchairs, TV and writing desk. And Sophie, clad only in a disposable nappy, crawling around the furniture as if going for some kind of land-speed record.
'I'll leave you to settle in.' He'd smiled, his eyes warm with discomfiting male appreciation as they'd languorously swept her slender figure. 'Like the dress. Pretty. It suits you far better than that dark thing you were wearing yesterday.'
Oh, did it? It was floral cotton, years old, did he but know it. She hadn't dressed to please him, or only inasmuch as he'd stipulated mufti, so he needn't think it! Amber scorn had glinted at him between tangled dark lashes but had been rapidly veiled as she'd caught the devilish silver mockery of his eyes.
Her breath had tugged, stuck in her chest and hurt, but he'd turned away, saying to his daughter, 'Come and say hello to Caro, poppet. It's time you were dressed.' And he'd then said, obviously to her—although she hadn't looked at him, kept her eyes glued to the bottoms of his lightweight fawn trousers where they touched the top of his bare feet. Bare feet?—'Do say if it goes against all your training, but I thought Caro more infant-friendly than the formal title of Nanny. And Caroline's a bit of a mouthful.' And, when she' d failed to answer because she was too busy wondering about the odd inflexion when he'd mentioned 'all your training', he'd imparted lightly, 'She'll probably need her nappy changing, but leave it. I'll be back in a couple of minutes and you can let me in on your theories on toilet training later.'
Caroline had gulped. She knew of no theories. She'd have to make them up as she went along. But at least he'd left, walking out of the room into the main l
iving area, although leaving the door to her quarters wide open, she noted now suspiciously.
As if he intended to watch her, check up on what she was doing, even though he' d told her he' d be back in no time.
It simply wasn't on. Having him watch her fumbling attempts to dress his child was a bad idea.
Having him watch her, in any capacity, was a worse one. The very thought of it made her feel overheated.
She walked to the door to close it, the soft skirts of her dress brushing against the long, silky lines of her legs. And stopped in the open doorway, appalled.
Finn had admitted a woman into the main suite. A very polished, beautiful woman. Not his wife. This one had short dark hair, cut in a modern, sophisticated style. Very sharp. Pale skin, scarlet lips, dark blue silk dress with a bloused top and cleavage. And what a cleavage!
The moment he'd pushed the door to behind his guest, Finn slipped an arm around the slender waist, pulling her to him, then bent to drop a kiss on the invitingly upturned, poutily scarlet lips.
It couldn't have been much of a kiss because none of the red had come off on his mouth, Caro noted, brows beetling as they walked further into the body of the room as if permanently joined at the hip. But even so...
She decided to use her authority as nanny to tell him, at a suitable moment, of course, that she wouldn't permit such carryings-on in front of her charge. She wouldn't mention Fleur—naturally she wouldn't; their marriage wasn't any of her business. But she could justly claim that the baby was.
