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As his head bent towards her again, she yielded weakly, her lips parting in anticipation and a shamed need. This time, when he kissed her, there would be no barrier to any of the intimacies he sought.
But instead, Amanda felt the swift brush of his lips on her forehead, before he lifted her briskly off his knee on to the cushions she’d occupied previously.
He said pleasantly, ‘I think it’s time I left,’ and got to his feet, straightening his tie, and raking a hand through his hair.
Amanda was suddenly, horribly aware that she was sprawled there, gaping at him, and jack-knifed into a sitting position.
He added lightly, ‘You show your gratitude quite delightfully.’
Before she could say or do anything, he picked up his coat, walked to the door, and went out, closing it quietly behind him. A moment later, she heard the front door shut, too.
She sat where she was, staring after him, telling herself she would wake soon and find the entire events of the past half-hour a preposterous dream.
And then she caught sight of the carriage clock on the mantelpiece, and that galvanised her into action. If her mother woke now, and found she was still downstairs, she would be bound to come down, and Amanda was in no state to face any kind of inquisition. As she got to her feet, she found her legs were trembling so much they would hardly support her.
She moved the guard in front of the fire, and as she turned she caught a glimpse of herself in the ornamental antique mirror which ran along the wall above the sofa. In spite of herself, a little cry escaped her.
She’d thought Malory’s last remark had referred to the fact that he’d enjoyed kissing her. But now she looked at herself, and saw what he had seen— the flush of excitement along her cheekbones, the eyes drowsy with awakened desire, the reddened, parted lips and, most damning of all evidence, the erect and swollen nipples clearly outlined under the thin dress.
And his comment took on a new and shaming significance.
Amanda lifted her hands and pressed them to her burning face.
How could I? she wept inwardly. Oh, God, how could I?
CHAPTER SIX
Amanda stayed in bed until late the following morning, remaining hunched in a pretence of sleep even when she heard her mother enter with a cup of tea.
She could still find no adequate explanation for her conduct. It wasn’t even as if she fancied—horrible word!—Malory. He wasn’t her type, and anyway she was still hopelessly, wretchedly in love with Nigel. She sighed, burying her face in the pillow. She despised herself for that as well. After all, she now had no illusions left about him. He’d seen to that himself.
But neither the knowledge of that, nor the passage of time, could alleviate the hurt inside her, or that swift, stomach-churning, heart-leaping stab of excitement and yearning which assailed her whenever she thought of him. And she thought of him more often than she wanted to.
Which made her behaviour in Malory’s arms all the more inexplicable. It wasn’t what he’d done, either. It was what she’d found herself wanting him to do that made her writhe with embarrassment in the cold light of day. And the crowning humiliation was that it had been Malory himself who’d called the halt. Which proved, apart from anything else, that he’d been by no means as carried away as she was.
Amanda hit the pillow a blow with her clenched fist, and decided she had better get dressed.
She found Mrs Conroy sitting in the kitchen, listening to Radio Four and cleaning some silver— one of th$ few household tasks she did not allocate to her daily.
‘So there you are, dear.’ Her mother’s voice sounded awkward and rather strained. ‘Was it a nice party?’
‘Very nice.’ Just don’t ask me about its aftermath, thought Amanda frantically.
‘Are you going out today?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
Mrs Conroy’s face brightened. That’s nice,‘ she said. ’It’s so long since you’ve been down here and we’ve had the chance to talk—really talk.‘
Amanda groaned inwardly. If a Trappist convent had beckoned at that moment, she would have joined it gladly.
‘We’re having sole Veronique for lunch,’ Mrs Conroy went on, clearly warming to the idea of the day’s tête-à-tête. ‘Why don’t we make it a real celand dress up a little?’ She gave Amanda’s jeans and sweater a charmingly disparaging glance. ‘Wouldn’t that be fun?’
‘Perhaps I’ll change later,’ Amanda said. ‘I might spend an hour in the garden.’
‘Oh, not today, surely. It’s certain to rain,’ Mrs Conroy gave her an appealing look. ‘Why don’t you wear that lovely green dress I bought you, and your pearl ear-rings? I’m so tired of seeing you in those scruffy jeans.’
