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Then took a deep breath and rallied. ‘But only for a while—until they learned to swim.’
‘A good point,’ he agreed solemnly, leaning across to refill her glass.
She said quickly, ‘I shouldn’t have any more.’
‘Why not? I’m the one who’ll be driving later.’ He grinned reminiscently. ‘And as my old nanny used to say “I can’t, cat won’t, you must”.’
‘You had a nanny?’ She tried to imagine it and failed.
He nodded. ‘I did indeed. She was a terror too. My sister and I went in fear of our lives.’
The sister was news too. The computer biography had omitted that kind of detail.
She said haltingly, ‘Do you see much of your family?’
‘You mean—are they still speaking to me?’ He sounded amused. ‘Well, yes, but currently from a distance. Becky’s married to a sheep farmer in Australia and my parents have gone out to stay with her to await the arrival of their first grandchild.’
He paused. ‘Now will you tell me something?’
He was going to ask about Patrick, she thought with dismay. Ask about her emotional state and she had no idea what to say.
She said stiffly, ‘If I can.’
‘Do you remember how this room was furnished?’
It was the last thing she’d expected and she nearly choked on the mouthful of wine she’d taken for Dutch courage.
Recovering, she said slowly, ‘Well, a huge table, of course, with extra leaves so that it could seat twenty or thirty if necessary. And a very long sideboard on the wall behind you. I think it was all Victorian mahogany.’
Jago nodded thoughtfully. ‘It sounds fairly daunting. And the drawing room?’
‘Oh, that had enormous Chesterfields and high-backed armchairs in brown leather, very dark and slippery.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘I remember sitting on them as a child and being afraid I’d slide off.’ She paused. ‘Why do you ask?’
He said quietly, ‘Because I came here originally looking for a bolt-hole. But I now have other reasons to live here. And my ideas about décor are changing too.’
She remembered some of the catalogues. ‘No Swedish minimalism?’
‘Absolutely not,’ he said. ‘But no nineteenth century gloom either.’ He paused. ‘Talking of gloom, it’s starting to feel chilly.’ He slipped off his jacket and passed it to her. ‘Put this on.’ Adding, as her lips parted in protest, ‘I can’t risk my project manager catching cold.’
She nodded jerkily, draping his jacket round her shoulders, letting the meal continue in silence. When she’d finished, she put her fork down with a sigh. ‘That was totally delicious.’
‘Now try these.’ Deftly, he ladled some brandied peaches into a dish.
‘You’re not having any?’
He shrugged. ‘I suspect the alcohol content. And, as I said, I have to drive.’
‘To Barkland Grange?’
‘No, I’m spending tonight in London. After that—elsewhere.’
Returning, she thought, to a life she could only guess at, and which, for so many reasons, it hurt her to contemplate. The sweet richness of the peaches suddenly tasted sour.
She got to her feet saying briskly, ‘Then you’ll want to get on the road.’
‘Later,’ he said. ‘After I’ve taken you home.’
‘Oh, no.’ She heard the alarm in her voice, saw his brows lift, and temporised. ‘I mean—the walk will do me good. And I have things to do here before I leave.’
‘Such as?’
She said feebly, ‘I left a window open upstairs.’
‘Then go and close it while I pack up.’ He saw her hesitate and added quite gently, ‘Boss’s orders, Octavia.’
In the master bedroom, she went to the window and stood for a moment, trying to control the renewed tumult of her pulses.
Because something had changed between them down in that candlelit room. Something she could neither explain nor dismiss, but which terrified her. Because for a moment she had found herself wanting to say the unbelievable—the unutterable ‘Don’t leave me.’ Or, even worse, ‘Take me with you.’
When perhaps what she really meant was ‘Take me...’
What’s happening to me? she wondered, drawing a quivering breath. I must be going crazy.
She closed the window, securing the catch and stood for a moment staring at her reflection, his grey jacket rendering her ghostlike in the glass. She moved her shoulders under the fabric slowly, almost yearningly, as if trying to catch some trace of him, a fragment of memory to treasure, before reaching down for a sleeve and lifting it to her face.
