ANTONIA’S room was at the back of the house. overlooking the terrace and the tennis courts, with the reed-edged sweep of the lake in the background. Immediately below her windows the flagged terrace had a southerly aspect, and beyond a low-walled boundary, manicured lawns sloped down to the water. The wood Reed had spoken of, formed a backdrop in the distance, but nearer at hand there were spreading elms and bushy poplars, breaking up the landscape with their different shades of green.
Antonia leant her elbows on the opened window, hardly noticing the cool morning air through her thin nightgown. It was all so deliciously different from the smell of London, and she inhaled deeply, half-inclined to believe she was still dreaming.
Behind her, the bed she had occupied beckoned invitingly. It was a huge bed, bigger than any she had slept in, even when she was married to Simon. The mattress was modern enough, firm, but delightfully comfortable, and the night before her tired body had appreciated it. But the quilted headboard was decidedly French in appearance, and very much in keeping with the other appointments of the room. The soft-patterned carpet, in muted shades of pink and grey, blended beautifully with the pale grey silk that lined the walls; there were spindley-legged tables beside the bed; a long polished cabinet, inset with drawers, with a mirror above; a chaise-longue covered in pale pink velvet with a matching padded stool; and an inlaid rosewood escritoire, ideal for writing letters.
The dusky pink was picked up again in the curtains at the windows and in the thick satin bedspread, that had been turned down for her the night before. Beneath a downy quilt, pale grey silk sheets were quite shamelessly sensual against her skin, and Antonia remembered how incongruous she had felt putting on her simple cotton gown. Celia, she was sure, would wear silk or lace or satin to sleep in. But then, Celia was used to this kind of treatment; she was not.
Antonia sighed now, turning away from the window and surveying the room with some misgivings. Not for the first time, she wondered what the real reaction to her arrival had been among the other members of the household. Last night, Reed had introduced her to his housekeeper, a diminutive woman, by the name of Rose Macauley, who had been very polite to her. But she knew that there were other members of staff—Reed’s conversation with his housekeeper had betrayed that—and Antonia couldn’t help acknowledging what she would think if she was put in their position. What could they possibly think but the worst? she asked herself unhappily, wondering if anyone would ever believe that Reed had not shared her bed.
Not that Reed himself had seemed at all perturbed. On the contrary, he had got his own way, and in consequence he was very relaxed and very charming. His concern for her well-being, his insistence that she should go to bed as soon as her eyes started drooping, had made her feel someone very special, and although she had been a little doubtful, her suspicions had been ungrounded.
Of course, it had been quite late when they arrived the night before. It was dark when the Lamborghini turned between white-painted gates and followed a gravelled approach to the house. The headlights had illuminated little beyond the grassy verge that sloped away at either side, throwing the row of trees into silhouette, as they formed a shadowy guard along the drive.
After overcoming her opposition, Reed had suggested they had dinner in London before driving out to Stonor’s End. That way they would avoid the regular exodus from the city that generally occurred at weekends, he explained, and because she had still had doubts about accompanying him, Antonia had agreed.
But after a delicious meal in a quiet, out-of-the-way restaurant, with several glasses of wine to augment the cocktail she had had before she started, Antonia was too relaxed and too sleepy to offer more than a salutory$$’ protest. Besides, her suitcase was in the boot of the Lamborghini, alongside Reed’s briefcase, and the idea of spending the weekend in London when she had an alternative was not appealing. Aware of Reed’s satisfaction when she snuggled down in the seat beside him, she had felt she ought to be more forceful, but it hadn’t lasted long. Lulled by the warmth of the car, the lazy music on the radio, and the comforting nearness of Reed’s shoulder, she had felt too contented to resist, and when she opened her eyes, they were miles along the motorway.
Their arrival at the house had been achieved with the minimum amount of fuss. Her own appearance—late in the evening and probably unannounced—was dealt with without any particular disturbance, Reed issuing his orders smoothly, and Mrs Macauley expediting them with every appearance of co-operation. She had even smiled and asked about the journey as she showed Antonia to her room, and if she thought the suitcase she had insisted on taking charge of was rather big to transport its lightweight contents, she kept her opinion to herself.
Antonia supposed she might have felt more embarrassed if she had not been so enthralled by her surroundings. She had thought Reed’s apartment was impressive, but Stonor House, as it was called, was far more imposing. Silk carpets; panelled walls; a huge stained-glass window at the first landing of the fan-shaped staircase; it was difficult to imagine someone actually lived here. Yet, later, when she had joined Reed for a drink in the library, she had had to revise her opinion. Although the walls were lined from floor to ceiling with leather-bound volumes, and the carpet on the floor was probably priceless, nevertheless, the room had a lived-in atmosphere. Apart from the familiar smells of alcohol and good tobacco, the squashy leather chairs that flanked the open fireplace had the comfortably worn appearance of having been well-used, and Reed was there to put her at her ease, with all the teasing eloquence of his race.
Thinking of Reed now, she wondered if he was up yet. It was only eight o’clock and she suspected he would still be in his bed. The idea brought a disturbing awareness to the pit of her stomach, and she went hastily into her bathroom before the disruptive seed could take root.
Like the bedroom the bathroom’s decoration was predominantly pink, with smoked glass walls to throw back her reflection from all angles. A round, step-in bath had a jacuzzi fitment, but she decided just to take a shower in case she touched the wrong handles.
Afterwards, she dried her hair with the hand-drier provided, and then wrapping herself in the towelling bathrobe she found behind the door, she returned to the bedroom.
Her clothes were through an archway which opened into a dressing area. There were long mirrors flanking a long, fitted closet where she had hung her few garments the night before. Mrs Macauley had slid one of the long doors aside to show her the vacant space, but now, when she opened the door at the opposite end of the unit, she found herself confronted by a colourful array. They were not her clothes, but they were a woman’s clothes, and she closed the door abruptly, and slid back the other panel.
They needn’t be Celia’s, she told herself severely, as she stepped into tight-fitting jeans and a long-sleeved cotton shirt. But they could be, a small voice taunted, and she felt a sudden sickness at the thought that Reed might have shared her bed with his fiancée.
She was standing at the mirror which hung above the long cabinet in her bedroom, brushing her hair, when someone knocked at her door. ‘Yes?’ she called tightly, not sure who it was or what she should do, and the door opened slowly to admit a girl scarcely out of her teens. She was carrying a tray, and she looked in some confusion at the bed when she saw that it was empty. But then she saw Antonia, doing her hair, and her homely features softened to expose a friendly smile.
‘Mrs Macauley thought you might prefer breakfast in bed this morning, miss,’ she declared, in a lovely Oxfordshire drawl. ‘Mr Reed said that you were tired and not to disturb you, but Mrs Macauley thought you might like a cup of tea, it being a strange bed and all.’
‘Oh, I would.’ Dropping her brush on to the cabinet, Antonia turned to the other girl eagerly. ‘How kind of Mrs Macauley.’
‘You wouldn’t prefer to come downstairs, now you’re dressed, would you, miss?’ the girl asked doubtfully, but Antonia shook her head. ‘Then, I’ll put the tray here, shall I?’ she suggested, setting it down on the table at the nearside of the bed. ‘There’s some orange juice, and scrambled eggs too, just in case you’re hungry. And Mrs Macauley said if you’d prefer coffee, it’s no trouble.’
‘The tea is fine,’ said Antonia firmly, looking at the beautifully laid-out tray with some bemusement. ‘And—and everything else,’ she added. ‘Thank you. Please tell Mrs Macauley I’m very grateful.’
‘Yes, miss.’
The girl smiled and departed, and Antonia approached the tray with some amazement. The orange juice was freshly squeezed, and resided in a cut-glass container; the scrambled eggs nestled beneath a silver cover; curls of butter and lightly browned toast jostled a dish of strawberry preserve; and the bone-china teacup and saucer stood beside a squat bone-china teapot, fitted with a padded velour cosy.
Antonia shook her head and sat down on the side of the bed to pour herself some tea. It was years since anyone had brought her breakfast in bed, and never had it been set out so attractively; and although she rarely swallowed more than a slice of toast before leaving for work in the morning, she couldn’t resist sampling the orange juice and the eggs.
As she had anticipated, the juice was sweet and palatable, and took no effort whatsoever. The eggs, too, were light and fluffy, and despite her intention just to taste them, she found herself eating with enthusiasm. It must be the air, she told herself wryly, spreading strawberry preserve on a slice of toast. She couldn’t ever remember enjoying a breakfast so much.
By the time she had finished the meal, and applied a little make-up, it was after nine o’clock, a much more respectable hour, she reflected. Checking her appearance before leaving the room, she was relieved to see the dark lines that had surrounded her eyes the day before had almost disappeared, and there was actually a little colour in the skin that covered her cheekbones. Her newly washed hair gleamed with health, and although she found her features ordinary, anticipation leant an unfamiliar sparkle to her eyes.
Leaving the tray, and her unmade bed—an unheard-of luxury—Antonia opened her door and looked along the wide corridor. She knew the staircase was to her right. The night before, when Mrs Macauley had shown her to her room, she had taken especial notice of the fact that they had turned left at the top of the stairs so that later, when she wanted to go to bed, she did not need Reed’s escort to take her there.
Now, closing the door behind her, she trod the soft cream carpet to the head of the stairs. Several other doors opened off the corridor, and she wondered if one of them was Reed’s. If her room was the one Celia used, it was quite likely, she thought, remembering the dismay she had felt earlier, before the maid had brought her breakfast. But as there was a matching corridor at the opposite side of the staircase, it was debatable. Would Reed be so unsubtle as to situate his and his fiancée’s rooms side by side, she mused unwillingly, when he must know what interpretation would be put upon it?
The glossy wood of the banister rail ran silkily beneath her fingers as she descended the stairs. Below her, the shining expanse of polished wood revealed a conscientious attention to duty, the steady tick of a grandfather clock the only sound to disturb the silence. Unless one listened hard, she acknowledged; then one could hear the birds, and the distant barking of a dog, and even the lowing of cattle, grazing somewhere not too far away.
‘Are you looking for someone, Miss Sheldon?’ inquired a businesslike voice behind her, and Antonia realised she had been standing on the bottom stair, like someone in a dream.
‘Oh—Mrs Macauley,’ she exclaimed, finding the tiny housekeeper at her elbow. ‘I—is Mr Gallagher up yet? I was just wondering where I might find him.’
‘Sure, Mr Reed was up two hours ago, Miss Sheldon,’ responded Mrs Macauley, revealing a brogue Antonia had scarcely identified the night before. ‘He said you’d be sleeping till mid-morning most likely, but I thought you might find it strange here, after the clamour of London.’
‘And you were right.’ Antonia smiled. ‘I should thank you again for my breakfast. It was delicious. I … er … I left the tray upstairs.’
‘That’s all right, Miss Sheldon. Ruth will get it when she goes to make the bed.’
‘Um—it’s Mrs Sheldon, actually,’ murmured Antonia, a little awkwardly. ‘Do—do you know where—Reed is?’
Mrs Macauley did not immediately respond to her enquiry. ‘Mrs Sheldon, is it?’ she remarked noncommittally. ‘And will your husband be joining us, Mrs Sheldon?’
‘No.’ Antonia was obliged to answer her. ‘I’m divorced, Mrs Macauley, and I don’t know where my ex-husband is.’
‘Ah …’ The housekeeper cupped her elbow in the palm of one hand and tugged thoughtfully at her ear with the other. ‘You’re young to be looking for another husband, Mrs Sheldon.’
‘I’m not looking for another husband, Mrs Macauley,’ retorted Antonia shortly, rapidly revising her opinion of Reed’s choice of retainer ‘Do you know Mr Gallagher’s whereabouts, or shall I look for him myself?’
‘Sure, he’s been out with the horses since half-past seven,’ responded the housekeeper at once. ‘And if you’re planning on going down to the stables, I should put a coat on, if I were you. The sun’s out, but there’s still a nip in the air.’
‘Thank you.’
Antonia’s acknowledgment was decidedly frosty, and the housekeeper smiled. ‘Sure, I’m only thinking of the good of—both of you,’ she observed sagely. ‘Wrap up warm now. You wouldn’t be wanting to get a chill, now, would you?’
Collecting her pale blue anorak from her room, Antonia had to admit it was difficult to remain aggrieved with Mrs Macauley. The woman said outrageous things, it was true, but Antonia sensed she really did have Reed’s well-being at heart. No doubt it was the housekeeper’s way of warning her off, Antonia reflected uneasily. And after all, she must be curious as to why her employer had brought a strange young woman into his home. It would be different if there were several guests; but there weren’t. There was only her, and the fact that she was divorced led to obvious speculation.
Downstairs again, in the absence of any known alternative, Antonia let herself out of the front door, and pushing her hands into the pockets of her jacket, set off across the courtyard. Mrs Macauley had been right, she thought, as a chill breeze swept her hair back from her face. It was much cooler than it had been the night before, and although the sun was shining, it was not making any impact.
The front of the house faced down the drive they had driven up the night before, and now Antonia could see the imposing sweep of grassland that stretched as far as the distant gateposts. To her right, white rails fenced in a handful of mares and their foals, and further afield, the cattle she had heard earlier grazed a lush green pasture. Like Reed had said, it was very peaceful and very rural, and she filled her lungs with enthusiasm as she breathed the country air.
At one end of the long row of windows that confronted her, a wall, inset with an arched doorway, gave access to the garage yard. The Lamborghini was there, being hosed down by a boy of about sixteen, but he turned off the water at Antonia’s approach, and arched his brows rather insolently. ‘Did you want something?’
‘Yes. Mr Gallagher,’ replied Antonia, with some reluctance. ‘I’m looking for the stables actually. Is this the way?’
‘You’d be—Miss Sheldon, is that right?’ enquired the boy inquisitively, squeezing out his wash-leather in a bucket standing close by, and Antonia sighed.
‘Mrs Sheldon, yes,’ she agreed, glancing impatiently about her. ‘Can I get to the stables this way?’
The boy hesitated, obviously wishing he could say more, but unlike Mrs Macauley, he did not have the confidence. ‘Yes,’ he said off-handedly, nodding towards another gateway across the yard. ‘If you go through there and follow the path, you’ll see the stables right ahead of you.’
‘Thank you.’
Antonia followed his instructions, aware as she did so that his eyes followed her until she was out of the gate. No doubt he was wondering exactly what her relationship with Reed was, she reflected, wishing she had anticipated this before she agreed to come.
But then, she thought, she had not realised just how many people were going to be involved. Her visions of Reed’s country house might have run to a domestic of some kind, like at his apartment in London. She had not forseen a country manor, with all its incumbent employees.
She saw Reed before she reached the three-sided collection of buildings that made up the stable block. He was in the yard, talking with an elderly man, who Antonia assumed must be the groom, and her heart accelerated annoyingly at the sight of his lean frame. In a suede jerkin and matching moleskin trousers, pushed into knee-length black boots, he looked perfectly at ease with his surroundings. The cream knitted sweater he was wearing, whose rolled collar brushed his chin, accentuated the darkness of his complexion, but otherwise he looked like an English country squire, returning from an outing with the hunt.
The old man saw Antonia first, and apparently he drew Reed’s attention to it, for he turned and gave her a casual wave. What did he think he was doing? Antonia asked herself unhappily, slowing her step. How was he going to explain this visit—no matter how innocent—to Celia? And how was she likely to react to the fact that her downstairs neighbour was attracting far too much attention from the man she herself intended to marry? Reed could not expect to keep this a secret. Not when people like Mrs Macauley and the boy who had been cleaning the Lamborghini were so evidently intrigued by her identity. If she were Celia, she would resent it; was she any better than Simon, after all?
Halting at the edge of the cobbled stable yard, she stamped her feet in their dark blue trainers. She shouldn’t have come. That was all there was to it. She could fool herself that she wasn’t harming anyone, but she really shouldn’t have come.
‘What are you looking so fed-up about?’ enquired Reed tolerantly, detaching himself from the groom, and strolling lazily towards her. ‘I didn’t think you’d be up yet. Didn’t you sleep well?’
‘I slept very well,’ replied Antonia formally, her shoulder lifting to dislodge the hand he had laid upon it. And, because it was expected of her, she added: ‘Did you?’
‘No. As a matter-of-fact, I slept badly,’ Reed responded softly. ‘For which you can take the credit.’ His lips twisted. ‘Have you had breakfast?’
‘Yes.’ Antonia made a dismissive gesture. ‘Mrs Macauley sent me breakfast in bed. Unfortunately, I was already up when it arrived.’
‘Yes, so the maid said,’ Antonia interrupted him tensely. ‘But I’m not used to lying in bed until all hours. I’m a working woman.’
‘So you keep reminding me,’ remarked Reed drily. ‘Now—would you like to look round? I don’t know if you’re interested in horses, but I keep a couple of hunters.’
‘A couple!’ Antonia glanced back over her shoulder. ‘I saw at least twice that number in the paddock.’
‘They’re breeding mares,’ responded Reed carelessly. ‘Charlie Lomax, he’s my trainer, he likes to keep a few mares in foal, just to keep his hand in. He used to run a stud farm, before he came to work for me. I’ll show you the foals, if you like. They’re very friendly.’
‘No. That is—–’ Antonia looked down at her feet as she struggled to find the words. ‘Reed, I’d better go back.’
His grey eyes narrowed. ‘Back where? To the house?’ He frowned. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘I mean—back to London,’ she admitted unhappily, and he smothered a savage oath.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ he swore, in a low voice, ‘I thought we’d settled that!’
‘Well, we haven’t,’ she mumbled, pushing her hair back out of her eyes. ‘Reed, I feel such a fraud! I don’t belong here.’
‘Who says so?’ he enquired, his features hardening. ‘Did Rose say something? Did anyone else make any insinuations?’
‘Well, no—at least, not exactly.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Antonia scuffed her toe against the cobbles. ‘Mrs Macauley kept calling me Miss Sheldon, so I told her I was divorced.’
‘And?’ His eyes were intent.
‘Oh—–’ Antonia sighed. ‘Does it matter?’
‘It does to me.’ He paused. ‘Are you telling me Rose made some comment about you being a divorcee?’
‘Well, she said … she said I was young to be looking for another husband,’ admitted Antonia at last. ‘I don’t think she believed me when I said I wasn’t.’
‘Is that all?’ Reed’s expression softened again. ‘Oh, take no notice of Rose. She’s curious, that’s all.’
‘Wouldn’t you be?’ exclaimed Antonia, not responding to his mocking smile. ‘Reed, can you imagine what these people must be thinking? I’m half-inclined to believe she sent my breakfast to bed to see if we were sharing the same room!’
‘What? With me out with the horses soon after seven?’ asked Reed teasingly, and her colour deepened. ‘Antonia, if we were sleeping together, we’d still be in bed. Believe me, I would not be venting my frustration on a dumb animal!’
Antonia’s breath caught in her throat. ‘You shouldn’t say things like that.’
‘Why not? They’re true.’ His hands descended on her shoulders, and uncaring of the old man still pottering about in the yard behind him, he jerked her towards him. ‘Just because I’ve agreed to your terms, doesn’t mean I have to approve of them,’ he told her huskily, his mouth warmly insistent on hers. ‘Now, come on: stop all this nonsense about rushing back to London, and let me show you the grounds. I want you here. That’s what’s important.’ He let her go with some reluctance, and captured her hand in his. ‘I’ll even let you pick some crocuses in the wood, if you promise to be good.’
Antonia shook her head, but she was weakening, and he knew it. ‘Reed—what about Celia? What will she say when—–?’
‘Let me worry about Celia,’ he informed her flatly. Then, observing her uncertainty, he shook his head. ‘Stop anticipating something that may never happen.’ He smiled. ‘Now—do you want to take the dogs? I warn you, they’re very affectionate—just like their master.’
It was a wonderful morning. Accompanied by two excitable retrievers, who spent most of their time gambolling in the grass, Antonia walked for miles. Wearing a pair of rubber boots Reed found for her in the stables, she kept pace with him across the paddock—where the foals dogged their progress—and into the pasture, with its doe-eyed collection of cattle. It didn’t matter where she put her feet in the rubber boots, which was just as well in the circumstances, and Reed doubled up when she fastidiously cleaned her boots after every unwary step.
‘So long as you don’t make a mistake and sit down in it,’ he teased her, his hand running possessively over her rear, and she met his gaze in sudden confusion, before brushing his hand away.
They talked a lot; impersonal things mostly, although Reed did tell her a little about the company, and the role he played in it. He was offhand about his own qualifications, playing down the first he had got at Oxford, the agile brain, which had absorbed so much information about the company’s operations while he was still in his teens. Yet, Antonia sensed the pride he had in his family’s traditions, his admiration for the prestige which his father and his grandfather had maintained, their success in a world where it wasn’t always easy just to survive.
She was fascinated by his grasp of investment and finance, but although she listened avidly when he spoke of the company’s accomplishments overseas, she was once again reminded of their very different backgrounds. Reed had grown up, secure in the knowledge that one day Gallaghers would be in his control; a multi-million dollar company, with all its incumbent responsibilities. She, on the other hand, was the daughter of a mining overseer from Tyneside, who had been killed in an accident at the pit, when Susie was only a baby.
They had lunch in the breakfast room, an attractive room, overlooking the terrace. After their walk, Antonia’s cheeks were flushed with becoming colour, and Reed seldom took his eyes from her as she ate her meal with real enjoyment.
‘It’s just as well I’m only staying until tomorrow,’ she exclaimed, swallowing a mouthful of the succulent steak and kidney pie that Reed had explained his cook, Mrs Braid, had prepared for them. She smiled delightfully. ‘I’d get awfully fat! Just like Tuppence.’
‘Who is Tuppence?’ enquired Reed lazily, neglecting his own meal and resting his elbows on the table.
‘He’s a cat,’ admitted Antonia ruefully. ‘My mother’s cat, actually. Susie torments him unmercifully.’
Reed cupped his chin on one hand. ‘I’d like to meet Susie,’ he said, disconcerting her still further. ‘Can I?’
Antonia put down her knife and fork. ‘How can you?’ she countered, looking down at her plate. ‘I’ve told you. She lives with my mother.’
‘In Newcastle. I know.’ Reed stretched across the table to take one of her hands in his. ‘But you go home sometimes, don’t you? At weekends,’ he prompted drily.
Antonia tried to draw her fingers away, but he wouldn’t let her, and looking up at him, she said: ‘Why do you want to meet her?’
‘Because she’s yours,’ replied Reed evenly. ‘Because I’d like to know her, when you talk about her. Because she’s part of your life.’
Antonia sighed. ‘Oh, Reed—–’
‘Oh, Reed—nothing,’ he told her softly. ‘How about next weekend? I could drive you up there on Friday night—or Saturday morning, if you’d prefer it. Don’t worry,’ he added, as her eyes grew anxious, ‘I’m not inviting myself to your mother’s house. I can stay at an hotel.’ He grinned. ‘I presume there are hotels in Newcastle, aren’t there?’
‘Of course, there are.’ Antonia was indignant, until she saw his teasing smile. ‘But—well, I don’t know if my mother would like that. Your staying in an hotel, I mean. She’d think—well, you can guess what she’d think, I’m sure.’
‘That her home wasn’t good enough?’ enquired Reed, with a grimace. ‘Sweetheart, if you invited me to stay with you, I’d be only too happy to accept.’
‘Don’t be silly!’ Antonia was confused, as much by his casual use of the endearment as by his outrageous suggestion. What he was proposing was wild; reckless; almost as reckless as her being here at Stonor’s End.
‘Wouldn’t you like to go home next weekend?’ he asked, playing with her fingers, and she drew an uneven breath.
‘What would I tell my mother?’
‘Do you have to tell her anything?’
Antonia shook her head. ‘How do I introduce you?’
Reed shrugged. ‘As a—friend. What’s so unusual about that?’
Antonia bent her head. ‘A rich friend!’
‘A friend,’ he amended harshly. ‘Antonia, stop putting the obstacle of my being a Gallagher between us!’ He lifted her hand to his lips and she felt his tongue against her palm. ‘Let me come with you,’ he said huskily. ‘Let me meet Susie. I promise I won’t do anything to embarrass you.’
Mrs Macauley’s arrival with their dessert saved Antonia from making a response. But Reed’s eyes were frankly persuasive as they dwelt upon her face, and Antonia snatched her hand away in embarrassment before meeting the housekeeper’s knowing gaze.
‘Mrs Sheldon approves of your choice of menu, Rose,’ Reed remarked incorrigibly, as the housekeeper cleared their plates. ‘That’s right, isn’t it, Antonia? You did enjoy Mrs Braid’s pride and joy!’
‘I—the pie was lovely,’ Antonia conceded uncomfortably. ‘I don’t think I could eat another thing.’
‘I’m sure you’ll find room for a few fresh raspberries,’ responded Mrs Macauley drily, her sharp eyes missing nothing in their exchange. She set a dish of raspberries and a jug of cream on the table. ‘Will you have coffee here, or in the drawing room?’
‘We’ll have it in the sitting room,’ replied Reed, pushing the fruit towards Antonia. ‘Help yourself,’ he added. ‘I like watching you.’
Antonia flushed then; she couldn’t help it; and Mrs Macauley regarded her half-sympathetically. ‘Take no notice of him, Mrs Sheldon,’ she remarked, with the familiarity of long service. ‘If you want some—have some. He hasn’t eaten a decent meal since he came here.’
She departed on this note, and Antonia looked doubtfully across the table. ‘Is that true?’
Reed grimaced. ‘We’ve only been here since last night!’
‘Didn’t you have any breakfast either?’
‘I’m not hungry,’ he responded quietly. ‘At least—not for food,’ he added disturbingly. Then, as if realising he was getting too serious, he forced a smile. ‘Have some raspberries. Just to please me.’
They spent the afternoon in the sitting room, listening to music and watching the changing weather outside. Contrary to Mr Fenwick’s expectations, it had begun to rain while they were having lunch, and now the drops pattering at the windowpanes enclosed them in a world cut off from outside influences.
Antonia had found that Reed’s taste in music was similar to her own, a mixture of contemporary bands and traditional jazz. They both liked China Crisis and Duran Duran, but they also enjoyed Count Basie and Duke Ellington, and Antonia discovered other favourites like Elton John and Lionel Richie among the enormous collection of albums stacked beneath the hi-fi system.
Curled up on the floor in her jeans and sweater and without any make-up, she was totally unaware of how young she appeared. It was only when she looked up and found Reed’s gaze upon her that she realised she had forgotten to be on her guard with him, and she brushed her hair out of her eyes in a purely defensive gesture.
‘Relax,’ he said, seeing the sudden consternation that crossed her face at this awareness. ‘You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?’
‘You know I am,’ she admitted, unknowingly sensuous as she stretched her arms above her head, and Reed shifted on the soft rug.
‘I’m sleepy,’ he said, lowering his length at right angles to her and depositing his head in her lap. ‘Do you mind?’ he murmured, but it was a rhetorical question. His eyes were already closed, and she hadn’t the will to refuse him.
He did sleep for a while, she thought, his head growing heavier on her legs. With his eyes closed, his face had a disturbing vulnerability, and she couldn’t resist the urge to smooth the silky dark hair back from his forehead. He didn’t move, the splayed fan of his lashes a dusky arc above his cheekbones. It made her reckless; it made her want to touch him in other places; and her fingers slid daringly over his ear to the heavy roll collar of his sweater.
He stirred then, his eyes opening to look up into hers. Then, lifting his arms, he took her hand and pushed it inside the neck of his sweater, letting her fingers feel his warmth and the lean hard strength beneath his skin. It was an unnerving experience, an unfamiliar intimacy that brought with it a quickening of her pulses and a wash of hot colour to her cheeks. His skin felt so supple, so masculine, the scent of his body unmistakably aroused. For a moment, she held his gaze, feeling her own response like a physical ache in the pit of her stomach. Then, abruptly, she pulled her hand away and scrambled to her feet.
His head thudded on to the rug at her hasty withdrawal, but she didn’t apologise. Instead, she went to sit on the seat by the window, and by the time she had controlled herself sufficiently to glance behind her, Reed had resumed his position with his back against the patterned sofa.
The maid who had brought Antonia’s breakfast that morning, appeared with afternoon tea at about five o’clock. Antonia, who had spent the last half-hour gazing out at the windswept paddock, abandoned her seat by the window to return to an armchair at the girl’s appearance, and Reed smiled at the maid as she set the tray beside her.
‘Hello, Ruth,’ he said, his tone revealing nothing but a friendly interest. ‘How is your mother? Is she any better?’
‘Oh, yes, Mr Reed.’ Ruth straightened from her task and gazed at him with evident pleasure. ‘That holiday really bucked her up. Doctor Michaels says there’s no reason why she shouldn’t make a full recovery.’
‘That’s good.’ Reed nodded, and Antonia averted her eyes from his attractive face. ‘Tell her I was asking after her, will you? Oh, and get George to give you some of those hyacinths out of the greenhouse.’
‘Thank you.’ Ruth coloured with pride. ‘I’ll do that.’
‘Good.’
Reed regarded her good-humouredly, and with a little nod at Antonia, the girl made a hasty retreat.
Alone again, Antonia forced herself to look at him. ‘You like your tea without milk, don’t you?’ she asked, noticing the slices of lemon residing on a dish.
‘Please,’ he conceded, putting aside the record sleeve he had been reading. ‘You remembered? That’s something, I suppose.’
‘Reed, please—–’
‘I know, I know,’ he said shortly, evidently finding it less easy to be civil with her. His grey eyes narrowed sardonically. ‘I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.’
And it didn’t. For the remainder of the time they were at Stonor, Reed was on his best behaviour, sustaining a friendly—if impersonal—relationship, that Antonia told herself she wanted, but which was very hard to take after their earlier closeness.
But what did she want, after all, if not to maintain a certain distance between them? she asked herself impatiently, when on Saturday evening Reed abandoned her after dinner, on the pretext of checking on one of his mares that was in foal. How could she expect to go with him, out into the darkness of the stableyard and subsequently, into the warm shadowy intimacy of the stables themselves? she argued fiercely. There would be too many awkward moments, too many opportunities to surrender to the guilty feelings that lay so shallowly beneath the veneer of her detachment. But when, at ten o’clock, he had not come back and she retired to bed, there was a hollow feeling in her stomach that would not go away.