‘Goodnight Royole,’ she said. ‘It’s been lovely. I really have enjoyed your company.’
It was impossible to read anything in her shadowed eyes, yet her slow smile held a promise. Of that he was certain.
Nicholas quietly inched his way back into the darkened hall, suddenly feeling like an intruder, aware of a strange sort of intimacy between his wife and Royole Fergusson.
Royole was pleased to be alone with her and reiterated what he’d said earlier. ‘I meant what I said; I want to invite you to my home.’ Dropping her hands reluctantly, he looked around. ‘Nothing as grand as this; but my house is full of warmth and laughter. And Caron cooks the best red snapper you ever tasted.’
Serena felt a reaction at the mention of the name ‘Caron’. Forcing her voice to sound indifferent, she asked, ‘Is Caron your wife?’
She was ridiculously pleased when he shook his head; less so when he went on to say, ‘Not yet.’
‘Serena darling, Joseph is waiting to drive Mr Fergusson home,’ Nicholas shouted from the depths of the house.
There was no mistaking his impatience.
‘Goodnight Lady Serena and, once more, thank you. Perhaps you have saved my life tonight.’ He kissed his fingertips, placed them softly on her slightly parted lips and before she had a chance to reply, Royole Fergusson turned and strode off down the drive to where the butler was waiting with the jeep.
Serena watched him go, fighting a dangerous impulse to call him back.
Within seconds his tall figure was swallowed up by the dark, velvety night.
‘No Serena, I will not go.’
His mouth closed to a narrow line, Nicholas Frazer-West was adamant.
His wife glared at him. ‘You’re being ridiculously stubborn, Nicholas.’
Serena was experiencing great difficulty controlling her temper; but control it she knew she must, if she was to win the day. They had been arguing intermittently ever since Royole Fergusson’s note had arrived two days ago, thanking them for their hospitality, and inviting them to dinner at his house.
Staring up at the sky, she yawned and watched a lone egret wing its way across a cloudless brilliant blue horizon.
Pale pink hibiscus flowers swayed across her vision. She reached out to pick one, almost toppling out of the hammock she had been snoozing in for the last two hours.
Tickling her left ear with the stem of the flower, she sat up; and, with one long, tanned leg lolling over the side of the hammock, she deliberately fixed a cajoling smile on her face.
‘For me Nicky, darling.’
She hated herself for pleading, but had no alternative. ‘At least think about it,’ she added in a hopeful voice.
‘I might think about it, but that won’t change my mind.’
An exasperated sigh escaped her lips. ‘You’re impossible Nicholas.’
‘I’m sorry, my devious little darling, but this time you cannot have your own way. I flatly refuse to spend another evening in the company of Mr Royole Fergusson the second. How he has the bloody audacity to call himself the second,’ he snorted.
‘He probably has the audacity because his father was called Royole Fergusson,’ Serena quipped.
Jumping out of the hammock, she joined Nicholas in the white-painted, wooden gazebo, where he was stretched out full length on a day-bed with an assortment of cushions stuffed behind his head and under his bare feet.
Serena perched on the edge of the bed and studied her husband. He was pretending to read Tolstoy, but she knew that he would much rather be reading a good spy thriller.
Why not simply admit that he wasn’t an intellectual, she wondered. After all, Nicholas had everything that mattered: the advantage of good breeding; the best schools; and a shrewd father who had held on to his inherited wealth before conveniently dying five years ago, leaving everything to his only son.
She knew her parents had been delighted, and relieved, when the newly titled Earl of Ettington, Lord Frazer-West, had proposed marriage to their beautiful yet totally irresponsible daughter on the eve of her twenty-first birthday.
Eager to escape both her boring job in Christie’s and the tyranny of her over-protective father, Serena had gladly accepted. She didn’t love Nicholas, but had the advantage of knowing that he adored her. And marriage to him meant she could do exactly as she pleased; which she duly did … most of the time.
‘Anyway, I think that your Mr Royole Fergusson is a fraud. I don’t believe all that stuff he told us the night of the storm.’ Nicholas spoke from behind his book. ‘Joseph told me the man’s a philanderer and a notorious womanizer; got girlfriends all over the place apparently.’
‘Joseph’s such an old woman,’ commented Serena. ‘Always gossiping about something or other. I’d take anything he says with a pinch of salt.’
‘No smoke without fire, darling.’ Nicholas dropped his book. ‘Hasn’t it occurred to you, my naïve little wife, that he probably wants to ingratiate himself with people like us for all the wrong reasons?’
‘Oh for goodness sake, Nicholas,’ she snapped, irritated. ‘Royole Fergusson simply wants to reciprocate our hospitality; no more, no less. Can’t you see that?’
She stood up. Two angry red spots had appeared on her lightly freckled cheeks. Nicholas tried to grab her by the waist.
‘Come on Bunty, let’s forget all this nonsense. Come and lie down next to me.’
He kicked a cushion on to the floor and, wriggling to one side, made space for her on the day-bed. Irritated by the use of his pet name for her, usually a prelude to lovemaking, Serena took a step back and out of his reach. Standing with legs apart and hands firmly clasped by her sides, she took a deep breath before she spoke.
‘I am going to dinner at Royole Fergusson’s house this evening, Nicholas, with or without you. I’ve made up my mind. Now you can join me if you wish; if not, I do hope you have a wonderful evening doing whatever you choose to do.’
She turned to walk away but Nicholas leapt up and grabbed her by the shoulders. His face had suddenly drained of colour, the muscles around his mouth were taut, and she knew that she had pushed him too far.
‘Why is seeing this man so important to you, Serena?’ he demanded, as his fingers pressed into the flesh of her upper arm.
‘Stop it Nicholas, you’re hurting me!’ Serena cried out in pain. He didn’t hear her. A vacant look had entered his eyes and he began to shake her furiously, uttering a name she had never heard before.
‘No Robbie, please don’t hurt me Robbie.’
Nanny Roberts was holding both his arms so tight that he thought he would pass out from the pain. He was sobbing and begging her to stop but she continued, repeatedly telling him what a bad boy he had been and how she was going to have to punish him.
‘Nicholas, stop it please!’ Serena screamed, shaken.
In the two years they had been married she had never seen him like this. Wrenching one arm free, she slapped him hard across the face. He desisted immediately, dropping both hands by his sides.
‘I’m so sorry,