He heard the sting under the sweetness; he smiled back at her without warmth.
‘Thank you. Goodnight, Sophie.’
Sholto had left much earlier; he had said goodnight without meeting his host’s eyes and rushed off, alone. Presumably the girl had gone home already, Ambrose had decided, but a few minutes later Emilie Madelin came along the panelled hall towards him, her hand threaded through someone’s arm in an intimate, confiding way.
Who was she with now? Ambrose glanced at the man quickly, and did a double-take, stiffening as he saw the grizzled hair, the lined face and pale blue eyes of George Rendell.
George Rendell? Why was the girl with him?
The old man smiled cheerfully at him. ‘A very enjoyable evening, Ambrose, as usual. Good of you to invite me. I’m sorry not to have had a chance to talk to you, but with so many people here it was hard to get anywhere near you! Anyway, we enjoyed ourselves, didn’t we, Emilie?’ He paused as Ambrose stared at the girl. ‘Of course, you weren’t around when we arrived. I haven’t had a chance to introduce her—this is my granddaughter, Emilie.’
Granddaughter. Ambrose turned his stare to Emilie Madelin’s gentle face, feeling a strange sickness inside his stomach. There’s something wrong with me, he thought. I’ve been feeling weird all evening. Have I picked up some bug? There was a viral infection going through the staff at the bank at the moment. Maybe that’s it, he thought irritably. I haven’t got time to be ill!
The girl gave him her grave smile, her blue eyes serious.
Automatically, Ambrose held out his hand. ‘I hope you enjoyed the party, Emilie.’
Her hand was small and cool; his swallowed it.
‘Very much, thank you, Mr Kerr,’ she said in that soft, grave voice. ‘You have a beautiful home.’
‘You must have dinner with us soon, Ambrose,’ George Rendell said.
Ambrose detached his stare from her face. He smiled at the old man. ‘I’d like that, thank you,’ he said, but his mind was in confusion. She was George Rendell’s granddaughter?
Why hadn’t he picked up on the name when she spelt it out for him? It was unusual enough, God knew.
He must have the name on file somewhere. He knew that her mother, Rendell’s only child, had married a Frenchman and gone to live in France, had had, in her turn, only one daughter, and had then died of cancer at a tragically early age.
The father had been a flamboyant journalist in Paris; he had remarried rather soon afterwards, his new wife had had other children, and this girl had been sent to a French boarding-school. Ambrose hadn’t realised that she was now living in England with her grandfather; he had assumed she still lived in France. Why hadn’t Gavin found that out? Or had he? But if he had, why wouldn’t he have mentioned the fact?
Ambrose knew all about her, on paper; he had even seen a photo of her, he suddenly realised, but it must have been taken some years ago. She had been a schoolgirl in a very neat green and gold uniform. Her large-brimmed hat had half hidden her face, but he had a feeling she had been rather plump and had worn her hair in two long braids tied with green ribbon and hanging right down to her waist.
She looked very different now.
‘We’re having a dinner party next Tuesday—just a few friends, you’ll know most of them, I expect. Short notice, I know. I don’t suppose you’re free, but if you are…’ George Rendell paused expectantly, smiling, clearly expecting a polite refusal.
‘I think I am,’ said Ambrose. He thought he had another dinner engagement, with visiting clients, but that was easy to rearrange; someone else could stand in for him.
But why am I accepting? he asked himself silently. This is crazy. Aloud, though, he said, ‘I’d be delighted to have dinner, George, thank you.’
‘Well, that’s wonderful. Look forward to seeing you then—I don’t think we’ve had you at the house before, have we? Should have thought of it a long time ago, but I haven’t entertained much in recent years. Gave all that up after my wife died; been a bit of a recluse, I suppose. All that’s changed since Emilie came to live with me.’ George looked down at his granddaughter, smiling. ‘She’s given me a new lease of life. I’ve started giving dinner parties again, filling the house with young people.’
Ambrose smiled back at him, faintly touched by the old man’s fond gaze at the girl.
He was very well-preserved for a man of seventy; upright, active, with a healthy colour in his face. Ambrose knew he went to work each weekday morning at eight, as he always had, and was at his desk until after six. He still had plenty of energy, obviously, but perhaps he no longer cared whether or not the mills were working at maximum efficiency? Perhaps all his attention now was given to this girl?
‘We have a town house in Chelsea,’ George Rendell said. ‘Your secretary will give you the address, I’m sure. You must have it on file. I know how efficient your office is! Off the Embankment, not far from Carlyle’s house. Easy to find…Shall we say seven-thirty?’
Ambrose nodded. ‘Seven-thirty.’
‘Goodnight, then.’
George shepherded the girl in front of him; she gave Ambrose a fleeting smile and he watched them disappear into the winter night, his face pale and his eyes grim.
I shouldn’t have accepted that invitation, he thought. This time next week that old man is going to hate my guts; the girl will too. I have no business eating their food, sitting at their table, when I am about to pull the roof down on top of them both.
An hour later Ambrose was in bed, the lights off, the room dark and quiet, the only noises the wind rattling the bare branches of trees in Regent’s Park, which he could see from his bedroom, and the unearthly sounds of animals in the zoo on the further side of the park. He normally went to sleep the minute his head hit the pillow. Tonight, though, sleep evaded him until the early hours of the morning. He couldn’t remember the last time his conscience had given him that much trouble.
EMILIE woke up early on Tuesday to a calm, quiet winter morning, the sun hidden behind cloud, a pale lavender light drifting over the walls of her bedroom.
She yawned, thought drowsily, Something special is happening today, and then she remembered. Ambrose Kerr was coming to dinner.
Somewhere there was a rapid noise, a drumming beat. For a second she couldn’t think what it was, then she realised that it was her heart, beating faster than the speed of light.
She jumped out of bed and ran into the bathroom to have a shower. In the mirror on the wall she saw her reflection: over-bright eyes, flushed face, a pink, parted mouth breathing fast.
What’s the matter with you? she accused herself, then looked away, hurriedly pulled her nightie over her head, the movement tightening her slender body, making her breasts lift, their pink nipples harden and darken against the creamy flesh surrounding them. My breasts are too small! she thought, staring at them. I wish I had a better figure. I wish I had blonde hair—or jet-black? Anything but brown. I wish my hair was naturally curly, too, instead of straight. And oh! I wish I had bigger breasts…
She stepped under the warm jets of water, closing her eyes, and began washing, smoothly lathering her body. Her truant mind kept conjuring up disturbing images. How would it feel to have a man touching her like this? Male hands stroking her shoulders, her throat, her breasts. No, not just any man…Ambrose Kerr. Ever since Saturday night she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him. Her nipples ached, her mouth was dry.
Are you crazy? she asked herself, even pinker now, and breathing twice as fast. He’s almost twice your age, sophisticated, very experienced…he wouldn’t