The Virgin's Wedding Night. Sara Craven

the bills.’

      ‘No,’ he said. ‘I look on them mainly as relaxation. It’s good to get out sometimes—to meet new people. Don’t you agree?’

      She remembered the entranced face of the girl he’d been sketching outside the Flint Audley offices.

      She looked round the big room, deliberately letting her glance linger on the pile of papers that had fallen off the sofa, the remains of a meal left on a table, the unmade bed, only half hidden behind a large folding screen. She said, ‘And is this where you bring—your new friends?’

      His tone was laconic as he followed her gaze. ‘It’s the maid’s day off.’

      ‘Then perhaps you should ask your girlfriend to clear up a little.’ Her response was immediate—tart—and completely unintentional. After all, she’d already made her point.

      ‘She does not come here for that,’ he said gently. ‘Also, she might spoil her beautiful hands, and I can put them to much better use.’

      And no prizes for guessing what he meant, Harriet thought furiously, her face warming all over again in spite of herself. She said stonily, ‘I always understood decent men did not kiss and tell.’

      He shrugged, unrepentantly. ‘Who mentioned kissing?’ and laughed softly as her flush deepened.

      He glanced over his shoulder as a car horn sounded from the street. ‘And that is your cab, Miss Flint,’ he added with studied politeness. ‘Right on time.’ And stood aside to let her pass.

      Harriet found herself clinging to the rail of the metal staircase as she descended, aware that her legs were shaking, and that she was strangely breathless again.

      As she crossed the yard, she looked back swiftly, almost furtively, to see if he was watching her go. But the staircase was empty, and the door was closed.

      And for one confused, disturbing moment, Harriet did not know whether to be glad or sorry.