Only when Bel looked from the glittering object in Roderick’s palm to her own bare hand did she realise it was her engagement ring. She must have taken it off, sober enough to feel some sense of shame.
Thrusting the ring into his pocket, Roderick had swung on his heel when he caught sight of the Jesse Harland figurine on the dressing table.
As he picked it up, guessing his intention, Bel cried in horror, ‘Oh, no! Please don’t!’
But, ignoring her appeal, he hurled it savagely against the wall, shattering it into a dozen pieces.
Covering her face with her hands, Bel burst into tears just as the door slammed shut behind him.
As though it was the most natural thing in the world, Andrew took her in his arms and held her close, cradling her head against his broad chest while she wept unrestrainedly.
For a while her response to his tenderness, to the strength of his arms and the soothing murmur of his low, attractive voice, was total.
Then, horrified by the dawning realisation that she was accepting comfort from the man who, by taking advantage of her stupidity, was largely responsible for the situation, she managed to choke back the tears and wrench herself free.
Her pounding head protesting at the violence of the movement, she moaned, pressing slim fingers to her temples.
‘You need something for that hangover.’
When Andrew swung his feet to the floor and reached for his clothes, even through her distress and discomfort Bel saw that his naked, bronzed body was lithe and graceful, with a masculine beauty that drew and held her attention and made her oddly breathless.
Pulling on his trousers and tucking his unbuttoned shirt into the waistband, he headed for the door, saying over his shoulder, ‘I’ll only be a minute.’
As if he’d had the remedy to hand, he reappeared almost immediately, shaking a sachet of something that looked like sugar granules into a tooth glass half full of water.
‘Drink that,’ he instructed. ‘It’s not particularly palatable but it will lift your head and settle your stomach in no time at all.’
She obeyed, grimacing at the revoltingly bittersweet saltiness of the effervescent concoction.
Taking the empty glass, he added briskly, ‘Now I suggest you shower and dress. I’ll go and do the same, then we’ll get the hell out of here. We can stop for some breakfast on the way.’
The very thought of food made Bel’s stomach turn over sickeningly.
His glance knowing, sympathetic, he assured her, ‘In an hour or so you’ll be able to tackle a plateful of bacon and eggs.’
‘I doubt it,’ she muttered. ‘I don’t have that kind of breakfast normally.’
‘Then you’ll need to get into training,’ he said quizzically. ‘I love bacon and eggs, and sharing pleasures is part of the fun of living.’
Before she had time to take in and react to the mocking arrogance of that statement, the door had closed quietly behind him.
She stifled a groan. How could he seem so lighthearted in such an intolerable situation? Being caught in bed with his host’s fiancée and ordered out of the house was hardly something to be proud of.
Yet he seemed positively triumphant.
Feeling like death, shaken to the core by the backlash of Roderick’s anger and her own culpability, Bel stared into space with sightless eyes.
It hardly seemed possible that a weekend she’d looked forward to with such pleasure could have ended so ignominiously.
For a while she stayed where she was, her head in her hands, her mind in utter confusion, unable to untangle and deal with the immediate problems, let alone the wider implications.
Then, knowing some action was needed, she got out of bed and, on legs that seemed unwilling to support her, made her groggy way to the bathroom.
By the time she had cleaned her teeth and showered the potion was working and, physically at least, she was starting to feel somewhat better.
She had donned a cotton dress and sandals and was pinning her hair into a smooth coil when, with a perfunctory knock, Andrew returned.
He had showered and shaved and his crisp dark hair was a little damp. He was dressed in well-cut casual clothes and carrying an overnight grip.
‘About ready to go, Bel?’ he asked as she pushed in the last hairpin.
‘I still have to pack,’ she said helplessly. ‘And I can’t just walk out without seeing Roderick’s parents and trying to explain…to explain how…’ She faltered to a halt.
‘How you came to sleep with one of their guests?’ Dropping his grip by the door, he watched the hot colour pour into her face before adding wryly, ‘I hardly think an explanation will help matters.’
He was right, of course.
Her voice sounding flat, beaten, she said with what composure she could muster, ‘In any case I won’t be leaving with you. I’ve got my own car here.’
‘My dear girl, you’re in no fit state to drive. I’ll take you back to town and arrange to have your car picked up.’
As he spoke he was opening drawers and tossing her belongings into her small suitcase with cool efficiency.
Zipping it shut, he put a hand at her waist and urged her towards the door, sidestepping neatly to avoid a shard of porcelain.
‘Why did the fact that Bentinck vented his anger on the figurine upset you so much?’ he queried, glancing down at the broken pieces.
Swallowing past the lump in her throat, she told him, ‘It was a Jesse Harland original I’d bought for his parents. I thought it was beautiful.’
Andrew nodded without comment, then, taking both bags in one hand, he closed the door behind them and, an arm around Bel’s waist, propelled her along the corridor.
Ignoring the back stairs, he turned towards the main staircase, saying firmly, ‘Keep your head high. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of.’
If only that were true!
Her chin up, a flag of bright colour flying in each cheek, she allowed herself to be escorted down the stairs, across the hall and out of the front door.
To her very great relief they met nobody.
Andrew’s sleek blue Jaguar was parked in front of the stable block, and in less than a minute they were purring through the pleasant Kent countryside.
Bel took in nothing of the scenery. Gazing blindly through the windscreen, all she could see in her mind’s eye was a replay of her wakening to find him beside her, and the ugly little scene that had followed.
As though giving her a chance to come to terms with what had happened and regain her equilibrium, apart from an occasional glance at her pale, set face, her companion drove without speaking.
Just outside Mitford he stopped at the King’s Head for something to eat. It was still quite early, and the clean, comfortable bar was empty. Bel took a seat on an upholstered bench in front of the open casement windows.
When he’d slipped off his corduroy jacket, Andrew sat down beside her. He was wearing a short-sleeved navy silk shirt, and his tanned arms were smoothly muscular, with just a sprinkling of dark hair.
He was much too close for comfort and, her breathing already impeded, Bel was careful not to let her own arm brush against his as they drank the excellent coffee.
Neither spoke, and, though conscious that Andrew watched her every move, as though trying