‘You do? You never said anything about knowing Oliver to me, Lisa,’ Henry said almost hectoringly.
But before Lisa could make any attempt to defend herself or explain, Oliver Davenport was doing it for her, addressing Henry in a tone that left Lisa in no doubt as to just what kind of opinion the other man had of her husband-to-be, as he announced cuttingly, ‘No doubt she had more important things on her mind. Or perhaps she simply didn’t think it was important…’
‘I…I…I didn’t realise you two knew one another,’ was the only response Lisa could come up with, and she saw from Henry’s face that it was not really one that satisfied him.
She nibbled worriedly at her bottom lip, cast Oliver Davenport a bitter look and then was forced to listen helplessly whilst Oliver, who still quite obviously bore her a grudge over the clothes, commented judiciously, ‘I like the outfit… It suits you… But then I thought so the first time I saw you wearing it, didn’t I?’
Lisa knew that she was blushing. Blushing…? She was turning a vivid and unconcealable shade of deep scarlet, she acknowledged miserably as she saw the suspicious look that Henry was giving her and recognised from the narrow, pursed-lip glare that Henry’s mother must have also overheard Oliver’s comment.
‘Oliver, let me get you a drink,’ Henry’s father offered, thankfully coming up to usher him away, but not before Oliver managed to murmur softly to Lisa,
‘Saved by the cavalry…’
‘How on earth do you come to know Oliver Davenport?’ Henry demanded angrily as soon as Oliver was out of earshot. ‘I don’t know him,’ Lisa admitted wearily. ‘At least not—’
‘What do you mean? Of course you know him…and well enough for him to be able to comment on your clothes…’
‘He’s… Henry…this isn’t the time for me to explain…’ Lisa told him quietly.
‘So there is something to explain, then.’ Henry was refusing to be appeased. ‘Where did you meet him? In London, I suppose. His business might be based up here at the Hall, but he still spends quite a considerable amount of time in London… His cousin works for him down there—’
‘His cousin…?’ Lisa couldn’t quite keep the note of nervous apprehension out of her voice.
‘Yes, Piers Davenport, Oliver’s cousin. He’s several years younger than Oliver and he lives in London with his girlfriend—some model or other…Emily…or Emma…I can’t remember which…’
‘Emma,’ Lisa supplied hollowly.
So Oliver hadn’t been lying, after all, when he had told her that he was acting on behalf of his cousin. She glanced uneasily over her shoulder, remembering just exactly how scathingly she had denounced him, practically accusing him of being a liar and worse.
No wonder he had given her that look this evening which had said that he hadn’t finished with her and that he fully intended to make her pay for her angry insults, to exact retribution on her.
Apprehensively she wondered exactly what form that silently promised retribution was going to take. What was he going to do? Reveal to Henry and his parents that she had bought her clothes second-hand? She could just imagine how Mary Hanford would react to that information. At the thought of her impending humiliation, Lisa felt her stomach muscles tighten defensively.
It wasn’t all her fault. Hers had been a natural enough mistake to make, she reminded herself. Alison had agreed with her. And Oliver had to share some of the blame for her error himself. If he had only been a little more conciliatory in his manner towards her, a little less arrogant in demanding that she return the clothes back to him…
‘I do wish you had told me that you knew Oliver,’ Henry was continuing fussily. ‘Especially in view of his position locally.’
‘What position locally?’ Lisa asked him warily, but she suspected she could guess the answer. To judge from Mary Hanford’s deferential manner towards him, Oliver Davenport was quite obviously someone of importance in the area. Her heart started to sink even further as Henry explained in a hushed, almost awed voice.
‘Oliver is an extremely wealthy man. He owns and runs one of the north of England’s largest financial consultancy businesses and he recently took over another firm based in London, giving him a countrywide network. But why are you asking me? Surely if you know him you must—?’
‘I don’t know him,’ Lisa protested tiredly. ‘Henry, there’s something I have to tell you.’ She took a deep breath. There was nothing else for it; she was going to have to tell Henry the truth.
‘But you evidently do know him,’ Henry protested, ignoring her and cutting across what she was trying to say. ‘And rather well by the sound of it… Lisa, what exactly’s going on?’
Henry could look remarkably like his mother when he pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes like that, Lisa decided. She suddenly had a mental image of the children they might have together—little replicas of their grandmother. Quickly she banished the unwelcome vision.
‘Henry, nothing is going on. If you would just let me explain—’ Lisa began.
But once again she was interrupted, this time by Henry’s mother, who bore down on them, placing a proprietorial hand on Henry’s arm as she told him, ‘Henry, dear, Aunt Elspeth wants to talk to you. She’s over there by the French windows. She’s brought her god-daughter with her. You remember Louise. You used to play together when you were children—such a sweet girl…’
To Lisa’s chagrin, Henry was borne off by his mother, leaving her standing alone, nursing an unwanted glass of too sweet sherry.
What should have been the happiest Christmas Eve of her adult life was turning out to be anything but, she admitted gloomily as she watched a petite, doe-eyed brunette, presumably Aunt Elspeth’s god-daughter, simpering up at a Henry who was quite plainly wallowing in her dewy-eyed, fascinated attention.
It was a good thirty minutes before Henry returned to her side, during which time she had had ample opportunity to watch Oliver’s progress amongst the guests and to wonder why on earth he had accepted the Hanfords’ invitation, since he was quite obviously both bored and irritated by the almost fawning attention of Henry’s mother.
He really was the most arrogantly supercilious man she had ever had the misfortune to meet, Lisa decided critically as he caught her watching him and lifted one derogatory, darkly interrogative eyebrow in her direction.
Flushing, she turned away, but not, she noticed, before Henry’s mother had seen the brief, silent exchange between them.
‘You still haven’t explained to us just how you come to know… You really should have told us that you know Oliver,’ she told Lisa, arriving at her side virtually at the same time as Henry, so that Lisa was once again prevented from explaining to him what had happened.
What was it about some people that made everything they said sound like either a reproach or a criticism? Lisa wondered grimly, but before she could answer she heard Mary Hanford adding, in an unfamiliar, almost arch and flattering voice, ‘Ah, Oliver, we were just talking about you.’
‘Really.’
He was looking at them contemptuously, as though they were creatures from another planet—some kind of subspecies provided for his entertainment, Lisa decided resentfully as he looked from Mary to Henry and then to her.
‘Yes,’ Mary continued, undeterred. ‘I was just asking Lisa how she comes to know you…’
‘Well, I think that’s probably best left for Lisa herself to explain to you,’ he responded smoothly. ‘I should hate to embarrass her by making any unwelcome revelations…’