And avarice. This had to be all about money, didn’t it? About building a career. Using. Stepping on anyone to reach your goal.
Her goal, he reminded himself. She’d selected a vulnerable, ill, elderly man and claimed to be his daughter. With what proof?
None.
But she’d reckoned without him.
Jem forced himself to appear relaxed. ‘And television? Sophy mentioned you’d been on television.’
‘A little. I was asked to make a programme about the BAFTAs and I’ve done the occasional slot on morning television.’
Her hands moved endlessly over her evening bag. It didn’t take a genius to recognise how nervous she was. She had good reason.
Laurence had stalwartly believed in Jem when he’d done everything he could to prove him wrong. He’d maintained a faithful belief in his stepson’s innate goodness—despite all appearances to the contrary. And Jem had every intention of returning the compliment.
Laurence was not the kind of man to walk away from his responsibilities, whatever the personal cost. His sense of right and wrong was ingrained in the fibre of his personality. He could no more have rejected a daughter than he could have walked away from Coldwaltham Abbey. Both were sacred trusts, never to be abandoned.
‘Do you want to do more TV?’ he asked blandly.
‘No.’
‘No?’
Her fingers moved nervously. She placed her evening bag on the narrow table and picked up her champagne flute. ‘Not really. It was exciting. Interesting. But no, I don’t think so. I only really do it because it helps the magazine.’
‘Image?’
‘Yes.’ She sipped her champagne. ‘And it raises my profile.’
‘That’s important?’
Her eyes moved nervously. ‘Very. Having a name people recognise is starting to open all kinds of doors.’
‘Really?’
‘Who you know is more important in this business than what you know.’
And Laurence was to be a casualty of that meteoric rise to the top.
But why Laurence?
Why try to use a man whose life had been beyond reproach? Someone who other people could look up to. Why be so cruel?
To his wife? To his family?
The answers came easily. She probably had a novel sitting in her bottom drawer she wanted publishing. All she needed was a ‘name’, a little scandal hanging about her, something that would persuade the big publishing houses to take a chance on her.
She sickened him.
‘I’d like to write about other things. I love fashion but…’ She broke off. Her gaze darted out of the window.
‘You want more?’ he finished for her. Of course she did. A high maintenance blonde, dressed in designer clothes.
She looked back, responding to the edge in his voice. ‘Is there something wrong with that?’
‘It depends what you’re prepared to do to achieve it.’
Eloise frowned. ‘Of course.’
Her fingers moved nervously on her champagne flute. His face was unreadable but she sensed he didn’t like her. Perhaps it was for no other reason than he despised her profession. Many people did. But, perhaps….
Eloise quickly gulped another mouthful of champagne, the excellent vintage completely wasted. It could have been pure vinegar and she probably wouldn’t have noticed.
She shouldn’t have come. If she’d known Jem Norland had been on the guest list, she wouldn’t have. Or any other member of Viscount Pulborough’s family, for that matter. When she met them she wanted to be prepared, and for it to happen in her time and on her terms.
This wasn’t the way it was meant to be. She wasn’t ready. Jem Norland’s startling blue eyes continued to watch her.
Did he know? Or didn’t he? Had his stepfather spoken to him? The questions thumped through her head with the rhythm of a heartbeat.
‘I understand from my mother that you’re acquainted with my stepfather.’
Eloise tightened her grip on her glass. She could feel perspiration beading on her forehead, her hands become clammy. Her mouth moved soundlessly.
He knew.
It was a sensation akin to jumping off a cliff, the wind roaring in her ears as she sped towards a fate she had no control over.
‘Viscount Pulborough?’ he prompted, as the silence stretched out between them. ‘My mother’s second husband.’
‘We…we’ve never met.’
His right eyebrow moved in an exaggerated expression of surprise. His eyes travelled the length of her body, assessing and critical.
It was years and years of training that made it possible for a man to deliver such a non-verbal put down. Generations of believing you were somehow superior to every other member of the human race.
She really hated that he could make her feel so small and so worthless. If anyone should have been cowering with shame, it should have been him. It was his mother’s husband who had abandoned a teenage girl carrying his baby.
‘Really? I must have misunderstood what she told me.’
‘My mum knew him. Years ago. I wrote to Viscount Pulborough to tell him she’d died.’ Eloise carefully put her glass down on the side table and picked up her evening bag. ‘He hasn’t replied.’
Three weeks and there’d been no reply. Nothing. She hadn’t expected that. She hadn’t expected her father to welcome her with open arms—but nothing. No response at all. It seemed incredible. And with each passing day she felt more resentful.
How could anyone do that? How could he have created a life and care so little about it?
From the time she’d been old enough to ask questions about who her father was, her mother had said he was a good man. A man who couldn’t be with them, however much he wanted to be.
His identity had always been a secret. But some part of Eloise had clung to the knowledge that he was a ‘good man’. He would have wanted her in his life…if only it had been possible. He would have loved her. Loved her mother. He was a ‘good man’.
Childish nonsense. He was a man who’d had too much of everything. A man who clearly rated people as worthy of notice or not worthy. A man who’d left a young girl to deal with the consequences of their affair alone and unsupported. A man who’d completely deleted the knowledge that he’d fathered a baby girl.
Her.
‘He’s been unwell.’
‘Unwell?’ Her eyes flicked up to his. She would swear his voice had become more menacing, beneath the suave veneer.
‘But perhaps you know that already? He’s been in hospital,’ Jem continued smoothly.
‘No. No…I didn’t…I didn’t know.’
Why would she have known that? She felt somehow that he blamed her. But for what?
‘He’s undergone heart surgery. A quadruple bypass.’
‘Oh.’ Eloise didn’t know what to say. Considering Viscount Pulborough was a man she didn’t know, had never met, it was strange to feel such an overwhelming reaction to the news of his operation.
‘But at seventy-three it’s taken its toll.’
She knew