Why—what’s he been saying? That was the question she was burning to ask. Instead she said lightly, ‘Even so, we still have to be practical.’
‘And you’ve always been that, Harriet.’ Pensively, Gregory Flint studied the colour of his sherry. ‘Finding solutions to any problems that presented themselves—fighting to stay ahead of the game. Quite admirable in a great many ways.
‘So, I find it all the more surprising that it should be the emotion in Roan’s work that has appealed to you, instead of its strictly commercial aspect. Heart instead of head for once. I congratulate you.’
He raised his glass. ‘And I drink to your future happiness, dear child. But at the same time I find myself wondering if you know—if you really know—exactly what you’re taking on.’
Harriet was still digesting that when Roan rejoined them, smiling pleasantly, his voice unruffled as he praised the gardens with obvious sincerity. And in a way that revealed he knew what he was talking about, she registered sourly.
But gardening couldn’t occupy the entire conversation, and throughout dinner she felt as if she was treading barefoot through broken glass, waiting for her grandfather to ask something—some question about their relationship—some small personal detail that she’d flounder over in humiliating self-betrayal. And what a wide range that offered, she thought.
But she eventually become aware that Roan was manipulating the conversation, quietly and skilfully, moving it away from topics about which she was woefully and dangerously ignorant to more general subjects.
And that under this guise he was actually imparting information—telling her stuff that, by rights, she should already know about the man she was to marry.
For one thing, he mentioned that his father was still alive, and living in Greece, adding casually that his parents had separated while he was a small child, but not elaborating any further.
But when he said that his late mother had been Vanessa Abbot, the celebrated miniaturist, Harriet had to struggle not to let her jaw drop.
Gregory Flint was clearly equally astonished, but all he said was, ‘That explains the artistic talent my granddaughter so admires. Once again, as the saying goes, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.’
But was it true? Harriet wondered grimly, observing from under lowered lashes the sardonic twist of Roan’s lips as he raised his glass and drank. Because she wouldn’t put it past her grandfather to check. And would his other claim to have attended a famous English public school stand up to scrutiny either?
Oh, God, she thought, seething, there would have been no need for any of this nonsense if Roan Zandros had simply—stayed away and minded his own business.
As dinner ended, Harriet heard with relief Roan accepting her grandfather’s surprisingly genial challenge to a game of chess. Wonderful game, she thought, played mainly in silence, which suited her just fine, because she wasn’t sure that her nervous system could stand any more questionable revelations.
She waited until they were well settled with their brandy over the ivory and ebony board, then smothered a manufactured yawn.
‘Oh dear,’ she said sweetly. ‘I’m afraid my hectic week is catching up with me. If you’ll both excuse me, I think I’ll have an early night.’
She blew a smiling kiss aimed somewhere between the pair of them, and headed out of the drawing room, longing only to reach the safety of her room.
But as she reached the foot of the stairs she heard Roan say her name, and looked round, alarmed, to see him closing the drawing room door behind him before walking towards her across the hall.
‘What do you want?’ she demanded defensively.
‘I am merely obeying instructions, matia mou.’ He shrugged, his eyes glinting in amusement. ‘Your grandfather has sent me to bid you a romantic goodnight in private, while he considers his next move.’
‘Well, consider it done,’ she said curtly. ‘And I only hope you can remember the details of the rubbish you’ve been talking over dinner, because he has the memory of an elephant. Whatever possessed you to come out with all that stuff?’
‘Because I thought it was what he wanted to hear, Harriet mou,’ he drawled. ‘A reassurance that you were not throwing yourself away on—nobody.’
‘Just a liar and a conman, instead,’ Harriet said scornfully. ‘But maybe that’s all to the good. At least he won’t be able to oppose the divorce when I confess tearfully how you betrayed and deceived me. In essence, made utter fools of us both.’
He gave her a meditative look. ‘You don’t think that is a little harsh—on someone who wants only your happiness?’
‘Except that Grandfather and I don’t agree on what that involves.’ She paused. ‘And let me remind you that I’ve paid for your acquiescence, Mr Zandros, not your opinion.’
‘Perhaps you are the one who needs a reminder, Harriet mou,’ he said softly. Without warning his hands descended on her shoulders, jerking her towards him, and before she could utter any kind of protest his mouth took hers in a long, hard, and arrogantly deliberate kiss.
She tried to struggle—to free herself—but the arms holding her were far too strong, and determined. She could hardly breathe—let alone speak—or think.
She began to feel giddy, tiny coloured sparks dancing behind her closed eyelids, as the relentless pressure of his lips went on—and on—carrying her into some dark and swirling eternity.
And then—as suddenly as it had begun—it was over, and Roan was stepping back, putting her at arm’s length, his dark eyes watching her unsmilingly.
Harriet stood, swaying slightly, lifting shaking fingers to touch the ravaged contours of her mouth, her mind blurred—incredulous. She tried to say something, but no words would come.
‘Is that acquiescent enough for you, kyria?’ His voice seemed to reach her across some vast wasteland. ‘I would not wish you to feel you were wasting your money.’ He added harshly, ‘Now, go to bed, and I hope you enjoy your dreams.’
And he turned and went back across the wide hall into the drawing room, leaving her dazed and trembling. Aware only that, in some strange way, she was suddenly more utterly alone than she’d ever been in her life before.
CHAPTER FIVE
IT HAD not been passion. Even someone as woefully inexperienced as Harriet could appreciate that. On the contrary, it had been, she thought, more of a calculated insult. She’d provoked him. He’d responded. And that was it.
Her mouth still felt faintly swollen from his unwanted attentions, she realised with disgust, and there was a strange ache in her breasts—the result of them being crushed against the hardness of his chest, no doubt.
A sensation she would give a great deal to forget, she thought, drawing a quick sharp breath. No one had ever—handled her like that before. She’d made deadly sure of that. It was the stuff her worst nightmares were made of.
But on this occasion she hadn’t seen it coming, and therefore she hadn’t been able to take the evasive action she’d brought to a fine art.
But matters couldn’t rest there. That was obvious. So, in the morning she would have to do—something. But what?
Because, technically, it was already morning, and, even though she’d been lying there for hours, staring sleeplessly into the darkness, she still hadn’t the least idea how to deal with the situation.
The obvious answer, of course, was to abandon the whole idea. Tell him she’d changed her mind and the deal was off. That there would be no wedding.
And therefore no Gracemead either, she thought, pain twisting