A Nanny for Christmas (12 page)

Fool, she thought angrily, and marched off in the opposite direction.

Tara was in buoyant mood when Phoebe collected her.

'I like Mrs Blake,' she announced, dancing to the car where her father waited silently, his face unreadable. 'I wish she was my teacher for everything.'

'Mrs Franks seems very nice,' Phoebe volunteered mendaciously, 'She has pets,' said Tara. 'And I'm not one.' She climbed into the rear seat. 'Mrs Blake is teaching me a surprise, for Christmas,' she went on gleefully.

'What kind of surprise?' Dominic looked at her, his expression softening.

'If I told you, it wouldn't be a secret any more,' Tara said severely. 'You'll have to wait and see.'

She chattered happily all the way home. As soon as they arrived, Phoebe whisked her up to the nursery to do the small amount of homework the school had set. The child wasn't exactly being stretched by the tasks, Phoebe thought, watching how swiftly and almost offhandedly Tara completed them.

'May I watch television for a bit?' the little girl appealed when she'd finished.

'I don't see why not,' Phoebe conceded, although it occurred to her that she hadn't yet noticed a television set. 'Where do you do that?'

'In the other sitting room—the little one. The piano's there too, so I can do my practising as well,' Tara informed her virtuously.

'Better and better,' Phoebe said drily.

The small sitting room was at the back of the house, and was a homelier version of the drawing room, with faded chintzes and a big sheepskin rug in front of the fireplace, which housed a living-flame gas fire.

With Tara settled raptly in front of a children's programme, Phoebe took the opportunity to look through a glass-fronted bookcase. It contained mostly fiction, some of it dating back to the beginning of the century, but there was a wide selection of modern authors too, with the unashamedly popular rubbing shoulders with the literary.

Phoebe, who envisaged spending most of her time in the safety of her room, thought gloatingly that this book collection could become her personal gold mine.

There was a complete set of Georgette Heyer novels, most of which she'd already read, but it would be good to renew her acquaintance with such an elegant and accomplished writer. Inside the front cover of
Friday's Child
a bookplate announced that this book was the property of Phyllida Ashton.

'My mother,' Dominic said from behind her.

Phoebe started so violently the book nearly flew out of her hands. She said breathlessly, 'I was going to ask if I might borrow it—not just take it.'

His brows drew together. 'Phoebe, for the time being, this is your home. You don't have to ask permission for every little thing.' He turned to his daughter, his frown deepening. 'What are you watching, Tara?'

'Only
Down Under,'
Tara returned, mentioning a popular soap opera a mite warily.

The cool grey eyes rested on Phoebe. 'Isn't that slightly out of her age group?'

'Everyone in my class watches it,' Tara pouted. 'When they talk about it, I don't know what they mean.'

'All the same I'd prefer you watch something more edifying than Australian soap opera.' There was a slight edge to his voice.

'It's just finishing anyway,' Phoebe put in as the child's face grew more mutinous. 'Right on time for your piano practice,' she added cheerfully.

'And my secret.' Fortunately, Tara was easily deflected from her grievance. 'You and Daddy have got to leave the room,' she ordained grandly.

'I'll call you when supper's ready,' Phoebe promised.

As they walked away they heard the first rather wobbly notes of 'Away in a Manger' coming through the door.

Dominic's face relaxed into a grin. 'Her secret is safe with us,' he said softly. 'I'll be the most surprised man in the county, come Christmas Day.'

As he moved away Phoebe said, 'Could you spare me a moment?'

He paused. 'What's this?' he enquired sardonically. 'More rules and regulations for my future conduct?'

'To a certain extent.' She made herself meet his gaze squarely. 'I gathered just now you don't approve of Tara's viewing choices, and, by implication, you're critical of me for allowing it.'

His tone was curt. 'I'd have said that was obvious. Do you blame me?'

'I can understand your reservations.' She paused. 'But Tara's the new kid on the block. I think she's having problems settling mid-term in a new school. Something as simple as sharing a television programme with her classmates could give her the leverage she needs. Help her to fit in.'

He was frowning again. 'Are you saying she's unhappy at Westcombe Park?'

'I don't know whether it's as cut and dried as that. I suspect she's not particularly challenged by the work.'

'The school has a very good reputation.'

'So had the Clair de Lune.'

His mouth tightened. 'And Miss Sinclair is on the board of governors.'

'Which makes everything perfect, naturally,' she said tautly. 'Please forget that I said anything.'

She was turning away when he put a hand on her arm. 'Wait—please. I'm not dismissing what you say out of hand. But I'm wondering whether it's a little early for you to be making that kind of judgement.'

She smiled without amusement. 'That's what Mrs Franks said, too.'

His brows lifted. He said bleakly, 'You spoke to her— criticised the school—without consulting me first?'

'No,' she said. 'I simply asked if Tara was all right, and got fobbed off.'

He said glacially, 'She may have thought it was none of your damned business.'

She raised her chin. 'You brought me here because I care—remember? Are you now telling me that you want me to stop?'

'No, of course not,' he said irritably. 'But I didn't expect quite such immediate involvement, perhaps.' His brief laugh was almost explosive. 'Hell, I don't suppose I knew what to expect.'

Phoebe said quietly, 'I don't know either, but I'm sorry if I spoke out of turn. Good evening, Mr Ashton.'

'Where are you going?'

'Upstairs, to lay the table for our supper.'

'For Tara's supper,' he corrected. 'You dine with me, after she's in bed.'

Phoebe took a deep breath. 'Is that what Cindy did?' she asked, giving him a measuring look.

'No,' he said. 'But she didn't take me to task over my daughter's well-being either. You asked me to spare you a moment. Now I require the same favour in return. Dinner will be at eight o'clock, but I'll be up to say goodnight to Tara first.'

There was a silence, then, 'Very well,' Phoebe said icily.

'And very wise, too,' he said silkily, and left her inwardly raging.

She'd calmed down, at least on the surface, by the time Tara appeared in the nursery. Her supper was a savoury pasta dish, with a baked egg custard to follow, and the child ate every scrap.

When the meal was over, Phoebe taught her to play clock patience until it was time for the child's bath.

'It's such a waste going to bed when I'm not sleepy,' Tara sighed as Phoebe tucked her in. 'Will you read me a story, please? I'd like the one about Snow White.'

'Are-you sure? It's a bit scary for bedtime.' Phoebe fetched
Grimms' Fairy Tales
from the shelf.

'I like it scary.' Tara snuggled down, listening, wide- eyed, to the traditional bloodthirsty version of the story, and giving a sigh of contentment when the evil queen met her doom at the end.

'Phoebe,' she said, when it was over, 'are all stepmothers wicked?'

'I hope not,' Phoebe said ruefully. 'There's a lot of them about these days.'

'Do you think I'll have one?'

Phoebe bit her lip. 'That's your father's business not mine, poppet.'

'Do you think Daddy might marry Mummy again?' It was a forlorn little voice.

'Is that what you want?' Phoebe asked gently.

'Sometimes.'

'The trouble is that people change,' Phoebe said, struggling to find the right words. 'And they don't always want the same things any more.'

'Like Mummy didn't want Daddy and me.'

Phoebe groaned inwardly. 'I'm sure that wasn't how she felt,' she said softly. 'I expect it was very hard for her.'

'She's going to come and see me,' Tara said with drowsy satisfaction. 'She promised the last time she phoned. Then you'll meet her.'

Phoebe forced a smile. 'That will be nice.'

'But it's a secret,' the child warned. 'We mustn't tell anyone, or it won't happen.'

'More secrets?' Dominic asked quizzically as he strolled in.

'The biggest one of all,' Tara assured him, throwing her arms round his neck.

More an unpleasant shock, Phoebe thought ruefully. But it won't happen. She's just stringing the child along.

'Are you going to stay and talk to me?' Tara was asking eagerly.

'No, because it's time you were asleep. I just came to kiss you goodnight.'

'And Phoebe,' said Tara. 'Are you going to kiss her goodnight too?'

There was a silence. Phoebe heard herself swallow, felt a swift flood of warm colour invade her face. Acrossthe bed, she was aware of Dominic watching her, the grey eyes oddly intense.

For one crazy, forbidden moment she let herself wonder how his mouth would feel on hers. She took a step backwards, as if he'd actually reached for her.

And saw his mouth twist as he looked down at his daughter.

'No,' he said. 'I'm not.'

'Why not?'

'Because it isn't her bedtime. At least, not yet,' he added softly. His slow, crooked smile touched Phoebe, sending a long, troublous shiver rippling through her body. She wanted to run—to hide somewhere—but she felt rooted to the spot.

Then he bent and kissed Tara, stroking her cheek gently with a finger as he straightened. 'Sleep well, sweetheart.'

At the door, he turned. 'I'll see you at dinner, Miss Grant,' he said with cool formality.

After he'd gone, there was another silence.

Then, 'I expect he'll kiss you goodnight after dinner,' said Tara. 'Don't you?'

'Tara,' Phoebe said severely, trying to snatch at her composure. 'You're impossible.'

Which, of course, was no real answer at all.

P
HOEBE
was strongly tempted not to go down to dinner at all.

Changed into her new checked skirt and pink blouse, she sat, staring at herself in the dressing table mirror, wondering what valid excuse she could give to avoid Dominic's company.

But she could think of nothing that he wouldn't see through immediately. Besides which, any open attempt to evade him would betray her own inner turmoil, and that, she thought dispiritedly, would never do.

All she could do was play it cool, and stick rigidly to the limits she'd laid down earlier.

What Dominic might do was another matter altogether.

She left it until the last minute to go downstairs.

In the drawing room, the heavy gold brocade curtains had been drawn against the night. The room was lit by shaded lamps, and by the logs which blazed welcomingly on the hearth.

Dominic was occupying a sofa on one side of the fire. There was a whisky and soda on the table beside him, and he was glancing through the local paper.

He turned as Phoebe entered, his brows lifting as he studied her.

'Carrie's choice, again? I endorse her taste.'

'She's been very kind.' Phoebe, tense as a bow-string, perched on the edge of the opposite sofa.

'Tell me something.' His eyes surveyed her hair, smoothed severely back from her face and confined at the nape of her neck with a barrette. 'Do you never let your hair down, even out of working hours?'

Phoebe reached up a self-conscious hand. 'It's tidier this way,' she said defensively. 'And when you're looking after a child working hours are unpredictable, anyway.'

'Well, you're definitely off-duty this evening.' He paused. 'Would you like a sherry?'

'Oh, no—no thanks.'

'Another tonic water, then?' His mouth twisted a little.

'Nothing—thank you.'

'Have you always been a teetotaller?'

Phoebe looked down at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap. 'I—I learned a long time ago that alcohol doesn't suit me.'

'Pity,' Dominic murmured. 'Because a drink might relax you. You're quite safe, you know,' he added sardonically. 'I never pounce on an empty stomach. Yours, or mine.'

After a startled moment, Phoebe's lips stretched into a reluctant grin.

'That's—very reassuring.' She tried to speak casually.

He said with a touch of crispness, 'Then try and appear reassured.' He paused. 'I have something for you.' He held out a brown envelope.

'A wage packet?' She was bewildered. 'But I've only just started.'

'It's from Mrs Preston at the cafe. I called in there after we parted company this afternoon, and she asked me to pass it on to you.' He began to tick off on his fingers. 'Your money up to yesterday, plus a week in lieu of notice, and some holiday money.'

Phoebe frowned. 'She doesn't owe me all that.'

He shrugged. 'She certainly thinks so. Argue with her, not me.'

He tossed the envelope towards her, and Phoebe caught it and put it in her skirt pocket.

She said, 'Now I'll be able to repay you for the clothes Carrie bought.'

'There's no hurry for that,' he dismissed. 'Why not indulge yourself with a small shopping spree? I could take you to Midburton tomorrow, after we've dropped Tara at school.'

For a moment, she hesitated. It was ages since she'd had time even for window-shopping. The thought of being able to browse, with money in her pocket, was genuinely tempting.

But she shook her head. 'I'd rather stick to my original intention—if you don't mind.'

'I think I do mind,' he said grimly. 'You really can't bear to be beholden to me—even for a short time—can you?'

There was an almost raw note in his voice. Phoebe bit her lip.

'It isn't that. It has nothing to do with you, only with me,' she said steadily. 'You see, I have this—horror of debt since my father...'

He groaned, shaking his head. 'God, Phoebe, I'm sorry. We seem to be having a competition in paranoia,' he added bitterly.