Authors: Isobel Chace
‘I
’
m glad your mother is going to live in my house.
’
he said slowly.
‘
It makes our adoption of one another more official. Shall we celebrate our new relationship, you and I?
’
H
is hands burned through he
r
dress as he pulled her up on to the leather pouffe she had been sitting on. She blinked
up
at
him.
‘
What relationship?
’
H
e laughed, touching his lips to her brow.
‘
Kissing kin?
’
he suggested.
S
he could have escaped him if she had really wanted to do so. At no time did he coerce her to stand as still as a statue before him, nor did he force her to cling to him, afraid as she was that she might fall if she let go her hold on him.
‘
I
’
m not kin,
’
she said in a voice that sounded like someone
else
’
s and not even remotely like her own.
‘
I
’
m not kith either!
’
‘
Just as
I
’
m not your friend,
’
he confirmed.
‘
Nor do I want to be!
’
H
e kissed her mouth and it was as if she had never been kissed before. Her heart seemed to have
s
topped within her and then, in a mad race to make up time, it rushed into a new rhythm that left her breathless with a dizzy happiness that he must have felt too, for he kissed her again with increasing passion, and then
s
he turned away from
him with a dete
rmination that took the
happy feeling aw
ay
and left her
fe
eling as awkward as ever.
S
he
had
remembered Denise,
she th
ough
t
, and shut
her eyes
in case he should see how much he
had
hurt he
r
.
‘
I
’
m still going to Petra
!
’
She clenched her fists.
‘
And
I
’
m not staying here—not even to finish the frescoes!
’
H
e brushed a tear from her cheek and smiled down at her.
‘
I
’
ll
keep you here somehow,
’
he said.
‘
If I don
’
t restore the frescoes, I
’
ll lose my tenancy of the castle.
’
His smile grew wider.
‘
I
’
ll write to your mother tonight
.
’
‘
B
ut—
’
she began.
‘
But nothing
’
s decided, is it?
’
‘
Isn
’
t it
?
’
S
he put an agitated hand up to her mouth.
‘
You don
’
t have to kiss me to get your own way! You can
’
t
make
me—
’
‘
Nobody
’
s going to make you do anything you don
’
t want to do,
’
he soothed her.
‘
Won
’
t you trust me thus far?
’
S
he didn
’
t trust
hi
m at all, but then neither did she know what she wanted at the moment, other than to be held
tight
by
him
again. A fine fool he must think her to be in such a dither about nothing!
‘
I
’
ll write to my mother too,
’
she said, not quite sure whether this was meant to be a threat or a promise.
‘
I
’
ll go and write to her now
!
’
CHAPTER VII
‘
Well, that was a funny thing,
’
said Lucasta.
‘
What was?
’
‘
Gregory says that Gaston must bring Jean-Pierre down on Thursday night with him so
that
he can vet him before he flies off with Denise on Saturday.
’
‘
Vet Jean-Pierre
?
’
Marion echoed
.
‘
Whatever for?
’
‘
That
’
s what
I’
d like to know. What went on between you and Gregory last night? I hope you noticed how heavily tactful I was, keeping out of your way wh
ile
you spent
hours
with him in that study of his?
’
Marion hadn
’
t noticed. Indeed,
she
hadn
’
t given Lucasta a thought at the time. She had been far too busy trying to control the turmoil within her that Gregory
’
s kiss had let loose before it overwhelmed her carefully, completely.
‘
He let me look at his ikons,
’
Marion
explained
.
L
ucasta grinned
at
her.
’
His ikons or his
etchings
?
’
Marion refused to be drawn.
‘
What time is Gaston coming
?
’
she
asked instead.
‘
In the middle of the night again
?
’
Lucasta was immediately on the defensive.
‘
Well, no one is asking you to wait up for him! He can introduce Jean-Pierre to you at lunchtime on Friday, and you
’
re forbidden to do a stroke of wor
k
after
that until
first thing on Monday morning
!
’
‘
We
’
ll see,
’
said Marion.
‘
No, we won
’
t! It was kind of Gaston to bring Jean-Pierre with him, not that it was difficult to persuade him to come. I gave him your photogra
ph
to show around and the volunteers came flocking round. You know, Marion, you
’
re really very pretty! I hadn
’
t noticed at school. I just thought you were nicer
than
any of the other hens who t
r
y to burden our
minds w
ith useless knowledge.
’
She chuckled at the expression on Marion
’
s face.
‘
It was Gregory who pointed it out to me,
’
she
added mendaciously.
‘
He said you had a face as revealing
as a
child in a candy store.
’
‘
I
have not
!
’
Marion protested.
‘
And I
’
ll thank you not to refer to your long-suffering teachers as hens. Have you no respect?
’
‘
Hen is a term of affection. Hen, henny, hinny, honey, they all came originally from the Border Country, or so Miss Blandish says, and
she
ought to know, because
she
was probably alive at the time.
’
Marion strove to keep a straight face. She, too, had been treated to some of Miss Blandi
sh
’
s eye-witness accounts of various events in history.
‘
Miss Blandish can
’
t help being a little over-enthu
s
iastic.
’
L
ucasta shrugged. She looked more curiously at Marion.
‘
Gregory was right,
’
she said faintly.
‘
You do shine like a lamp when you smile. Like a good deed in a naughty world, he said. He was rather impressed when I told him he was quoting from Shakespeare. He asked
me if I was sure, and of course I wasn
’
t, so he told me it came from
The Merchant of Venice
.
Did you know that
?
’
‘
Well, yes, I did,
’
Marion admitted.
“
How far that little candle throws his beams. So shines a good deed in a naughty world
.”
’
‘
Gosh
!
’
s
aid Lucasta.
‘
Do you think he meant it as a compliment
?
’
‘
No, I don
’
t
’
Marion had remembered how the scene went on.
“
When the moon shone, we did not see the candle
.”
Nor did he see her when Denise was by. It was the perfect simile, she thought ruefully. She felt every bit as sad and forlorn as a candle whose flame had been snuffed out by some careless hand—Gregory
’
s hand
!’
I
always smile at the wrong moment,
’
she
confessed ruefully.
‘
Your uncle prefers a more sophisticated approach.
’
Lucasta nodded thoughtfully.
‘
Judith is as sophisticated as they come and very, very sure of herself. She leaves Denise standing! But I don
’
t
think
Gregory
liked
her at all. He amused
himself
wearing her like a carnation in his buttonhole, and he probably found it fun to ruffle her perfect hair-do every now and then, but mostly he looked contemptuous whenever she appeared on the scene
.
’
I
t was quite a picture and Marion could see it as
cl
early as if
she
had been there.
‘
He isn
’
t contemptuous of Denise,
’
she said. She hoped she didn
’
t sound as jealous of the French girl as she felt
.
‘
I
don
’
t know about Denise. It
’
s just possible
that
Papa is the real attraction there. Papa Da
in
has only two loves in his life: darling Denise and his art collection. He makes money like some people win at Monopoly when they have all the right properties, but it
’
s all spent on acquiring more and more
objets d’art
,
with Denise as prime exhibit—indeed the only exhibit, for he buries all his other treasures in burglar-proof vaults under his house and only allows the favoured few
i
n to look at them.
’
‘
And Gregory is one of the favoured few,
’
Marion said unnecessarily. Of course he was! Denise would see to that!
L
ucasta put on a worldly-wise expression and sighed deeply.
‘
He
’
s all lined up to be the next exhibit, if you ask me. He
’
s the most beautiful
thing
ever to have come Denise
’
s way. He
’
s a handsome devil when he wants to be
!
’
M
arion made a face.
‘
He
’
s too tall for me
!
’
she joked.
B
ut Lucasta didn
’
t laugh as she had thought
she
would.
‘
If he wanted you,
’
she said,
‘
he wouldn
’
t let a little thing like that stand in his way.
’
J
ean-Pierre was an apparently pleasant young man, with smiling
eyes,
and a willingness to be pleased by any member of the
opposite sex
who happened to come
his way.
‘
Comme tu es belle
,’
he breathed over Marion
’
s hand when he was duly introduced to her.
M
arion frowned at him, very much on h
er
dignity.
‘
Thank you,
’
she said
i
n
freezing tones.
‘
Formidable
,’
he murmured.
‘
When do we start for Petra
?
’
He smiled at Marion, a glint in his eyes that she didn
’
t quite like.
‘
Will you climb up to the High Place w
i
th me? I shall be very nice to you
!
’
‘
What
’
s up there
?
’
she asked cautiously.
H
is eyes snapped.
‘
No people
!
’