The Courting Campaign. CATHERINE GEORGEЧитать онлайн книгу.
she retorted. ‘Until yesterday I didn’t know you existed.’
He laughed suddenly. ‘How true. All right, let’s start again. If I stick to your rules like glue will you let me take you out to a proper dinner one night next week?’
She looked at him for a moment, then nodded. ‘Yes, thank you. I will.’
‘Then come back in and let me make you some more coffee. You can’t go home yet. It’s early.’
When she eyed him doubtfully Patrick grinned and held up his right hand. ‘I swear to behave like a monk, so come back inside. Please.’
It was late before Hester left to drive home, mainly because Patrick had kept his word and made no more attempts to touch her—while at the same time, in some unspoken way, managing to make it quite clear he would have liked to. It was flattering, and added zest and an underlying element of spice to their conversation. Patrick’s kiss had been sudden but not threatening, and while she’d felt no response to it she had a feeling that, if he’d persisted, she might have.
He was a very attractive man. Not handsome in a movie-star way, but his colouring, clever face and clipped, assured voice combined to form a very potent form of charm. Alone among the men she’d known since Richard, he touched a chord inside her. A matter of wavelength rather than physical chemistry. Even on such short acquaintance she felt very much in tune with him. And knew, without being told, that he felt the same towards her.
While they despatched a new pot of coffee Patrick talked about his London flat, loaned, for the time being, to house-hunting friends.
‘I had thought of transferring some of the furniture down here until I have time to decide what this house would like, but in the circumstances I had to leave everything there for my temporary tenants and content myself with the bare rudiments in my bucolic retreat,’ he said, looking relaxed and, to Hester, physically elegant in a way peculiarly his own—as if every part of him was put together with such precision he could move in any way he chose and never look awkward or ungraceful.
Very different from Richard.
‘Do you intend to keep your London flat?’ she asked.
‘Definitely. I’ve never lived in the country before. I might find it hard to settle down here.’
‘While I’m a real country cousin,’ said Hester lightly.
‘And happy to stay that way?’
‘Yes. I lead a busy, pleasant life here.’ She looked towards the desk. ‘Are you writing another novel?’
‘I certainly am, which is why I need a desk so badly. I keep losing the various books of reference I’m using for research.’ Patrick smiled at her. ‘I enjoy writing, but I’m not the world’s most efficient researcher. I get too absorbed in the text and forget to make notes.’
‘Is this another legal story?’
He nodded. ‘But a period one this time. Turn of the century. A cause célèbre-type case with a beautiful woman accused of murder, and the defending counsel who gets her off.’
‘Sounds fascinating.’ Hester got up. ‘If you can’t get up to London for research material the Chastlecombe public library is very well equipped—or they’ll find books for you if they aren’t in stock.’
‘Good idea—I’ll join next time I’m in the town.’ He walked outside with her into the still, starry darkness, which in this remote spot had no streetlights to lessen its intensity. ‘It’s very peaceful here. I only hope it isn’t too peaceful and gives me writer’s block.’
‘Is that likely?’
‘I hope not.’ His smile gleamed white in the light above his venerable front door. ‘I’ve been paid a sizeable advance already.’
Hester held out her hand. ‘Then the best of luck. I don’t think I could function with that kind of pressure.’
Patrick took her hand and held it lightly in his. ‘This has been a very good evening for me, Hester. Thank you. I know you’re a busy lady. When can I take you out to dinner?’
‘I don’t have my diary with me.’
‘Then I’ll ring you.’
As Hester drove away she experienced the oddest sensation, as though she was doing the wrong thing, that she was meant to stay. And, though she’d said nothing to Patrick, on the tour of the empty rooms of Long Wivutts she’d experienced a strong feeling of homecoming, as though she belonged there. Strange. She wasn’t the fanciful type. And she’d never even heard of the place before, let alone set foot inside it. Nor, when she’d asked for directions, had David.
When Hester got home she decided to go straight to bed. Tomorrow she was giving her father-in-law lunch, and though Robert Conway was the least critical of men she always felt on her mettle to provide Richard’s father with as delicious a meal as she could contrive. It had been Richard who had taught her how to cook. She had learned so much from him in the cruelly short period of their marriage.
Hester got ready for bed, then looked at the photograph on the bedside table. Richard Conway smiled his crooked smile at her, his heavy black hair unruly on his forehead. He had been a large man in every way, in stature and in temperament. A gentle giant with deep, abiding passions, one of which had been his work. Hester had been the other. Richard had never tired of telling her he’d been waiting for her all his life. The only shadow on their union had been the lack of children, a lack Hester had mourned all the more deeply when she’d been left alone after his death.
Hester turned out the light quickly and lay in the dark. At first, in the weeks after Richard had died, she’d talked to his photograph every night. As some people wrote in diaries, she’d communed with Richard—told him about her day, confided her hopes and fears—just as though he’d been alive and in the bed beside her. Not that they had ever talked much in bed. Richard, from the first, had been a sexually demanding husband, and she had responded gladly, always. And had cried many bitter tears in this same bed after he’d died, missing his physical presence. But, if she were totally honest, there had been more actual conversation with his photograph than with Richard when he’d been alive.
Hester lay staring at the stars through the window, wondering why she’d used her lack of diary as a means of avoiding a definite date for another evening with Patrick Hazard. She always knew exactly how her week was arranged, sometimes for weeks in advance, without reference to a diary or any other reminder. And when Tim Galbraith or John Brigham asked her out she always knew instantly whether the dates they suggested were convenient or not. Yet with Patrick she’d hedged a little, giving herself time to—to what? Plead a previous engagement, or put him off altogether? Hester shrugged, unseen, in the dark. One evening was no big deal. It needn’t be repeated. If discouraged gently, Patrick Hazard had too much pride to persist.
Hester was on the point of falling asleep when she discovered why, exactly, Patrick Hazard was to be tactfully discouraged. Tim Galbraith, Edward Moore and John Brigham, the trio she went out with on a fairly regular basis, were not only nice men and good companions, they had one important thing in common: Richard would have had no objection to any of them. Patrick was different. He posed far more of a threat. Unlike the others, for whom she felt nothing warmer than liking, she was strongly attracted to Patrick Hazard. Even on such short acquaintance. But at this stage the attraction was merely cerebral. Whether it would remain that way if she saw more of him was open to question.
So, one evening with him would have to do. And if he wanted more she would have to think of a convincing reason for her refusal. Patrick Hazard would think she was mad if she cited her dead husband’s disapproval.
CHAPTER THREE
ROBERT CONWAY rose from the table with a smile of appreciation. ‘Excellent lunch, my dear, as always.’
Hester smiled, pleased, as she took their plates. ‘Tea?’
‘Please,