Duelling Fire. Anne MatherЧитать онлайн книгу.
had to remind her of the man who had had such an influence on her life.
The evening shadows were falling by the time she had unpacked her belongings and taken a quick shower. The bathroom adjoining the bedroom was just as charming as the rest of the apartment, and Sara had taken pleasure in the cream tiles, each displaying a pink rosebud, and the rose-tinted bath, that was sunk into the floor. She showered in the fluted perspex cubicle, taking care to keep her hair dry, and then padded back into the bedroom to decide what she should wear.
A simple black dress seemed appropriate, and would equip her for any occasion. Until she knew what the routine was at Knight’s Ferry, it was safer to follow her instincts, and the dress she chose was plain, but exquisitely cut. Her father had bought it for her, in one of his more extravagant moods. They had been staying in Monte Carlo, and he had had a good win at the Casino—or so he had said. Since then, Sara had learned that Charles Shelley had seldom been out of debt, but like all gamblers he enjoyed spending money, and he was never mean when he was in funds.
Before putting on the dress, Sara gave some consideration to her make-up. A plum-coloured eyeshadow toned with a deeper-tinted lip-gloss, while a touch of mascara darkened the silvery tips of her lashes. Her make-up was light but subtle, and in no way compared to Harriet’s immaculate appearance, which must have taken her hours to apply. Nevertheless, the result had been startling, and Sara wondered whether that was why her aunt had been late.
Her hair offered no problems. It was straight and silky; she brushed it until it shone, and then confined it again at her nape, this time with an ivory clasp.
The dress slid easily over her hips, caressing her skin sensuously. Although it was made of some manufactured fabric, it had the feel of silk, the dipping cowl neckline exposing the curve of her throat. Wide sleeves were drawn from a loosely draped bodice, and the wrap-around skirt opened from waist to hem. Fortunately, the generous cut of the overlap prevented any immodest display.
The little carriage clock on the mantel chimed the half hour as she was adjusting the strap of her shoe, and she caught her breath. Seven-thirty, she thought, with some trepidation. And Harriet had said dinner was usually served about eight.
Realising she would have to go down, Sara cast another glance at her appearance. Did she look all right? Was her lipstick smudged? An anxious finger discovered it was only a shadow cast by the lamp beside her bed, and she relaxed. Heavens, why was she so nervous? What had she to be afraid of?
Shrugging impatiently, she decided she would have to go. This was no time to have second thoughts, to wonder whether she had done the right thing. And besides, it was all so much different from what she had anticipated. Harriet was charming, her house was delightful, and she was going to be happy here.
Thrusting her fears aside, she opened the door and stepped into the corridor. Someone had turned on the lights, and the corridor glowed in the artificial illumination cast from beneath bronze shades. Its mellow patina gleamed on brass and polished wood, and as she descended the stairs she was struck by the simple elegance of the hall below. Now that a glittering chandelier had been lit, the panelling had a rich, lustrous sheen, and its earlier, gloomy appearance was quite dispelled by a huge bowl of spring flowers resting on an old-fashioned umbrella stand. There was a semi-circular table, with an oval silver tray—for letters?—Sara wondered musingly, and a little velvet armchair with curly wooden arms, set beside the little stand that held the telephone.
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Sara was uncertain where she should go. Harriet had only shown her the small sitting room, and she was looking about her doubtfully when a door behind her opened and the man Jude appeared.
He evidently intended eating dinner with them, she thought, viewing the dark trousers and fine suede jacket he was wearing. Even his brown silk shirt had a lace jabot, though he wore no tie, the strong column of his throat dark against the fabric. His dark hair had been smoothly combed and lay thick against his head, with only the merest fraction overlapping his collar at the back.
His appraisal of her was no less comprehensive, she realised, flushing as he detected her eyes upon him. ‘Well, well, Miss Shelley,’ he remarked sardonically, propping one hand against the jamb. ‘You look lost. Can I help you?’
‘I—I was looking for Harr—for Miss Ferrars,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘Do you know where she is?’
‘Still dressing, I should think,’ he answered, moving his shoulders in a dismissing gesture. ‘Come and have a drink with me.’ He nodded to the room behind him. ‘We usually foregather in here.’
‘Oh—very well.’ Sara wasn’t enthusiastic, but there wasn’t much else she could do, so she crossed the floor towards him, stiffening as he stood aside to let her pass, and she smelt the faint aroma of Scotch on his breath.
‘Why do I get the impression your name should be Lamb, not Shelley?’ he remarked lazily, and she cast an indignant look up at him.
‘Lady Caroline Lamb was associated with Byron, not Shelley,’ she retorted, pleased to have thwarted him, but he was not finished.
‘I might have been referring to Mary Shelley,’ he pointed out drily, his grey eyes showing amusement. ‘But actually, I wasn’t even thinking of them.’
Sara was confused, and showed it. ‘Mr Jude—–’
‘Just Jude,’ he corrected. ‘And before you ask, it was a quotation from Isaiah I was referring to. Now, shall we have that drink?’
SARA saw that she was in what appeared to be a library. There were bookshelves from floor to ceiling on three walls and a desk, set beneath long windows, on the fourth. An open fire broke up one wall of shelves, and as it was getting dark outside, it was reflected in the window panes, warm and inviting.
But Sara was scarcely aware of her surroundings. She was still puzzling what Jude had said to her, and it irritated her anew that he apparently had the knack of disconcerting everyone who came into contact with him.
‘What will you have? Sherry? Gin? Whisky?’
Her brooding introspection was interrupted by that lazily attractive voice, and she turned to find him examining the bottles contained in a small cabinet.
‘Do you have—Martini?’ she asked, choosing something innocuous, and his mouth turned down wryly as he completed his inspection.
‘Only vodka and Pernod,’ he told her without contrition. ‘Let me make you a cocktail. I do quite a passable Screwdriver.’
‘Sherry,’ declared Sara firmly, deciding she needed to keep her wits about her, and she watched him reluctantly as he filled her glass.
‘So—what do you think of us?’ he enquired, retrieving his glass, which contained the Scotch she had detected earlier. ‘Not quite what you expected, I imagine. Bearing in mind what you told me earlier.’
‘I wish you’d forget what I told you earlier,’ Sara retorted. ‘I—I was nervous then. It was a long time since I’d last seen Aunt—I mean, Harriet. Now that I’ve got to know her again, I realise how immature I must have sounded.’
‘I imagine anyone over the age of thirty would appear quite ancient to a schoolgirl,’ Jude remarked, propping himself against the bookshelves. ‘Won’t you sit down?’
He gestured towards a leather sofa set to one side of the fireplace, but Sara gave an involuntary shake of her head. She felt more capable of facing him on her two feet, and besides, she resented his arbitrary assumption of the role of host. It lent weight to her suspicion that his position at Knight’s Ferry was not a straightforward one, and the less pleasant aspects of this conclusion were not something she wanted to contemplate right now.
‘Tell me,’ she said, with great daring she thought, ‘what exactly do you do, Mr—er—Jude? My aunt—that is, Harriet—mentioned