Wicked Pleasures
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Helen Dickson
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Chapter One
From where he stood, leaning gracefully against a silver birch tree, allowing his mount a moment’s respite after the long ride from Sevenoaks, Grant Leighton was taken by surprise when two horse-riders—a man and a woman—came thundering past him like the Light Brigade hurtling into the Valley of Death.
Utterly transfixed, he heard the woman’s joyous laughter as her horse’s competitive spirit flared; it seemed determined to keep ahead of its mate. Its mane and tail flying, legs flailing, the horse, setting a cracking pace, was galloping its heart out. From what Grant could make out, the other horse was beginning to tire and didn’t stand a chance.
Looking through his binoculars, he watched them, filled with admiration for the woman’s ability and daring. It was clear that she was utterly fearless. It was unusual to see a woman riding astride, with her mane of hair like polished mahogany flying behind, a tangled pennant of glossy waves. He could see buff-coloured breeches and riding boots beneath the skirts of her dark brown riding habit spread out over the horse’s rump.
The man was riding a chestnut mare and the woman a grey stallion—a huge beast, a thoroughbred and no mistake—which would take some handling at the best of times and would challenge even his own.
Wide and emerald-green, the field stretched before them. Giving up the chase, the man slowed to a canter, but the woman carried on, riding beautifully, her slender and supple body, arresting and vigorous, bent forward, her gloved hands almost touching the horse’s flicking ears, urging him on. Leaping a gorse hedge and landing soundly, she then soared over a wide ditch like a white swan and rode on, following the field round and down the other side, her body moving with her horse like a lover’s, encouraging him every step of the way. Coming to the far end of the field, she slowed him to a canter. Riding through an open gate, with a backward look and a wave of her hand to her companion, who seemed in no hurry to follow her, she disappeared from sight.
Long after he could no longer see her Grant continued to stand and stare at the spot where she had vanished, half expecting—and hoping—to see her appear once more. Never had he seen a woman ride with so much skill. By God, she was magnificent. Deeply impressed, he was curious as to who she might be. He hadn’t seen her features, so he would be unable to recognise her again, but he would dearly like to meet her.
The early morning was cool and crisp—unusual weather for early August—but Adeline, riding back to the stables, favoured it over the sticky heat of midsummer. As always, she had enjoyed her ride on her beloved Monty enormously, feeling those splendid muscles flexing beneath her. Pausing to retrieve her bonnet from where she had left it hanging on a fence, and hurriedly arranging her hair into a demure bun at her nape, she secured the untidy mess and tied the ribbon under her chin. How she would love to toss the bonnet aside and feel the wind tear through her hair once more—but that would never do. Not for the demure and prim Miss Adeline Osborne.
Now she was close to the house there was the possibility that she would be seen and her father informed, and he would chastise her most severely for riding with such complete abandon.
Horace Osborne was a strict authoritarian, and expected little of his daughter except that she behave as a well-brought-up young lady should. Adeline thought about her father as she followed the path. She was an only child, her mother deceased, and one would have thought she would be his golden child—the adored centre of his life—but he was indifferent to her. It was as if she was some kind of reject, and she was convinced that the reason for this rejection was her lack of beauty—which her mother had possessed in abundance.
As soon as Adeline had come out of the schoolroom, and her governess had been dispensed with, she had taken on the business of running the household—instructing servants, entertaining neighbours and her father’s business colleagues, making things comfortable for him.
To her surprise and dismay, Paul was waiting in the stableyard when she rode in, his presence reminding her of the importance of the day ahead. Later there was to be an ‘at home’ at Rosehill, to celebrate their engagement.
The sight of him put a dampener on her ride. Paul Marlow, a widower, and twenty years Adeline’s senior, was distinguished-looking rather than handsome—of slender build, with fair hair peppered with white. Women were generally drawn to him. He moved carefully and spoke carefully. He was impeccable, and his clothes fitted him in a way that only the best tailors on Savile Row knew how to fit them.
A friend and neighbour, and a close business associate of her father, he was pacing the stableyard impatiently, with both hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets, his stern features set in an unsmiling expression of disapproval as he regarded his future wife. She knew he didn’t like the way she rode astride like a man, or the breeches she wore beneath her skirts, but until they were married there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.
‘Why, Paul!’ she exclaimed, dismounting and handing the reins to a stable lad. ‘This is a surprise. I didn’t expect to see you so early. Are you here to see Father?’
‘He invited me over for breakfast. Adeline, it is most unbecoming for you to be riding unattended,’ he said with cold reproof. The ride had given her cheeks a delightful red glow, but Paul failed to notice. ‘A groom should be with you at all times.’
Adeline felt herself flushing at his strict censure and began to walk to the house. ‘He was—Jake—but I left him in the big field. He stayed to further exercise one of the horses. I really don’t know why it should bother you so much. I have always ridden unattended. Besides, at this time of day the grooms are far too busy with the horses to waste time riding out with me.’
‘But I insist. I cannot have my future wife behaving in a manner that is less than circumspect. It’s bad enough you wearing those infernal breeches without that.’
‘There is nothing wrong with my behaviour, Paul. I have ridden alone all my life, so it’s a bit late in the day to start being concerned about appearances. A chaperon is quite unnecessary—and as for my breeches, I find them both comfortable and practical.’
Paul’s brows drew together and he shot her a surprised look—Adeline rarely spoke sharply to anyone. ‘There is something else to consider,’ he continued, in a more tolerant tone. ‘I am thinking of your safety, too. There is every possibility that you may take a tumble, and with no one on hand to assist you, where would you be?’
‘I never fall off. I am an accomplished horsewoman, as you well know. However—’ she turned and smiled at him ‘—I am touched by your concern, Paul.’
‘When you are married to me I will be prepared to allow you a certain amount of freedom, but I shall insist you are accompanied by a groom at all times, or you wait till I am free to ride with you.’
‘Very well, Paul. As you say,’ she murmured, having no wish to argue. ‘Now, I think we had best hurry lest we are late for breakfast. We don’t want to keep Father waiting, and I have to change.’
‘There is one more thing, Adeline. Lady Waverley has kindly invited us to her house party next weekend. That should leave you adequate time to prepare for it.’
‘I see.’
She looked straight ahead. The general tedium and vacuity of Saturday-to-Monday country house parties held no appeal for Adeline, who often went unnoticed. Diana Waverley was everything Adeline was not. Adeline was as plain as she was beautiful. Diana was also a popular socialite, free and easy with her modern manners, and her house parties were said to be fast and furious—which Adeline was sure she would find highly disagreeable.
‘It would be good manners to reply, but how can I when I have received no invitation? It really is most unusual. You have accepted for us both, I take it?’
‘Of course. An invitation to spend a weekend at Westwood Hall is not to be turned down, Adeline,’ Paul told her starchily. ‘Lady Waverley is renowned for her hospitality, and it is a heaven-sent opportunity to have our engagement made public.’
‘I would have thought the announcement in the papers and this afternoon’s gathering should take care of that.’
‘It will, my dear. But a little extra exposure will not go amiss. Of course there will be society people there.’ His eyes did a quick sweep of her riding habit, and Adeline was sure his lips curled with distaste. ‘You may want to visit the dressmaker, to avail yourself of a new habit. Some of the ladies are fanatical about the correct riding clothes, and I know how much you will want to join in.’
‘Yes, I will. But there’s no time to order any new outfits. What I have will be perfectly adequate.’
As Adeline climbed the stairs she thought of the day ahead and the forthcoming house party with little enthusiasm. She always dreaded parties, and usually spent the entire evening in a corner, playing whist with some of the more sedate elderly ladies. She had met Lady Waverley on a couple of occasions, but she had never been to Westwood Hall. If she could have refused to attend she would have. No doubt there would be a wearisome procession of tennis, garden and dinner parties, and boating parties. Thank goodness Lady Waverley kept a good stable and she would be able to escape to indulge her passion for riding.
Adeline wasn’t in love with Paul any more than he was with her, but she respected his ability at managing his affairs. Seldom courteous, often impatient, and occasionally quite cruel, he appeared actually to dislike her much of the time—returning her smiles with scowls and greeting her conversation with a request for silence while he read his newspaper. He made no attempt to flatter or please her. He admired her stoicism, and the way she got on with things on the hunting field as deeply as he deplored her passion for it, and he was always quick to criticise her imperfections.
Fastidious in his habits—which quietly irritated her—he liked a well-ordered life, and while she often chafed at his high-handed manner towards her she was willing to honour her father’s wish that they marry, despite it having been decided without any consultation with her. Horace Osborne was keen to see his only child wed to such an estimable gentleman. It would be an advantageous marriage.
Sons were bred to continue the line and enter the family business—but unfortunately Horace had not been so blessed. Daughters were bartered and married young, while still malleable, passed like possessions from father to husband. They were expected to obey and be happy with this change in guardianship, and Adeline would be. Her father’s word was law. But it saddened her that he saw her more as a commodity than a daughter.
Uncommonly tall and straight, and with a whipcord strength, Grant Leighton emanated an aura of carefully restrained power. He was a man of immense wealth. A great deal of his fortune came from land, taking no account of his industrial interests—which were considerable—and the London properties he owned.
He was admired and favoured by women, who liked the dominance of his arrogant ways. For years gossip had linked him to every beautiful, unattached woman in society, but marriage had not been an offer he’d made to any of them, and he had left a trail of broken hearts in his wake.
At twenty-nine, he had a handsome and intelligent face, lean and brown like a gypsy’s, and eyes that were silver-grey. His hair was a shade between brown and black—thick, with a side parting, and combed smooth from his brow. He had a strong mouth with a humorous twist and was inclined to smile—but not just then.
His anxiety about his mother was at the forefront of his mind. She was the most precious person in the world to him, and at present she was recovering from a serious bout of influenza. After he had found her message, on his return from Sevenoaks, his worry that her request to see him must be bad news had made him urge his mount up the narrow drive to Newhill Lodge. The square, stonebuilt, ivy-clad house stood sedately in its neatly enclosed gardens, with tall trees casting shadows on its frontage.
As he approached and dismounted, a groom appeared to take his horse. The door was opened by a fresh-faced young maid. She smiled, bobbing a polite curtsy as he entered the house.
‘Good morning, sir.’
‘Good morning, Edith. Is my mother in her room?’
‘Yes, sir. She’s expecting you.’
‘Then I’ll go straight up.’
Carrying his riding whip, he strode across the hall, smiling when his eyes lit on a vase of newly cut, beautifully arranged pink roses. His mother loved flowers, and insisted on a constant supply of fresh blooms to be picked from her garden or sent over from his own hothouses at Oaklands, just half a mile away. He proceeded up the stairs.
Light fell through the lead-paned windows in bright shafts upon the polished floor, casting a warm glow on the fine mahogany staircase and the crimson and gold carpet. On the landing he knocked gently on his mother’s bedroom door. It opened and Stella, his mother’s maid and her companion of many years, bade him enter.
‘How is she, Stella?’ he asked in a low voice, lest he disturb his mother if she was sleeping.
‘Tired. She had visitors earlier, and she is quite worn out, but she’s eager to see you. Can I get you some refreshment?’
He shook his head. ‘No, thank you. If Mother is tired my visit will be brief.’
Stella went out and closed the door quietly behind her. Grant approached his mother where she was resting, propped against the cushions on a chaise longue. A book and her knitting lay discarded on the small table beside her. Sunlight filtered through the lightweight curtains, bathing the room in a soft, golden glow. Her eyes were closed, and she looked frail and drained by her illness. There were deep hollows in her cheeks and her face was starkly white. Bending over, he placed an affectionate kiss on her forehead.
‘Grant?’ Hester Leighton opened her eyes and held out her hand to him. It was thin and deeply veined. ‘I’m so glad you have come.’
He sat down in a chair facing her, his eyes clouded with concern as he touched her cheek with caressing fingers. ‘I got your message. What is it that is so important you had to send for me? Are you feeling worse? Is that it?’
She offered him a thin, tired smile. ‘No, Grant. Don’t concern yourself. I’m feeling very much the same—perhaps a little better. There is something I want you to do for me.’
‘And what is that?’
‘No doubt you will think I’m mad, and that I’m a selfish old woman, but I’ve heard Rosehill is coming onto the market. I want you to buy it back for me.’
Grant’s dark brows drew together. ‘It’s the first I’ve heard of it. Where has this information come from?’
‘Mrs Bennet, the vicar’s wife, told me yesterday when she came to visit. It was mentioned to Reverend Bennet when he was attending a parochial meeting at Sevenoaks. Apparently Mr Osborne is considering moving to London to live.’
‘But that doesn’t mean to say he will sell Rosehill.’
‘Mrs Bennet seems to think he will. He spends so little time there, and his only child—a daughter—is to be married shortly, and will surely move out to live with her husband.’ Her lips trembled. ‘I rarely speak of your dear father, Grant. I find it extremely painful. It’s been five years now, but I do still miss him so very much. Contrary to what people say, I find the dulling of grief and the passing of time have very little to do with each other.’
Grant smiled with soft understanding. ‘The doctors can only find cures for afflictions. We can hardly expect them to find a cure for a broken heart, can we?’
‘I suppose not—which is why it is so very important for you to buy back Rosehill for me. It was my home—my family’s home—for generations. I loved it so. It broke my heart when it was sold to Mr Osborne to pay off those debts, but things are so very different now. If he is to sell it, then I want it back.’
For a moment Grant regarded her steadily, and then he said, ‘You’ve thought hard about this, I can tell.’
Tears came to her eyes. ‘I have. Please go and see Mr Osborne, Grant. It is so important to me. I would like to end my days there. Afterwards—when I’m gone—you can do what you like with it. That will be up to you. But I want it so very badly.’
Unable to deny his mother anything, Grant nodded. ‘I’ll make some enquiries, I promise. Have you spoken about this to Lettie?’
‘No, but she’ll understand. I know she will.’
‘Where is my dear little sister, by the way?’ he asked, sitting back and crossing his long booted legs.
‘In London, staying with that friend of hers—Marjorie Stanfield. I’m expecting her back sometime tomorrow.’
‘Is she behaving herself?’
‘I certainly hope so—but you know Lettie. She does keep me informed of most of her activities—although I have to say that perhaps I’m better off not knowing about some of them. Ignorance is certainly bliss where Lettie is concerned.’ She smiled, indulgently. ‘But I know she would never do anything to disgrace herself or the family.’
‘Don’t bet on it,’ Grant said dryly. ‘My sister is both spirited and fearless, and she will not rest until women are completely liberated from the tyranny of man.’
Hester laughed lightly. ‘She always puts forward a passionate argument.’
‘Which will get her arrested if she’s not careful.’
‘Not Lettie. I am always interested to hear about her activities with the Women’s Movement—or Suffragists, as they like to call themselves. I offer advice where I can, and I accept her many extended absences. I am immensely grateful to Lady Stanfield for letting her stay with Marjorie—she is such a placid young woman, and I hope she has a calming influence on Lettie.’
‘Be that as it may, Mother, but it’s time she thought of settling down and finding herself a husband.’
‘Maybe—but you are extremely fond of her, and for good or ill she is your sister. There’s not a thing you can do about it. And, speaking of settling down, I have been hearing gossip about you and a certain lady of late. Grant, I know that in the past there have been rumours linking you to several young ladies—some of dubious reputation,’ she pointed out with quiet censure, ‘and until now I have never asked you to verify or deny them.’
‘Then why now?’
‘Because of this rumour—about you and Lady Waverley.’
Something in the soft romanticism of her words irritated and irked Grant. He did not like being the subject of gossip and speculation. ‘I can see word of my recent visit to Westwood Hall has reached the ears of your visiting ladies. Really, Mother. I credited you with more sense than to listen to gossip.’
‘Can you blame me?’ She smiled. ‘When I hear that my eligible son—a man who seems to avoid young ladies of impeccable background as if they have some kind of dreadful disease—is suddenly seen visiting a beautiful socialite? And on more than once occasion, it would appear.’
The Leighton brow quirked in sardonic amusement. ‘At twenty-eight, and a widow of five years, Diana can hardly be classed as a “young lady”, Mother.’
‘Then at fifty-five I must seem positively ancient to you. You know nothing would please me more, Grant, than to see you settle down with someone who will make you happy.’
‘I will—in time. But not with Diana. Six years ago I might have, but she chose to marry Patrick Waverley instead.’ He spoke dispassionately, giving away nothing of his feelings. ‘The idea of being Lady Waverley outshone that of being plain Mrs Leighton. But I am still fond of her, and enjoy her company from time to time.’
‘I only met her on one occasion, and I was not in her company long enough to form an opinion. Did she hurt you?’
Grant shrugged and smiled wryly. ‘I was young, and easily drawn to a pretty face. I think I was more angry and humiliated by her rejection than anything else.’
Hester studied her son intently. ‘And now you’re not—drawn to a pretty face?’
‘Now I tend to look beyond the pretty face. It’s what’s on the inside that determines a person, not what’s on the outside. Diana is beautiful, intelligent, well bred and well connected. But—and you said it yourself—she is a socialite. She is an appalling flirt who likes to play hard. Her husband left her well provided for, but Diana is a spendthrift and will soon have nothing left if she doesn’t curb her spending. Money is important to her. She would sell her soul to have more.’ He grinned. ‘I soon realised she did me a favour by marrying Patrick. Believe me, Mother, you would not want Diana Waverley as a daughter-in-law.’
Hester sighed and rested her head wearily against the cushions. ‘Oh well, that’s a pity. But if she is as you say, then you must avoid her. You are in a position to choose better.’
She gave him the beguiling smile that, ever since he was a boy, had been able to get him to do almost anything she wanted, but on the subject of marriage he remained unmoved. ‘When I choose a woman who is most suited to be my wife in every way, there will be affection and respect. When I finally settle down I expect to be made happy by it. Marriage to Diana would ensure nothing but misery.’
‘And love, Grant? Does that not come into it? It is necessary if you are to have a good marriage, you know.’
Standing up, he laughed and kissed her forehead. ‘I might have known that would concern you. You always were sentimental. When I decide to settle down you will be the first to know. I promise you.’
On arriving back at Oaklands—the magnificent Leighton residence situated in a verdant valley in the heart of the Kent countryside, so large it made Newhill Lodge look like a garden shed—carelessly dismissing his mother’s desire for him to settle down, Grant thought seriously about her other request. He would write to Horace Osborne and request to see him—perhaps stay overnight with Frederick.
Grant had never met Horace Osborne, but he knew him to be a shrewd, hard-headed and self-made businessman. He was a parvenu, but he had been accepted by the leading members of established society with far more favour than most of the newly rich.
The Leightons were ‘old money’, and because Grant seemed to have the golden touch when it came to making investments they still had plenty of it. For his mother’s sake Grant would ask that Mr Osborne give the proposition he would put to him serious consideration. Not for one moment did he think Horace Osborne would refuse his offer—and if he should prove difficult Grant didn’t have the slightest doubt of his own ability to negotiate and persuade him.
The gathering later that day at Rosehill was a quiet and dignified affair, attended by elderly relatives from both sides and a few business associates. As Paul and Adeline were congratulated on their engagement on this day, which should have been the happiest day of her life, Adeline felt as though she was standing at the bottom of a high cliff, on top of which a huge boulder teetered.
Everyone complimented her on how she looked, but she knew they were only being polite.
‘Too thin,’ Paul’s elderly Aunt Anne said. ‘Too tall,’ said another. ‘Too plain,’ someone else commented.
But what did any of that really matter when her father was a wealthy businessman and respected in the circles in which he moved?
Adeline knew she didn’t make the best of herself. Her deep red hair was usually fashioned into a bun, and she wore dresses in varying shades of brown, beige and grey that did nothing for her colouring and made her look like some poor relation. Her eyes were foreign-looking, and in her opinion her cheekbones were too high and her mouth too wide. As a rule men took one look at her and didn’t look again.
But if anyone had been inclined to look deeper they would have found that behind the unprepossessing appearance there was a veritable treasure trove. Twenty years of age, and formidably intelligent, Adeline had a distinct and memorable personality, and could hold the most fascinating conversations on most subjects. She had a genuinely kind heart, wasn’t boastful, and rarely offended anybody. She was also unselfish, and willing to take on the troubles of others. She never showed her feelings, and she seemed to have the ability to put on whatever kind of face was necessary at the time.
She was also piercingly lonely. Her maid, Emma, was her only companion, her only source of love and affection since her mother had died, when Adeline had been ten years old.
A knot of people crowded the platform. Between them, Emma and Paul’s valet took charge of the luggage—Paul was talking to the stationmaster. As the train to take them to Ashford pulled into the station, in a cloud of smoke and soot, Adeline stepped forward and watched as it came to a stop in a hiss of steam. The passengers began to get off. Pushed and jostled as people seemed to be going in all different directions, she dropped the book she was holding, which she had brought to read on the journey.
Suddenly one of the passengers who had got off the train stepped forward.
‘Allow me.’ The man, taller than Adeline, and dark, bent and retrieved the book before it was trampled on and handed it to her.
Adeline took it gratefully. Looking up, she met a pair of silver-grey eyes. There was no overlooking the sensuality in the mould of his mouth, even when it had a sardonic twist, as it did now. ‘Thank you so much. That was careless of me.’
He smiled. ‘These things happen.’ He tipped his hat. ‘Good day.’
Without a second glance, and dismissing the incident from his busy mind, Grant walked away. Frederick was to have sent his carriage to meet him. He was to stay overnight with Frederick before going on to Rosehill tomorrow—where he had arranged to see Horace Osborne.
What an attractive man, Adeline thought as she watched him walk towards the exit with long athletic strides. She wondered who he could be. There had been a cool purposefulness about him—a confident strength that emanated from every inch of his body.
Feeling a hand on her elbow, she turned to find Paul beside her.
‘Come alone, Adeline,’ he ordered briskly. ‘We don’t want the train to go without us.’
On arriving at Ashford, they found Lady Waverley had sent her carriage to the station to meet them. When they reached Westwood Hall, Emma and Paul’s valet disappeared to see which rooms had been allotted to them.
Westwood Hall was a large, sprawling half-timbered Tudor structure, and so beautiful that when Adeline first set eyes on it she temporarily forgot her reluctance for this weekend party. The lawns had been mown to resemble smooth velvet, and the terraces all around were ablaze with trailing roses in various colours, and pots of flowering shrubs.
Most of the privileged, rich and well-connected guests had already arrived. Swarms of titled, wealthy and influential people invaded the house, lawns and terraces, their colourful gowns, jackets and painted parasols echoing the bright colours of the flowerbeds and the graceful sculptures.
Lady Waverley, widowed after just five years of marriage, was flitting among them like a butterfly. With her confident manner she presented an imposing figure.
On seeing Paul, she made a beeline for him, her red lips stretched over perfect teeth in a welcoming smile.
‘My dear Paul. What a pleasure it is to see you. It has been altogether too long. I trust you are not too fatigued after your journey?’
Looking distinguished in an elegantly tailored tweed jacket, Paul smiled at her and stooped politely over her hand. ‘Not at all. It’s good to see you again, Diana.’ Taking Adeline’s hand, he drew her forward. ‘Allow me to present Miss Adeline Osborne—my fiancée.’
Lady Waverley received Adeline with noticeable coolness. But she was also curious, and Adeline was uneasily conscious of being measured up. She decided there and then that she didn’t like Diana Waverley. There was a cloying scent of musk about her, which Adeline found sickly sweet and unpleasant. Not unaware of the woman’s exacting perusal, of a sudden she wished she had taken more care over her appearance. The dark brown hair of Lady Waverley was exquisitely coiffed, and she was gowned with costly good taste in a high-necked russet and gold-coloured dress, offset by ribbons and flounces.
‘I appreciate your invitation, Lady Waverley,’ Adeline said, determined to be polite.
‘Well, now, I could hardly invite Paul without you, could I? You must call me Diana, and I shall call you Adeline. Still, I like the title, and it is one of the few good things—this house in particular—that my late husband left me. Any feelings I had for him I left at his graveside five years ago.’
Adeline’s raised eyebrow betrayed some amazement, but out of good manners she didn’t dare question a woman on such brief acquaintance.
Diana laughed at her expression. ‘Oh, it’s no secret—please don’t look so shocked. Everyone knows about my marriage to Patrick Waverley. He was a gambler and a drunk, but he died before he could gamble away all his wealth, thank God. Still, I make the best of what he left me. You will find my house parties are very informal. I must congratulate you on your engagement, by the way. Do you have a date set for the wedding?’
Paul shook his head. ‘Not yet—perhaps early spring.’
Adeline’s eyes shot to him. This was the first she’d heard about it. But, as with everything else that concerned her, she was never consulted by either Paul or her father.
Diana nodded and looked at Adeline. ‘It’s a shame you have not been to one of my weekend parties before, Adeline. They are an experience to be enjoyed—is that not so, Paul?’ Her full lips curved in a smile and her eyes were half closed as they settled on Adeline’s fiancé. ‘You never fail to miss an invite.’
Adeline already knew that this was not the first function Paul had attended at Westwood Hall, and she did not like being reminded so blatantly of the fact.
‘I’ve been in London for several weeks,’ Diana continued, ‘but with too many parties behind me I have removed my aching feet from the city’s cobblestones and settled for the calmer joys of the country. However, I do make Westwood Hall quite lively when I’m here, and surround myself with company. I do so hate an empty house. Now, I will have you shown to your rooms, and afterwards I will introduce you to my guests—I insist on you enjoying yourself to the full while you are here.’
Westwood Hall was as elaborate inside as out—ornamentation, decorative scrollwork, heavy furniture, gas and lamplight on polished panelling. There were so many guests it was impossible to be introduced to all of them. Some Adeline knew, some she didn’t, and she quickly lost interest in them. There was one person she was pleased to see, however, and that was Frances Seymore. She had been invited along with her older brother, Mark.
Frances was older than Adeline but just as plain, deemed to remain a spinster, unlike her three sisters—all sweet-faced, plump-breasted and coppery-haired—who had made splendid marriages. Frances was very dear to Adeline. The whole family was dear to her. They had befriended her when her mother died and had been very kind. She also suspected they felt sorry for her—motherless, and living with an arrogant, authoritative man who seemed to be indifferent to her.
Relieved that Adeline had found someone to talk to, Paul quickly excused himself. Adeline watched him heading Diana off in the direction of the terrace. She saw him slide his arm about the waist of their hostess, saw his head bend towards her upturned face, and with a stirring of irritation sensed that what they felt for each other was more than friendly regard. When Paul dropped his arm Diana took it, and pressed her breast against his sleeve. The contact was evidently intentional, for Paul did not draw away.
Feeling that she had witnessed something she had not been meant to see, Adeline turned away to accept a glass of spiced wine. She was embarrassingly conscious to find that some of the other guests were giving the couple a second glance, too. It seemed their closeness was too conspicuous to be ignored—and the weekend had only just begun, Adeline thought. More annoyed by the scene she had just witnessed than hurt, she turned to Frances, who was looking at her with quiet understanding.
‘Diana has a penchant for handsome men, Adeline. Paul is no exception, and I suspect his maturity appeals to her gregarious nature.’
‘I see.’ And she did see. Quite clearly.
‘In fact if you and Paul hadn’t recently become engaged I would have said Diana Waverley has set her cap at him. I’ve been here twice before—I always seem to get invited with Mark. I only come along because I have nothing else to do—and it can be quite entertaining, I suppose. Diana goes to great pains to see that her parties are highly pleasurable to those who have a taste for sexual intrigue and illicit liaison. She is always an ever-willing and resourceful collaborator.’
Adeline raised her brows, quite shocked. ‘Are you saying that she encourages that sort of thing?’
‘Oh, absolutely. When an illicit couple come to an understanding, it is usually agreed that something is left outside the lady’s bedroom door to signify that she is alone and the coast is clear.’ She laughed, vastly amused by the whole thing. ‘When you hear the stable bell ring at six o’clock in the morning—providing a reliable alarm, you understand—there is always such a rushing about on the landings as everyone returns to their respective rooms and their own beds.’
‘Goodness! If that is the case then I shall be sure to lock my door—and I hope that Paul does likewise,’ she murmured as an afterthought.
Frances studied her thoughtfully. ‘You know, I must say that I have misgivings about your engagement, Adeline. You deserve better than Paul—someone with a more generous nature, with passion in his veins. Someone who will care deeply for you.’
Adeline gave her a wry smile. ‘You always were too sentimental, Frances. I don’t require passion in a husband.’
‘Of course you do—every woman does. Beware the perils of a pompous husband.’
Later, sitting under the trees where tea tables had been laid, Adeline sat drinking tea out of china cups and eating dainty cakes with Frances.
The afternoon was hot. With the sun shafting through the trees, the noises from the tennis court as background, people laughing, people talking, birds singing, it should have been perfect. But it wasn’t. Adeline wished she could feel the happiness such a lovely day demanded instead of being alternately angry with Paul for neglecting her and miserable, exhausted and bored with the sheer physical effort of smiling and chatting to people she didn’t know. What she really longed for was Monty, and to ride away like the wind.
Dinner was a long drawn-out affair, and everyone could not have been more gracious in their compliments. The food was sublime, the wine superb, but the choice of conversation was different from what Adeline was used to.
As the meal progressed, and more wine was consumed, cheeks grew florid and talk raucous. Few remarks were addressed directly to her, and when they were she replied with a murmur or a smile or a nod. Most of the time she was unhappy with the trend of the conversation—its content became shallow, and leaned towards the vulgar—so she kept quiet, for fear of making a fool of herself, and then began to fear that her silence was creating precisely that impression.
She was appalled when Diana suddenly looked down the table and spoke to her.
‘You are very quiet, Adeline. I suppose as the proper, dutiful daughter of Mr Horace Osborne you don’t find the conversation as interesting or as stimulating as it is at Rosehill—perhaps you find all this superficial social chit-chat rather boring.’
Adeline stared at her. Was she mocking her? She saw no sign, but she sensed it. Her quietness had been misinterpreted as intellectual boredom. She didn’t intend to alter that impression, but nor was she about to forget that she was at Westwood Hall on Diana’s invitation. She would not be rude, but she would be the butt of no one’s joke—especially a woman who was making a play for her fiancé, however subtle her methods.
Adopting a pleasant smile, she said slowly, and with great restraint, ‘You’re quite right. It isn’t easy to work oneself into a passion over who is having an affair with whom. And with so many doing so surely they must be at the point of exhaustion in their search for pleasure for much of the time?’
There was a moment of silence before the laughter came.
‘Bravo, Miss Osborne!’ a gentleman across from her called out. ‘Your fiancé can be amusing—but you must know it is only play.’
‘I know my fiancé plays as well as any man. In fact I often think it is his—playfulness—rather than his search for pleasure that so exhausts him.’ She had the courage to look directly at Paul. He looked back at her, his face set in the kind of frozen disapproval he seemed to reserve just for her.
‘Why, my dear,’ Diana said, her eyes full of mock consolation, ‘and here was I thinking you were shy.’
Adeline smiled back at her. ‘If I am, then please don’t mistake it for lack of backbone.’
‘No, I wouldn’t dream of it.’
The dinner was over and the guests settled in the large drawing room for talk and music. Green-jacketed servants passed among them with more champagne, brandy and fortified wines.
As the evening wore on, and Adeline sat engrossed in a game of whist, partnered by Frances, from the corner of her eye she watched Diana making a play for Paul across the room. Responding to her blatant attention—his chest puffed out like a stuffed peacock, his natural arrogance greater than ever—Paul raised his glass and bowed briefly to his hostess. Adeline saw the subtle, conspiratorial look that passed between them and witnessed the imperceptible inclination of Paul’s head in reply.
Seeing Adeline’s interest, Lady Waverley drew away—but not before her eyes had met Adeline’s, with that same challenging, mocking look she had bestowed on her earlier. Adeline knew Paul was physically attracted to their hostess. She also knew when they each left the room by separate doors.
Anger surged through her. Damn him! How could he do this? Was he so insensible to her feelings—to her as a woman? Perhaps if she cared more for him it would hurt, but as it was all she could feel was anger. She thought of him with cold distaste—and a sense of wonder that she had allowed herself to be bullied into marrying him by her father.
She would have to be stupid and fairly thick-skinned not to see what was going on right under her nose. But what could she do about it? Confront him? Make a fuss? Make herself look silly and childish? For after all Paul wasn’t the only one doing it. To this smart gathering of supposedly civilised beings at the party adultery, intrigue and sexual liaison were an amusing fact of life. The women, with their jealousies and quiet war-mongering, wove webs of deceit, and the men were just as bad, with their love of competition and of bettering the next man.
Adeline really should have declined her invitation to the party—not that she’d received one personally, she thought bitterly. That was how little she was thought of—how unimportant she was. She would go to bed and pretend she hadn’t seen her fiancé leave the room with Diana. She told herself she could manage—that no one need ever know about her humiliation, her rejection.
When she heard the six o’clock stable bell ring the following morning she stood in the shadow of a huge jardinière that held an elaborate array of ferns and watched Paul scuttle out of Diana’s bedroom.
Afterwards she had no idea how long she stood there, gazing at Diana’s bedroom door, for her gaze was turned inwards, on herself. It was as if she were witnessing a different creature being born anew out of these frightening emotions. The force that was rising within her was horrifying. All she wanted to do was go into that room and vent all her fury on Diana Waverley—to strike out at her again and again.
It was several minutes before she could move and blindly make her way back to her own room. She was determined to carry on as if nothing had happened, to get through this unpleasant time until it was time to return to Rosehill and she could decide what to do about Paul’s sordid affair.
One thing she was sure of: she would not be made the object of censure, gossip and ridicule. But she had one more interminable day to get through—and one more night. How was she going to stand it?
