Ordinary Girl, Society Groom

Eloise laughed, a hiccup and then a sob. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘What for? I’m the one that’s frightened you. I should have called out earlier, made sure you knew I was there. I didn’t think.’

As her breath steadied he let his hands fall down by his sides. There was silence for a moment as they looked at each other. Then Eloise shivered. Within seconds he’d slipped off his jacket and placed it around her shoulders.

‘No. I can’t—’ she began but he stopped her.

‘It’s cold.’ He looked up at the sky as the soft drops of rain continued to fall. ‘And it’s started to rain.’

He moved to place a hand in the small of her back and urged her towards the main road. After a few steps, Eloise stopped. ‘What are you doing? What do you want?’

‘To talk to you,’ he said, as though he were speaking to a child. ‘We do need to talk.’

Eloise shook her head and her voice wavered. ‘Why? You don’t believe me.’

He put his hands in his pockets. ‘But you believe it,’ he said quietly.

His jacket hung heavy about her shoulders. She turned and walked towards the main road. He hadn’t said he believed her, only that he believed she believed it.

And he wanted to talk. Why? But all at once she didn’t really care. The most important thing was that she wasn’t alone in a dark street. She hadn’t been attacked. She was safe.

Still, after eight years, the memories of that night haunted her. She’d been one of the lucky ones, she’d got away unharmed, but in so many ways she was still a victim. Frightened of the dark, frightened of walking alone, frightened of being frightened.

Naomi’s mugging had brought it all back. Had made that fear fresh. A large drop of rain fell on the fine wool of his jacket. Eloise glanced up and then across at Jem. ‘You’ll get wet.’

‘I’ll survive.’ He gave a half smile and her stomach twisted in recognition of something. ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

‘To the main road. To hail a cab.’

‘You could have got one from Reception.’

‘I know.’ She kept walking, her face turned away.

‘But I was there,’ he said slowly. ‘Is that it?’

‘Something like that.’ She risked a glance across at him. The rain had started in earnest and his crisp white shirt had begun to stick to his body.

It was a good body. Tautly muscled, as Cassie had noticed. She’d said he was sexy too, the tiny voice in her head reminded her.

And he was. Sexy. Strong. Safe.

Safe. Why had she thought that? Perhaps it was because of the way his eyes had held hers when she’d been panicked and fighting for breath. His hands had cradled her face.

Eloise looked down at her ruined sandals. ‘I’ll be fine now.’

‘I’ll find you a taxi.’

His voice brooked no argument and she was too relieved to protest. The lights of the main road ahead shone brightly, but she’d still prefer not to be alone. ‘Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome. Having scared you witless, it’s the least I can do.’

She looked up in time to see his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. Very sexy. But still the enemy.

He still thought she’d claimed to be Viscount Pulborough’s daughter when she wasn’t. What did he think she wanted? What could she possibly hope to gain?

‘Why don’t you believe me?’ she asked suddenly.

Jem drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘Laurence is a deeply religious man. He stayed married to his first wife for nearly thirty years, even when she was seriously ill with motor neurone disease. His opinions on the sanctity of marriage are very fixed.’

‘So you think my mum was lying?’

‘Laurence’s name doesn’t appear on your birth certificate—’

‘How could it?’ she responded swiftly. ‘He didn’t stay around that long.’

Jem turned towards her. His eyes were sad, compassionate, as though he didn’t want to hurt her but believed he had no choice.

‘I can’t see Laurence ever turning his back on a child. It’s out of character. He wouldn’t do it.’

‘But you didn’t ask him. Did you?’ Eloise hugged his jacket about her shoulders. ‘You didn’t show him my letter.’

‘No. Not yet.’ He stopped by the door of a lighted café. ‘Do you want a coffee?’

Eloise glanced up and then through the window. The staff were clearing the tables. ‘I want to go home. I’ll be fine now, you go back to the gala.’

‘I’m not going.’ He slicked back his dark hair. ‘I’m cold, drenched and I’m going to see you home.’

‘What about Sophia Westbrooke? Won’t she be looking for you?’

‘Sophy will go home with Andrew.’

‘Will she mind?’

‘Why would she? They know I hate these kinds of events. I don’t really like London. Too noisy. Too many people.’

They turned the final corner and stood beneath a street light, the rain glinting as it was illuminated in the soft beam.

‘I’d read that.’

He glanced across at her. ‘What else did you read?’

Eloise let her eyes scan the distance. She took a shallow breath. ‘Your father is the late Rupert Norland. He died in a speedboat accident when you were fourteen and your mother married Viscount Pulborough eighteen months later. You were expelled from school. You design furniture and you’re not married.’

‘That’s all?’

She glanced across at him. His hands were nonchalantly in his trouser pockets, his face mildly interested. ‘You’ve a half-brother called Alexander who’s at Harrow and who will ultimately inherit Coldwaltham Abbey. Rumour has it you were all but engaged to Brigitte Coulthard, heiress to the Coulthard retail empire. Since then, nothing particularly serious.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you want any more? I’m good at research.’

‘So I see. I’ve no secrets then,’ he said dryly.

Eloise pulled his jacket closely about her shoulders. ‘Have I?’

‘No.’ He gave a half smile. ‘I’m pretty good at research myself.’

There was a silence before Jem lunged forward and hailed a passing black cab. As the driver swerved over, switching off his ‘for hire’ light, Jem turned back. ‘Where to?’

‘Hammersmith.’

He nodded and Eloise noticed the way the rain was now dripping down the back of his neck, his shirt sticking to his back. His jacket around her shoulders was sodden, the bottom of her fine silk dress hung in miserable folds and her shoes were ruined.

She didn’t care. About that or about anything. A strange fatalism seemed to rest upon her. Jem seemed inclined to make decisions and she didn’t have the energy to stop him.

Settling back in the deep seat of the taxi, she didn’t even comment when he took the seat next to her. It seemed natural he should. She didn’t ask where he was going or whether this was taking him out of his way.

What if he were right? What if Viscount Pulborough wasn’t her father? It was a small chink of doubt which made her feel like she was betraying her mother. But he was so certain. So very certain.

She turned her head away and watched the raindrops bead and weave their way across the window. Beyond it was all a blur of night.

Would her mother have lied? Eloise couldn’t believe that. Wouldn’t.

‘Where to, luv?’ The taxi driver half turned his head to talk through the open window.

Eloise jumped. ‘Second on the left. Number fifteen.’ She glanced across at Jem. His face was hidden in darkness but she knew he was watching her. She shrugged out of his jacket. ‘You’d better have this back,’ she said, passing it to him. ‘Thank you.’

He took the jacket and felt inside the inner pocket for his wallet as the taxi pulled up outside her home. Jem opened the door and helped her out on to the pavement.

Eloise stood foolishly and watched him walk round to pay the driver. The rain had stopped but the pavements were dark and the air smelt damp.

Jem came back to join her as the taxi pulled away. As she watched the tail-lights disappear she glanced up at him. ‘You’ll never get another taxi round here.’

He shrugged. ‘Then I’ll walk.’

‘That’s silly.’ Eloise shivered, her thin wrap doing nothing to keep her warm.

‘Perhaps, but I’ll be happier if I know you’re safe.’

She turned and fitted her front door key into the lock. ‘Do you want to come in for a coffee? You could ring for a taxi.’ The words were out of her mouth before she even knew what she’d said.

‘Coffee would be good.’

In the ‘guide to all single women living alone in London’ this was another foolish thing to do. You didn’t ask a man you’d met that evening back to your flat. But even though Jem Norland was many things she loathed, she wasn’t frightened of him.

She wasn’t even sure she loathed him any more. It had burned itself out. It was the situation she hated and someone to talk to, anyone, was better than no one.

The traditional nineteen-thirties front door opened into a small lobby. ‘My flat is upstairs,’ she said unnecessarily. ‘The house was divided ten years ago.’

‘How long have you lived here?’

‘Six months. I was lucky to get it.’

Jem followed her up the staircase and waited while she unlocked the second door.

‘The lounge is through there. You’d better go in,’ she said curtly. ‘I’m just going to get changed.’

Eloise walked straight towards her bedroom, shutting the door behind her. She stood resting her back against the cold woodwork.

What was she doing? There had been no need to ask him in for coffee. No need at all.

There was no need for him to have accepted either, she reminded herself. No reason why he should have bothered to see her home. If he were so certain her mother was lying there’d be no reason for him to want to talk to her.

Eloise pulled out some dry underwear, jeans and a pale pink jumper from her chest of drawers, kicking off her Eduardo Munno sandals as she did so.

She slipped the narrow straps off her shoulders and let the damp fabric of her dress pool on the floor. Her skin felt cold and her hair was wet. It was so tempting to curl up beneath her duvet. To shut her eyes and let the day’s problems melt into sleep. To forget all about Jem Norland waiting in her lounge.

Waiting. She pulled on her jeans and pulled the soft angora jumper over her head. He must be frozen—but she hadn’t got anything for him to wear. She made a detour and grabbed a towel.

Why was he here?

She didn’t want to talk about her mother. Not if he was going to criticise her and question her honesty.

In many ways it would have been better if she’d just folded up the letter again and forgotten all about it. Or burnt it, maybe. She should have trusted her mum’s judgement. There must have been very real reasons why she’d decided to disappear quietly. Why she’d never tried to make contact.

Or had she? Perhaps she’d tried over the years but the Viscount hadn’t wanted to know.

She walked nervously into the lounge. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think. You must be cold. Wet.’

Jem stood with his back to her, gazing down at the road below. He turned to look at her. ‘It’s quiet here.’

Eloise hugged the towel against her body. ‘Yes.’

She had to pull herself together. To jump-start her brain in to some kind of working order.

What was the matter with her? She’d always had an answer for everything. Could cope with anything life threw at her. Just tonight it all seemed to have deserted her. She felt like a walking zombie. Like someone who’d had all their fire sucked out of them.

She tried again. ‘That’s why I bought it. That and the fact I could afford it. Plus it’s only a short walk from the tube.’ Eloise stopped. Total drivel. She was speaking total drivel.

He smiled. His blue eyes glinted down at her. Almost, Eloise thought as she was caught in their glare, she could almost forget he was the enemy. He had an uncanny knack of making you feel special. It was a rare gift.

Hesitantly she held out the towel. ‘I’ve brought you a towel.’

‘Thank you. Probably better to just lay it out on your sofa. Save the fabric. If I can sit down?’

Eloise shook her head. ‘That doesn’t matter.’ Then, as she realised what he’d said, ‘I’m sorry. Please do. Sit, I mean.’ She rubbed a tired hand across her eyes. ‘I can get you another towel, if you like.’ She moved towards the door.

His voice stopped her. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Something to drink? I’m making a coffee.’

‘Coffee would be lovely.’

His voice was rich and warm. A cultured voice. Safe. She watched him lay out the towel across her small green sofa before sitting down. Eloise closed her eyes for a second and forced herself to walk out of the room.

He made her small living-room seem tiny. He made her feel tiny, small enough to put in his pocket. She wasn’t used to that sort of feeling. Eloise rubbed at her cold arms and shivered. Jem Norland was still the enemy, firmly on the side of the man who’d betrayed her mother’s trust.

She had to remember that.

But Viscount Pulborough was fortunate in having someone so strong in his corner. There was no one looking out for her. No one to put their arms about her to hug her. She’d been strong for so long. Sometimes she just wanted…

Comfort.

She just wanted someone to tell her it would be all right. She missed her mum with an ache that was physical. It had been just the two of them for so long. She had always been supportive, loving and protective. And now…

Now she was alone. She’d been alone for such a long time. Six years.

For six years she’d fought her own battles and dried her own tears. There’d been no one to share the happy, triumphant moments of her life. She felt as if she was standing facing the sea and the tide was about to bear down upon her, an unstoppable force, and she would be swept away by the power of it.

CHAPTER THREE

ELOISE switched on the kettle and crouched down to search for the cafetière. It was tucked at the back of a bottom cupboard behind two large mixing bowls.

She sniffed the contents of an open packet of ground coffee, hoping it was still fresh. It didn’t matter. None of this mattered.

Nothing Jem Norland could say would change anything. Her mum hadn’t lied. Viscount Pulborough was her father—whether he wanted to accept that or not.

She glanced about aimlessly for a tray. She had one somewhere. Then she saw it. High on the top of the kitchen cupboards.

As she reached up with her fingertips it balanced precariously on the edge before tipping over, bringing with it a couple of bun tins and a baking sheet. Eloise closed her eyes and braced herself for the resounding crash.

She opened one eye gingerly.

‘What the—?’ Jem walked into the kitchen and began to pick everything off the floor. ‘Not your day, is it?’

‘I was looking for a tray.’

He held it up. ‘You found it. Where do you want everything else?’

Eloise grabbed the tins off him and shoved them into the oven. Her mother would have had a fit if she’d seen her do it. It had been one of her pet hates.

Her hands shook as she rested the tray on the melamine work top. Why had she remembered that now? She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. When she opened them she saw Jem was watching her.

‘All right?’

‘I’ve been better.’ She pulled out a couple of mugs from the top cupboard. Then she turned to look at him. ‘Are you drying off?’

He smiled, the lines at the edges of his eyes fanning outwards. ‘Steaming slowly.’

Eloise found her mouth curving in response. Strange. Awkwardly she turned and reached for a couple of cream mugs. ‘Sugar?’

‘No. No milk either.’ He leant against the doorframe. Relaxed. Watchful.

Eloise tipped the last of a carton of milk into a jug and placed it on the tray.

‘Perhaps you’d better let me carry it.’ He stepped forward and picked it up. She stood back and let him do it, unusually passive.

Jem looked across at her. She looked absurdly youthful. Her chic bob lacked the sophisticated glamour it had had earlier. In bare feet she didn’t reach his shoulder. Considering the damage she could do to the people he loved, he felt curiously protective of her.

And what if she was telling the truth?

More than that—what if it was the truth? What if she really was Laurence’s daughter? It would mean Laurence wasn’t the man of high ideals and personal integrity he’d always thought him. It would be a crack on the pedestal of the man who had done so much to restore his belief in others.

He followed her into the small lounge and watched her turn on the gas fire. The flames flickered up. She stood watching them for a moment and then turned to settle herself in the armchair, a cushion on her lap.

Jem carefully put the tray down on the old wooden trunk she used as a coffee table. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if he should be mother. And then he remembered—her mother was dead.

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