Raw Silk

‘But what about us?’ protested Robert. ‘Liz and Dody and me? You don’t seem to realise, Fliss, my father has left her half of everything. The trading company; the shops; even this house! What if she wants to sell it? Where are we going to live?’

Fliss could see it was a problem, though for herself she wouldn’t be sorry if she and Robert didn’t have to live at the house after they were married. Sutton Grange, as it was rather pretentiously called, was not an attractive example of Victorian architecture, and she much preferred the old vicarage, where she and her father lived.

Not that she and Robert could move in there, she conceded, in a momentary digression. Although Robert and the Reverend Matthew Hayton tolerated one another’s company, she couldn’t deny they had little in common. Since her mother had died some years ago her father had developed an interest in local history, and every moment he had free from his duties as the village clergyman he spent researching the parish records. He had no interest in sailing, or horse-racing, or playing golf. Or in fine arts either, Fliss conceded.

As far as Fliss was concerned, her mother’s death, while she was still at university actually, had left a void in both their lives no one else could fill. And because her father obviously needed someone, not just to take over his wife’s role in the community, but also to act as his secretary, she had found herself accepting that position, and abandoning any ambitions she had had to have a career of her own.

She had never really regretted it, even though the life she led in this Buckinghamshire backwater was vastly different from the life led by most young women of her age. At twenty-six she enjoyed an almost bucolic existence, and only since her engagement to Robert Hastings had she had the kind of social life he had always taken for granted.

Which was why, she supposed, Mrs Hastings had not been exactly enthusiastic about the match. Robert’s mother had no doubt expected him to marry someone from a similar background to their own; someone whose father was fairly wealthy, or whose family had a title. A daughter-in-law she could present to the world, a daughter-in-law she could be proud of.

Fliss knew she was none of those things. Vicars’ daughters were not titled, and they were not wealthy, and as for Mrs Hastings being proud of her, well … She shrugged her slim shoulders. She had often wondered what Robert saw in her, what had possibly persuaded him to ask her out?

They had met at the village fair last autumn. Fliss had been in charge of the book stall as usual, spending at least part of the time examining the merchandise, indulging herself shamelessly in any and every volume. Books were Fliss’s one weakness, and she invariably bought the books herself if no one else was interested.

Why Robert had been there at all, she couldn’t imagine. The noise and bustle of a village fair didn’t seem his scene at all. Though he had been interested in the bric-a-brac stall, she remembered. Probably in the hope of snaring a bargain. Mr Hastings owned several fine art shops, and, although no one could confuse Mrs Darcy’s pot dogs and stuffed owls with fine art, just occasionally a piece of crystal or a chipped Crown Derby plate found its way on to the stall.

She had been admiring an old copy of poems by Lord Tennyson when Robert had stopped at her stall. His appearance had surprised her, but Fliss seldom got flustered. Indeed, she was of the opinion that she was one of those people who didn’t have it in them to feel any uncontrollable surge of excitement, and although her golden eyes widened she was perfectly composed.

And, unaware as she was of it, it was that air of cool untouchability that caught and held Robert Hastings’ interest. That, and the fact that she was tall—taller than average—and unfashionably curvaceous, with full, rounded breasts, and long, shapely legs. She also had a mass of sun-streaked brown hair, that hung quite untidily about her shoulders. In short, she was an extremely feminine example of her breed, and if her nose was too long, and her mouth too wide, the overall impression was delightful.

So much so that Robert, a fairly discerning connoisseur of her sex, was instantly attracted, and showed it. Much to her father’s dismay, she was sure, he had spent the remainder of the afternoon hanging round her stall, and when the fair was over he’d spirited her off to the pub for a drink.

Fliss, who seldom drank anything stronger than the communion wine, found herself with a cocktail glass on one hand and an ardent suitor on the other, and for once she was glad she wasn’t easily excited. Another girl might have been bowled over by the fact that probably the most eligible bachelor for miles around was giving her his undivided attention. As it was, Fliss found it all rather amusing, and not at all worrying as her father seemed to think.

And, although Robert might have expected a different response from a young woman without any obvious advantages, he had soon had to accept that, if he wanted to get anywhere with Fliss, he would have to be a lot less arrogant, and a lot more patient. And he had been. To her immense surprise and amazement, he admitted to having fallen in love with her, and, as an abortive affair when she was in college was all Fliss had to compare her own affection for him with, she had come to the eventual conclusion that she must love him too. Certainly she liked being with him. He was warm and affectionate, and he made her feel good.

And, after a winter in which Robert had sustained his assault on her emotions, she had finally agreed to his announcing their engagement. The only disadvantage she had found since that event was Robert was now twice as eager to consummate—as he put it—their relationship; only consummation, as a vicar’s daughter, meant something rather different to Fliss …

‘I should think,’ she said carefully now, desperate to escape the implications of that particular thought for the present, and returning to the subject of the house, ‘that your mother might welcome the opportunity to find somewhere smaller.’ Knowing Mrs Hastings as she did, she doubted this was really true, but she pressed on anyway. ‘I mean, now that your father’s—dead——’ she licked her upper lip delicately ‘—she won’t have to host all those country weekends and dinner parties that Mr Hastings wished upon her.’

Robert stared at her impatiently. ‘You’re not serious.’

Fliss smoothed slender fingers over a bare shoulder, exposed by the bootlace straps of her sundress, and gave a little shrug. ‘Why not?’

‘Why not?’ Robert was briefly diverted by the unknowing sensuality of her action, but he eventually shook his head as if to clear it, and exclaimed irritably, ‘As I shall be running the company from now on, this should have been my house, not my mother’s. And as for entertaining, I should have been hosting all social occasions from now on.’

‘Yes, I know, but——’

‘This was going to be our home, yours and mine,’ he added grimly. ‘We would have carried on the family tradition.’

Fliss had been afraid of that, and she wondered if it would be too disloyal of her to feel some relief that the prospect had been put in jeopardy. Was Robert suggesting they would have lived here with his mother and his twin sisters? Dear God, she couldn’t have done that. It simply wasn’t on.

She also forbore from pointing out that the ‘family tradition’ he spoke about was barely twenty years old. As far as the villagers were concerned, they were still newcomers. Besides, James Hastings’ indiscretions were bound to put a halt to any delusions of grandeur.

‘Well,’ she said evenly, ‘whatever happens, I think we should start married life in a home of our own. Not here. We should choose our own place. Somewhere we can decorate and furnish as we like.’

Robert brought the swing to a sudden halt. ‘What’s wrong with the Grange?’

‘Nothing.’ Fliss realised she had to be tactful here. ‘But this is your mother’s home—at least, for the present. And—and it’s Liz and Dody’s home, too. Haven’t you just said so?’

Robert frowned, the deepening cleft between his blonde brows drawing attention to the fairness of his skin. Even in the height of summer, Robert’s flesh never changed colour. The sun might burn it sometimes, but he never got a tan.

Conversely, Fliss’s skin was of that creamy variety that browned easily. Unlike her hair, which was bleached by the sun’s rays, her arms and legs took on the healthy glow of honey. A fact that dismayed Mrs Hastings, who protected her own skin with almost fanatical zeal.

‘I don’t want to move,’ Robert declared now, his gaze moving over the acres of formal garden to where his sisters still squabbled on the tennis court. And it was true, the neatly trimmed hedges and rose gardens were a delight, particularly at this time of year.

‘Maybe you won’t have to,’ Fliss offered, stifling for the moment her own misgivings about living at Sutton Grange. ‘You’re endowing this woman—Rose Chen—with characteristics you can’t possibly know she possesses. She may be just as upset by the situation as you are. Didn’t you say Mr Davis was of the opinion that she hadn’t known the truth before your father’s will was read?’

Robert shrugged his shoulders. He was a tall man, inclined to sturdiness, and he had played rugby in his youth. In fact he was still a formidable opponent on the field. Yet, for all that, there was a certain weakness about his chin that had nothing to do with his good looks, and a sulkiness about his mouth that was presently all too apparent.

‘You don’t really believe that, Fliss, do you?’ he asked, and although his expression hadn’t changed his voice was softer. ‘Oh, hell, and this was supposed to be the happiest year of our lives. We were getting married at Christmas. I don’t know what’s going to happen now.’

He held out his hand towards her, and, not sorry to leave the concrete rim of the pond, Fliss allowed him to pull her on to his lap. The swing rocked gently now as he nuzzled his face against her shoulder, and she wished there were something she could say to ease his troubled thoughts.

‘There’s plenty of time,’ she comforted, putting her arm about his neck and cradling his head against her breast. Really, she thought, there had been occasions lately when she’d felt more like Robert’s mother than his girlfriend. He could appear totally helpless at times.

Well, perhaps that was an exaggeration, she conceded quickly, feeling his hand invading the camisole neckline of her dress. She shouldn’t mistake petulance for vulnerability. Robert was usually fairly adept at getting what he wanted, and who knew that he wouldn’t soon have the Chinese girl, his half-sister, Rose Chen, eating out of his hand?

She was about to put his hand away when one of the twins, Fliss thought it was Dody, came tearing across the lawn, and achieved her objective for her. ‘Rob! Rob!’ Dody was calling, her plump adolescent legs pumping urgently inside her biker’s shorts. ‘Rob, Mummy says you’ve got to come up to the terrace immediately. That woman’s arrived! Our—sister! And she’s brought ever such a gorgeous hunk with her!’

Even allowing for Dody’s tendency towards exaggeration, Fliss had to admit that Oliver Lynch was one of the most disturbing men she had ever laid eyes on. The most disturbing, she suspected, although that seemed a little disloyal towards Robert.

Nevertheless, Oliver Lynch did present a most imposing presence, and even Robert, at six feet exactly, had to look up at the older man. And he was much older, Fliss decided, using that acknowledgement as a means of reparation. He might not look it, but he had to be forty-one or -two, at least. To a polite question from Mrs Hastings, he had admitted to spending some time in Vietnam, and that war had been over for twenty years or more.

But the fact remained, he was disturbing, and attractive. He wasn’t handsome, as Robert was handsome. His features were too strongly moulded for that. But there was something very masculine—very sexual—about deep-set eyes, hollow cheekbones and a thin-lipped mouth. In some ways it was a cruel face, enhanced by the unconventional length of his hair. Long and black, he pushed it back with a careless hand, the rolled-back sleeves of his shirt exposing a long white scar that marked the flesh from elbow to wrist.

He not only looked disturbing, he disturbed her, thought Fliss uneasily, not really understanding why this should be so. She tried to tell herself it was because of Robert, that his association with the woman, Rose Chen, made him as much of a threat as she was, but that wasn’t it. If she was honest she would admit he disturbed her in a much more personal, purely visceral way. Just looking at him caused a curious pain to stir, down deep in her stomach. And when Rose Chen touched his arm, or his hand, as she did frequently—as if she needed to display her possession—Fliss looked away, as if the image offended her.

Of course it was all quite silly, she reproved herself half mockingly. She didn’t even know why she was giving him a second thought. It wasn’t as if she had any desire to change her comfortable existence. However petulant Robert might be, he was also tender and kind, and incredibly patient. Not characteristics she could apply to Oliver Lynch, she was sure.

From her position, curled up on one of the cushioned lounges at the far end of the terrace, she was able to observe the behaviour of the other people present without drawing attention to herself. They were all being amazingly civil, she thought, remembering how bitter Robert had been before their arrival. But then his mother hadn’t met Oliver Lynch then, nor been seduced by his southern courtesy and charm.

Forcing her attention away from Oliver Lynch, she wondered what her fiancé was really thinking. Tea had been served, and presently he was exchanging pleasantries about their journey with the woman, Rose Chen. No one could be more polite, or more facile, than an Englishman, Fliss reflected drily. Unless it was an American. There was no denying that Oliver Lynch was displaying his share of diplomacy.

She forced her mind back to the Chinese woman. Rose Chen—was that really her name?—was older, too, than they had expected. Was that why they were all being so civil to her? Had the realisation that she was not a young girl reassured Amanda Hastings of her own credibility?

Whatever, it was obvious that Mr Hastings’ affair with Rose Chen’s mother must have happened at least thirty years ago. Maybe thirty-five. Fliss couldn’t be absolutely certain. And if that was the case, Robert hadn’t even been born when his father took a mistress.

‘Do you think she’s his mistress?’

The whispered words so closely following Fliss’s thoughts, caused her to gaze at one of Robert’s sisters blankly.

‘Who?’ she answered, in an undertone, hoping no one else was listening to their exchange, and the twin—Liz, she thought—rolled her eyes impatiently.

‘Oliver Lynch, of course,’ she hissed, glancing surreptitiously over her shoulder. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it, too. I saw you looking at him earlier.’

Fliss was glad the vine-clad roof that overhung the terrace cast her face into shadow. Liz’s words had caused a faint tinge of hot colour to enter her cheeks, and she wouldn’t have liked to have to explain it to anyone else. ‘Contrary to what people of your age believe, older women do not speculate about other people’s sexual habits as soon as they’ve been introduced,’ she replied quellingly. ‘He could be her husband, as far as we know.’ Though that caused another discomforting flutter in her stomach. ‘It’s nothing to do with us.’

‘Older women!’ said Liz disparagingly, picking up on the one topic she could argue with. ‘You’re not old, Fliss, and you know it.’

‘I’m twenty-six, and sometimes I feel old enough to be your mother,’ retorted Fliss drily. ‘In any case, that has nothing to do with it, I’m not interested in Mr Lynch.’

‘Mummy is.’ Liz tipped her head defiantly. ‘She hasn’t taken her eyes off him since he and—Rose Chen—got out of the car. Did you see the car he was driving, by the way? I think it’s a Ferrari. It’s long and low and really mean. Dody was nearly drooling!’

Fliss shook her head. ‘Liz! Your father’s only been dead just over three weeks. Show a little respect.’

Liz grimaced. ‘I’m not being disrespectful,’ she argued. ‘Haven’t you noticed the way Mummy’s stationed herself at his elbow? How old do you think he is, anyway? Eight—ten years younger than she is?’

‘Liz!’ Fliss was getting very impatient with this conversation. ‘Go and find someone else to pester, will you? You’re giving me a headache.’

‘That’s because you’re frustrated,’ Liz retaliated, in parting, and Fliss was so glad to see her go that she didn’t dispute it.

Instead, she uncoiled her legs from under her and reached for the cooling cup of tea resting on a nearby end table. She wished she could go, she thought. Robert didn’t need her at the moment, and she had no doubt she would hear all about his conversation with Rose Chen. To distraction, probably, she mused ruefully, recalling that since his father’s will had been read it had become almost the sole topic of conversation. She sympathised with him; or course she did. But surely half the company was enough to satisfy even the most prodigal of heirs. She appreciated the things that money could buy, but she couldn’t understand why some men were prepared to sacrifice everything, even their self-respect, in the pursuit of great wealth. Her father said it had to do with power, with the power that money brought. But Fliss—probably due to her father’s influence—had little use for either.

‘Are you?’

The lazily spoken enquiry was so unexpected that Fliss almost spilled her tea. She had been so absorbed with her thoughts that she had been unaware of anyone’s approach, least of all that of the man who had eased his long length into the chair beside hers.

‘I beg your pardon?’ she said, glad to find that for all her trepidation she sounded pleasantly composed. She crossed her legs, swiftly gathering together the skirt of her dress when its wraparound folds threatened to part. ‘Did you say something?’

‘I said—are you?’ Oliver Lynch repeated levelly, though she could tell from his expression that he didn’t believe she hadn’t heard him the first time. With an errant breeze lifting the ends of his dark hair, and his muscled forearms resting along his thighs, thighs that had parted to accommodate the booted feet set squarely on the floor of the terrace, he was too close for comfort. The neckline of his navy silk shirt was open to display a disturbing glimpse of body hair as well, and Fliss thought he looked like a predator, his casual air of relaxation as spurious as his smile.

‘Am I what?’ she asked politely, returning her fragile cup to its saucer. She gave him an enquiring look. ‘I fear you have me at a disadvantage, Mr—er—Lynch.’

Oliver Lynch’s thin lips parted. ‘I doubt that, ma’am,’ he countered, with equal formality. ‘The kid accused you of being frustrated. I wondered if you agreed.’

‘Did you?’ Fliss’s breath escaped with a rush. She didn’t believe it for a moment. ‘I don’t really think you expect me to answer that question.’ She glanced along the terrace and saw Robert’s mother watching them with undisguised hostility, and inwardly groaned. ‘Um—is this your first visit to England?’

‘No.’

He was non-committal, curiously pale eyes—wolf’s eyes, she decided imaginatively—assessing her appearance intently. Was he only trying to embarrass her? Or was he bored by their company, and eager for diversion? Whatever the prognosis, she wished he’d chosen someone else to practise on.

‘You’re an American,’ she observed now, striving for a neutral topic. ‘But you live in Hong Kong. Do you have business interests there, too?’

‘You could say that,’ he responded carelessly, and she immediately felt as if she was being unpardonably inquisitive. But, heavens, what was she supposed to say to a man who was so obviously out of her realm of experience? She had never considered herself particularly good at small talk, and his kind of verbal baiting left her feeling gauche.

‘Do you live in Sutton Magna, Miss Hayton?’ he asked after a moment, and Fliss was relieved he hadn’t made some other mocking comment. ‘Mandy says you’re going to marry Robert,’ he added, with a slight edge to his voice. ‘Is that right?’

Mandy ?

It took Fliss a second to realise he was talking about Mrs Hastings. She had never heard Amanda Hastings referred to as ‘Mandy’ before. ‘Um—yes,’ she answered hurriedly. ‘To both your questions. My father is the local clergyman. Maybe you and—your friend would like to visit the church while you’re here. It’s a Norman church, and parts of it date back to the twelfth century.’

‘I’m not a tourist, Miss Hayton.’ Oliver Lynch’s tone was vaguely hostile now, and Fliss wondered what she had said to annoy him. She had only been trying to make conversation. There was no need for him to be rude.

But her innate good manners wouldn’t allow her to put him in his place as she should, so ‘I’m sorry,’ she said courteously. ‘I didn’t mean to imply you were.’

Oliver Lynch’s eyes darkened, a curious phenomenon that caused the pupils to dilate and almost obscure the pale irises. ‘Forget it,’ he said, his low voice harsh and impatient. ‘I’m an ignorant bastard. I guess I’m not used to mixing in polite company.’

Now what was she supposed to make of that? Fliss’s tongue moved rather nervously over her upper lip. She wasn’t sure how to answer him, and she wished Robert’s mother would stop scowling at her and come to her rescue.

‘Er—let me get you some more tea, Mr Lynch,’ she ventured, relieved at the inspiration. ‘It really is a hot afternoon, and I’m sure you must be thirsty.’

‘I am,’ he agreed, his pupils resuming their normal size, and a humorous grin lifting the corners of his mouth. ‘But——’ he laid a hand on her bare arm as she would have got to her feet ‘—not for tea! If there’s a beer lying around here, I’ll take it. But not more of the lukewarm—stuff—I was offered earlier.’

Fliss jerked her arm back as if he’d burned her. And indeed, the sensation his hand had induced on her flesh was not unlike that description. His fingers, lean and hard and cool, had left an indelible imprint. So much so that, for a moment, she had hardly been aware of what he was saying.

Instead, she found herself wondering how it would feel to have his hands on her body; and not just her limbs, which were already melting at the thought. But on her waist; her hips; her breasts. She caught her breath. The idea that he might also touch her intimately was a fascinating prospect, and it took Robert’s voice to arouse her from the dangerous spiral of her thoughts.

‘I see you’ve introduced yourself to my fiancée, Lynch. What have you been saying to make her look so guilty?’

The American rose in one lithe easy movement, in no way daunted by the faint edge of animosity in the Englishman’s tone. ‘Oh—we were discussing the relative merits of tea, among other things,’ he replied, not altogether untruthfully. ‘As a stranger in your country, I’m not accustomed to the—customs.’

Robert seemed to realise there was something rather ambiguous about this statement, but short of asking what he meant outright there was little he could say. ‘Well, I hope Fliss has satisfied your curiosity,’ he remarked tightly. ‘Naturally, we’ll all do what we can to make your stay as pleasant as possible.’

Oliver Lynch’s smile didn’t reach his eyes, but there was genuine warmth in his voice as he replied, ‘Your fiancée has been most charming. I hope you appreciate her.’

‘Oh, I do.’ Even if Fliss had not been thinking of getting to her feet at that moment, she felt sure the possessive hand Robert placed about her arm would have achieved it. There was anger now, as well as proprietorial ownership, in the way he drew her up beside him, sliding his arm about her waist, as if to underline his claim. ‘Fliss is my one weakness,’ he said, though there was little leniency in his voice. ‘She can wrap me round her finger any time she likes.’ And, bending his head towards her, he bestowed a prolonged kiss on her startled mouth.