Mistress for a Night

She was shaking with nervous tension as she slipped down the corridor and into his room.

He’d fallen asleep with the bedside light on. The coward in her recognised it as a reprieve and she felt herself begin to relax, her breath coming more easily. She knew she should walk out and leave him to his healing sleep, but couldn’t make herself.

She padded over to the bed, her bare feet soundless on the thick carpet, only now realising that the in-depth discussion she’d intended they have should have demanded at least the sobriety of a robe to cover the too voluptuous curves which were barely hidden by her short, thin cotton nightie.

But the night was hot and she hadn’t been thinking straight, her mind rehearsing what she had to say to him over and over again. In any case, it didn’t matter now. He was asleep and she wouldn’t wake him.

Very carefully, her heart in her mouth, she sat on the edge of the bed. He still looked feverish, sweat gleaming on his olive-toned skin, the sheet tangled around his hips. She could smell the whisky he’d dosed himself with and realised hopelessly that she had to be grateful for the virus, for the alcohol that had knocked him out.

He was so beautiful. He could have any woman he wanted. So how could she have been crazy enough to hope for one moment that he would want her?

The sudden film of tears made her eyes sting. She blinked them away and told herself to be grateful for having been saved from a huge humiliation.

If he’d been awake and she’d come out with all that stuff she would have embarrassed them both; she could see that very clearly now. His past friendship and kindnesses meant only one thing—that he was compassionate enough to care about the plain, over-plump teenager who was like a fish out of water in the opulence of Lytham Court, whose mother plainly showed she didn’t want her around.

So she would go to New York and make something of her life, but first she would give herself this quiet, secret time with the man she loved with an emotion so intense it made her heart feel heavy and sharp inside her. Just a few more minutes to say her silent goodbyes.

Tears shimmering on her lashes, she softly, oh, so softly, touched his naked shoulder. The last thing she wanted to do was wake him, but she needed to have the memory of how his skin felt beneath her loving fingers.

He was burning, feverish. She lifted her hand and laid the backs of her fingers against his brow, where strands of damp, dark hair tumbled onto his forehead, then feathered them gently over his jagged cheekbones, down to the corner of his mouth, and then, because she simply couldn’t stop herself, trailed her hand over the taut muscles of his arm, down to the loosely clenched long bones of his hand, completely absorbed in him.

And then, in the space of time it took to draw a breath, his eyes opened, his fingers tightened convulsively around hers, drawing her hand up until her palm was splayed against his wide chest and she could feel the rapid, heavy beats of his heart.

After that there was no time to explain what she was doing in his room as his mouth descended in a bone-melting kiss. No time to think as she drowned giddily in a vortex of passion, his passion and hers, the driven need taking them both by storm.

She didn’t have to ask if he could ever love her. He had given her the answer.

She woke in her own bed, but couldn’t remember climbing back into it. Had Jason carried her here? She was filled with the scatty kind of happiness that made her heart soar up to the skies and dance around the sun. Jason’s lovemaking had been more beautiful than anything she could ever have imagined. He couldn’t have been so passionate if he didn’t love her.

She floated down to breakfast, her head spinning. Today they would talk. There were decisions to be made about New York, although what had happened last night made them academic. Her future was here with the man she loved.

The elegantly furnished dining room was empty. A glance at her watch told her she was too early. Mrs Moody didn’t serve breakfast before nine-thirty. Her mother and stepfather weren’t early risers.

She smiled softly, her amber eyes jewel-bright. She would take Jason’s breakfast up on a tray. Juice, toast, honey and coffee. They could talk in privacy. And when she told him she loved him he would tell her he felt the same, and kiss her, and maybe invite her to share his bed, and undress her slowly, and then…

Her heart was beating so fast she thought she might suffocate, and the heat of desire scorched her skin. She turned quickly, heading for the door and the kitchen. And Jason walked in.

She couldn’t speak, could only look at him with drowning, love-drenched eyes, one hand flying to her breast to still the wild clamouring of her heart. He looked pale, as if the night had taken the colour from his skin, making his slate-grey eyes darker by contrast, emphasising the lines of strain at the side of his beautiful male mouth.

He raked his fingers through his soft dark hair, a track Georgia longed to follow with her own fingers. But she knew she shouldn’t be thinking of things like that when he obviously wasn’t well.

‘Let me get you something,’ she said, concern in her eyes. ‘Coffee, juice, eggs—anything.’

But he shook his head, briefly closing his eyes so that the thick dark sweep of his lashes laid sooty crescents above his jutting, harshly masculine cheekbones.

Then he looked at her, and she saw regret in his eyes, heard it in his voice when he told her, ‘About last night. I’m more sorry than I can say for what happened. I’m fond of you; you know that, Georgia. The last thing I want to do is hurt you.’

‘You didn’t!’ she gasped. ‘How could you think that? Last night—’ Her face flamed at the wholly erotic memory, at the vision of the new and totally unexpected world he’d opened up for her. She swallowed convulsively. ‘Last night was the most beautiful thing that has ever happened to me.’

She ached to go to him, to lean her head against the broad expanse of his chest, but there was something forbidding about his hard features that kept her feet rooted to the carpet. She felt emotional tears sting her eyes again as she protested, ‘Please don’t be sorry about what happened. I can’t bear it. It was all my fault; you know it was.’ And it was her fault; of course it was. She shouldn’t have let it happen. She’d taken advantage of him while he was at his most vulnerable.

‘No.’ He turned away from her, his hands bunched into the pockets of his narrow-fitting jeans, his shoulders rigid beneath the stone-coloured sweatshirt he was wearing. ‘The blame is mine entirely. I’m eight years older. I should have had more control, dammit! Packed you back to your own room and your teddy bears!’

‘Don’t say that—I’m not a child!’ The words were torn from her heart. She was losing everything she’d dared to believe she’d gained. Losing him. It couldn’t happen. She wouldn’t let it happen! ‘Jason—I love you! Don’t you understand?’

He swung round to face her then, slowly, on the balls of his feet, his features less harsh, some softer emotion hazing his eyes so that for a tiny moment her heart lifted with hope, only to be shot down again when he countered gently, ‘Believe me, you only think you do. Last night—it was your first time.’

Dull colour flared briefly over his broad, ruggedly defined cheekbones, but his eyes didn’t waver, holding hers intently as if by his will alone he could force her to accept what he wanted her to believe.

‘That being so, it’s only natural that you should imagine—’

‘I don’t “imagine”! Give me some credit!’ The sheer vehemence of her interruption wiped the unhappy mixture of shame and compassion from his face. And his eyes narrowed watchfully as she went on, ‘I fell in love with you the first time I ever saw you, and I’ve loved you ever since!’ He had to know how real it was, how true and strong her love for him. He mustn’t think she’d made love with him on a whim.

Her chin jutting out, she defied him to say she was lying. He didn’t, just sounded drained and weary as he told her gently, ‘You’re eighteen years old, Georgia. And for this day and age incredibly innocent. If you feel anything for me at all it can’t be anything other than infatuation.’ He reached out a hand as if to touch her, then withdrew it, thrust it back in his pocket. ‘Believe me, my dear, you’re still too young to really understand your own feelings. And I’m not prepared to take any more advantage of your innocence than I already have. Try to forget it ever happened. You have the whole of your life ahead of you, and if it’s worth anything at all to you, I’ll be around for you if you ever need me. You know that.’

He left the room without another word, without a backward glance, and left Lytham an hour later.

The pain of his going was unspeakable.

She spent the next few weeks in a pit of misery, moping around the house, irritating her mother, making Harold give her knowing little winks and leers.

‘Don’t nag her, Vivvie. She’s pining for some boy; it’s obvious! Did he dump you, sweetheart? He’s a fool if he did—a curvy little handful like you!’

And still she couldn’t bring herself to get away. She’d told Sue and her parents that she’d decided to take up their offer, but hadn’t bothered to obey her friend’s telephoned command to, ‘Get your butt over to our place and we can make plans about what we’re going to do when we hit the Big Apple—provided Dad gives us any time off from our dogsbody jobs at the agency!’

For the first time ever, giggly girl-talk with the bubbly Sue held no appeal whatsoever.

She was waiting for Jason. Hoping he’d rethink his rejection, telling herself that he wasn’t trying to avoid her, that he might have had another disagreement with Harold. They’d never seemed close—just as she and her mother weren’t. Or maybe he was just too busy to come. Recently accepted as a junior partner in a prestigious firm of London solicitors which specialised in fraud in high places, he could be too focused on his work to find time to visit.

But in her heart she knew the excuses she made were futile. He didn’t come because he just didn’t want to have to see her again.

On the point of capitulating to Sue’s demands, telling her mother of her future plans and packing her bags, she made a discovery that shook her out of her torpor.

She was pregnant!

She panicked. She didn’t know what to do. Vivienne would show her no sympathy or understanding whatsoever, and would almost certainly urge her to have an abortion. And as for Harold, she couldn’t bear to encounter his knowing, hot eyes.

Jason was the only one she could turn to, because hadn’t he said he’d be there for her if she needed him? And hadn’t he helped to create this new life she was carrying inside her?

She phoned his London number late at night, when she was sure he’d be at his apartment. It took every ounce of courage she possessed. After she’d told him she held her breath, feeling her pulse-rate rise.

But all he said was, ‘I take it you’re sure?’

‘I wouldn’t be phoning—’

‘OK. Calm down. I’ll be with you first thing in the morning. We’ll make plans. And Georgia—don’t worry.’

As if she could help it!

She lay awake all night, wondering if his plans would include a discreet abortion, and knew that she would never, ever be pressured into ending the life of her unborn child. He or she would be a part of Jason she would have for ever. And she’d think about the practicalities of raising a child on her own when the dust had settled.

Jason arrived at Lytham at eight the next morning, well before Harold and Vivienne were up, declining Mrs Moody’s stiffly formal offer of breakfast. The housekeeper never spoke unless it was necessary, and Georgia had never seen her smile, but the look she shot between the two of them now spoke volumes.

So Jason took her arm and walked her out of the impressive house and into the garden, which was manicured to within an inch of its life.

‘We’ll marry just as soon as it can be arranged.’ Marriage to Jason was all she had ever yearned for. Her heart skittered around like a wild thing, then settled down to a heavy, solemn beat. She sat down abruptly on an over-ornate cast-iron bench seat, sweat breaking out on her short upper lip as she forced out, ‘You don’t have to.’

‘I know I don’t have to. No one’s holding a gun to my head.’

He was standing over her, his back to the morning sun, his face in shadow so she couldn’t read his expression. Yet she knew it would be as bleak and emotionless as his voice.

‘It’s the only option,’ he told her tonelessly. ‘A termination’s out of the question, so don’t even think about it. I’m the father, and I’m responsible for both you and the baby. My child will have the best possible start in life, and a stable background with both parents as permanent fixtures. And that means marriage.’

It was what she wanted, but would it work? He didn’t love her, and if she hadn’t been pregnant he would have avoided her where possible.

She twisted her fingers together in her lap and he told her, ‘I can’t stay, I’ve got a hell of a lot on at the moment, but during this coming week I’ll arrange the date and venue for the ceremony. After the wedding you can move in with me, and when I’m less pushed for time we’ll look for somewhere more suitable. A city apartment’s not the ideal environment for a child.’

As proposals went, this one rated rather less than one out of ten. She clamped her lips together to stop them quivering, and he said, his voice gentling, ‘It will be all right; I promise. We’ll make a good marriage.’ Briefly, he reached out to ruffle her boyishly cropped hair. ‘I have to go now, but I’ll be back a week today, early evening. We’ll break the news to the parents over dinner. Don’t say anything until then. If there’s any flak flying, I’ll take it.’

A good marriage. If he was willing to make it work then so was she. But to be the wife of a successful young solicitor she needed to change her image, and she spent most of the week hunting for suitable clothes, because how could he be proud of a wife who went around wearing fault-concealing baggy trousers and tops?

It was the afternoon, a week later, before she found the perfect dress for dinner that evening. She wanted to wear something that would make a statement, to appear older and more sophisticated in front of Harold and Vivienne, and to show Jason she was more than prepared to make an effort.

Hurrying into the house through the kitchen regions, clutching the classy carriers, she encountered Mrs Moody.

‘Mrs Harcourt’s been looking for you. You’ll find her in the conservatory.’

‘Thanks.’ No need to say more. Mrs Moody didn’t encourage chit-chat. For the first time ever Georgia didn’t feel intimidated by the severe mouth, the glacial, disapproving eyes. And as she sped up to her suite of rooms to get ready for Jason, for the announcement he would make over dinner tonight, her confidence soared. Vivienne could wait; she had more important things to do than listen to her endless complaints.

When her mother had married Harold Harcourt, after meeting him when she’d worked as his temporary personal secretary, Georgia had been over-awed, intimidated, even, by the opulence of this house and Harold’s staggering wealth. Unused to anything of the kind, she’d been out of her depth, afraid of putting a foot wrong.

But her mother had taken to her new lifestyle as if she’d been born to it, instead of having had to scratch a living to support herself and her unwanted child. She lapped up the luxury of having everything done for her, more designer clothes than she could wear, and a holiday home in the Caribbean.

Well, Vivienne was welcome to it! Georgia was about to embark on a life of her own, with Jason and their baby. Very carefully, she took the black dress from one of the carriers and laid it across her bed.

Classy. Jersey silk and cut on the bias, so it clung in the right places. Short—four inches above her knees—with a scoopy bodice. When she’d tried it on it had made her look sleek, yet voluptuous, rather than just plain overweight.

And plain black courts in the softest leather imaginable, with high and slender heels to give extra height to her perpendicularly challenged frame. She’d stopped growing when she reached five-two—upwardly, anyway.

After her shower she anointed her body with perfume, musky, exotic and disgracefully expensive. To give him his due, Harold made her a generous allowance. She rarely touched it, but today she’d dipped deep into her account.

But it had been worth it, she thought as she wriggled into the scraps of scarlet nonsense that passed as underwear. Used to wearing sturdy, practical undies, she found her mirror image a blush-making revelation.

The low-cut bra lovingly shaped her breasts, displaying them to their full advantage, and the tiny briefs emphasised her sex. Would Jason want her if he saw her like this? Would he see her as a desirable woman instead of a graceless lump? Would he decide that marriage to her might be more exciting than a mere execution of his duty? Would he think she was sexy?

The unmistakable sound of someone entering the adjoining bedroom sent her already thudding heartbeats into a frenzy. No one ever came to her rooms, not even Mrs Moody, because she looked after them herself.

Jason?

Her hand fluttered to her throat. It had to be him. He’d promised to be here in time for dinner. With an hour still to go he could have decided to speak to her privately before announcing their marriage plans later on.

Her eyes widening, her veins racing with fire, she watched the porcelain knob of the bathroom door make a slow half-turn.

A few short weeks ago she would have been diving for a towel to cover her near-nakedness, and she almost gave in to the impulse now, but managed not to because there was no earthly reason to be shy with the man she loved with every atom of her being, the man who would soon be her husband, the man who had fathered the new and precious life she was carrying.

And she would have the answers to the questions she’d asked herself only a few seconds ago!

Then the world went black and very still. Harold stood in the open doorway, staring at her. And Georgia stared back, too shocked and embarrassed to move.

The way he was looking at her made her feel like throwing up. His heavy face was red, hot eyes raking over every inch of her body. She tried to make a move, to grab a towel from the rail and cover herself, but her feet seemed to have grown roots through the floor.

‘Well, well, well—what an eye-opener!’

He was leering at her, Georgia thought, horrified. Oh, if only she weren’t so gauche, knew how to handle this hateful situation. ‘You have been hiding your light under a bushel!’

The thick sound of his voice galvanised her, was all it took to have her leaping over the tiles, grabbing for a towel. But Harold side-stepped, moving quickly for a heavy man, and was there before her, mocking, ‘No need to be shy with me, sweetie. No need at all.’

Beginning to panic now, she couldn’t agree with that. He might only be teasing, indulging in one of his too-near-the-bone jokes at her expense, but she wouldn’t bet on it. And the only way to stop his eyes crawling all over her body was to cover it.

She made a desperate lunge for the edge of the bathtowel she could see behind his bulky frame and he caught her before she made the connection, his laugh high and silly, his hands grabbing, all over her.

And then all hell broke loose.

At any other time the sight of her mother’s distorted features would have struck her as being hysterically funny, the twisted expression on her expertly made-up face and the raucous tone of her voice an almost surreal contrast to the perfect taste of the smoke-grey silk that hung so beautifully on her pin-thin body.

‘Just what the hell is going on in here? Hal? Answer me, Hal!’

Her flesh crawling with embarrassment, Georgia found herself thrust aside. She was shaking all over, not knowing what to do or say, grateful that the hateful mauling had stopped but horrified that her mother should have witnessed the degrading scene.

This was the worst thing that had ever happened to her, she thought wildly, and then proved herself wrong, because Jason was here, too, his face dark with bitter anger, and that had to be worse than anything she could possibly have imagined. ‘Vivvie, sweetheart,’ Harold said. ‘Don’t get the wrong end of the stick!’

He smoothed a hand over his thinning hair and Georgia just knew he would have straightened his tie had he been wearing one.

‘I hate to have to tell you this, but I can’t have you getting all the wrong ideas—I only came up here to pass on that message her friend left with you. That Sue somebody-or-other who’s been phoning all afternoon. Thought I’d save you the trouble, darling. But this little minx of yours was parading about in those skimpy things.’ He drew his brows down in an anxious frown. ‘I haven’t said anything before—didn’t want to upset you—but she’s been coming on to me for weeks now. And just now—well—she just threw herself at me, as you must have seen for yourself.’

All eyes on her, condemning her, Georgia could barely hold herself upright, let alone speak.

How could Harold say such disgusting things about her? She was shaking so badly, inside and out, that her denial when it came was barely audible.

‘I didn’t. No, I didn’t!’

She knew she hadn’t sounded convincing, and her mother was shouting at her, the words she said scrambled by her own panicking brain, making no sense. But she could tell by the look of loathing in Vivienne’s eyes that she didn’t believe her.

And why should she? Why should she believe the truth when it would mean that her marriage would never be the same again? Why sacrifice wealth, luxury and ease if by blinkering herself she didn’t have to?

And the look of deep and bitter contempt on Jason’s face said it all. He didn’t believe her, either. The offer of marriage had been made out of duty. He didn’t love her, never had and never could, and now he despised her. He had only let her into his bed because she’d been eager and offering herself.

Hadn’t Sue’s mother once asked, ‘Why are men ruled by their hormones?’ shaking her head over her twenty-year-old son’s latest folly. Guy had been chasing after a woman from the nearby village, twice his age, and rumoured to be no better than she should be.

Jason had been ruled by his hormones, his judgement clouded by alcohol, and now deeply—and probably bitterly—regretted it. If he thought anything of her at all he would be defending her now, at least asking to hear her side of the story.

But he didn’t say a word, and she just knew that this farce gave him the perfect get-out. If he believed Harold, he could free himself up to believe anything—believe that after her initiation she had thrown herself at every male she came across, greedy for sex, allow himself to believe that the child she was carrying wasn’t even his!

Blinded by a sudden deluge of tears, she stumbled from the room, her arms crossed tightly across her breasts in a vain and belated attempt to hide as much of herself and her stupid red underwear as she could from Jason’s bleak, contemptuous eyes.

He made no move to stop her, or to follow her, and the last tiny flicker of hope snuffed out and died. And as she scrabbled around in her bedroom, snatching up the jeans and sweater she’d discarded earlier, her shoes and handbag, she could hear the low, harsh sound of his voice, her mother’s shrill tirade, Harold’s low, placating mutters.

They would be discussing her gross behaviour, she decided hysterically, heading for the door. Deciding how to get her contaminating presence out of their lives.

She fled down the corridor until she could no longer hear their voices, pulled her clothes on, walked into her shoes and clattered down the stairs.

As she reversed the small car she had been given the use of out of the garage, with more speed than precision, she knew exactly where she would go. To Sue.