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A couple of hours later, Lucy walked into her bedroom and closed the door.
As part of the austerity measures her father had been forced to introduce before his death, there was no live-in house help on Dalkeith. In fact Lucy had cut short her bachelor of arts degree to come home and look after her father six months ago and after her marriage, a curious marriage to say the least, she’d decided to keep it that way. It gave her something to do, and she’d discovered that, in lieu of her deep interest in Dalkeith being taken seriously, her interest despite herself in the crops Justin planned to grow and the sheep it still ran across its thousand acres of outback western New South Wales, that only left her horses for her to occupy herself with. And two mares in foal and two gelding hacks, devoted to them though she was, didn’t take up a lot of time.
She did have a cleaning lady who came in daily and a farmhand to tend the fireplaces, but it had come as some surprise to her, in those last days of her father’s decline, to find that she enjoyed cooking and gardening.
She sighed suddenly, pushed herself away from the door and picked up the silver-framed photo of her father from her dressing-table. No matter the things that she’d come to suspect even before his death, such as his being eminently suited to being a gentleman of leisure but not a gentleman farmer, and what she’d discovered about him after his death—that he’d tried to rescue Dalkeith from the brink again by gambling on horses, despite it all, she’d loved him and, only three months later, still missed him unbearably at times. If nothing else he’d certainly loved her unstintingly, and he’d taught her all the things he held dear to his heart, among them riding, shooting and fishing. He’d also taught her about art and music, he’d taken her to faraway exotic places, he’d helped her to fix her taste in clothes and all manner of things and yes, spoilt her wildly. But he’d never foisted a stepmother on her after her own mother, whom she couldn’t remember, had died. In fact, she suspected he’d never got over her mother’s death, and certain things in life hadn’t had much meaning for him after it. Including Dalkeith.
He’d also sent her to a very expensive convent school where the Mother Superior had been strong-minded enough to persevere with the motherless, precocious, mischievous and often downright naughty Lucy Wainright despite the battles royal they’d had since Lucy had been placed in her care at nine and a half, and she’d continued there until she was seventeen and a half. They’d even parted on terms of mutual respect and by that time quite some mutual affection, although each was loath to admit it.
But had her father, Lucy wondered, as she stared down at his handsome likeness, never really realised how much Dalkeith, above all else, had meant to her? That even in her giddy salad days when she’d been queening it over all and sundry—her eyes flashed briefly—it, even more than her father, had been the rock to come back to. Did she have more of her Scottish great-grandparents in her than he’d ever had? A spiritual affinity with the land that was like a physical tie? Had he not known that, without him and without Dalkeith, brave, bright Lucinda Wainright, darling of society, was in fact lonely and more than a little frightened? But he had known how much she loved Dalkeith; wasn’t that why he’d never told her he’d lost half of it to Justin’s father?
She pushed off her shoes and curled up in the pink velvet armchair beside the fireplace, and stared into the flickering flames with a faraway look in her eyes.
It was ironic but true that she had hero-worshipped Justin Waite as a child. It was also true that Justin had, without her quite understanding it, achieved the status of a hallmark in her mind during her adolescent yeais. A hallmark that she had involuntarily found herself measuring other boys, then men up against, and finding most of them wanting. This had also led her, once she’d left school and on the few social occasions that they had met, to treat him with cool hauteur, yet to experience an undoubted desire to be noticed.
‘And he noticed,’ she murmured a little bitterly, her cheeks feeling warm again. ‘Although the only sign he ever gave of it was that hateful little glint of amusement in his eyes—I really do hate him now!’
She sat up breathing quickly but also feeling a curious mixture of confusion and guilt. Why hadn’t she pressed her father for details about his rift with the Waites, daspite his extreme reluctance to say more on the subject? Well, I did try, she admitted. And of course I know now that he couldn’t bring himself to tell me what was going on—the fact that Riverbend did diversity and go into breeding racehorses with spectacular success must have been an awful blow to his pride, but why couldn’t I have realised it at the time? And then what he did say, about us no longer being good enough for the Waites, set my back right up. With the result, she conceded gloomily, sinking back in the chair, that I made myself ridiculous by treating Justin the way I did. But did I really offed him enough for him to take this kind of revenge? To make me marry him although he didn’t love me and so he can get all of Dalkeith? she asked herself miserably.
And answered herself a little tartly—apart from amusing him, I doubt it. I mean, I never saw him without some beautiful woman on his arm or doing something spectacular like playing polo or crewing on some twelve-metre yacht, and of course he then proceeded to make his own fortune.
She brooded darkly for a moment on how Justin had taken a run-down saddlery business and built it into a nationwide success story—another one—and so not only did Riverbend Stud produce top-flight progeny, but Riverbend Saddlery produced saddles of the finest quality, with an international reputation and all sorts of horse products, as well as clothing—riding boots et cetera. Yes, Justin was clever and not only with horses—and there was a ten-year age gap between them, damn it!
She got up and paced about angrily. ‘So what?’ she murmured to herself, and picked up her silver-blacked hairbrush and turned it over and over in her hands. Then she stopped and looked down at it and fingered the ornate ‘W’ engraved into the handle, and drew herself upright and stared at her reflection with cold eyes. ‘Just remember what he said when he proposed. He said, “We won’t even have to change the monograms, will we? Surely that demonstrates what a practical arrangement it would be.”’
But she shivered suddenly because, in a moment of rage and panic, she had accepted. And then, in a moment of further panic on her wedding-night had made her ‘dramatic declaration’. That she’d never willingly sleep with him. Had she in fact been seriously unbalanced by grief and everything else?
CHAPTER TWO
‘I NEED you. Justin—’
‘Well, well—’ Justin Waite put out a lazy hand and grasped his wife’s wrist ‘—did my little lecture set you thinkimg, dear Lucy?’
Lucy closed her eyes, attempted to free herself to no avail and ground her teeth. ‘I need to talk to you. About this party.’
It was a bright, chilly morning but Justin had apparently been up well ahead of her, which was how she’d encountered him coming in through the kitchen door as she was on the way out. Normally she’d have kept on going.
‘Ah.’ He released her wrist. ‘Then talk away while I start my breakfast.’
‘What have you been doing?’ she said involuntarily as she followed him reluctantly back into the kitchen where his breakfast was keeping warm on the range. He had on jeans, boots and a yellow sweater, his thick dark hair was ruffled and the cold morning air seemed to have agreed with him. In other words he looked fit, tough and capable, alert and slightly mocking, and more than a match for her. But when did he look any different these days? she wondered bitterly.
‘I’ve been out and about,’ he said idly, and carried the plate of sausages, scrambled eggs and toast to the kitchen table. There was a pot of coffee bubbling gently on the stove.
Lucy went over to it and poured two mugs which she carried to the kitchen table and sat down opposite him. ‘You can tell me, you know. Not only is the place still half mine but I’m intemted,’ she said with extreme frustration before she could stop herself. ‘Wouldn’t I under normal circumstances have some sort of voting power or some say in what you do?’
‘I’ve only been inspecting fences in the twelve-mite paddock, Lucy,’ he said mildly. ‘I made no momentous decisions other than that they need repairing.’
Lucy drew a breath and thought how much she’d have enjoyed a gallop down to the twelve-mile before breakfast instead of the lonely, aimless ride she’d been about to take. ‘What about the boundary rider’s hut?’ she asked tonelessly. ‘The last time I saw it it was a bit ramshackle. Grandad always liked to keep it provisioned and weatherproof because the twelve-mile can flood, but it’s on the only high ground, so if you did get marooned out there—’
‘That too. They’re starting on it today.’
She lowered her lashes instead of glaring at him. ‘Well,’ she said even more tonelessly, ‘tell me about the house party. You haven’t given me much notice.’
Justin spread marmalade on his toast. ‘I can get someone in to do it all if you like. I have mentioned that there’s no need for you to do so much of your own work, Lucy.’ He put the lid on the marmalade with some impatience.
‘And I’ve told you, I’d go round the bend that way, Justin, not to mention feeling as if I was on the receiving end of your patronage.’
He smiled. ‘I can assure you it’s not patronage to provide one’s wife with household help.’
‘But then we’ve agreed I’m not much of a wife. Look, I can do it. I can get Mrs Milton and her sister to come up—as I’ve done before on Dalkeith.’
‘Then do it,’ he said curtly. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘When they’re arriving, when they’re leaving, who they are and just what kind of a weekend you have in mind!’
‘Why, the kind of weekend Dalkeith is famous for, Lucy,’ he said blandly. ‘I’m sure I don’t have to tell you. There’ll be four guests and Sasha.’
She stared at him then forced herself to relax. ‘Well, if they come on Friday afternoon, we’ll have an informal dinner, a buffet and a simple evening—music, cards and so on. Saturday, a picnic at the creek, some sightseeing around the place, some target shooting or archery, a little gentle croquet for the ladies, then a formal dinner to which I could invite some locals.’ She considered. ‘Yes, I could invite the Simpsons, and Miles Graham for Sasha! That should even things up.’ Her eyes glinted. ‘Then on Sunday morning a late breakfast, and they can do what they like until they leave after lunch.’
‘And you and Mrs Milton and her sister can cope with all that?’ he queried.
Lucy shrugged. ‘They’ve got it down to a fine art. Mrs Milton does the cooking, although a lot of it is prepared beforehand, and her sister makes the beds, tidies up, waits on table et cetera. It’s all in the preparation, Justin. So long as you feed people really well, the rest seems to take care of itself.’
‘It’s Tuesday today, Lucy,’ he warned.
‘That gives me three full days, Justin,’ she said wearily. ‘Besides, I think I need a challenge,’ she murmured, and propped her chin on her hands.
He regarded her steadily then said quietly, ‘You’re making things awfully hard for yourself, Lucy.’
‘No, you’re making them hard for me, Justin.’
‘I hesitate to labour this point, but if it weren’t for me you wouldn’t be here.’
‘Perhaps. But I might have felt I’d gone down in a fair fight—who knows?’
‘How are you going to handle us in front of these people?’
She blinked, then grinned. ‘I hadn’t thought of that—yet.’ She sat up suddenly and tossed the thick plait she’d braided her hair into over her shoulder. ‘Do you mean we’ll have to put on a loving show?’
‘It’s not unexpected in newly-weds,’ he observed.
‘Oh.’
‘And I don’t expect I’d take kindly to being made a fool of,’ he added without the least emphasis, yet a curious underlay to his words that made her nerves prickle oddly. Perhaps it was something in his eyes as well, as they rested on her.
She opened her mouth, closed it then said with dignity, ‘It’s not a pre-requisite to... I mean, some of the people I’ve known who really were in love didn’t...sort of flaunt it.’
‘Perhaps not,’ he agreed. ‘What I’m trying to get at is, are you prepared to be sensible or are you going to cook up something like yesterday to advertise to the world that we’re not in love?’
Lucy pursed her lips. ‘I might just be normal and let them work it out for themselves,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘I don’t think you can expect much more from me, Justin.’
‘When you say normal, do you mean you’ll include me in your come hither—?’
‘I don’t do that,’ she cut in sharply.
‘Perhaps you don’t realise you’re doing it. Perhaps it’s second nature now. Didn’t you notice Robert Lang going weak at the knees when you smiled at him yesterday?’ He lifted a dark eyebrow at her.
Lucy set her teeth.
He waited then gathered his plate and took it over to the sink.
‘I can’t help how I smile!’ she said in a goaded sort of voice at last.
‘No, but with a bit of age and maturity you should be able to use it with discretion. Otherwise you could find yourself in a situation you might find hard to handle one day.’
Lucy tossed her head and stood up, with not the slightest idea, as he came back to the table, what he had in mind. ‘Like this,’ he said softly, standing right in front of her so she had to tilt her head back, and taking her in his arms as her eyes widened. ‘In the position of being kissed by your sworn enemy.’
Her lips parted. ‘Justin...’
But he ignored both the look in her eyes and the incredulity in her voice, and held her closer so she couldn’t help being aware not only of the feel of his hard, muscled body against her own but of the faint tang of aftershave and sheer maleness about him—and finding it curiously heady, like some primitive assault on her senses. This both stunned her slightly and made her less able to cope with what followed. A searching, not particularly deep kiss to which she didn’t respond particularly yet which didn’t exactly repel. It was really strange, she reflected afterwards. It was as if her body had gone languid and her mind was suspended above her, recording and storing the event, monitoring her own reactions but, above all, searching for his.
And when he lifted his head at last she blinked once then stared into his eyes, with her heart in her mouth suddenly at what she might see.
What she did see was the way he narrowed his eyes immediately, and then the little laughter-lines beside them creased. ‘Well, Lucy,’ he said wryly, ‘you have got that down to a fine art, haven’t you?’
She licked her lips and said huskily, ‘What do you mean?’
His hands slid down her back to her waist and he lifted her off her feet and moved her away, and steadied her but didn’t take his hands away. ‘The art of kissing and giving nothing away at the same time.’
A tinge of pink came to her cheeks and a pulse beat at the base of her throat, a pulse of anger as it happened. ‘If that’s not exactly what you did, I’ll eat my hat,’ she retorted, and removed herself from his grasp but sat down almost immediately.
‘Then why are you so cross?’ He leant against the corner of the table and folded his arms.
‘Perhaps I’m tired of having it continually pointed out to me what a femme fatale I am.’ She picked up the lid of the sugar bowl and replaced it not gently. ‘And if that was a warning of the deluded sort you were issuing yesterday—’
‘It was a warning to behave yourself this weekend, Lucy.’
‘Listen, Justin!’ Her eyes were a deeper, decidedly stormy blue now.
‘No, you listen to me, Lucy.’ He unfolded his arms and pinned one of her wrists to the table as her hand wandered towards the sugar bowl again, and he lifted her chin in his other one, also not gently as she resisted stubbornly. And his eyes were a cold, hard grey as he said, ‘You can fight me all you like in private, but not in public, because if you do, I’ll retaliate, believe me, in a way you wouldn’t like at all, and in a way that will make your little war look like child’s play. Do we understand each other?’
It was Mrs Milton who broke into Lucy’s reverie. Mrs Milton came in daily and Lucy was still sitting at the kitchen table where Justin had left her, staring into space, as she arrived.
‘Morning, Miss Lucy,’ she said brightly and placed a parcel on the table. ‘There’s those sheets that needed mending.’
‘Oh!’ Lucy jumped. ‘Oh, thank you, Mrs Milton—sorry, I was miles away. How are you?’
‘Fine, love. Miles away where?’ Mrs Milton poured herself a cup of coffee.
Lucy grimaced. ‘Are you doing anything this weekend? You and your sister?’
‘No. Got a party on?’
‘Yes, and I want it to be—something special, Mrs Milton. Hang on, I’ll get a pen and paper.’
Whether by design or not, Justin stayed out of her way over those next three busy days, although they did meet for breakfast on the Wednesday morning.
‘You have a dirty mark on your chin, Lucy,’ her husband said after a more formal greeting had got him a cool look and a barely audible murmur in reply.
This time she responded with a raised eyebrow and a shrug, causing him to narrow his eyes and appear to drop the subject. But as they passed each other later, he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder and put his forefinger on the ‘mark’ on her chin.
‘Did I do that?’
She merely nodded.
He took his finger away and inspected the faint blue bruise. He also let his gaze wander over her mouth, innocent of any lipstick yet rose-pink and finely chiselled, the smooth lucent skin of her cheeks, the deep pansy blue of her eyes with their sweeping lashes, darker than her hair, and the escaping tendrils of wheat gold curling on her forehead. ‘My apologies,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know you bruised so easily.’
‘I don’t bruise so easily. Perhaps you don’t know your own strength. Or perhaps you do.’
‘What I haven’t known,’ he said with a twist of his lips, ‘is anyone quite as stubborn as you. I suppose you’ve now added the fact that I’m a callous brute to your list of my sins.’
‘Some of your threats left me in no doubt of it at all even before this,’ she murmured coldly. ‘May I go now? I have a lot to do.’
‘How’s it going?’
‘It’s all under control.’
‘Do you need any assistance? From me,’ he said gravely.
Her look spoke volumes. ‘All you have to do is be here, Justin.’
‘I still haven’t told you who’s coming—apart from Sasha.’
Lucy shrugged. ‘I rang Sasha myself and got it all from her. She was a mine of information, in fact. Two couples, although one unmarried couple who will nevertheless share a bedroom—’
‘Unlike some married couples I know. I wonder if it’s a new trend? Go on,’ he said politely.
‘Yes, well,’ Lucy said evenly, ‘Sasha also told me that although it’s not strictly a business weekend, they will be inspecting some yearlings at Riverbend on their way here and might be interested in buying them at the upcoming yearling sales in Sydney—she said that very significantly, Justin. In other words—don’t rock the boat, Lucy, if you can help it! And, she also gave me some helpful suggestions which—’
‘You will go out of your way to ignore,’ Justin said amusedly.
‘Indeed I will.’ Lucy’s eyes flashed briefly, recalling Sasha’s helpful advice which had included the maxim that keeping things simple might be a good idea. ‘How you put up with her I’ve no idea!’
‘I’ve told you, she’s very good at her job.’
‘She’s certainly got a superiority complex. Is that why you two get along so well?’ she asked innocently, and went on impatiently, ‘Besides, being good at your job doesn’t mean you have to be treated as a friend, necessarily.’
‘Well Sasha is both actually, Lucy. And since I moved to Dalkeith, so that you might remain in your ancestral home,’ he said and held her eyes in a suddenly cool look, ‘she is more up to date on matters relating to the stud and this crop of yearlings than I am. So she will be here in what you might call an unofficial business capacity.’ He paused then added with that same cool look. ‘Don’t upset Sasha, Lucy. She may rub you up the wrong way but she has a brain like a computer when it comes to horses, and extremely good judgement.’
