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Charlie watched the doubts flit across her face and he lifted a hand and touched Tessa’s cheek with a gentle finger.
‘There’s little choice here, Tess,’ he said softly. ‘You can trust me. I swear.’
Tess looked up at him. His eyes were crinkled and kind and absolutely direct.
‘I don’t trust you. How can I? You’re nuts,’ she managed. ‘Do you really have a flat in London?’
‘I really do and it’s quite close,’ he assured her.
‘And it’s yours?’ she asked.
‘It was my uncle’s. Now it seems that it’s mine.’
Tess bit her lip. ‘That must mean your uncle, the twelfth earl.’
‘Clever girl,’ he said approvingly. ‘You’ve worked out the family tree. Now...do you want to trust me?’
Tessa didn’t. She badly didn’t want to trust him. There was something about Charlie Cameron that said she should steer as far away from this man as possible. Lunatic or not, he left her feeling as if her feet weren’t quite steady on the ground.
But the street was sordid and empty, her baggage was heavy and her feet hurt. There were blisters on her palms from carrying the weight this far.
And this man was her only link with home.
What was the worst that could happen here? That he take her to this imaginary castle, lock her with his harem of slaves and keep her for his own personal pleasure?
She looked back at her hotel and her creepy landlord was peering over the newspaper in the front window He was scratching his flabby white chest and scowling, and she just knew that any minute he’d rush out and order her off his filthy front step, or set the dog on her.
She looked up at Charlie and her fear receded. Maybe there was something to be said for harems, after all.
Charlie’s house wasn’t quite a harem but it was a lot closer to a palace than anywhere Tess had ever been before. She’d sat silently in the rear seat of the Jaguar while the driver negotiated London’s early-morning traffic, and ten minutes later they had pulled up outside a place Tess could only describe as a mansion.
She gazed out in astonishment. The house was gleaming white stone, three storeys high, with Gothic columns at the entrance and a vast, overwhelming front door.
‘Before you get the wrong idea, only the top floor’s mine,’ Charlie said quickly, seeing her jaw drop. ‘And there’s no garden. We use the square over the road.’
The square. Tessa turned to see. On the other side of the road was a park, filled with mature trees, lush green lawns and immaculately groomed gardens.
‘There’s ten houses with access,’ Charlie said apologetically. ‘We have to share.’
‘Oh, poor you,’ Tess managed.
‘We bear it,’ Charlie told her, and he grinned. ‘We earls live in hard times. Come on in. Henry will bring in our gear.’
Henry. Tess looked doubtfully at the man in the front seat. He was in his sixties, dapper and trim and dressed in a chauffeur’s uniform. Henry hadn’t said a word the whole time she’d been in the car.
‘This isn’t a hire car?’ she asked cautiously.
‘Well, no. I guess it’s mine. Or it might be mine.’
‘Might?’
Charlie spread his hands. ‘Tess, this is my uncle’s home, my uncle’s chauffeur, my uncle’s lifestyle. He’s left it all to me—conditionally.’
‘Conditionally?’
‘On me being married by the time I’m thirty,’ Charlie told her. ‘That’s in six weeks. So you see why I’m so interested in ladies who don’t sport engagement rings?’ And he gave her his most engaging smile. ‘Now, are you coming into my parlour, said the spider to the fly, or am I leaving you to London’s tender mercies out here on the street?’
He slid his long form out of the car.
There was nothing for Tessa to do but to follow.
The house was as breathtaking as its facade.
The entrance hall was vast, and the lift whisked them to the third floor in silent opulence. The lift was bigger than Tessa’s bedroom at home. Tess was almost too flummoxed to speak.
The lift drew to a silent halt, the doors slid wide and Charlie Cameron was welcomed to his world.
‘Mr Charlie!’ A stout lady, aproned, motherly and beaming goodwill, bustled forward to greet Charlie before he’d stepped out of the lift. ‘Oh, it’s so good to have you home.’ And she enveloped as much as she could of him in an enormous bear hug.
To which Charlie responded in kind. He lifted the little lady high, swung her round so her feet didn’t touch the floor, kissed her soundly and then set her down on the marble tiles. He grinned down at her dimply figure and sighed.
‘It’s good to be here, Mary.’ Then he turned to Tess.
‘Mary, this is Miss Tessa Flanagan. Tessa, this is Mrs Henry Robertson but she only answers to Mary. Mary, Tessa’s from home and she needs a bed. Henry and I found her stranded with her suitcase in Backblow Street and we couldn’t just leave her there, now could we?’
Mary’s bright eyes took in Tessa from the toes up. It was a fast, cursory glance, but it appeared Tess passed inspection. It seemed that this was no stately home with dress requirements to match.
‘Oh, of course you couldn’t,’ Mary said warmly. ‘Backblow Street? What on earth were you thinking of, letting your friends go there, Mr Charlie? It’s a filthy place. Miss Tessa can have the blue room, if you think that’s suitable.’ Then she stared, for the first time focussing properly on Charlie. ‘Mr Charlie, what on earth have you done to your face?’
‘It’s a modern equivalent to a love bite,’ Charlie told her, grinning wickedly at Tess. ‘And that’s not the half of it, Mary. If I told you the full damage, you’d be shocked to the core. Just look after Tess and don’t give her any lip.’
Mary’s eyes widened. She looked from Tess to Charlie and back again—but finally decided she wouldn’t get anywhere with enquiries. She obviously knew Charlie well.
She shrugged and smiled. ‘Well, no matter. You’re always getting yourself into some scrape or another, Mr Charlie. Now, would you like time to wash before you have breakfast?’ she asked Tess. Once again, that kindly, perceptive appraisal. ‘Oh, of course you would, child. In fact, what you look like you need, Miss Tessa, if you won’t take this personally as I’m sure you won’t, is a long, hot bath, up to your neck in bubbles. Does that sound good?’
Good. Good!
Tessa’s face said it all, and Charlie chuckled behind her. ‘Take her away, Mary, and soak her. I’ll look after myself.’ He turned away to go left down the hall but Mary stopped him with a hand on his arm.
‘I’ve put you in your uncle’s room,’ she said softly, watching his face. ‘I thought...’
Charlie’s smile faded. He stood looking down at Mary for a long, long moment. Then he sighed.
‘This is going to be hard, Mary.’
‘It is.’
Charlie closed his eyes. When he opened them, his face was grim. The twinkle had disappeared entirely.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Let’s start this now.’
Tessa’s bath was glorious. The bedroom itself was sumptuous, with plush white carpet, a vast, canopied bed and blue and gold curtains over a wall of windows which looked over the square and the rooftops of London beyond.
The en suite bathroom had the same fantastic view, and the bath—which could have accommodated three of Tessa—was amazing.
‘It’s a shame to bathe at night because you need to close the curtains or turn off the Light if you’re not to shock the neighbours,’ Mary told her as she handed her an armload of bath towels. ‘But the good thing about English summer is our lack of night-time. Enjoy your bath, lass.’ And she left her to soak.
Tess soaked. And soaked.
It was the first quiet time Tess had had since she’d heard of Christine’s death. It was the first time her responsibihties and need for organization had eased. The shadow of Christine’s death receded, with the image of Charles Cameron superimposing itself on her thoughts. Tess lay back under the foam, stared up at the ornate plasterwork on the high ceiling and wondered just what she had got herself into.
The image of Charlie Cameron as a lunatic was fading. Henry and the maternal, perceptive Mary seemed dependable and trustworthy, and they formed a respectable backdrop for the man. Tess was almost starting to believe in the earldom. And the castle. Almost.
‘Surely he doesn’t seriously expect to get married in six weeks?’ she asked the ceiling. ‘But then...to lose all this if he doesn’t...’
It was too hard. She drifted in and out of her bubbly haze until Mary’s call pulled her back to reality.
‘That bathwater’ll be getting cold, lass. You pull on a bathrobe and come for breakfast’
A bathrobe.
Tess looked about her warily. She didn’t want to put on her soiled jogging suit again but...
There was a thick white bathrobe hanging from the door. Tess towelled herself dry and examined it with caution.
It was a gorgeous garment. It wrapped completely around her with heaps to spare and came down to her toes. The white towelling was absolutely plain except for a rich purple letter embroidered on the breast pocket.
‘D’.
D for Dalston?
If this was all a hoax then it was some elaborate setup, Tess decided. But...Charlie as an earl? Charles Cameron wasn’t like any earl Tess had ever met.
Tess made a silly face at herself in the mirror, grabbed a comb from her handbag and attacked her washed and tangled curls with force.
Yeah, well, exactly how many earls have you met before, Tessa Flanagan? she asked herself. Heaps and heaps? Or only one? An earl called Charlie. And he’s waiting for you at breakfast. So put some clothes on and go and find him.
Easier said than done. Her clothing had disappeared. Tess came cautiously out into her bedroom to find no sign of her baggage.
There was a pair of soft, fit-all slippers by the bed—also engraved with D. Tess slid them on and padded out into the hall. She was feeling stranger and stranger.
As if she really were in a harem.
‘Any minute now a slave or two will pop out, perfume me and cart me off to the master,’ she said grimly.
‘Hey, I’d like that!’
Tess swung around like a scalded cat. Charlie was standing at the door of the room opposite, dressed in a bathrobe identical to hers.
The master himself. And he’d heard what she had said.
Tess blushed scarlet from the toes up.
‘You don’t need a slave to perfume you. You look cuter than I do in that thing,’ Charlie complained, ignoring her blush. ‘It isn’t fair.’
She might look cuter—but Charlie looked staggeringly male. Charles might be wearing an identical bathrobe to Tessa’s, but on him it looked completely different. The robe only came to Charlie’s knees. His brown legs emerged beneath like solid trunks.
Because the robe didn’t have quite the capacity to wrap round Charlie’s much larger body, his chest was bare to the waist. His chest was tanned, muscled and coated with deep black hair—just like the hair on his head which, wet from his shower or bath, was clinging in damp tendrils across his brow. The strands were just touching the bruise across his eye. Tess hauled back on an almost irresistible urge to brush the strands back. To soothe the hurt...
Ridiculous! She kept her hands strictly to herself.
‘I...I couldn’t find my clothes.’
‘Nor I, mine. If I know Mary, we’ll get them cleaned and pressed whether we want them cleaned and pressed or not.’ Charlie grinned his slow, lazy smile that did funny things to Tessa’s insides. ‘Last time I came here I brought my Dnzabone—the coat I use for mustering cattle back home. It’s useful when I go up north and don’t want to stay indoors. Mary attacked it with force. When I got back to Australia, I was the only cattleman in the country wearing a Drizabone with a starched collar!’
Tessa’s strain eased as the image made her grin. Drizabones were standard wear for Australian farmers—huge, brown waterproof coats that were only valued after they’d been worn in by hard work and grime. To wash one was almost sacnlege. And to starch it...
Charlie chuckled with her and the strain eased some more.
There was a wonderful smell wafting from the end of the hall and Charles was leading her toward it. He held open the door for Tess to precede him, and she brushed against his long body as she passed. Towelling against towelling...
He was so big and so male and... And his feet and legs were bare. And the strain came flooding back! Tess was having all sorts of irrelevant thoughts about what would happen as those bare legs stretched upward...
Good grief! The way she was thinking she almost deserved to be a slave. And she was engaged to Donald!
She fought her mounting colour and tried to concentrate on what was before her. That wasn’t hard. The dining table was groaning under a pile of food.
The table itself was vast, built to seat a dozen or more. The room was ornate and gilt and...
‘And too damned formal for words,’ Charlie growled. ‘What’s wrong with the kitchen, Mary?’
‘You know you only use the kitchen when you come here by yourself,’ Mary told him. ‘Your uncle always uses... used... the dining room.’
‘Well, that’s one way I don’t have to follow in his footsteps.’ Charlie pushed open the double doors. Beyond the dining room lay a kitchen, warm and fragrant with cooking, the vast Aga stove along the far wall a welcome in itself. Infinitely more comfortable than the ornate dining room. ‘We’ll eat in here.’
‘But I’m baking bread.’
‘Then Tess and I will watch you bake as we eat. Not that you need to bake for weeks by the look of this lot.’ He lifted a plate from the table and sniffed m delight. ‘Singing hinnies. Mary, now I know I’m back.’
‘Home,’ Mary said softly. ‘You’re home, my lord. Where you belong.’
‘Mary...’
‘Your place is right here now,’ she told him and her voice grew a little stern, as though she were a nanny reminding a child of his duty. ‘You’re the Earl of Dalston now, my lord. Whether you like it or not.’
CHAPTER THREE
‘SO TELL me how you come to be an Australian earl?’ Tess asked over her second cup of coffee. To her surprise, she’d packed away another vast breakfast.
