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‘Oh, dear.’ Chessie pantomimed dismay. ‘How wimpish. I’ll try and look more cheerful from now on.’
‘Are all your memories so painful?’
She gave the pale liquid in her glass a fierce and concentrated stare. ‘How did you know I was—remembering?’
‘An educated guess—having attended the same school myself.’ He finished his gin and tonic. ‘Want to talk about it?’
She shook her head. ‘What can anyone say? One minute you’re riding high. The next, you’re flat on your face in the mud, not knowing whether you’ll ever get up again. That’s my personal angle. The rest I’m sure you read in the newspapers at the time. They didn’t leave many stones unturned.’
He said gently, ‘It would have been difficult to miss.’ He watched her for a moment. ‘Well—aren’t you going to say it?’
‘Say what?’
‘That your father was entirely innocent, and, but for his untimely death, he’d have cleared himself of all charges.’
Chessie slowly shook her head. She said bleakly, ‘If he’d lived, I think he would still have been in jail. In many ways, his death was a mercy for him. He’d have hated—hated …’
She stopped, biting her lip. ‘I’m sorry. I’m being very boring. This is supposed to be a celebration, not a wake.’
He said quietly, ‘I would not have asked if I hadn’t wanted to know, Francesca.’
But why did he want to know? she wondered as she drank some more sherry. Now that they were out of their working environment, maybe he felt he had to make conversation that didn’t concern the current script or the purely domestic details either.
Yet he could have picked something less personal. Music, maybe, or cinema.
What did a man and a woman talk to each other about over dinner and a bottle of wine? She was so totally out of touch. And nervous.
She hadn’t had a serious boyfriend since Alastair. The dates she’d gone out on in London had been totally casual and uncommitted. She couldn’t think of one man out of all of them she’d wanted to see again, let alone know better.
And since London, of course, there’d been no one at all.
Until tonight—which naturally didn’t count, she reminded herself swiftly.
It was a relief when the waitress came to say their table was ready. The soup and pâté, when they arrived, were so good that it was really only necessary to make appreciative noises and eat.
So Chessie made appreciative noises, and ate.
She and Miles had been put in one of the smaller rooms off the main dining room. It was panelled and candlelit, and intimate, with all the tables set for two. Even the flower arrangements were small, presumably to allow diners to gaze unimpeded into each other’s eyes.
The Fewstons must have a romantic streak, Chessie thought, buttering her bread roll, still warm from the oven. But it had led them severely astray this time.
She’d have settled for a wall of delphiniums and hollyhocks to shelter behind. Or even a privet hedge.
While their plates were being changed, Chessie hurried into speech, asking about the film script, and what would be involved in adapting the book.
It wasn’t just an excuse to find an impersonal topic, she told herself. She was genuinely interested, and after all she was going to be closely involved in the project.
But what next? The weather? Would it be a hot summer, and was it really the greenhouse effect?
Brilliant, she thought. What a conversational ball of fire you are, Chessie, my dear.
‘Am I really such a difficult companion?’ Miles leaned back in his chair, the blue eyes hooded.
Rocked back on her heels, Chessie took a gulp of wine, feeling her face warm with sudden colour.
‘No, of course not,’ she managed. Although he could be a mind-reader.
‘Perhaps I should have told you to bring a notebook, and dictated a few letters between courses,’ he went on. ‘You might have felt more at ease then.’
‘I doubt it.’ She put down her glass. ‘I still don’t understand what I’m doing here.’
‘You’re eating an excellent meal,’ he said. ‘Which you haven’t had to prepare, cook, and wash up after.’
‘And that’s all there is to it?’ She felt oddly breathless.
‘No, but the rest can wait.’ The cool face was enigmatic, the scar silver in the candlelight. ‘May I refill your glass?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Chessie covered it with a protective hand. ‘Something tells me I need to keep a clear head.’
His smile mocked her. ‘I haven’t seduction in mind, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘It never crossed my mind.’
‘How incredibly pure of you,’ he murmured. ‘Considering the amount of time we spend alone together, have you really never wondered why I’ve never made a pass at you? Or do you think my scars have rendered me immune from the normal male urges?’
She bit her lip. ‘I don’t suppose that for a moment. But I took it for granted that passes were out because of our situation—the terms of my employment. And because …’ She paused.
‘Yes?’ Miles prompted.
She swallowed. ‘Because it would be—inappropriate behaviour, and tacky as well. The amorous boss and his secretary—that’s a cliché, and you don’t deal in clichés,’ she added in a rush.
‘Thank you—I think,’ he remarked sardonically. ‘Yet it was our—situation that I wanted to discuss with you.’
‘Have you decided to sell the house?’ Her last exquisite mouthful of guinea fowl turned to ashes in her mouth. Suddenly she was contemplating the prospect of being homeless and back on the job market at the same time.
It had always been a possibility, she supposed, yet just lately—stupidly—she’d allowed herself to feel settled. Safe even.
‘Absolutely not.’ He looked genuinely surprised. ‘What gave you that idea? Didn’t you hear me say I was planning to do some entertaining?’
‘Yes—I’m sorry.’ She hesitated. ‘I suppose insecurity makes you paranoid.’
‘I can appreciate that.’ He put down his knife and fork, frowning slightly. ‘That’s part of the reason I want you to consider a change in your terms of employment.’
‘A change?’ Chessie was puzzled. Her contract with Miles had been carefully and meticulously defined. There were no obvious loopholes or room for manoeuvre. ‘What kind of change?’
He drank some more wine, the blue eyes meditative as he studied her across the top of the glass.
He said, ‘I thought we might get married.’
Chessie had a curious feeling that the entire world had come to a sudden halt, throwing her sideways. The subdued hum of conversation and laughter around them faded under the swift roar of blood in her ears.
Her whole body was rigid as she stared at him, lips parted in astonishment as she tried to make sense of what he’d just said.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said at last in a voice that seemed to have travelled vast distances across space and time. ‘I don’t think I quite understand.’
‘It’s perfectly simple. I’ve just proposed to you—asked you to become my wife.’ He sounded totally cool about it—unbelievably matter-of-fact. ‘Look on it, if you want, as a new kind of contract.’
He was mad, she thought dazedly. That was the answer. Completely and totally insane. Suffering some kind of delayed shell-shock.
Her lips moved. ‘Marriage is—hardly a business arrangement.’
‘I’d say that depends on the people involved.’ His gaze was steady. ‘Considering our individual circumstances and problems, marriage between us seems a sensible idea.’
He paused. ‘You need more stability and security than you currently enjoy, and I’m going to require a hostess as well as a housekeeper. I think we could work out a perfectly satisfactory deal.’
‘Just like that?’ Her voice sounded faint. She still could not believe what was happening.
‘No, of course not,’ he said with a trace of impatience. ‘I don’t want an immediate answer. But I’d like you to give my proposal some coherent and rational thought before you reach any decision.’
Coherent? she thought. Rational—when applied to this? The words were meaningless.
‘Judging by your reaction, this has been a bit of a thunderbolt,’ he went on.
‘Yes.’ Chessie swallowed. ‘You—could say that.’ She spread her hands in an almost pleading gesture. ‘I mean—we hardly know each other.’
‘We work together every day, and we live in the same house. That’s not exactly a casual acquaintance.’
‘Yes—but …’ She fought for the right words, and lost. ‘Oh, you know exactly what I mean.’
‘I think so.’ His face was sardonic. ‘You’re still pondering the lack of amorous advances.’
‘It’s not that—or not totally, anyway.’ She pushed her glass at him. ‘I will have some more wine, please. I seem to need it.’
She watched him pour, his hand steady. He was completely calm, she thought incredulously. Detached, even. But how could that be, when he’d just turned her world upside down?
She hurried into speech again. ‘There’s never been anything remotely personal between us—not until now. Yes, we’ve seen each other every day, but we’ve never talked about anything but work, and problems to do with the house.’ Mostly created by Jenny, she realised with a pang. Then—oh, God—Jenny.
‘Has this shift in our relationship plunged you into some kind of trauma?’ he drawled. ‘I didn’t intend that.’
‘No—but it’s all so sudden.’ She stopped, grimacing. ‘Hell, now I sound like the heroine of a bad historical novel.’
‘And highly sensible of the honour I’ve just done you.’ It was his turn to pull a face. ‘Only I don’t think you are, by any means. You look more winded than appreciative.’
‘Being hit by a thunderbolt doesn’t usually call for appreciation,’ Chessie said with something of a snap. ‘What did you expect—that I’d fall into your arms?’
‘Hardly. You’d damage the crockery.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘If you’re saying you’d have preferred a conventional courtship, then I can only apologise. But we’ve always had a reasonable working relationship, and our marriage would simply be an extension of this. So I thought the pragmatic approach would have more credence than hearts and flowers.’
Chessie said with difficulty, ‘It doesn’t—worry you that we’re not in love with each other?’
‘You forget I’ve been down that path once already. I can’t speak for you, of course.’ His face was expressionless. ‘Is there anyone?’
She shook her head. ‘No—not any more.’ She kept her eyes fixed on the tablecloth. ‘So it would be just a business arrangement—not a real marriage at all.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Initially, anyway.’
Her heart thudded in renewed shock. ‘But later …?’
He shrugged. ‘Who knows?’ The blue eyes met hers directly. ‘Ultimately, we might think again.’ He paused. ‘But any alteration in the terms would only be by mutual agreement.’
‘I—I don’t know what to say.’
‘Then say nothing. Not yet. Just think about it, and take as long as you need. I promise I won’t pressure you.’
She flicked the tip of her tongue round dry lips. ‘And if I decide—no? Will I find myself out of a job?’
‘Do I seem that vindictive?’
She reddened. ‘No—no, of course not.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Very well. I’ll—consider it.’
‘Good.’ His smile was swift, without a trace of mockery this time. ‘Now shall I tell them to bring the dessert menu?’
‘No, thanks.’ Chessie doubted whether she could force another mouthful of food past her taut throat muscles. She pushed back her chair. ‘Just coffee, please. And will you excuse me?’
The ladies’ cloakroom was fortunately deserted. Chessie ran cool water over her wrists in a vain effort to quieten her hammering pulses.
She didn’t look like someone who’d just been poleaxed, she thought, staring at her reflection, although her eyes were enormous, and there was more colour in her cheeks than usual.
But nor did she look like the future wife of Miles Hunter.
But then she wasn’t really going to be a wife at all, she reminded herself, absently sifting her fingers through the bowl of pot pourri on the vanity unit, and savouring its fragrance.
Her present duties were being extended—that was all. Her change of status would permit her to sit at the opposite end of that beautiful oak dining table when there were guests, but little more.
She supposed he would expect her to move out of the flat, and live in the main house again.
She might even get her old bedroom back—for a while.
Initially. That was the word he’d used. But he’d also said ‘ultimately’, she thought, her heart beginning to pound unevenly. And what then?
She was shaking all over suddenly, her mind closing off in startled rejection.
‘I can’t,’ she whispered. ‘I couldn’t. I’ll have to tell him here and now that it’s impossible.’
But she’d promised to consider his proposal, and she’d have to pretend to do so at least.
But she could not marry him. Not in a million years. Not even if Alastair never came back …
Chessie drew a deep, trembling sigh. There—she’d faced it at last. She’d allowed herself to admit the existence of the dream—the little foolish, groundless hope that had been growing inside her ever since she’d heard Jenny’s news.
