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‘Oh.’ Lacey digested this, a slight frown wrinkling her forehead. She usually wore her hair very simply, either hanging loose on her shoulders or in two bunches, as she had planned to wear it that night, the fastenings masked by small bunches of artificial daisies. The style was intended to complement the simplicity of the deep blue Empire line dress laid across the bed, and she wondered doubtfully whether a more sophisticated style would suit either her or the dress.
But Barbara was certainly skilful, she decided, as she watched the girl’s fingers transform her swathe of hair into a smooth coronet on top of her head, softening the severity of the style with two softly curling strands allowed to rest against her ears. It was the first time she had ever been offered Barbara’s services, which were usually Michelle’s exclusive prerogative and jealously guarded as such, and she wondered curiously why an exception had been made on this particular evening. Nor did Barbara’s ministrations stop at her hair. She gave Lacey a light but effective make-up as well, moisturising her skin and shadowing her eyelids, as well as applying lip gloss to the soft curve of her mouth.
When she had finished, Lacey gazed at herself in astonishment. She hardly recognised herself in this cool, aloof young woman with the mysterious eyes and shining crown of fair hair.
‘There, Miss Lacey.’ Barbara’s tone was plainly self-congratulatory. ‘Now if you’ll just get into your undies, I’ll fetch your dress.’ She handed Lacey a pair of briefs and some filmy tights.
‘Er—thank you, Barbara.’ Lacey flushed a little awkwardly, telling herself that she was perfectly able to dress herself unaided. ‘Where’s the rest of it?’
Barbara stared at her. ‘That’s all, miss. You couldn’t wear anything else with this dress.’
‘But that’s ridiculous. I always have in the past,’ Lacey swung round vexedly on the dressing stool and gasped as she saw the mass of clinging black fabric Barbara was holding carefully over her arm. ‘What’s that?’
‘Your dress, miss.’ Barbara sounded surprised. ‘Didn’t you think it would arrive in time?’
Lacey’s lips parted helplessly as she recognised that Barbara was holding out the daring gown with the minimal bodice that she had seen modelled at Jean Louis.
‘There’s been some mistake,’ she said eventually. ‘That dress is for Madame. I—I couldn’t wear anything like that.’
‘It’s definitely your dress, Miss Lacey. Madame said so when I unpacked the box, and besides, this isn’t her fitting. It must be a little surprise for you,’ she added encouragingly.
Lacey’s lips tightened. ‘Well, I still don’t intend to wear it,’ she declared. ‘Please take it away and bring me my blue dress instead.’
‘But, Miss Lacey,’ Barbara’s voice was anxious, ‘Madame said you had to wear it tonight. I don’t know what she’ll say if …’
‘That isn’t your problem, Barbara,’ Lacey said gently. ‘I’ll see my stepmother before I go down and explain. I’m sure there’s been a mistake of some kind.’
‘Mistake? What mistake?’ Michelle’s cool voice spoke from the doorway. She came gliding across the carpet, elegant in a silver gown, a cigarette held tensely in her fingers, and carrying a glass filled with some pale liquid in her other hand.
‘Miss Lacey doesn’t want to wear the Jean Louis model, madame.’ Barbara sounded subdued, as if she felt she would be blamed for Lacey’s rebellion.
Michelle’s eyebrows rose. ‘Eh bien? You may go, Barbara. I will deal with this.’
When the door had closed behind the girl, she set the glass down on the dressing table near the bowl of daffodils and stood, looking grimly down at her stepdaughter.
‘Were my instructions not clear?’ she asked.
‘Michelle!’ Lacey was totally appalled. ‘You surely can’t expect me to go downstairs wearing—that.’
‘Pourquoi pas?’ Michelle gave her a hard look. ‘It is an an expensive dress, and black will set off your hair and skin admirably.’
Slow colour crept up Lacey’s face. ‘You know why not,’ she protested.
Michelle gave a brief, metallic laugh. ‘A prude, ma chère? You are no longer at the convent, tu sais. Most girls of your age would give much to wear such a dress. What have you to be ashamed of? Your body is young, and your breasts are firm. You have the perfect figure for the gown, which is why I bought it for you. Now please dress yourself in it without further arguments. It is getting late.’
‘But, Michelle, what will people think—what will my father say?’
Michelle shrugged. ‘What should they think? That you look—charming. And your father will say nothing. He not only approves of the gown but he particularly wishes you to wear it tonight.’
‘But why?’
Michelle sighed elaborately. ‘It is his wish that you should make a favourable impression on one of his guests.’
‘By appearing half naked?’ Lacey’s mouth twisted in a sudden cynicism that belied her youth. ‘And who is this very important person—or am I not allowed to ask?’
But as soon as the words were uttered, she knew. There was only one person it could be—the strange man into whose room she had blundered with her unwanted welcome offering of flowers. She felt suddenly cold and sick, remembering how his eyes had assessed her earlier with all the assurance of a man for whom the female body held few secrets. To have to appear in front of him wearing the black dress would be a total humiliation.
‘You asked to be treated as a woman, but you persist in behaving like a child.’ Her stepmother’s tone was icy. ‘His name is Troy Andreakis.’
Lacey had been staring at the bowl of daffodils, trying to fight back her tears, but at the name her head came up sharply and she stared at Michelle disbelievingly.
‘The oil and shipping magnate? But what is he doing here? He has no interest in Vernon–Carey.’
‘Not yet.’ Michelle picked up a hairbrush and studied it with over-absorbed interest. ‘Yet—who knows? By the time the weekend is at an end …’ She shrugged again, leaving the sentence unfinished.
Lacey stared at her bewildered. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Oh, it’s quite simple, ma chère. A large-scale investment by a man of Andreakis’ status would restore confidence in Vernon–Carey. Without it, there could well be a catastrophe—quite soon.’
Lacey gripped the edge of the dressing table. ‘Things are that bad?’ she managed, her green eyes enormous in her pale face.
‘They are that bad,’ Michelle corroborated tautly. ‘And, believe me, there are no lengths to which I will not go to ensure that your father gets that investment from Andreakis. That is why, ma chère, you are going to wear that dress tonight, because you are going to help me—you are going to be an asset to your father for the first time in your life instead of a liability.’
Lacey flinched a little, but her stepmother went on unheeding. ‘This is why you are being dressed as an attractive woman, instead of a child. A man like Andreakis does not want to dine in the company of a gawky schoolgirl. You once hoped to occupy a concert platform, and for that you would have needed an ability to act, to project your personality as well as your music. Tonight your father needs that performance from you. He wants you to relax Andreakis, to charm him if you can.’
Lacey closed her eyes for a moment. Now was not the time to confess that she and Troy Andreakis had already encountered and failed to charm each other. Would the transformation from gawky schoolgirl to sophisticate be sufficiently complete to render her unrecognisable? She doubted it, and knew that she was going to need every scrap of social grace that had been imparted to her at the convent to get through the evening without disaster.
‘If it’s what Daddy wants,’ she said wearily, at last.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say precisely that.’ Michelle’s voice was ironic. ‘But he appreciates the necessity at least, and he is depending on you.’ Her eyes skimmed Lacey’s wilting figure appraisingly. ‘Barbara has done her work well. Make sure you do the same. Now please hurry. The others will be arriving soon.’
As she turned to go, she indicated the glass on the dressing table. ‘Pour toi. For you—a dry Martini,’ she said.
‘But I only drink fruit juice,’ Lacey protested.
Michelle smiled a little. ‘Call it Dutch courage. You may need it.’ And she was gone on a cloud of Balmain perfume.
Lacey tasted the drink gingerly, grimacing slightly at the taste, but it had a warming effect which served to chase away some of the unpleasant butterflies which appeared to have taken up residence in her abdomen.
When she was finally ready, she stood and stared at herself in the full-length mirror, resisting an impulse to cover the upper part of her body with her hands. It was true, she thought detachedly—she did not have to be ashamed of her figure. The stark black of the material made her white skin look almost translucent and gave her slender curves a frank enticement. She just prayed that her untried poise would be able to cope with the promise of almost total revelation that the gown exuded.
But in spite of its provocation, and the sophistication of her shadowed eyes, glowing mouth and softly piled hair, Lacey felt desperately inadequate. Unwillingly she forced her mind back to that earlier encounter, visualising the ruthlessness of his dark face. Not a man who would suffer fools gladly, she surmised, and one for whom a woman would need more than a glossy façade to arouse his interest. What could she find to say that would engage the attention of a man like Andreakis?
With a little groan, she tried to think of what little she knew about him—mostly gleaned from rare newspaper stories, and generally illustrating his loathing of personal publicity. But there had been a story recently—something to do with litigation over a trusteeship involving his young sister— which he had won, she recalled with a slight curl of her lip. She could remember there had been pictures of his beautiful villa on the Ionian island of Theros, taken presumably with a long-range lens out of respect for his dislike of the Press. She could recall gossipy items, too, about beautiful women who had been his guests on Theros for varying periods of time.
A little shiver ran through her body. She felt like a novice swimmer who suddenly finds the water too deep, and too cold.
She gave a shaky little sigh and turned reluctantly towards the door. Better to make her entrance downstairs as inconspicuous as possible than linger, and have Michelle coming in search of her.
As she came slowly down the wide, polished staircase to the hall, Mrs Osborne was just admitting a latecomer. As he shugged off his overcoat and handed it to the housekeeper, Lacey realised it was Alan Trevor and in spite of herself she felt a wave of self-conscious colour rising in her face and had to crush an impulse to turn and run back to her room.
When she spoke, she was amazed to hear how normal, even prim, she sounded. ‘Good evening, Alan.’
He swung round. ‘Er—hello, Lacey. Am I the last? I had to stay behind because the vet was coming to look at Domino. She’s due to foal any time, but he doesn’t think there’ll be anything doing tonight.’
‘Well, I’m glad you were able to make it.’ She moved forward from the foot of the stairs, aware that his eyes were taking in the transformation in her appearance with evident puzzlement. ‘Is something the matter?’ She looked up at him innocently.
‘No—oh, no. It’s just …’ He stared down at her, frowning a little. ‘Hell, Lacey, what have you done to yourself?’
‘Don’t you approve?’
‘No—yes. I don’t know.’ He pushed his hair back impatiently. ‘What’s more important, will your parents approve? I mean, have they seen that dress?’
‘Of course.’ Lacey twirled round slowly, letting the filmy skirt float out and settle back against her slender legs. ‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘Oh, it’s fine—what there is of it,’ he said, heavily sarcastic. ‘And black. I’ve never seen you in black before.’
‘And you don’t like it?’
‘I wouldn’t say that. It just takes a bit of getting used to.’ His eyes went over her again. They held censure and something less easy to define. ‘You just look so—different.’
‘Well, I can’t always wear jeans and gymslips,’ she said defensively. ‘I have to grow up some time.’
‘We all have to do that,’ he muttered. ‘Come on. We’d better go in.’ He offered her his arm with a strange formality.
‘Oh, Alan!’ She ignored the gesture, slipping her hand into his with all the confidence of long familiarity. ‘I haven’t changed that much, believe me. I’m the same person I always was.’
‘Are you, Lacey?’ He gave her fingers a quick squeeze. ‘I guess I’ll just have to take your word for it.’
She was glad she did not have to enter the drawing room by herself. Even though her appearance did not cause the sensation she had feared, she was conscious of a number of curious glances, particularly from guests who had known her since childhood. There was admiration mixed with the curiosity too from most of the men, and after a moment or two Lacey felt some of the tension begin to leave her body. Alan released her hand, murmuring that he would fetch her a drink, and she stood alone, looking round the room and returning smiling nods and greetings.
Then she saw him. He was standing by the ornate marble mantelpiece, his arm casually resting along the shelf. He seemed to be paying minute attention to the glowing butt of his cheroot, but as if aware of her scrutiny he raised his head, and their eyes met across the room. Lacey felt the polite smile fading on her lips as she encountered his look. It held recognition bordering on disbelief, and a frankly sensual assessment that brought the colour flaring to her face and an angry light to her eyes. For a moment she stood motionless, then, as she saw him fling the remains of his cheroot on to the blazing logs in the hearth and move away from the fireplace in one swift impatient movement, she realised he was coming towards her and panicked, turning towards the door, regardless of the curious glances she was attracting from the group of people nearest to her.
But the way was blocked by Mrs Osborne’s comfortable figure, telling Michelle that dinner was served, and escape was impossible. She gave a swift glance around, searching vainly for Alan, as her father reached her side.
‘So there you are, Lacey.’ She knew she was not imagining the impatient, anxious note in his voice and turned towards him reluctantly. ‘Mr Andreakis has been waiting to meet you, my dear.’
Her hand was encompassed by lean, brown fingers. It was the most conventional of salutes, so it was nonsense to imagine that she could still feel the pressure of his hand, long after he had released her. Dry-throated, she acknowledged his greeting in a small husky voice, registering that he was treating her as a complete stranger although there was no doubt that he had recognised her from that brief encounter in his room earlier. She supposed she should be grateful to him for saving them both from awkward explanations, but whereas she had hoped to be able to make him feel foolish, she now felt at a disadvantage. Resentment kept her silent as he took her arm and escorted her into the dining room, holding her chair as she sat down with a courtesy that she was certain masked—what? Something as simple as mockery? She could not be sure and it irked her as she unfolded the exquisite damask napkin, and picked up her soup spoon.
To her relief, Michael Fairclough, a leading member of the local hunt, was her other neighbour at the table and she was able to start a conversation with him about the forthcoming point-to-point, even pretend for a while that the dark, sardonic figure at her other side did not exist, but a glacial look from Michelle at the end of the table brought her up with a jerk, reminding her of her duties. She turned towards him to find, disconcertingly, that he was watching her. Her colour rose, and the trite remark she had been planning on the weather prospects for the weekend died on her lips.
Wonderingly her eyes searched his face, marking the strongly arched eyebrows above those impenetrably dark eyes, and the hard lines of his mouth and jaw. In spite of the formal elegance of dinner jacket and befrilled white shirt, she was aware of the muscular strength of the chest and shoulders they concealed, and the air of restless, barely controlled energy that suggested these civilised trappings were merely a veneer.
‘Do you read characters from faces, Miss Vernon?’
Her nerves jumped both at the appositeness of his question, and at the realisation that she had been guilty of staring at him.
She shook her head, transferring her gaze swiftly back to her plate.
‘You must think me very rude,’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady.
‘You’re no thought-reader either.’ He picked up his glass and drank some of the wine it contained. ‘You’ve barely touched yours,’ he commented. ‘It’s hardly a compliment to such a fine vintage.’
‘I—I don’t know a great deal about wine,’ she confessed, and his brows rose.
‘No? I would have thought such occasions as this would have been second nature to you.’
Was that an edge to his voice or was it her imagination running riot again? she wondered desperately. His remark proved one thing at least—Michelle’s outward grooming of her had been impeccable. He obviously thought she was much older than she was. Now all she had to do was to live up to that belief—provide him with the light-hearted flirtation that he would expect from a female companion at dinner.
‘Perhaps I find wine of less interest than people,’ she ventured, making herself smile at him.
‘And some people of more interest than others,’ he said, and this time there was no mistaking the satirical note in his voice. ‘It’s a pity, for example, that I don’t share Mr—er—Fairclough’s interest in hunting matters. Perhaps that might make me more acceptable to you as a companion.’
Oh God, what a mess she was making of it all! Lacey put down her knife and fork, feeling she would choke if she took another mouthful. She realised her father was watching them, a slight anxious frown wrinkling his forehead, and she felt a pang of self-recrimination as she realised the stress he was undergoing and the importance that the success of this weekend had assumed his mind. Somehow she must make an effort to do and be what he wanted, and to win over this unsmiling man who was totally outside her admittedly limited experience.
Frantically she searched her memory for some of the scraps of worldly wisdom that the girls at the convent had let drop when they were recounting the details of their latest conquests. Hadn’t someone said it was sexy to look straight into a man’s eyes as you smiled at him? Deliberately she caught and held his gaze, allowing her eyes to widen endlessly while her mouth curved slowly into warmth and charm.
‘Horses aren’t my sole preoccupation,’ she protested with a little shrug.
For a moment as he returned her look unwaveringly, she thought painfully that she had failed, then he smiled too—a cynical twist of her lips, but a smile—and lifted his glass to her in a toast to which she was forced to respond.
‘My last doubt is removed,’ he said musingly.
‘Doubt?’ Lacey looked at him from under her lashes, a favourite trick of Vanessa’s.
‘That you and I will eventually find a topic that will arouse the—interest of us both.’
A little quiver of uncertainty jangled the nerve-endings along her spine and curled around the nape of her neck. Almost involuntarily she lifted her hand to rub her neck, and remembered too late the revealing nature of her dress. She hurriedly folded her hands in her lap again, stealing a glance at Troy Andreakis, but his attention seemed to be centred on his wine glass.
‘Is this your first visit to Kings Winston, Mr Andreakis?’ Surely that was a safe subject.
‘No, I was here last autumn, but only for a day or two. I am glad to have a chance of a longer visit so that I can see something of the surrounding countryside.’
Lacey’s heart sank. It seemed that his visit might not be confined to simply a weekend after all.
‘I’m surprised at your interest. I didn’t picture you as a nature-lover,’ she said more tartly than she had intended.
His mouth curled slightly again. ‘Because I rejected your flowers? On the contrary, I can appreciate beauty as well as any man. However’—the dark eyes swept over her again—‘as I said, I prefer it in its natural state.’ Her eyes met his, frankly indignant, and he laughed softly. ‘What a creature of contrasts you are, pethi mou—from gamine to femme fatale in the course of an hour or so. What is real about you, I wonder, and what is an illusion?’
She was thankful that the arrival of the sweet course diverted his attention momentarily and gave her a chance to regain her equilibrium. So much for Michelle’s efforts to transform her, she thought wretchedly. The scheme had been doomed to failure from the start. She simply did not have the poise and confidence to hoodwink a man like Troy Andreakis. She was staring miserably at the untouched portion of Crème Chantilly on her plate when she realised he was speaking to her again.
‘I think you owe me something for spilling water all over my bedroom and then running away,’ he said. ‘I’m willing to settle for a tour of the local beauty spots in your company tomorrow—unless you object and prefer to buy my silence in some other way.’
‘I don’t object,’ she said rather woodenly. ‘It—it will be delightful.’
There was a disturbing pause while he looked at her again with that faint, cynical amusement.
‘You know,’ he said softly, ‘you have almost convinced me that it will be.’
