Conflict Of Hearts

Her denial was whipped away by the wind as he put his foot down and the Bentley cruised majestically past a row of lorries. It couldn’t matter less, Lizzie thought, but he was so wrong about her. She had stood very firmly on her own two feet ever since her mother had died. And she had been a very firm prop for her father too.

‘That really won’t be necessary, Noah. I shall be staying with my friend until I find somewhere to live. And I’m quite capable of keeping myself occupied.’

At least money wouldn’t be a problem. She had hardly touched the allowance that her father had given her since she had taken over the running of the house, and her mother had left her some money. A dowry, she had called it. Well, she wouldn’t be needing a dowry now. But she needed somewhere to live as a matter of urgency.

It was impossible to conduct a conversation in an open car travelling at high speed, but even when they reached the end of the motorway and slowed for London traffic Noah seemed disinclined to resume their conversation, deep in his own brooding thoughts. Finally she was driven to break the silence.

‘Islington was that way,’ she pointed out as they passed a road sign.

‘If I ever need a navigator I’ll bear you in mind. But we’re not going to Islington.’

‘You may not be... I certainly am.’ He ignored her. ‘You disabled my car so that I was forced to come with you,’ she went on a little desperately. ‘Now you must take me to my friend’s flat, or drop me at the nearest underground station if you prefer. I can easily make my own way from there.’

‘Must?’ For a moment the word hung between them, then, with the slightest shrug, he let it go. ‘It’s a sunny Saturday evening in August, Elizabeth. Do you suppose your friend is sitting at home on the off chance that you might decide to descend upon her and demand a bed for the night?’

The thought had already crossed her own mind, but she had no intention of admitting it. She would rather stay at a hotel than accept this man’s hospitality. ‘She’s always inviting me to come up for the weekend,’ she protested.

‘But, since she’s not expecting you, you have to address the possibility that she may be out.’

‘She’ll come back.’

‘This is London, Elizabeth, not some leafy country village. Sitting around on doorsteps surrounded by your baggage is not to be recommended. And I did promise your father...’ He clearly wished he hadn’t. ‘Besides, you and I have a date with a lady called Tosca.’

‘I told you—’

‘You told me that you loathe the opera,’ he interrupted a touch acerbically. ‘The collection of records and CDs in your room is simply for decoration?’

She bitterly regretted her impetuous lie as it came back to haunt her. ‘No,’ she admitted.

‘No,’ he agreed, with an assurance that set her teeth on edge. ‘I had planned to take you to see a show, but Olivia said you would much prefer the opera.’

Olivia. How clever of her. But she wasn’t to be won over that easily. As Noah brought his car to a halt Lizzie looked up at the impressive terrace—anywhere rather than face those all-seeing eyes. The façade was as polished as the man. Even the tubs of brilliant flowers that flanked the doorway shone as if they had just been dusted. She distrusted such perfection. ‘I would prefer it if you took me to my friend’s flat,’ she persisted stubbornly.

‘Nonsense. One night in a crowded bedsit, sharing a bathroom with heaven knows how many other people, would drive you mad. You’re simply not used to it. Besides, your invitation was for a weekend. What will you do then? If you think you can go creeping back to Daddy...’

Go back? She could never go back. She might be invited for the odd weekend, or Sunday lunch. But Dove Court would never be her home again. ‘I intend to find a job, somewhere to live in London.’

‘And how long do you imagine that will take? Or do you believe employers will be falling over themselves to offer you work?’ he mocked.

‘No, but...’ But what? Still she didn’t move, unwilling to put her main objection into words. She had seen the heads turn as they’d left the wedding. One or two raised eyebrows. And his kiss was still burned into her memory. And it was his stated intention to convince Peter that he was her lover. It might be ridiculous... It was ridiculous...

Noah had no such inhibitions. He lightly touched her cheek, turning her to face him. ‘If I were in the market for a girl on the rebound, Elizabeth, I can assure you that I would have had you eating out of my hand by now.’

Her blue eyes widened and, ignoring the odd little tremor low in her stomach, which had been provoked by the touch of his hand against her skin, she managed a small laugh. ‘You’re remarkably confident of your attraction,’ she said.

He regarded her solemnly. ‘Don’t you believe I could do it?’

And then he smiled. All the way up until little pouches creased beneath his eyes. Impossible to fake that. And his mouth was bracketed by strong, deep lines carved into his cheeks. She swallowed hard.

‘Just what are you in the market for, Noah?’ she asked, a little shakily, avoiding the need to give him a direct answer.

The smile abruptly disappeared, and he removed his hand from her chin. ‘Nothing. My life is exactly the way I like it. Except for you.’ He got out of the car and came round to open her door. Before she could respond the front door swung open and a middle-aged woman stood in the entrance.

Noah turned. ‘And, as you see, you will be adequately chaperoned. Mrs Harper, this is Miss Elizabeth French,’ he said, his hand in the small of her back propelling her up the steps to the front door. ‘You’d better take her straight up to her room; we’re going out at seven.’

‘Of course, Mr Jordan. This way, Miss French.’

Lizzie hesitated. ‘Noah, this is—’

‘Mr Harper will bring your bags up in a moment,’ he said, not allowing her to finish, his eyes daring her to defy him. She was trapped. At least for tonight. She would have to go through with his horrible plan. But tomorrow she would leave. Nothing would stop her.

‘How did the wedding go?’ Mrs Harper asked as she led the way up the stairs. ‘Such a lovely day for it. I’m sure Miss Olivia must have looked quite beautiful. Your father is a lucky man.’

She chattered on, not waiting for answers to her questions. ‘Now, these are your rooms. This is the sitting room. Your bedroom is through there, and your bathroom. I expect you’ll want a shower after driving with the top down. Miss Olivia always says that she feels as if she’s covered in “essence of motorway” after driving with Mr Jordan.’ She chuckled. ‘I’ll go and fetch you a tray of tea.’

The woman’s endless chatter was oddly comforting—normal in a world that had turned upside down. ‘Thank you, Mrs Harper.’

The woman took the bags that her husband brought to the door and hung Lizzie’s dress over the wardrobe door. ‘Shall I unpack for you?’

‘Oh, no. I can do that. Thank you,’ Lizzie repeated a little belatedly as the woman withdrew.

She stared at the pale pink taffeta dress. It had been bought when she’d had to accompany her father to a formal dinner a couple of years earlier and had been worn only once. It was a little creased, but otherwise fine.

She pulled a face. No, it wasn’t. It was awful. It had been her father’s choice, and had been too young for her even then. But when she had protested he’d said that he wanted everyone to be sure she was his daughter, that he was not some foolish middle-aged man out with a bimbo. It had been hard enough to get him out of the house; she hadn’t been about to argue over the dress. Well, it would have to do—it was all she had. She quickly stowed the remainder of her belongings and went to take her shower.

Ten minutes later she emerged from the bathroom to find a tray laid with a pot of tea and a plate of tiny sandwiches waiting for her. Her dress had disappeared.

As she sipped her tea she sat at the dressing table wondering what to do with her hair. It was ridiculously long, she decided, twisting it up into a simple chignon. If she left it loose, with the pink dress it would simply emphasise the ‘Alice in Wonderland’ look. There was a tap on the door.

‘Come in,’ she called. It was Mrs Harper with her dress. And another gown, black and elegant, on a padded satin hanger.

‘I’ve pressed your dress, Miss French,’ she said, ‘but...’ The woman was clearly embarrassed. ‘Mr Jordan suggested you might... um...prefer to wear this.’

‘Prefer’? She had the feeling that he had said something a great deal stronger than that. A closer look at her dress had doubtless warned him that she wouldn’t look like anyone’s lover in such a garment—certainly not that of the urbane, the very sophisticated Mr Jordan.

What would he consider suitable? she wondered, regarding the black dress with interest. It was an exquisite, ankle-length black shift in the finest silk jersey, with long, straight sleeves, a scooped-out neck and not a single detail to distract from the purity of the line. It was simply beautiful.

But then, the man was a world-renowned art dealer. He had appeared in his own series on the television, discussing the merits of twentieth-century art, the unexpected success of which had been the devastating charm of the presenter rather than the subject matter. His good taste had never been in doubt.

‘Thank you, Mrs Harper. If s... very kind of Mr Jordan.’

The woman was clearly relieved at her reaction. ‘It should fit you well enough. Miss Olivia isn’t quite as slender as you, but that fabric clings rather, so I’m sure you’ll get away with it.’

‘This is Olivia’s dress?’ She hadn’t given a thought as to where the gown might have come from. But Olivia had been staying with Noah for the last few weeks while her own apartment had been decorated. Something in her voice must have betrayed her.

‘It will look lovely on you, Miss French,’ Mrs Harper pressed, a little anxiously. ‘I know Miss Olivia wouldn’t mind...’

Lizzie minded. She minded a great deal. But that wasn’t Mrs Harper’s problem. ‘Please call me Lizzie,’ she said, offering a reassuring smile. And Mrs Harper smiled with relief and left.

She quickly made up her eyes and flicked blusher over her cheek-bones, leaving her tan to take care of the rest. Then, ignoring the black shift, she slipped into the pink taffeta dress. It was a little tight across the bodice; she had fulfilled the early promise of womanhood since she had last worn it. She tugged up the zip and then, very slowly, released her breath. It held, and for a moment she regarded her reflection with a certain amount of grim satisfaction.

Then she fastened a pair of pearl studs to her ears and touched the oval locket that she always wore about her throat before going down the broad staircase in search of her nemesis. She was now quite cheerfully prepared to convince the world that she was Noah’s lover. But somehow she didn’t think he would be quite so eager.

He was staring at a painting as she entered the drawing room, his thick dark hair a crisp counterpoint to the immaculate perfection of black broadcloth that emphasised his wide, square shoulders. For a moment she was struck by the sheer grace, almost beauty of the man. How easy it would be to fall under his spell, if he chose to cast it, she thought. Then he turned as he heard her move towards him.

The feeling was clearly not reciprocated. Regarding Lizzie in silence, Noah’s glance moved quite deliberately in a chilling inspection of her appearance. She lifted her chin a little and stood her ground, although the fine hairs at the nape of her neck stirred as she sensed that her defiance had made him very angry indeed.

But as he moved towards her it wasn’t her dress that claimed his attention. It was the locket.

He laid the tip of one finger against it, his eyes dark as thunderclouds as he fixed her to the spot. Then, without warning, he grasped it in his hand and jerked it from her throat, the old, delicate chain offering no resistance to this brutal treatment.

‘No!’ Lizzie’s hand instinctively reached out to retrieve the precious object. But his hand snapped shut, and he dropped the locket into his pocket.

‘What were you going to do, Elizabeth? Show Francesca your pretty antique locket? It’s old and no doubt the clasp is worn, and if by chance it should happen to fall open...’ He turned away in disgust. Lizzie swallowed.

‘Please give it back to me.’

‘I’ll have it repaired,’ he said abruptly.

‘That doesn’t matter. I just want it back.’

‘You can have it when Mr and Mrs Hallam are safely back across the Atlantic.’ He indicated the sideboard. ‘Would you like a drink? I have a feeling that we’re both going to need one to get through this evening.’

‘You invited them. You have the drink.’ She turned away, unable to bear to look at him, staring instead at the painting that had claimed his attention—a very traditional portrait of a young woman. Oddly out of place amongst Noah’s collection of modern art, the sitter looked vaguely familiar... She took a step towards it.

‘Sherry? Gin and tonic?’ he persisted.

She didn’t drink very much, but her throat was dry. ‘A tonic water,’ she conceded.

She heard the chink of ice, the fizz of tonic, then he walked across the magnificent Aubusson carpet until he was standing beside her. ‘Elizabeth?’

‘Thank you,’ she said, turning to take the crystal tumbler from his hand.

‘You’re entirely welcome.’ And he poured the contents of the glass down the demure décolletage of her gown.

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