In Bed With...Collection

CHAPTER SIX (#ud535c0fb-8216-5cc4-a273-7d8e9771b73f)

MAGGIE stared gloomily at the vast array of very expensive clothes in her wardrobe. Vivian had made dressing up fun. She’d seen no harm in giving him the pleasure of it and there was no denying she had enjoyed feeling wonderfully glamorous, swishing around in gorgeous outfits.

She didn’t think Beau Prescott was going to view any of this as fun, though. The money Vivian had spent on making her look splendid was sure to bring his grandson’s censure down upon her head. He’d more or less accused her of being a whore this morning. Milking an old man’s indulgence was bound to come next. She wished she could shrug it off, not care, but it hurt having Vivian’s grandson think badly of her. It hurt all the more because she’d felt so instantly, so strongly attracted to him.

A knock on her bedroom door broke into her misery-laden thoughts. “Yes?” she called despondently.

Mrs. Featherfield came bustling in, brimming with excited anticipation. “He’s home, dear. Sedgewick suggested predinner drinks in the salon at six-thirty. That gives you half an hour to get ready.” She eyed the opened wardrobe with avid interest. “He’s still in his suit so you could wear something really pretty.”

Maggie grimaced. “It’s no use, Mrs. Featherfield. He doesn’t like me.”

“Nonsense! Master Beau was well and truly bowled over this morning. Saw it with my own eyes.”

“Well, he very quickly recovered and bowled me out of any getting together with him,” Maggie said dryly.

“Now that’s not it at all. Sedgewick and I agree that Master Beau liked you so much he got jealous at the thought of you and Mr. Vivian...being close. He wanted you for himself.”

Maggie found herself at a loss as to how to argue with such triumphant satisfaction.

“So don’t you worry, dear,” Mrs. Featherfield rushed on. “Wallace said Master Beau was very quiet on the way into town. Sedgewick feels that setting the record straight about you and Mr. Vivian gave him food for thought and reconsideration.”

All of it bad, Maggie figured, remembering the spark of malice in his eyes as he’d left her.

“Shock can do funny things to people,” Mrs. Featherfield remarked with a wise look. “We all need a period of adjustment. Master Beau will have settled himself down by now and I’m sure he’ll be charming to you this evening. You must give him another chance, dear.”

He was going to make mincemeat of her. Still, if she didn’t put on a show, Mrs. Featherfield, Sedgewick and the others would feel she was letting down the side. Maggie forced a smile. “I’ll do my best.”

The housekeeper beamed happily at this reassurance. As she hurried out of the bedroom she warned, “Six-thirty, mind. Jeffrey’s cooking Beef Wellington for dinner and he’s very particular about the timing.”

No doubt there’d be romantic candles on the table, too, Maggie thought, her heart sinking at the prospect of bearing the cynicism in Beau Prescott’s eyes. She hoped Sedgewick wouldn’t suggest champagne. The foreboding words, I am not my grandfather, were still ringing in her ears.

In a spurt of defiance, Maggie pulled out her red poppy dress. Since Beau Prescott viewed her as a scarlet woman, she would throw it right in his face. She had nothing to be ashamed of in her relationship with Vivian and she’d be damned if she would let his grandson turn it into something it wasn’t. Vivian had adored the boldness of her wearing red with her red hair, declaring it both daring and dazzling. Certainly the poppy dress would do away with any accusation she was not trying hard enough.

Maggie had always thought of it as a flirty little dress. It wasn’t exactly figure-hugging. The silk chiffon with its vibrant pattern of scarlet blooms splashed over a white background, more or less slid and shifted over her curves, falling to a cute short skirt with an underfrill rippling softly around her thighs. At the back, the skirt was looped up at the centre to showcase rows of flouncy underfrills that took on a life of their own when she moved.

Definitely a flirty dress. One could even say it flaunted her femininity. With malice aforethought, Maggie proceeded to complement the dress with appropriate accoutrements; sheer, pale flesh-coloured tights, high-heeled red sandals that strapped up to above her ankles, and long, dangly crystal earrings to reflect colour as they sparkled against her hair.

She sprayed her neck and wrists with Christian Dior’s “Poison” for good measure, then pranced downstairs, all flags flying for the cause, although to her mind, the cause was already dead and beyond revival. Nevertheless, Sedgewick could not fail to be pleased with her appearance and any further debacle between her and Beau Prescott would not be laid at her door.

She swept into the salon, walking to the strong beat of rebellion. Sedgewick was serving her antagonist with a freshly made martini. Beau Prescott, standing in a commanding position in front of the French marble mantelpiece, above which hung a romantic painting of Cupid at play—definitely a perverse comment on what was going on here—took the martini from the silver tray, looked at Maggie who had paused to take in the scene, and gave her the full force of a brilliant smile.

Her heart tripped.

“Good evening, Maggie,” he said pleasantly, lifting his glass a little as though toasting her appearance. “You make me see you would brighten any man’s world, regardless of age or circumstance.”

Unsure whether or not she had just received a compliment, Maggie seized on another implication in his greeting. “Did you have a difficult day?” she asked.

“Mmmh...” His eyebrows slanted musingly, attractively. “...I’d call it a three martini day. Will you join me in one? It may help smooth over my faux pas of this morning.”

An apology? Maggie was dumbfounded. She’d come to do battle and here he was in retreat. A very graceful retreat, too. And he looked so heart-meltingly handsome, a twinkling appeal in his eyes, a smile still playing on his lips, the compelling power of his masculinity given a tantalisingly civilised veneer by a perfectly tailored three-piece suit.

Her mind belatedly dictated a “Yes, I will, thank you,” reply, and a smile to match his. With Sedgewick looking on benevolently, she could hardly do anything else. Besides, she really did want to give Beau Prescott another chance, so long as he was being nice to her.

Maggie was instantly outmanoeuvred from adopting her usual hostess role. Beau Prescott took charge, very much the master of the house as he gave orders to Sedgewick, directed Maggie to sit on the sofa of his choosing and invited her to sample Jeffrey’s hors d’ouevres—his best creations—artistically arranged on an exquisite platter.

The little puff balls filled with creamed egg and topped with sour cream and caviar were irresistible. Besides, Maggie needed something to settle the sudden attack of flutters in her stomach. She was very, very conscious of Beau Prescott as he took the armchair closest to her, facing her across the oval end of the gilt-legged marble table which served both pieces of furniture.

He chose one of the fine pastry boats containing Jeffrey’s special crab mixture. Undoubtedly, Sedgewick had instructed the cook to pull out all stops tonight. After all, it was Master Beau’s homecoming. Maggie hoped it would be interpreted that way by the man who was now viewing her with speculative interest.

“I imagined you very differently, you know,” he confessed with an appealing twist of irony. “I guess, because you were linked in the will with Sedgewick and the others, I automatically put you in the same age bracket. Or thereabouts.”

It was an understandable assumption. “Then I must have come as a shock,” Maggie offered, remembering Mrs. Featherstone had excused his behaviour on that basis. She was prepared to be as generous.

He nodded. “To put it mildly. I’d be grateful if you’d fill me in on a few things that have been teasing me all day.”

“What do you want to know?” Maggie asked warily, willing to meet him halfway if this was a genuine offering of goodwill.

“Well...” He gestured helplessness. “How did you come here? Did my grandfather advertise for a nanny?”

The questions sounded like pure curiosity, nothing judgmental about them. Maggie’s nervous tension eased a little. Such curiosity was fair enough in the circumstances.

“I don’t think the idea had even occurred to him until after he’d met me,” she answered, shaking her head as she remembered back. “I’m sure it was just one of those things that grew on him and he kept adding to it as he went along.” Wanting Beau Prescott to understand she looked at him appealingly. “It was like a game to Vivian.”

“To you, too?”

Maggie felt she was on trickier ground here. She answered cautiously. “He made it fun. But he taught me a lot, too.” The sense of loss welled up in her again. “Your grandfather was a wonderful person and he gave me the best years of my life,” she said in a burst of fierce feeling.

The intent green eyes seemed to probe her emotion, measuring it. Maggie’s nerves tensed up so much she was almost driven to challenge any disbelief he had, but she held her tongue. She couldn’t make him believe her. He either did or he didn’t.

Luckily Sedgewick picked that touchy moment to serve her the martini she’d agreed to have and Maggie gratefully grabbed the glass, hating the searching silence. She gulped some of the strong liquor, barely stopped herself from choking on it, then sought further distraction in selecting one of Jeffrey’s dainty pizza circles with cheese, tomato and olives baked into it.

“I know what you mean,” Beau Prescott said quietly, startling her into looking at him again. His expression was soft, fondly reminiscent. “He had such a zest for life it was infectious. He opened windows to the world for me.”

“Yes. Oh, yes! That was just how it was.” The words tripped out, surprised delight lifting her heart.

His head tilted inquiringly. “How did the two of you meet?”

She relaxed into a smile. “It was the most amazing encounter. I was out of work at the time and just scraping a living by peddling single roses. I bought them at the markets, and prettied them up with foil paper and ribbons. I did the rounds of fancy restaurants in the evening and a lot of guys would buy one for the woman they were dining with. A romantic gesture, you know?”

He grinned. “How much did you charge?”

She grinned back, pleased he didn’t disapprove of her enterprise. “Five dollars. I figured for an elevation of mood, it was worth at least as much as a glass of wine.”

“Perfectly reasonable,” he agreed encouragingly. “I guess my grandfather couldn’t resist buying one from you.”

“Well, not exactly. He was with a large party of people at one of the restaurants I visited. Parties like that didn’t usually buy so I was concentrating on the smaller tables. Twosomes were always more promising. Your grandfather must have been watching me because he caught my eye and beckoned me to his table. To my astonishment he insisted on buying the lot, every rose in my basket. He said a pretty girl should be partying on a Saturday night and I should sit down and join his party if I had nowhere better to go.”

Beau Prescott laughed, his good humour wafting over Maggie like a seductive caress. “That sounds so typical,” he said, his green eyes dancing at her, enticing her into telling him anything he wanted to know. “Whom did he have with him?”