In Bed With...Collection

“I’ve been presuming too much. I won’t sit at table with you again, Mr. Prescott. As you said this morning, you are not your grandfather.”

Beau opened his mouth to argue, everything within him rebelling against the evasion she intended. The mystery of her was not resolved. He wanted the challenge of her presence. He wanted more of her than he could admit to. But before he could voice the words of protest tumbling through his mind, her eyes misted with tears, making him recoil from saying anything.

“Goodnight,” she whispered huskily and moved on, walking briskly from the dining room, leaving him feeling like a monster for making her cry.

He watched her go, the flouncy little frills of the sexy red dress taunting him with what she might have given him if he’d acted differently. His loins ached with thwarted desire. His mind raged against the circumstances that trapped him into keeping his distance. The angry frustration welling up in him could barely be contained.

Sedgewick proceeded to clear her end of the table, apparently unconcerned by the incident, carrying on with his job, transferring her plates and glass to the traymobile. Beau, still on his feet, his napkin crumpled in his hand, glared at the old butler for being so deliberately officious about his duties.

“If you’ve got something to say, Sedgewick, spit it out!”

A dignified pause. A slight raising of eyebrows. A look down his noble nose at Beau. “I was thinking, sir, I have served many people in my years at Rosecliff. Amongst them, the high and mighty of this country, one might say. People who thought their wealth or power put them above others. Nanny Stowe may have come here without much to recommend her, sir, but she is a genuine lady. Mr. Vivian certainly thought so, too.”

“You don’t know what I know, Sedgewick,” Beau retorted in dark fury.

His lofty mien became ever loftier as he answered, “Possibly not, sir. I have only had two years’ close acquaintance with Nanny Stowe.”

Which neatly sliced Beau’s feet out from under him. He threw the napkin on the table, picked up his glass and strode to the sideboard to collect the decanter of claret. “Please inform Jeffrey I won’t be wanting sweets, either. Nor anything else tonight, thank you, Sedgewick,” he said in savage dismissal.

“Very well, sir.”

Armed with what was left of the good red he’d insisted upon, Beau headed for the library, haunted by a glorious mane of red hair, a red dress that was too damned bold to be worn by a woman with that shade of hair, and the authoritative words of a man who should know what he was talking about.

He found the videotape of his grandfather’s funeral and slotted it into the machine ready to play. Left to himself, he automatically shed the constraints of formality, taking off his coat, vest and tie, then rolling up his shirt sleeves and undoing the collar button. Getting rid of his excess clothes, however, did not ease his pent-up tension.

He poured himself a glass of wine, picked up the remote control panel, and tried to find some comfort in one of the leather armchairs. His thumb was hovering over the play button when he realised his anger was inappropriate for watching the funeral of a man who’d raised him from boyhood, a man he’d revered and loved.

He waited a while, occasionally sipping the claret, clearing his head of Maggie Stowe and filling it with memories of happy times with his grandfather; the adventures they’d had together—cruising The Great Barrier Reef, seeing the wildlife of Kakadu National Park, exploring the underground world of Coober Pedy—then in his teens, the trip to Europe where his grandfather had made history come alive for him.

It had been Vivian Prescott’s gift, to make the world a marvellous place. And he’d chosen to bestow this gift on a woman he’d picked up one night. Right or wrong, it had been his choice. His choice, too, to take a million dollars and do whatever he’d done with it.

Beau wanted to respect those choices. He really did.

A genuine lady...

God! He even wanted to believe Sedgewick was right!

He just couldn’t bear the thought his grandfather had been fooled.

With a heavy sigh, Beau pressed the play button and set the footage of the funeral rolling.

He found the service intensely moving...the songs, the words spoken, the roses, the cathedral packed to overflowing by those whose lives had been touched by Vivian Prescott. Then, at the cemetery, it was indeed a fine, fine touch, having a piper in full Scottish dress, lead the carrying of the coffin to the graveside, the age-old wail of pipes ringing down the last curtain.

The final ceremonial words floated past Beau unheard, his attention fastened on the little group of people standing a few metres behind the bishop, his grandfather’s family, for lack of anyone closer.

He was inexorably drawn into studying the woman who had most recently come amongst them, the woman at the centre of his grandfather’s last years. He focused his entire mind on setting aside his prejudices and seeing her as objectively as he could.

She looked magnificent in a tailored black suit and a broad-brimmed black hat that managed to be both sober and stylish. Doing Vivian proud, Beau thought, finding himself admiring her stance, despite his suspicions about her character. Not once did she look down at the grave. She held her single rose clutched to her chest, and her face was lifted to the sky.

She didn’t appear to be aware of the tears trickling down her cheeks from the corners of her eyes. Or she determinedly ignored them. She kept her gaze fixed upwards, as though she wouldn’t let herself believe Vivian Prescott was in that coffin. His spirit was out there somewhere, soaring free, not tied to the earth in any shape or form. The Angel of Death had come kindly...

Beau winced at the thought, yet ironically found himself in sympathy with it. He switched off the video, having seen enough. His glass was empty but he didn’t feel like drinking more anyway. The sense of having done Maggie Stowe an injustice was strong. Even if she’d had her eye on the main chance, capitalising on all she could, she certainly hadn’t failed her benefactor at the end.

I loved your grandfather. I really did. And whether you like it or not, that’s the truth.

He might not like it, but Beau was beginning to believe it. The whole funeral was an act of love, getting it right, doing his grandfather proud. He could no longer see it as putting on a show. There was too much care, too much feeling behind it for him to dismiss as an exercise in showmanship.

So where did that leave him? An unappreciative, ungrateful, blundering clod? Driving a woman to tears instead of giving her her just due?

Wretchedly at odds with himself, Beau pushed out of his armchair and paced restlessly around the library. He’d set about this nanny business all wrong, shooting off with bees in his bonnet, right from the start, making assumptions without the evidence to back them up.

What if Maggie Stowe was a genuine lady, as Sedgewick claimed?

He’d virtually accused her of being a whore and a gold-digger. There could be no doubt he was wrong on the first count. As to the second...God only knew!

She’d gone off to her room in obvious distress because of him. His grandfather had installed her in a position of respect here and he’d cast her as unworthy of it, cross-examining her like a criminal in the hot seat and judging before she’d had a proper hearing. Was that fair? Would his grandfather be proud of him?

Shame wormed through Beau. His grandfather had trusted him to let everything at Rosecliff carry on as dictated in the will and he hadn’t even let one day pass without blowing it apart. Not one day. What he personally thought was irrelevant. This was a matter of trust to be kept, and keeping it was the least he could do since he hadn’t been here to do more when it would have truly counted.

He checked his watch. It wasn’t too late to straighten things out with Maggie Stowe. Best to do it right now. That way they could start afresh tomorrow. And he’d get to go to bed with a clear conscience.

Fired with resolute purpose, Beau left the library, only realising when he was halfway up the stairs, he didn’t know where Maggie Stowe was. A moment’s thought gave him the answer. His grandfather would have given her the Rose Suite. Their relationship had begun and ended with roses. It fitted. And whatever his grandfather had ordained for her, had to be carried on for a year, come what may.

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

MAGGIE didn’t want to answer the knock on her door. It was bound to be Mrs Featherfield, anxious to smooth things over again, offering excuses and pleading for more time and tolerance, probably bringing a soothing cup of hot chocolate to settle her down. Impossible mission, Maggie thought, inwardly recoiling from having to cope with it. Better to ignore the knock. She’d done enough answering.

She stayed out on the balcony, ending more than the long day of emotional battering. Her life with Vivian...Rosecliff...this view over the harbour...she had to say goodbye to all of it. There was not going to be any flow-on with Beau Prescott.

Another knock, louder, more insistent than before.

Maggie frowned. Was her silence giving Mrs Featherfield concern? She didn’t want to worry the housekeeper. Sedgewick would have reported the scene in the dining room to her and she might start thinking of real illness if she wasn’t answered. Better to let her check and have done with it.

Reluctantly but resignedly Maggie moved back to the French doors and called, “Come in,” hoping a minute or two would see the end of any fussing.

Beau Prescott stepped into her bedroom.

Disbelief dizzied her. Shock hit in waves. He’d actually come after her, right into her room, invading her privacy, making nowhere at Rosecliff safe from him. The civilised veneer had been cast off; his suit-coat, vest and tie gone. She was swamped by his sheer maleness, the physical dominance of the man, the aggressive masculinity that seemed to swirl from him and draw on her like a powerful magnet.

She stared at his muscular forearms, bared to the elbow as though ready for action. Her heart skittered. She wrenched her gaze up but it moved erratically over his chest, finding the arrow of flesh where his shirt was opened and fastening on the base of his throat where the throb of his pulse was clearly visible. Another shock. Tension tearing at her, forcing her to lift her eyes to his, to see what was driving his heart faster.

A blast of raw desire plastered her with a hot awareness of what she was wearing. She hadn’t thought of it, her mind scrambled by the impact he was having on her. The slinky nightgown had been a personal purchase, its sensual appeal irresistible, a clinging creation of navy silk and lace that slid over her skin and snugly moulded her breasts.

It wasn’t transparent and Mrs Featherfield had seen and admired it, but the lace-trimmed V neckline revealed more cleavage than she would normally put on public view, especially to Beau Prescott who already saw her as having no morals at all. It didn’t stop him looking at her with lust, though, and Maggie felt a quite vixenish satisfaction in stirring him on a primitive level when he couldn’t possibly approve of himself being attracted to her.

Rebellion simmered through the heat he aroused. She’d be damned if she’d make any move to cover up. She was in her own bedroom. She enjoyed wearing this nightgown. It was one little pleasure he couldn’t take away from her. Besides, a belated attempt at modesty wouldn’t impress him. He thought badly of her anyway. So let him stare. Let him burn as much as she was burning.

Her breathing quickened with the reckless, dangerous excitement of challenging him on the most basic level of all. She felt her breasts rising, falling, straining against the flimsy silk, her nipples hardening, flaunting themselves through the provocative arrangement of lace. And she didn’t care. She revelled in the feverish glitter in his green eyes, exulted when splashes of red speared across his cheekbones betraying his rush of blood, his discomfiture with what was happening to him, his response to the stimulus of her femininity.