At The Millionaire's Bidding

Images of his compelling, strong-boned face, his dark-lashed wolf’s eyes, his austere, yet oddly sensitive, mouth had filled her head. She remembered his voice and his well-shaped hands, how she had felt when he touched her.

He had flustered and disconcerted her, made her angry and reckless, altogether rattled her; and through it all had run a strong thread of attraction, fascination even, that she had refused to admit.

But apart from the way he had affected her, and the fact that he owned Greyladies, she knew nothing about him. Had he a wife? Children?

She recalled him saying, “Someone who loves you? In that case you’re one up on me”.

Did that mean he had no wife? Or a wife who didn’t love him? The media, while admitting that he guarded his privacy fiercely, had apparently dubbed him as a ladies’ man.

Of course that didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t married… But if he was a philanderer, it might explain why his wife didn’t love him….

CHAPTER THREE

BY THE time they had left the outskirts of London behind them the traffic had lessened, the sky had cleared, and as they ran into Little Meldon the sun was shining.

The main street was wide, with cobbled areas on either side that sloped gently up to rows of picturesque cottages. In the centre it widened even more to straddle an old stone butter market.

There was a mere handful of shops: an old-fashioned grocers, a bow-fronted butchers, a greengrocers, and a post-office-cum-newsagents.

At the far end was a black and white half-timbered coaching inn, with overhanging eaves and barley-sugar chimneys.

There was hardly any sign of life, and the whole thing could have been lifted straight from Dickens.

‘What a dump!’ Dave said disgustedly.

Eleanor, who had thought the village delightful and been about to say so, held her tongue. If he was in a bad mood there was no point in antagonising him.

About half a mile further on, as Robert Carrington had said, they came to Grave Lane, and turned down it. On one side was a patchwork of green fields bordered by a ditch and a hawthorn hedge. On the other was a wide expanse of grass, and an old, lichen-covered wall enclosing what appeared to be rolling parkland.

A stone building with gables and turrets and crooked chimneys appeared on their right. A gatehouse in every sense of the word, it spanned a huge, cobbled archway which was guarded by iron gates that put Eleanor in mind of a portcullis.

She gazed at it enthralled. Somewhere, almost certainly in a book, she had seen one just like it.

Grimacing, Dave switched off the radio and touched the horn, and a few seconds later a gnome-like little man appeared in rolled-up shirt sleeves and gardening gloves, and swung open the gates.

‘Afternoon,’ he said laconically, when Dave rolled the window down. ‘Mr Carrington’s expecting you.’

As they started up the drive, past a neatly laid-out vegetable and flower garden, he closed the gates behind them and returned to his digging.

For perhaps a quarter of a mile the drive wound serpent-like between banks of flowering rhododendrons and sweet-smelling shrubs, with no sign of a house.

Dave was slumped in his seat, on his face a look of complete boredom, but Eleanor sat up straighter feeling a strange surge of anticipation.

Then, as they rounded the final bend, the manor was suddenly there, like some wonderful surprise.

Only it wasn’t a surprise.

A split second before it came into view, she had pictured Greyladies just as it was. As if she had always known it. As if it was as familiar to her as an old friend.

Though long and rambling, the house was a mere two stories, built randomly of old and mellow stone. Creepers climbed its walls and moss grew on its steeply pitched roofs.

It had sturdy chimney-stacks and earthenware chimney pots adorned with cheerful, gargoyle-like faces, and its casement windows were mullioned and leaded, the old, uneven panes catching the light.

An imposing, black-studded front door, the wood of which was almost silver with age, was flanked by long, stained-glass windows, arched at the top, and running from some eighteen inches above the ground almost to the second floor.

High, sun-warmed stone walls, one with a small black door, the other with a wide archway, curved away on both sides.

Bringing the van to a halt on the paved apron, Dave grunted. ‘I thought a manor house would be a lot grander, more formal somehow, with pillars and things. This isn’t a bit what I expected…’

It was exactly what she had expected, and she was lost to it even before she went inside.

As she sat gazing at it speechlessly, he added, ‘Better let his lordship know we’re here.’

Switching off the ignition, he clambered out, leaving her sitting there.

At that instant the heavy door swung open and Robert Carrington appeared. Casually dressed in stone-coloured trousers and a silk shirt open at the neck, he looked taller and fairer and more striking than ever.

‘It must be the butler’s day off,’ Dave said a trifle too loudly. Adding, ‘I bet he’s come to direct us round the back to the tradesmen’s entrance.’

‘Benson…’ Nodding coolly to the younger man, Robert Carrington strode across to the van and, opening the passenger door, held out his hand to Eleanor.

Still off balance, thrown by that feeling of recognition, she put her hand into his.

His smile holding a hint of mockery, he greeted her as though she was a guest. ‘Miss Smith… Welcome to Greyladies.’

The shock of meeting those tawny eyes literally took her breath away, and she was forced to drag in air like a swimmer who’s been under water too long, before she could answer, ‘Thank you.’

She had tried to tell herself that his effect on her would have faded, that on further acquaintance she would find him ordinary, dull even.

But rather than lessening, his impact was stronger. It made her heart beat uncomfortably fast, set her nerves quivering, and scattered her wits.

Her right hand clasped in his, her skin sensitised by his touch, she fumbled vainly to undo her seat belt with her left hand.

When he reached over to unfasten it for her, he was so close she could see the glitter of his short fair hair as it tried to curl against his temples; see how his dark lashes were tipped with gold, and how tiny laughter lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes.

There were twin creases beside his firm mouth, and above his top lip, a tiny V-shaped scar. His skin was clear and healthy and smelled pleasantly of sun and the fresh masculine scent of aftershave….

He slanted her a gleaming glance from beneath those long lashes.

Feeling a complete idiot because he’d caught her staring at him as though mesmerised, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

As he withdrew his hand, it brushed her thigh, and she jumped convulsively.

Perfectly straight faced, he said, ‘I do apologise.’ Then, ‘Allow me…’

Legs trembling, she found herself being helped out of the van.

‘Do you need to freshen up?’ he asked.