Mistress And Mother

And Sholto had made his choice. Indeed, Sholto had made his choice without hesitation. If he had come in search of her afterwards...well, it had already been too late. When Molly had seen that photo of him emerging from Pandora’s apartment block at dawn, had been faced with the humiliating public proof that he had spent the whole night with his cousin, she had never wanted to set eyes on Sholto again. The agony of that betrayal had been too immense.

And yet they had started out with such apparent promise, she conceded painfully, struggling not to let the memories flood back, for the last thing she needed now was to wallow in the distant past. But somehow the temptation to recall a happier time was irresistible.

She had first met Sholto on one of those hot, still summer afternoons when anything physical felt like an outrageous effort. She had been coasting her bike down the hill, her basket full of eggs from the village shop, when a black sports car had suddenly shot out of a leafy lane in front of her. Her frantic evasive manoeuvres had sent her flying head first into the hedge. When the world had righted itself again, Sholto had got out of the car and was helping her disentangle herself from the brambles, exclaiming about the scratches on her bare arms and apologising.

A languid female voice had drifted from the sports car. ‘Ask her where the Hendersons live...’

Sholto had stridden back to the car and wrenched open the driver’s door. After a terse exchange, a tall, beautiful blonde with a sullen mouth had reluctantly emerged. ‘I’m sorry you came off your bike but you really should’ve been looking where you were going—’

‘You were driving like a bat out of hell,’ Sholto interposed, looking at the blonde with icy reproof.

For an instant Sholto and Pandora stood side by side, and together, as Molly got her first really good look at them, they took her breath away. One so dark and one so fair and both of them possessed of that compelling kind of physical beauty which turned heads and fascinated. Never had Molly been more horribly conscious of a face bare of make-up, hair tangled by the breeze and a faded summer dress that had seen better days.

‘The Hendersons,’ Pandora repeated impatiently.

‘You’ll have to excuse my cousin. Pandora. She’s not very good with strangers,’ Sholto murmured wryly as he extended a lean hand to Molly. ‘Sholto Cristaldi. Where were you heading when we interrupted your journey?’

‘Home.’ Her uncertain gaze collided with shimmering dark golden eyes as she clasped his hand. And he didn’t let go again. He kept on holding her hand, a faint frown-line etched between his aristocratic brows as he stared intently down at her until a deep flush of self-consciousness coloured her cheeks and she tugged her own fingers clumsily free.

‘Sholto, we’re late!’ Pandora snapped.

‘What’s your name?’ Sholto asked, as if his cousin had neither spoken nor even existed.

‘Molly...Molly Bannister.’

‘Molly,’ he repeated softly, his slow, utterly devastating smile flashing out to leave her weak at the knees. While he crouched down over her bike, examining the bent wheel and the messy debris of broken eggs, she just stared down at him in complete fascination, feverishly, childishly wishing that she had legs that ran all the way up to her armpits, smaller breasts, slimmer hips and last but not least a face that would launch a thousand ships.

In short she would’ve sold her soul at that moment to have the looks to attract a male of Sholto’s calibre. But she had no expectation of such a miracle taking place. Sholto, with his lazy, well-bred drawl, supreme sophistication and exquisitely cut casual clothes, had all the glamour of a film star and seemed just as unattainable.

‘I think the first thing we need to do is replace the eggs,’ Sholto stated with deadly seriousness as he sprang lithely upright again.

‘Give her some money for them, for heaven’s sake!’ Pandora urged incredulously.

‘You don’t need to replace them,’ Molly said hurriedly. ‘And I certainly don’t want any money—’

‘And then we need to take you and your bike home,’ Sholto continued smoothly, as good at ignoring Molly’s objections as he apparently was at blocking out the increasingly angry interruptions coming from his cousin. ‘Where do the Hendersons live?’

‘You go up the hill, through the village and about a hundred yards further on there’s a big set of gates on the left—’

‘We’ll drop my cousin off first...since she’s in such a hurry,’ Sholto murmured softly. ‘But I’m afraid you’ll find it a frightful squeeze in what passes for a back seat in this car.’

‘I don’t need a lift... I wouldn’t dream of it. I can walk home from here!’ she gabbled in a rush, hideously conscious of Pandora’s outraged stare at the idea of her even getting into their car.

But Sholto won out. Taking charge of the steering wheel, he dropped his cousin off at the Hendersons’ Edwardian mansion and ushered Molly into the passenger seat in her stead.

‘Explain that we had an accident and offer my apologies,’ he instructed a frozenly furious Pandora.

Then he drove Molly back to the village shop, replaced the eggs, parked the car beside her damaged bike and proceeded to walk her and the bike home to the vicarage. It was a mile-long walk and she wished it were five miles longer. Sholto and Pandora had been invited to what he called a ‘house party’ at the Hendersons’ and Molly tried to behave as if she regularly met people who just flew in from New York on Concorde and drove down to the country in a flashy sports car for the weekend.

She never expected to see him again after he parted from her at the vicarage gates. She was astonished when his hostess phoned that evening and asked her if she would like to come up and play tennis the following afternoon. Although the Hendersons allowed the annual church fête to be held in the grounds of their impressive home, they were not in the habit of inviting their more humble neighbours to socialise with them.

Molly knew that she could only owe that invitation to Sholto. Indeed, he carelessly confirmed the fact when he came to pick her up. She was less comfortable with the admission when she witnessed the extraordinary deference shown to him by his hosts.

The haughty Hendersons fawned on Sholto as if he were visiting royalty and Sholto did not appear to notice anything amiss in their excessive eagerness to please. That he was accustomed to that sort of attention was obvious but his manners were faultless and that day Molly was blissfully ignorant both of Sholto’s immense wealth and of the way that same wealth could affect other people.

It was far too hot for tennis but the heat didn’t bother Sholto, so nobody dared to complain. Molly ran herself into the ground during a very athletic game of mixed doubles and thoroughly enjoyed herself until she saw her reflection in a window afterwards and cringed at the sight of her wet hair, shiny nose and hot cheeks. Sholto paused behind her, even then able to read her like a book. ‘You look gorgeous, cara. Women who think of nothing but their appearance are very poor company.’

Cousin Pandora spent the afternoon sitting cool as a cucumber on the sidelines and flirting like mad with two different men. She barely looked at Molly but Molly had already realised that Pandora had little time for her own sex. Only the day before she had seen Sholto treat Pandora like a spoilt and wilful kid sister. At that stage, she didn’t see the other woman as even a cloud on her horizon...and she was utterly overwhelmed by Sholto’s apparent interest in her...

Molly woke with a start. The events of the previous night flooded back and she could not believe that she had actually slept. It was already after ten. Scrambling out of bed, she pulled back the curtains. Some time during the night she had heard driving rain lash the window. It was no longer raining and the snow had gone as quickly as it had come.

The skirt and sweater which she had left downstairs now lay on the chair, and with them a new pair of black tights. Where had Sholto got the tights from? She recalled the shop at the garage where she had stopped for petrol the night before. She stiffened at the awareness that he had entered the room while she slept but she was grateful not to be forced to go downstairs in his clothes.

Crossing the landing to the bathroom, she ran a shallow bath. She told herself that it was her imagination telling her that she could still smell Sholto on her skin. Imagination and guilt, she reflected painfully, lathering herself with soap and wishing she could as easily wash away the incredibly intimate ache she could still feel, the starkly unavoidable reminder of his possession.