Conflict Of Hearts

His eyes creased to betray his wry, exasperated amusement at this remark. ‘Olivia told me that he was a little over forty-five. I wonder which James would agree with?’

Oh, she knew that. Her father was as susceptible to flattery as the next man. But he would still be forty-nine next birthday. And, having nailed her objection so firmly to the mast, she wasn’t about to back down just because Noah Jordan thought it was ridiculous. Besides, it served as well as anything else to cover the anger. That was private. Not for public consumption.

Her public face had smiled and smiled, and no one had suspected her true feelings. Why should they? Olivia was such an accomplished actress; who would ever guess what she was really like? But somehow this man knew the smile that Lizzie had painted on was only a mask.

‘The age difference is still—’ she pressed on, then stopped abruptly at the derision that momentarily twisted his mouth.

‘Too great?’ He completed her objection with the faintest touch of ridicule in his voice. ‘Perhaps you think your father should have settled for some comfortable widow-lady and be content with carpet slippers and cocoa at bedtime?’

Under his taunting eyes she felt the colour rise again to her cheeks. Her father was an attractive man and it had been five years since her mother’s death; he deserved a second chance at happiness. She had been glad for him that Olivia was beautiful, desirable. It was no more than he deserved after all the unhappiness since his first wife had died. That wasn’t the reason for the cold anger that sat like a lump of lead in her stomach. But she was saved from the necessity of answering by the cause of her misery.

‘Noah, darling, what on earth have you said to Lizzie to make the child blush so?’ Olivia chided, with a soft laugh as she turned on her new husband’s arm.

‘This is a wedding, Olivia,’ he responded, with a smile that creased his cheeks—a smile that came all too readily for his beautiful sister. ‘Making the bridesmaid blush is all part of the fun.’

‘Is it, indeed?’ Olivia reached up and tapped his cheek warningly. ‘Well, my dear, just make sure that’s the only tradition involving bridesmaids and fun that you keep alive on this occasion.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Lizzie breathed, with feeling, as Olivia turned away.

‘She has no need.’ Noah Jordan’s voice was as low as hers. ‘My duty was done when I gave away the bride. It’s the best man’s responsibility to see that the bridesmaid...has fun.’

The hateful blush deepened, but Noah was regarding the portly figure of her father’s business manager, who had been conscripted to this duty. And for once genuine amusement unexpectedly lit the depths of those probing eyes as he considered what fun was likely to be had in that direction.

This totally unexpected betrayal of a sense of humour somehow irritated Lizzie even more than his attitude to her. ‘I compliment you on your hearing, Mr Jordan,’ she snapped.

‘All my senses are in perfect working order, Elizabeth,’ he replied gravely. ‘Including the most important.’

‘Which is?’ she enquired, a little archly, then sincerely wished she hadn’t as his brow rose a fraction higher.

The pause before he replied was infinitesimally brief. Yet it was there. ‘Common sense, of course,’ he said abruptly. ‘And, since people will think it a little odd if you continue to refer to me as “Mr Jordan”, you’d better get used to calling me Noah.’

‘Maybe I would, if you’d stop calling me Elizabeth in quite that tone of voice.’

‘And what “tone of voice” is that?’ he asked softly.

Disapproving. As if she had been summoned by the headmistress for breaking a window. But he didn’t need to be told. He knew exactly what tone of voice he was using. He reserved it especially for her.

But the organ had struck up. ‘We’ll resume this discussion on the drive to London, shall we?’ Noah said, and, before she could tell him exactly what he could do with his drive to London, he had taken a firm grip on her arm and was leading her back down the aisle behind the bride and groom.

Toasts had been drunk and speeches made, and the guests were helping themselves from the buffet laid out in the marquee. But Lizzie wasn’t hungry, despite the long hours that had elapsed since breakfast. Peter had not come, and all she wanted was the opportunity to escape the almost unbearable bonhomie. Her unhappiness was private. It had no place at a wedding. She lowered herself onto her favourite seat, half-hidden in an arbour that overlooked the rose garden.

‘Lizzie...’ She heard Olivia’s voice calling from a little way off and stayed very still, hoping to remain unnoticed. But the voice came nearer, and she dashed a tear from her cheek and stood up to reveal herself rather than submit to the ignominy of being found hiding. ‘Lizzie, my dear, there you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I wanted to have a word...just the two of us before—’

‘Are you going now?’ Lizzie asked, a little stiffly.

Olivia’s brow wrinkled slightly at the chill in her voice. ‘No, darling.’ Lizzie almost winced at the theatricality of the endearment. It would be so easy to be fooled, especially when you wanted to be, and for a while she had been... ‘You’d better come and sit down, darling. There’s something I have to tell you. Perhaps you’ve guessed...’ Lizzie made no reply. ‘James should have done it,’ she pressed on. ‘He’s really been very naughty...’

Naughty! Lizzie thought she might just throw up. But whatever it was that Olivia wanted to say would have to wait as, beyond the fragile beauty of the bride, Lizzie at last saw her heart’s desire.

‘Peter!’ Abandoning her new stepmother, she scooped up her long skirts and ran across the lawn towards the tall, slender figure of Peter Hallam. He stopped and turned as he heard her voice, and she flung herself into his arms. ‘Oh, Peter!’ And she was not sure whether to laugh or cry. ‘You came. I knew you would.’

He didn’t hold her close to him, but put her down and stood back, lifting his shoulder a little awkwardly. ‘I was coming home anyway,’ he said, looking around anywhere not to meet her eyes. ‘I can’t wait to meet the bride. I saw her in Camille last year. You must be very happy, Lizzie.’

He was still angry with her. Hiding the hurt at this cool reception, she told herself that a little reserve was to be expected. Nevertheless, if he hadn’t cared he wouldn’t have flown the Atlantic just to come to her father’s wedding. But her smile was a little hesitant as she put her hand on his arm. ‘It’s good to see you, Peter.’

‘Is it?’

He wanted her to grovel a little. A spark of resentment took her by surprise, but she took a deep breath and swallowed her pride. ‘If the invitation to come to New York is still open, I’ve got all the time in the world now...’

She faltered as he stiffened. ‘Lizzie... I’ve got something to tell you... It was all rather sudden...’ Then something like relief swept across his features. ‘Fran!’ he called, and waved. ‘We’re over here.’

Lizzie watched, at first with confusion and then with a growing sense of impending disaster, as a pretty dark-haired young woman crossed the lawn towards them.

‘Peter, honey, I’ve been looking for you. I don’t know a soul here, and your parents didn’t exactly roll out the red carpet—’

‘Well, here’s someone for you to meet,’ he said quickly.

‘I told you all about little Lizzie French, what a great cook she is...’ He attempted a light-hearted laugh. ‘Perhaps you should ask her how she does it... Lizzie, this is Francesca.’ He took the girl’s hand, and his mouth tightened briefly before he added, ‘My wife. I just know you two are going to love one another.’

In the small, hollow silence that followed Fran extended a slender hand. ‘You are little Lizzie?’ she queried. Five feet and nine inches tall, Lizzie hadn’t been ‘little’ for a very long time, and she was a good three inches taller than the young woman before her.

‘It’s just a silly joke,’ Peter said immediately. One that she and Peter had shared, as they had once shared everything. But shock had done something to her vocal cords, and her words were scarcely audible. His wife. The word echoed like the clang of doom. Wife... Wife... Wife...

‘Have you known Peter long?’ she managed, although her tongue was like a lump of wood in her mouth. Anything to stop that word...

‘About six months. We work together at the bank.’

‘Fran is an investment analyst,’ Peter said. ‘A graduate of Harvard Business School,’ he added, as if it mattered.

‘Oh.’

‘What do you do, Lizzie?’ Fran asked.

‘Nothing much.’ She wasn’t prepared to compete.

‘Lizzie keeps house for her father, Fran,’ Peter interposed.

Fran glanced around, taking in the rambling red-brick house that had been extended through the centuries until it had become an impossible hotchpotch of styles—a nightmare to run, the bane and the love of Lizzie’s life. ‘Well, that must be a full-time job,’ she said. ‘Although I imagine your stepmother will take over now?’

Peter spoke before she could say something stupid, betray herself. ‘Of course she will. Now that your father doesn’t need you, Lizzie, you’ll be able to leave home and get on with your life.’ And Lizzie flinched at this jarring reminder that when Peter had needed her she had put her father first. But he didn’t need her any more. Neither of them did. ‘Perhaps you should get a job,’ he advised, and she caught the harsh note of bitterness in the words.

‘Like Fran?’ she asked, still too shell-shocked to make her excuses and walk away.

‘You wouldn’t make much of an investment analyst, Lizzie,’ he said. ‘You never could weigh up the risks.’ Did he have to rub in the fact that he believed she had made the wrong choice? How deeply she must have hurt him to make him so cruel. ‘You’re just too much of a home body, I guess.’

A home body! A flash of anger dulled the pain. He had never complained in the past. He had always enjoyed coming to the house, eating the food she cooked for him no matter what time of the day or night he arrived. ‘Maybe you should look for something in catering,’ he suggested, his memory clearly running along the same lines as hers.

‘I’ll certainly think about it.’ Lizzie was smiling so hard that she thought her face must crack in half. But under the tense, searching eyes of his new wife she sought for something witty to say—a disguise for her broken heart. If only her head wasn’t stuffed with cotton wool. Rescue came from an unexpected source.