A Law Unto Himself

She had deliberately not placed Francesca next to Oliver, thus making her his partner, but opposite him, and next to John Carter, knowing that the dinner-table conversation which she fully intended to monitor would include the revelation that Francesca was an expert on her country’s history, thus giving her a chance to shine as Beatrice fully believed she deserved to do. It would also give Oliver an opportunity to see that she was not only beautiful but intelligent as well.

Oliver had a theory about women, as unfounded as it was unfair, but Beatrice made allowances for him, understanding that much of his bitter cynicism must spring from the cruelty inflicted on him by his ex-wife.

She had learned from friends in the area that Oliver had adored the little girl he had thought was his child, and local opinion was that he could probably have fought a custody case for her and won, but he had refused to adopt such a course of action because, as he had once harshly told Beatrice, not long after her own daughter was born, he had judged it preferable for the child to be with her mother and the man who was truly her natural father than to be with him, no matter how much he might love her.

This was the first time Francesca had attended such an informal dinner party, where the conversation didn’t so much flow politely as eddy and swirl in fascinating and challenging torrents that refused to allow her to remain aloof.

In a very short space of time she was explaining to John Carter her intention of embarking on a new career, and at first she was so carried away by her own enthusiasm that she didn’t hear the brief sound of derision Oliver Newton made.

He interrupted her enthusiastic flow of plans to challenge directly, ‘Forgive me if I seem cynical, Francesca, but surely if your enthusiasm for a career were as great as you are giving us to understand, you would already have forged the beginnings of this career. You are, after all, no newly qualified graduate, on your own admission.’

Francesca sensed the waiting tension of the other dinner guests. The men looked slightly uncomfortable, with the exception of Elliott, whose expression it was difficult to read, but Francesca had the oddest belief that he was silently encouraging her to go on and not give in to what amounted to little more than bad-mannered bullying.

The women on the other hand looked expectant, as though long used to Oliver Newton’s challenging statements and looking to her to defend their sex.

It was a challenge she dared not resist… the kind of challenge she would doubtless often have to face in her new life.

‘You are quite right,’ she agreed in the cool, beautifully modulated voice she had inherited from her father, her English accentless and perfect. ‘Unfortunately, until recently, my life was planned to take a different direction.’

‘Really? You intrigue me. What kind of direction?’

The rudeness of the man was intolerable. Francesca looked at him coldly, the haughty, dismissing look of her grandfather, but on this man it had no effect. The silver-ice eyes defied the dismissal of hers, demanding that she answer his question.

‘I was to have been married,’ she told him briefly, ‘and, to save you the inconvenience of questioning me further, yes, it was my fiancé who drew back from the marriage.’

Francesca could sense the sympathetic interest of everyone apart from Oliver himself.

‘Unfortunate… but hardly grand tragedy,’ he told her harshly. ‘And so, now, instead of embracing a husband, you have decided to embrace a career. Hardly the action one would have expected from the newly broken-hearted.’

How would she have felt had she actually loved Paolo, on receiving such an insult? As it was she had the greatest difficulty in remaining in her seat, and not reacting to that hard-edged stare by getting up and fleeing the room.

Forcing back every instinctive feminine reaction she possessed, she calmly finished another forkful of food and then said quietly ‘It wasn’t a love match, but a marriage arranged between our families. It had been agreed when we were quite small that Paolo and I should marry. I see my decision not as that of a broken-hearted victim, but simply that of a person to whom one career avenue is now closed, and who therefore seeks another.’

Beatrice who had been listening to this exchange with growing tension, was thankful to see Henrietta walk into the room ready to clear away the dinner-plates and serve the pudding.

Someone asked Francesca when she had first become interested in Italian history, and Beatrice, not aware of how she had introduced herself to Oliver, interrupted quickly, ‘Oh, I expect it was the first time you realised the significance of your family’s place in Italy’s history, wasn’t it, Chessie? The first Duca was a captain in the army of Lorenzo the Magnificent, wasn’t he?’

Try as she might, Francesca couldn’t stop herself from looking at Oliver Newton. He was sitting there regarding her with a narrow, derisive smile, as though he knew quite well what had led her into concealing her family title.

‘Now I begin to understand the arranged marriage,’ he told her contemptuously in a low voice that reached only her ears. ‘And the beautiful, if artificial manners…’

Francesca bit back a sharp retort. She was suddenly weary of sparring with him. He exhausted her, draining her mental energy and challenging her so much at every turn that he seemed to suck her very life-force from her.

The guests didn’t linger long after dinner. Francesca excused herself as they were leaving, feeling that Beatrice and Elliott would appreciate some time to themselves. No one could have made her more warmly welcome, but she was conscious at times that she was an intruder in their home, and that Elliott in particular must resent not having his wife completely to himself.

The only person who had not yet left was Oliver Newton, and she gave him a cool nod, refusing to allow herself to be drawn into any further challenging exchanges with him.

From the hallway Oliver watched her climb the stairs.

‘Oliver, have you found a researcher yet?’ Beatrice asked him, once she was sure Francesca was in her room.

‘No, it’s proving far harder than you would believe. No one I’ve interviewed so far has much more knowledge of the period than I have myself. I wish to God I’d not accepted this American deadline, then I’d have time to do the research myself.’

He was frowning heavily, the austere planes of his face thrown into relief by the hall lights.

‘Francesca is an expert on Italian history,’ Beatrice told him quietly, and then darted a quick look at Elliott, asking for his support.

He gave it to her, albeit a trifle drily. ‘Beatrice is right, Oliver. Francesca certainly has the historical expertise you need, but whether or not it would be wise to induce her to give you the benefit of it, I shouldn’t like to say.’

‘You won’t be called on to do so,’ Oliver returned hardily. ‘You know what I think of women in the workplace, especially career women: they’re motivated by two things. Either they’re playing at being men, all aggression and ambition, or they’re using their supposed careers as a means of finding themselves a meal ticket for life.’

Upstairs, Francesca, who had realised that she had left her handbag in the drawing-room, gave a smothered gasp of outrage, but it was left to Beatrice to say quietly, ‘Oliver, you’re letting your prejudices show. I’m sure Francesca doesn’t fall into either of those categories. Elliott’s quite right,’ she added lightly. ‘Even if you were to offer Francesca the job, I don’t think I could advise her to accept it. You were very hard on her this evening. It isn’t her fault she was born into a wealthy aristocratic family… nor that her fiancé jilted her practically at the altar. I admire her for what she’s trying to do. It can’t be easy for her.’

‘Why should it be?’ Francesca heard Oliver Newton reply savagely. ‘Why should life mete out to her advantages it doesn’t mete out to anyone else? So she’s been jilted. So what? Her family will find her another husband and she’ll go home and marry him as readily as she was prepared to marry the other one, and you won’t hear another word about this supposed career. Will they?’ he challenged, stepping back slightly so that he could look up the stairs.

He knew she was there. He had known it all the time… Francesca went rigid with mortification, refusing to move from where she stood in the shadow of the landing. How had he known she was there?

She heard him laugh sourly and then walk towards the front door.

By the time Beatrice and Elliott had returned from seeing him to his car, she was safely inside her bedroom with the door closed.

Never before in all her life had she come up against such a man. He was more powerful, more challenging even than her grandfather, albeit in a very different way. Her grandfather’s autocracy came from generations of ancestors who had believed in their absolute right to do as they wished because of their birth, and to ensure that the family name was upheld as a name to be revered, while Oliver Newton’s arrogance came simply from his own belief in himself. She had never come across anyone like him before, and she shivered as she undressed, remembering the dry heat of his palm against her own; the hardness of the bones beneath the flesh… the lightning sensation of power that his touch had conveyed.

As she showered she had a momentary and vivid mental image of his hands on her body, and she stood tensely where she was, riveted to the spot, snapping her eyes open to dispel the unwanted vision, ignoring the fierce spray of the shower.

How on earth had it happened, that fierce surge of awareness so completely unfamiliar to her and yet so shockingly explicit? And she didn’t even like the man.

Hurriedly she stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel, rubbing herself dry.

Forget him, she told herself, After all, it was hardly likely that she would see him again. Not if he had anything to do with it, she reflected wryly.

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_f373dd27-a9b9-5002-8680-2e3d88d0eb20)

‘I’M SO SORRY, Chessie. I feel terrible letting you down like this, but with Dom not feeling well… Do you mind awfully if we postpone our shopping trip for a few days?’

Beatrice’s obvious tension lessened a little as Francesca shook her head and reassured her firmly, ‘Of course you must stay with Dom. Actually, it’s such a lovely day, I wondered if you’d mind if I went for a walk?’

It had occurred to her after Elliott had finished his breakfast and departed for his meeting in London that it might be easier for Beatrice to cope with her fretful and obviously not very well little boy if she didn’t have a guest to entertain at the same time.

The approving glance Henrietta cast her as she cleared away the breakfast things confirmed that her judgement was well founded. Dom, who had woken his parents during the night complaining that he had a sore tummy, was now asleep in his mother’s arms, but Beatrice herself looked rather pale and tired, as well she might do, Francesca thought sympathetically.

Even with the loving support of a husband like Elliott and the caring assistance of Henrietta, it still could not be easy taking care of two children under school age, one of whom was still a baby and the other, as Francesca had discovered, a very lively three-year-old with a penchant for mischief and a huge watermelon grin.

‘A walk… Oh, yes. There are lovely footpaths round here. If you can hang on for a second, I think we’ve got a little booklet showing some of them. You’ll need to wrap up well, though. There’s a very chilly breeze. Oh, and wear some waterproof shoes or boots if you’ve got a pair.’

Waterproof shoes. Francesca mentally reviewed the clothes she had brought with her: apart from one pair of plain black satin evening shoes, the others were all high-heeled leather pumps by Charles Jourdan; elegant and indeed very comfortable shoes, but most definitely not waterproof.

‘I don’t think I have anything suitable with me,’ she said carefully to Beatrice, not wanting to add to her conscientious and very caring hostess’s burden of worry. ‘Is there a shop in the village where I might buy a pair?’