Deceived

‘I need to justify my existence,’ she’d tried to explain.

‘You’re my stepdaughter.’ He’d glared at her from under his heavy brows. ‘Round here, that’s justification enough.’

Lydie’s mother, Debra Hatton, had reached a crossroads in her acting career when she’d met Austin Benedict. She’d never been in the top flight, in spite of her sultry beauty and distinctive husky voice. She’d been offered only minor film roles, and her theatre career had been on the lightweight side too. She’d had more success with television, landing a role as a neurotic vamp in an early-evening soap, but the meaty parts she’d coveted were being offered more and more to younger women.

She’d been touring in a successful West End comedy when she’d been invited to open a fête in aid of the church restoration fund at Austin Benedict’s home, Greystones Park.

She’d accepted reluctantly for the sake of the fee—a woman with two teenage children couldn’t afford to be too choosy—but it had turned out to be the wisest decision of her life.

Austin, a childless widower for some years, had never shown the slightest disposition to marry again. But Debra Hatton’s wide eyes and slightly ravaged looks had produced a devastating effect on him.

And Debra, looking round at the middle-class solidity of Greystones Park, had seen an end to the struggle and the constant pretence, a finish to the humiliation of having to move out of the limelight and settle for supporting roles, playing women of her own age, or even older. Because to Austin, she’d realised, she would always be the leading lady.

But she didn’t brook rivals lightly, Lydie thought ruefully, especially where her beloved Jon was concerned. He was the apple of her eye, the centre of her universe, and probably not even a wealthy heiress would have fulfilled her expectations where he was concerned.

And Nell, in her handmade silver jewellery and Indian cotton skirts, didn’t even reach first base.

Now Lydie said soberly, ‘Nell—he’s terribly miserable without you.’

Nell shook her head again. ‘No, his basic unhappiness goes far deeper than that,’ she said. ‘His whole life is out of kilter. He’s a square peg in a round hole, trying all the time to be something he’s not—live up to standards he wasn’t responsible for setting. And he knows he’s the heir apparent too,’ she added grimly. ‘And it’s crucifying him.’

She sighed. ‘Oh, why hasn’t your stepfather got some convenient male relative to take over from him?’

Lydie looked at the floor. ‘He did have once,’ she said slowly. ‘A nephew.’

Nell stared at her. ‘A nephew?’ she repeated, her voice sharp with disbelief. ‘I’ve never heard him mentioned before.’

‘Nor will you. At least, not at Greystones.’ Lydie found that she was sinking her teeth into her lower lip. She released the painful pressure and tried to speak lightly. ‘He’s the skeleton in the family cupboard, the black sheep of the family. He—left nearly five years ago and hasn’t been heard of since.’

‘You mean he walked out?’

‘Not exactly. There was the most terrible row, and Austin, who’d brought him up ever since his parents died, ordered him out of the house—told him never to darken his door again—the whole bit.’

‘What was the row about?’

‘The usual sordid mess.’ She could still taste blood from her savaged lip. ‘He’d got one of the mill girls pregnant, apparently. I—I was still away at school when it all happened. And the subject was forbidden ground ever after.’

‘And you just accepted that?’ Nell’s gaze was searching. ‘I don’t believe it. You couldn’t.’

‘I didn’t really have a choice,’ Lydie defended herself. ‘Austin had his first heart attack immediately afterwards, and all the blame for that was put on his quarrel with—with Marius.’

I said his name, she thought, and waited for the pain to strike as it always had when she so much as thought about him. As it still did, she recognised in anguish, her fingers tightening round the handle of the carrier until the knuckles turned white. Five years on, and the wound was still deep—unhealed.

‘You’ll never mention him again—do you hear?’ She could still hear her mother’s voice, angry, almost strident. ‘Those are Austin’s orders and they’ll be obeyed. And think yourself lucky, you little fool, that you’re not in the same boat as his other teenage tart.’

‘So, he just vanished—never to be heard of again?’ Nell’s voice brought her, wincing, back to the present. ‘I find that totally incredible—and rather disturbing.’

‘It works both ways, of course,’ Lydie said tonelessly. ‘Marius has never tried to get in touch either—with any of us. He must have accepted that what he did was unforgivable, at least in Austin’s eyes.’

‘Or maybe he was just glad to get out from under the Benedict thumb,’ Nell retorted, her soft voice grim. ‘I wish Jon felt the same.’

She paused. ‘Who was the girl?’

‘Her name was never actually mentioned,’ Lydie acknowledged with difficulty.

‘But weren’t you curious?

‘Yes—naturally.’ And devastated, betrayed, heartbroken. ‘But she disappeared at the same time, presumably with Marius. No one was allowed to ask any questions.’

But you didn’t want to ask, a sly voice in her head reminded her. Because the questions were hurtful enough in themselves. The answers might have destroyed you.

‘Well, it seems extraordinary to me.’ Nell gave a quick sigh, then pointed to the bag. ‘Now let me have a look at the creation. Rub my nose in what I’ll be missing tonight. We may as well close early,’ she added. ‘It doesn’t look as if we’re going to be overwhelmed by a last-minute rush.’

There was a mirror in Nell’s studio at the rear of the gallery. Lydie gently withdrew the dress from its layers of tissue paper, letting the folds of cream silk slide through her fingers.

Her hands were trembling a little. She’d broken the unwritten law by speaking Marius’s name and opened up a real can of worms. Nell’s innate sense of justice had been outraged, and in so many ways she was quite right.

Yet at the time, for Austin’s sake, there’d seemed no choice but to tacitly accept the curtain of silence which had been drawn over the whole affair. He’d had bypass surgery after that first massive attack and, they’d been warned, he had to be kept free from stress.

They owed him too much to take unnecessary risks. That was indisputable.

She even owed him this dress, she thought wryly as she shook it out.

Yet, in spite of Debra Benedict’s pleas to him to slow down, he still went to the mill every day. Nor did he appear to agree with his wife’s view that he should shift more executive responsibility onto Jon’s shoulders.

‘I’ve set the lad on, and promoted him over better men, my dear,’ he’d told her. ‘You’ll have to settle for that for the time being.’

Debra had seized on his closing words, conveniently ignoring what had gone before, convincing herself that the Benco world was just waiting to be Jon’s oyster. She hadn’t been able to persuade Austin to adopt both children in the early days of her marriage, but that was no reason why her husband shouldn’t leave his company and the estate to his stepson. Especially now that there was no one else.

It was an obsession with her, Lydie thought wearily, holding the dress against herself and turning to study her reflection in the mirror.

Forget the past, she told herself. Think about the dress and the party—and about Hugh, who’s probably going to ask you to marry him. Concentrate on that—and the pain will go away. It always has done—eventually. It must now.

Her eyes felt bruised. The cream silk, with its deep square neckline and filmy bell sleeves, looked incongruous against her workaday blue shirt and jeans.

It was almost like a wedding dress, except for the barbaric splash of embroidery across the front of the full skirt—the band of stylised flowers and trailing leaves in gold thread adding a voluptuous element to the purity of the plain silk. A hint, even, of danger.

The neckline was several centimetres short of bridal demureness too, Lydie thought critically. She wouldn’t be able to wear a bra. But what Austin didn’t know wouldn’t grieve him.

All cream and gold, she thought. ‘Like a madonna lily.’

The words flicked out of the past like the bite of a whip, flaying her senses, making the breath catch in her throat.

Don’t look back, she thought feverishly. Don’t let yourself remember. It isn’t safe. Not now—not ever...

She held the skirt out slightly, watching the effect with detachment.

Hugh, of course, would love it.