Название: Charade In Winter
Автор: Anne Mather
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
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‘Oh.’ Alix felt chastened.
‘You hadn’t noticed?’
Alix shrugged. ‘Not really…’
‘You weren’t offended by her behaviour?’
‘Offended? No.’
‘Affronted, perhaps?’ His lips curled. ‘You have very expressive features, Mrs Thornton. You’ll have to learn to control your feelings if you don’t want me to know what you’re thinking.’
Alix, used as she was to awkward confrontations in the course of her work, could nevertheless feel a faint deepening of colour at his words. He was altogether too perceptive, and she would have to be on her guard for more reasons than he knew.
In an effort to change the subject, she said: ‘How old is Melissa?’ and saw the immediate hardening of his profile.
‘She’s eight,’ he replied abruptly, and was saved from continuing by the return of the girl, Myra, with a tureen of soup. ‘We can help ourselves Myra,’ he told her firmly, after she had set soup plates before them, and she nodded rather sulkily and left them again.
It was leek soup, home-made, Alix guessed, and aromatically delicious. It made her realise that she had eaten nothing since lunchtime, and she needed no second bidding to fill her plate. She accepted a roll from the basket he offered, and began to spoon up the creamy liquid eagerly. It took her a few minutes to realise he had not followed her example, and she looked up to find him watching her with a curious expression on his lean features, his glass of wine held lazily in his hand.
At once she was on the defensive again, and feeling rather like a child in the company of an adult, she put down her spoon and said: ‘I’m sorry. I—I was hungry.’
He leaned back in his chair at the end of the long table, looking very much the master of the situation, and she wondered why his eyes upon her made her conscious of every inch of flesh she was displaying. Her hand went automatically to the low neckline of her dress, seeking and finding the medallion that swung there between her breasts, holding on to it as if to a lifeline.
‘Please,’ he said, without mockery, gesturing with his free hand, ‘do go on. I’m sorry if I embarrassed you, but it’s quite refreshing to discover that there are women who enjoy their food. My own experience has been limited to the other kind.’
Alix looked down at her plate. ‘But you’re not eating,’ she exclaimed, looking up again.
He shrugged. ‘My appetite is not what it was, Mrs Thornton. But please don’t let my inadequacy prevent you from enjoying your meal. Mrs Brandon is an excellent cook.’
Unwillingly, Alix picked up her spoon again and continued with the soup. But it was so delicious that after a while she forgot that his eyes might be upon her, and finished every drop.
‘Some more?’ he suggested, when she looked up, but she shook her head, and was glad when Myra arrived to remove their plates.
The main course was chicken, sliced and cooked in a sauce made with white wine, and served with vegetables on a bed of flaky rice. Alix noticed that although her host helped himself to a little of this, he spent the time it took her to eat her helping pushing his around his plate, and drinking several glasses of a dry white wine he had opened after finishing the red wine practically singlehanded.
When Alix refused a second helping of the delectable raspberry gateau which completed the meal and coffee had been served, Oliver Morgan produced a thick cigar and after gaining her assurance that she had no objections to his lighting it, said: ‘Now, Mrs Thornton, I suggest we get the preliminaries over with, and then we can perhaps get down to business.’
‘The preliminaries?’ Alix frowned. ‘I’m sorry, but—what do you mean?’
He rose from his seat to light his cigar, and then regarded her dourly. ‘Come, Mrs Thornton, don’t be coy. I was hoping to delay your introduction to my daughter until the morning, but I ought to have realised that curiosity would get the better of discretion.’
Alix looked up at him. ‘I did not go in search of your daughter, Mr Morgan.’
‘I know that,’ he retorted shortly, ‘but you’ve seen her now, and I can’t believe you haven’t noticed that she’s partly Japanese.’
‘She’s a beautiful child,’ said Alix honestly.
He frowned. ‘How much do you know of my family, Mrs Thornton?’
Alix was taken aback. ‘I—I—’
‘Oh, come on!’ He was impatient. ‘You surely must have heard of us before you came here.’
‘I know you’re a sculptor, Mr Morgan.’ Alix tried to limit her thoughts to what any average housewife might know. ‘I saw your last exhibition. I thought your interpretation of the Seven Sinners was marv—’
‘I’m not looking for compliments, Mrs Thornton, I’m merely trying to ascertain your reactions to my daughter. You’re not deterred?’
‘Deterred?’ Alix was confused now. ‘I don’t understand.’
His sigh was the only sign of his irritation. ‘Mrs Thornton, it is not conceit when I tell you that anything and everything I do is closely monitored by the press. I accept that. You cannot expect to seek the public eye without its being turned upon you—for good or ill. But I regret to say that my own dealings with the press have not been without incident.’ He paused, and she made a pretence of examining the coffee in her cup to avoid his eyes. ‘In consequence, I am loath to subject the child upstairs to that kind of atmosphere without first preparing the way. You realise now why I couldn’t advertise for a governess. My wife and I had no children, as you’re probably aware, and Melissa’s upbringing has been sheltered until now.’
Alix wondered how he would feel when he learned he had confided these thoughts to a professional journalist, and inwardly shivered. This job was not turning out at all as she had imagined, and she wondered whether she would have been as keen to come here had she known a child was involved. And yet, looking at the situation from Joanne Morgan’s point of view, Melissa was merely a further endorsement of the unsavoury character of the man, and if she was to be hurt in all this she had only her father to blame.
Forcing herself to speak objectively, Alix asked: ‘Where has Melissa been living?’ and witnessed his automatic gesture of withdrawal.
‘I could say that need not concern you, Mrs Thornton,’ he remarked dryly, ‘but knowing Melissa as I do, if I don’t tell you, she undoubtedly will. She was born in Tokyo, but she has lived all her life in Hokkaido, the northernmost island of the group.’ He studied the glowing tip of his cigar for a moment, and then went on: ‘Until quite recently, she was being looked after by an elderly English lady who had made her home in Japan, and that is why Melissa speaks our language so well. But unfortunately, Miss Stanwick died before I could bring them both back to England, and consequently other arrangements had to be made.’
‘I understand.’
‘I doubt you do, Mrs Thornton,’ he contradicted her, СКАЧАТЬ