Ordinary Girl, Society Groom. NATASHA OAKLEY

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СКАЧАТЬ at all. It suddenly occurred to him how tired she looked. There were dark smudges beneath her eyes and they held the kind of expression he’d hoped never to see again. Such hurt. Almost hopelessness.

      Slowly she placed her champagne flute on a side table. ‘Eloise Lawton,’ she said, placing her own hand inside his. It felt cold. Small.

      He let his fingers close about it, suppressing every desire to comfort her. Whatever the appearances to the contrary, Eloise Lawton was one tough cookie. She had an agenda which would hurt the people he loved.

      He knew, because he’d seen it, that the space for the father’s name on her birth certificate had been left blank. Whoever her father had been, it certainly wasn’t Viscount Pulborough.

      Which meant?

      His jaw hardened. It meant she was chancing her arm. Looking for publicity. He knew the kind of woman she must be. An ‘it’ girl. Looking for fame, for fame’s sake. Famous for doing nothing.

      And, God help him, he knew enough about that type of woman. They’d been the blight on his early childhood. The siren call his father had never been able to resist.

      It was only…She didn’t seem like that. She had more class than he’d expected. A gentle dignity…

      She tried to smile again. He watched it start and then falter. ‘I write for Image.’

      ‘So I gather,’ he said, releasing her hand. Her eyes flicked nervously towards the door. ‘My friend, Sophy, tells me you’re an expert on how other women should dress.’

      ‘N-no. Well, I write about fashion, if that’s what she means. It’s all about opinion, after all.’

      It was a diplomatic answer. She was clever. He had to give her that. And beautiful. Undeniably. A cool, serene beauty.

      And beneath that…there would be…what? Passion? Fire?

      And avarice. This had to be all about money, didn’t it? About building a career. Using. Stepping on anyone to reach your goal.

      Her goal, he reminded himself. She’d selected a vulnerable, ill, elderly man and claimed to be his daughter. With what proof?

      None.

      But she’d reckoned without him.

      Jem forced himself to appear relaxed. ‘And television? Sophy mentioned you’d been on television.’

      ‘A little. I was asked to make a programme about the BAFTAs and I’ve done the occasional slot on morning television.’

      Her hands moved endlessly over her evening bag. It didn’t take a genius to recognise how nervous she was. She had good reason.

      Laurence had stalwartly believed in Jem when he’d done everything he could to prove him wrong. He’d maintained a faithful belief in his stepson’s innate goodness—despite all appearances to the contrary. And Jem had every intention of returning the compliment.

      Laurence was not the kind of man to walk away from his responsibilities, whatever the personal cost. His sense of right and wrong was ingrained in the fibre of his personality. He could no more have rejected a daughter than he could have walked away from Coldwaltham Abbey. Both were sacred trusts, never to be abandoned.

      ‘Do you want to do more TV?’ he asked blandly.

      ‘No.’

      ‘No?’

      Her fingers moved nervously. She placed her evening bag on the narrow table and picked up her champagne flute. ‘Not really. It was exciting. Interesting. But no, I don’t think so. I only really do it because it helps the magazine.’

      ‘Image?’

      ‘Yes.’ She sipped her champagne. ‘And it raises my profile.’

      ‘That’s important?’

      Her eyes moved nervously. ‘Very. Having a name people recognise is starting to open all kinds of doors.’

      ‘Really?’

      ‘Who you know is more important in this business than what you know.’

      And Laurence was to be a casualty of that meteoric rise to the top.

      But why Laurence?

      Why try to use a man whose life had been beyond reproach? Someone who other people could look up to. Why be so cruel?

      To his wife? To his family?

      The answers came easily. She probably had a novel sitting in her bottom drawer she wanted publishing. All she needed was a ‘name’, a little scandal hanging about her, something that would persuade the big publishing houses to take a chance on her.

      She sickened him.

      ‘I’d like to write about other things. I love fashion but…’ She broke off. Her gaze darted out of the window.

      ‘You want more?’ he finished for her. Of course she did. A high maintenance blonde, dressed in designer clothes.

      She looked back, responding to the edge in his voice. ‘Is there something wrong with that?’

      ‘It depends what you’re prepared to do to achieve it.’

      Eloise frowned. ‘Of course.’

      Her fingers moved nervously on her champagne flute. His face was unreadable but she sensed he didn’t like her. Perhaps it was for no other reason than he despised her profession. Many people did. But, perhaps….

      Eloise quickly gulped another mouthful of champagne, the excellent vintage completely wasted. It could have been pure vinegar and she probably wouldn’t have noticed.

      She shouldn’t have come. If she’d known Jem Norland had been on the guest list, she wouldn’t have. Or any other member of Viscount Pulborough’s family, for that matter. When she met them she wanted to be prepared, and for it to happen in her time and on her terms.

      This wasn’t the way it was meant to be. She wasn’t ready. Jem Norland’s startling blue eyes continued to watch her.

      Did he know? Or didn’t he? Had his stepfather spoken to him? The questions thumped through her head with the rhythm of a heartbeat.

      ‘I understand from my mother that you’re acquainted with my stepfather.’

      Eloise tightened her grip on her glass. She could feel perspiration beading on her forehead, her hands become clammy. Her mouth moved soundlessly.

      He knew.

      It was a sensation akin to jumping off a cliff, the wind roaring in her ears as she sped towards a fate she had no control over.

      ‘Viscount Pulborough?’ he prompted, as the silence stretched out between them. ‘My mother’s second husband.’

      ‘We…we’ve never met.’

      His СКАЧАТЬ