Melting Fire. Anne Mather

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      Now Olivia left her bedroom and walked slowly along the hall to the landing. Her room was at the back of the house, overlooking the tennis courts and the stables beyond, and as she passed Richard’s door she felt her lips tighten. She guessed that he would share Bella’s opinion, and it was frustrating to realise that their feelings were justified.

      On impulse she stopped, and opening Richard’s door she entered his bedroom. This was the master bedroom of the house, and overlooked the courtyard at the front of the building. Because it was occupied solely by a man, it was sombrely furnished in shades of brown and gold, but the drift of apricot silk at the windows provided a vivid splash of colour. Bella had already been into this room, Olivia guessed, noticing the open sashes, and the coolness that came from the shadow of the north side of the house. Later in the day, the room would be bathed in the afternoon rays of the sun, but presently it was chilly.

      Olivia sauntered lazily round the square fourposter bed, which Richard had bought along with the house, and picked up the framed portrait of herself standing on his bedside table. She grimaced. The picture had been taken over a year ago, and to her eyes she looked terribly young and puppy-fat. It had been taken while she was still at boarding school, and although she wasn’t wearing her uniform, her hair was neatly plaited into one thick braid. She remembered he had taken it himself, in the garden here at Copley, and she was smiling that inane smile which meant he had been especially nice to her.

      She thrust the picture down again, wondering how he could bear to see that every morning when he woke up, and walked across to the windows, resting her arms on the sill. From here it was possible to see the lane beyond their drive, winding away to the village, and the whole wooded sweep of the valley, lush with the ripeness of summer.

      A crunching on the gravel beneath her drew her eyes to the old-fashioned bicycle Bella was wheeling round the side of the house. There was a basket set in front in which Bella had laid several jars of her famous conserve, and an armful of lupins, carnations and gladioli. Bella herself had donned the flowered straw hat she always wore for cycling, and as Olivia watched, she set her foot on the pedal and was off down the drive, wobbling as she levered herself on to the narrow seat. Watching her go, Olivia half wished she had agreed to go with her, but then she remembered Mrs Morrison and changed her mind.

      With a sigh, she turned and went out of Richard’s bedroom again, and started down the stairs. The banister rail was smooth beneath her fingers, and below her in the hall, the wolfhound watched her approach with lazy eyes. Even as she wondered if she had the house to herself, Eliza, the parlourmaid, came out of the morning room and gave her a shy admiring stare. Eliza came from the village, and unlike many of her contemporaries was quite content to work at the big house. She was engaged to the gardener’s son, Peter, and Bella had confided that after they were married Richard intended to give them a cottage on the estate. Between them she and Bella managed to cope with the housework, and on special occasions, her mother also came to help out. Copley wasn’t overly large. It had four bedrooms and three bathrooms, as well as the staff flat Bella occupied, with its own bathroom and kitchen, and Richard provided every labour-saving device to make their task easier.

      ‘Miss Ponsonby’s gone to the village,’ Eliza said now, as the other girl reached the bottom of the stairs, and Olivia nodded.

      ‘Yes, I know. I saw her leave a few minutes ago, from Richard’s bedroom window.’ Eliza nodded, and in case she should wonder what she was doing in her stepbrother’s bedroom, Olivia added: ‘I was just looking around, renewing my acquaintance with the place, so to speak.’ She laughed. ‘It’s been a long time.’

      ‘Yes, it has, Miss Ross. Six months and more. Miss Ponsonby was ever so upset when you didn’t come home at Easter.’

      ‘Was she?’ Olivia had guessed that, but she didn’t say so. ‘Well, I’m here now, and it’s lucky that the weather is so perfect.’

      Eliza agreed. ‘Is there anything you’re wanting? A cool drink, perhaps? Or some coffee?’

      ‘No, nothing, thanks.’ Olivia shook her head. Then, as Eliza turned away, she added: ‘I’ll be at the pool, if you want me.’

      Leaving Jess to prowl in the shade, Olivia walked through the garden room and out to the patio. Richard had furnished the room which had been the previous owner’s breakfast room as a comfortable sun lounge, with sliding glass doors opening on to the tiled patio. On cooler days it was pleasant to use the garden room, combining all the benefits of a south-facing position with none of the draughts that sitting outside afforded.

      The pool area was sheltered by a circling trellis hung with rambling roses and other climbing shrubs, and the pool itself lay green-based and inviting, within its mosaic of terrazzo tiles. Olivia went and dipped her hand into its chilly depths, and shivered at its coldness. But it would be refreshing later, after she had let the sun overheat her too-pale skin.

      Dragging a striped lounger into the direct rays of the sun, Olivia rolled the legs of her jeans up to her knees and stretched her length. It was gloriously hot, and she closed her eyes against the glare, thinking how lucky she was. She could hear Thomas somewhere near at hand, using the motor mower, but apart from this there was no other sound except the steady humming of the insects that skimmed the surface of the pool

      She drowsed, occasionally lifting a languid hand to brush away the more daring insects who came to disturb her slumbers, and thought lazily that very soon she would have to go indoors in search of some protection cream.

      She wondered idly where Alex was this morning. She had not seen him since her arrival the previous afternoon, but that was not unusual. Although he stayed at the house, he seldom intruded on family meals, and when Richard wasn’t here he divided his time between Copley and London, handling all her stepbrother’s business affairs in his absence.

      The distant drone of a car’s engine seemed a long way away, and she assumed someone was going up the lane to the farm that lay beyond the estate. Arnold Foster farmed at Low Cross, and his daughter, Shelley, was a friend of Olivia’s. She supposed she would have to contact her within the next couple of days and let her know she was home, if Mrs Morrison hadn’t already spread the news, but for the present she was content just to relax for a while.

      Rolling on to her stomach, she untied the knot holding her shirt in place and wriggled out of it, dropping it carelessly on to the ground beside her. No one was likely to disturb her, least of all Alex, she mused wryly, and if anyone did come she could easily put it on again.

      The plastic cushion of the lounger yielded as she subsided again, exposing her shapely back to the sun. There was something rather sensuous about lying there half naked, and she wondered what it would be like to sunbathe without any clothes at all. It was not a circumstance she was likely to experience, she decided, unless she married someone who had a private beach somewhere. She didn’t think she would like to expose herself to all and sundry. That didn’t sound at all inviting.

      The drop of icy water that splashed on to the centre of her back almost brought her upright with a start. But in time she remembered her state of undress, and lay there frustratedly, wondering who would do such a thing. She twisted her head round and her eyes widened disbelievingly as they moved up over suede boots and long powerful legs, presently clad in fine grey worsted, lean hips where the lap of his jacket was pushed aside to allow one hand into his trousers’ pocket, a pale grey silk shirt and matching tie, pulled away from his unbuttoned collar for coolness, to the dark amused features of her stepbrother. He was holding a half empty glass of lager in one hand, and it was the condensation from this which he had deliberately allowed to drip on her spine.

      ‘Rich!’ she cried excitedly, and uncaring of propriety, she jack-knifed backwards СКАЧАТЬ