Strange Adventure. Sara Craven
hostess.
Lacey, rather huffily, decided she would take herself off to the village. At least Fran Trevor would welcome her help at the stables, she thought defiantly.
But even in this she was thwarted, for when she arrived at the stables, the place was deserted except for the girl who came in a couple of days a week to do the accounts and the bookwork, and she informed Lacey that Miss Trevor had taken out a group of people staying at the Bull who had welcomed the chance of an afternoon’s hacking round lanes and fields. So there was nothing for it but to trudge back to the house again and try to keep out of everyone’s way.
The guest bedroom looked very nice, she thought, poking her head round the door for a critical peep, but Mrs Osborne hadn’t put any flowers in there. It was too early in the year for the gardens to yield very much, but Lacey knew there were some early daffodils in a sheltered corner and she decided to pick some as a welcoming gesture of her own.
But just as she was going into the garden she was stopped by Mrs Osborne with a request to help clean some silver, and it was late in the afternoon by the time she could decently escape and find her flowers. It was pleasant in the garden. The day’s cold wind had dropped at the onset of dusk, and, wrapped warmly in an ancient duffel coat, Lacey enjoyed quite a leisurely stroll before she headed back to the house with her armful of flowers.
She collected a suitable container from the china cupboard, and went upstairs to the bathroom adjoining the guest room where she filled the vase and arranged her blooms. She had overfilled the vase a little and she picked it up with great care, holding it steadily as she opened the door that communicated with the bedroom and stepped forward.
But the room was no longer in its pristinely unoccupied state. There was an expensive leather suitcase open on the bed, clothes spilling out of it carelessly, and beside it a man was standing, stripped to the waist, as Lacey’s stunned eyes immediately registered. She started violently and some of the water in the vase splashed down her faded denim skirt and on to the bedroom carpet.
She was aware of a pair of intensely dark eyes taking her in, from the tangle of pale hair on her shoulders to her drenched skirt and flat shoes. She felt she was being assessed and dismissed, and the colour surged up into her pale skin.
When he spoke, his voice was deep with an intonation that puzzled her. It seemed to hold a faint transatlantic drawl overlaid by a trace of something more foreign, and she wrinkled her brow trying to recognise it until he repeated his remark with a kind of weary patience, that arrested her attention instantly.
‘I said, hadn’t you better get a cloth and mop up that mess?’
Lacey stared at him, dimly aware that she was most certainly not accustomed to being spoken to in that way. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him so, but he was her father’s guest and it was her duty to be courteous however lacking in that respect he himself might be.
She walked over to the chest of drawers, intending to leave her flowers before she went to look for a cloth, but he halted her in her tracks.
‘Are you proposing to put a wet vase down on polished wood? You haven’t a great deal of idea about how to look after antique furniture.’
Lacey’s blood boiled. Of course she knew better than that, but the shock of finding this—creature already installed and half naked had driven her usual common sense from her mind.
He had a shirt in his hand. Why didn’t he put it on and and cover himself up? she thought angrily, looking with dislike at his broad brown chest with the black mat of hair, but that was obviously the last thing on his mind, because just then he rolled the shirt into a ball and tossed it back into the case.
‘I’ll—I’ll just put them on the floor for a moment,’ she said hastily, averting her gaze.
‘Better still, why not take them back where they came from?’ He stood watching her, his hands on his hips. ‘I don’t need flowers in my room, or anywhere around me. I prefer to see them in their natural state.’
Lacey’s eyes held an obvious glint. She said, ‘Then I think I’ll take them to my own room. I don’t happen to share your prejudice.’
He looked at her, his piercing dark eyes narrowed, raking her from head to foot.
‘Does Lady Vernon usually allow her employees your sort of latitude?’ he drawled.
Lacey stood very still, her thoughts whirling. ‘Heavens,’ she thought, a giggle bubbling up inside her which she instantly suppressed, ‘he thinks I’m the upstairs maid or something!’
As if he had read her thoughts, his voice broke in on them with swift abruptness. ‘Just who are you?’
She shrugged, deliberately vague. ‘Oh, I help in the house.’
‘Do you?’ he said, rather grimly. ‘Well, perhaps you’ll go and—help somewhere else. I’m waiting to take a bath—unless you include washing guests’ backs among your duties.’
He began lazily to unbuckle the belt on the dark, close-fitting trousers, and Lacey observed the manoeuvre with alarm, her cheeks already flushed at what his words had implied.
‘I’m sorry to have disturbed your privacy,’ she said rather haughtily, turning abruptly towards the bedroom door to make her escape.
His mocking laugh followed her as she closed the door carefully behind her, and she bit her lip angrily as she walked down the corridor to get to her own room. The encounter had totally disconcerted her. No man had ever spoken to her or looked at her like that before, and she was aware that her pulses had quickened and that her mouth felt oddly dry.
She felt almost vindictively glad to picture his embarrassment when they met again later at her father’s dinner table. It would teach him to jump to conclusions, she told herself. But at the same time she was uncomfortably aware that the arrogant set of those muscular brown shoulders and the assurance of his heavy-lidded eyes had not suggested a man who would embarrass easily, or respond in any of the conventional ways. Lacey had to admit that she would have been happier if he had remained a totally unknown quantity to her—if, in fact, they had never met at all, and the prospect of the dinner party ahead, not to mention the entire weekend that faced her, filled her with a strange sense of dread.
When Lacey emerged from her bath that evening, she was surprised to find her stepmother’s maid waiting for her in her room.
‘Madame’s asked me to put your hair up for you, Miss Lacey,’ Barbara announced, setting a china bowl full of hairpins down on the dressing table.
‘Oh.’ Lacey digested this, a slight frown wrinkling her forehead. She usually wore her hair very simply, either hanging loose on her shoulders or in two bunches, as she had planned to wear it that night, the fastenings masked by small bunches of artificial daisies. The style was intended to complement the simplicity of the deep blue Empire line dress laid across the bed, and she wondered doubtfully whether a more sophisticated style would suit either her or the dress.
But Barbara was certainly skilful, she decided, as she watched the girl’s fingers transform her swathe of hair into a smooth coronet on top of her head, softening the severity of the style with two softly curling strands allowed to rest against her ears. It was the first time she had ever been offered Barbara’s services, which were usually Michelle’s exclusive prerogative and jealously guarded as such, and she wondered curiously why an exception had been made on this particular evening. Nor did Barbara’s ministrations stop at her hair. She gave Lacey a light but effective make-up as well, moisturising her skin and shadowing her eyelids, as well as applying lip gloss to the soft curve of her mouth.
When she had finished, Lacey gazed at herself in astonishment. She hardly recognised herself in this cool, aloof young woman with the mysterious eyes and shining crown of fair hair.
‘There, Miss Lacey.’ Barbara’s tone was plainly self-congratulatory. ‘Now if you’ll just get into your undies, I’ll fetch your dress.’ She handed Lacey a pair of briefs and some filmy tights.
‘Er—thank