Gracious Lady Read online

  'What is there to sort out?' She glared at him resent­fully. 'You obviously had me checked out because you're very careful whom you allow near your family.' She shook her head. 'I'm obviously totally unsuitable—'

  'I didn't say that,' he cut in irritably, obviously not accustomed to having situations taken out of his control in this way.

  But Sophie didn't particularly care how he felt at that moment, was too raw herself to be concerned with his feelings. 'You didn't have to.' She stood up abruptly. 'Don't worry, Mr Grant, I'll save you the unpleasant task of sacking me and just leave quietly. All I ask is that you don't blame Aunt Millie for any of this; like the rest of my family, she was against my marriage from the start,' Sophie recalled dully; it was far too late to wish she had listened to any of them. With the usual rebelliousness of youth, she had thought she knew better. She had learnt, the hard way, that sometimes people who were older had a wider knowledge of people too, and that it sometimes helped to listen to them.

  Maximilian's mouth tightened. ‘I have no intention of "blaming" your aunt for anything,' he denied with im­patience. 'Just as—'

  'Thank you.' Sophie nodded her satisfaction with this much of a concession at least. 'I'll tell Jennie that I've had a change of plan, if you like; I don't want to be the cause of any friction between the two of you.' She and Jennie had only known each other a short time, but she was sure the young girl liked her as much as she was coming to like her.

  Maximilian straightened. 'I can handle my own daughter, thank you,' he rasped dismissively.

  For all that he might be quite capable in most other things, from the little she had witnessed between him and Jennie, when it came to his daughter he was at a complete loss! 'I'll clear things with her anyway,' Sophie shrugged. 'Now I have to go and pack, and—'

  'I did not say I wanted you to leave!' Maximilian burst out exasperatedly, standing up impatiently, blond hair falling endearingly across his forehead as he did so, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

  'I saved you the bother,' she accepted ruefully. 'But, despite what you say, I would just like to give you one word of advice,' she added with intensity, not willing to just walk away from this situation without at least trying to salvage something from it, if not for herself, then for Jennie.

  He became very still, eyes narrowed. 'Advice?' he re­peated in a dangerously soft voice.

  'Hmm,' she nodded with a grimace. 'If you carry on treating Jennie—she doesn't like the name Jennifer, by the way—' she put in with a grimace '—if you carry on treating her as a child, then she will continue to act like one. A spoilt madam of a child, as only a rebellious sixteen-year-old can be. I was married at eighteen, remember,' she added pointedly.

  He frowned darkly. 'Are you saying Jennif—my daughter could do something like that too?' he de­manded harshly.

  'I wouldn't know,' she shrugged. 'I don't know if Jennie has anyone in her life at the moment. What I do know is that she has a definite mind of her own, and it wouldn't do to underestimate it. Just try thinking of yourself at the same age,' Sophie added ruefully, sure he had been a determined child as much as he was now an arrogant man.

  He was scowling now. 'You have known my daughter for exactly...' he looked down at the plain gold watch on his wrist'... Three hours,' he told her with hard de­rision. ‘I think after sixteen years I know her slightly better than you do.' He ignored the remark she had made about Jennie being like him.

  The look Sophie gave him was sad. 'Do you?' she said quietly, shrugging with resignation. 'Then there's nothing else I can say.' She had tried, she couldn't do any more.

  'Sophie!' he called out impatiently as she turned to leave.

  'I'm sorry,' she choked, the tears that had been threatening for some time, blinding her now. 'I—have to go!'

  'For God's sake—'

  'Please!' She was desperate to get away from him now, before she broke down completely, pulling away from the hold he now had of her arm.

  'Sophie, for God's sake listen! If you won't listen—!' he grated frustratedly, pulling her even closer.

  She couldn't see, was completely blinded by the tears now, only aware of the hard savagery of his lips against hers, the anger in his body as he held her moulded against his hardness, his mouth plundering hers now, de­manding a response from her, a response she dared not give, pulling away from him to run from the room before she became just a burbling wreck.

  She wasn't usually this emotional, had learnt not to be, couldn't afford to be. She knew that it was the mention of that early marriage she so regretted that had broken down her defences. Married at eighteen, separated not six months later, and a widow at twenty before her divorce could even be applied for. She was sorry Malcolm had died, of course she was, didn't like the waste of any human life, but she was even sorrier, if he had to die at all, that it had happened when it did.

  Because officially she had still been Mrs Malcolm Ames. And Malcolm's debts had become her debts...

  She had been working on her Open University course for almost a year when Malcolm died, and his death had come as a double blow to her: the shock of his dying at all, and because it seemed that, now she finally had her life sorted out into some sort of direction, it might be destroyed all over again. It had only been because of sheer hard work and—yes, sacrifice, on her part, that she had managed to work to pay off some of those debts at the same time as carrying on with her Open University course.

  For almost two years now she had held her life together almost day to day, getting jobs when she could—like this one—and really having to struggle when she couldn't work. And then, suddenly, from out of the blue, that adolescent mistake—and marrying Malcolm had cer­tainly been that! —would come back to haunt her once again, and just when she least expected it. Like now, when she had thought the past well and truly behind her.

  How dared Maximilian have her investigated in that way? Just who did he think he and his family were, that he needed to pry into other people's lives? Well, whoever it was, Sophie wanted no part of it. In the past people had always been quite happy to judge her on her own merits, not those of her or her dead husband's past, and if Maximilian Grant couldn't do that, it was his loss not—

  'What's wrong?'

  She hadn't noticed Jennie waiting out in the hallway, so deep in thought had she been. But as the young girl clasped hold of her upper arm Sophie had no choice but to at least acknowledge her.

  Jennie looked at her searchingly—and she obviously didn't like what she saw! 'Sophie, tell me what's wrong?'

  The resemblance between father and daughter was too great at the moment, both of them arrogant in the ex­treme as far as Sophie was concerned. She wrenched her arm away to glare up at the young girl; even the fact that she was forced to do that, because of Jennie's su­perior height, annoyed her at that moment.

  'Ask your father, Jennie,' she snapped, completely forgetting in that moment of anger that she had said she would clear it with Jennie herself about her leaving. 'Or Paul,' she added bitterly. 'He seems to be the one with all the answers!'

  Jennie shook her head, a puzzled frown between her eyes. 'That's the second time you've mentioned someone called Paul, but I don't know anyone of that name.' She shrugged. 'Are you sure you—?'

  'Look, I don't care what his name is.' Sophie was starting to feel slightly hysterical now. 'Please just go and talk to your father, Jennie, if you want to know anything else,' she choked. 'I have to go and pack.'

  'Pack...?' Jennie looked dumbfounded by this statement. 'But—I'll go and talk to my father.' She nodded grimly at Sophie's pained expression.

  'I wish you would,' Sophie nodded, turning to go through to the back of the house where the servants' quarters were, carefully avoiding the kitchen, where she knew her aunt and May, the girl who came in from the village at weekends to help out, would be busy preparing dinner. It was going to be difficult enough explaining this 'she was going—no, she was staying—no, she was going again' situation to her
aunt as it was; she certainly didn't feel up to doing it just now.

  She sat down heavily on the bed once she reached the sanctuary of the bedroom she had been given, needing just to sit and catch her breath before she set about putting her things into her hold-all.

  She felt raw, exposed, the disaster of her marriage laid open to the whole household. Because Maximilian, when asked, would no doubt tell Jennie exactly why she was so unsuitable, explain that Sophie's husband had been a gambler, that when he died he had smashed up the only asset he had left: a flashy sports car. What people didn't realise, including Sophie herself when she had first met Malcolm, was that the car was an old one, a fact that was obscured by the personalised number-plate and the mint condition he liked to keep it in.

  Oh, Malcolm apparently had all the trappings of wealth, always did everything in an extravagantly ex­pensive style. Their own wedding had been an example of that; all of Malcolm's so-called friends invited to the reception that had been thrown at one of the most pres­tigious hotels in London. And for the weeks and months that followed the wedding Sophie had struggled single-handed to pay off the bills that flooded in! Malcolm's answer, whenever she brought up the subject of the bills with him, was that when he had a big win at the casino he would pay them all off in one grand gesture. The casino had come as yet another surprise to Sophie; Malcolm seemed to go there five nights out of seven, had apparently always done so, even during the time they were going out together, more often than not going on there after leaving her at the end of an evening out together.

  Only there had been no 'big wins' during their brief marriage, and as the weeks passed Malcolm became more and more morose and agitated, finally restoring to blaming this run of bad luck on his marriage. And Sophie.

  The weeks that followed this accusation had been worse than the worrying ones before—because now Malcolm had something to focus his frustration on. And he lost no opportunity to do so, growing even angrier when she ceased trying to placate him and just wearily accepted the verbal diatribe, until finally this verbal anger turned to a physical one.

  Sophie had withstood weeks of verbal abuse, but physical violence was something she couldn't stand, and she knew it was time to leave. The love she had been so sure she felt towards Malcolm at the start of their mar­riage had crumbled into the dust as fear became her prime emotion whenever he came near her. And so she had left him. Even the knowing looks she received from several people, who had tried to advise her to think care­fully before marrying a man she barely knew, hadn't been enough to make her turn tail and go back for another try at the marriage. Her marriage had become an emotional torment she could no longer live with.

  She had learnt months afterwards that Malcolm's be­haviour—loving the whole world while he was winning, and blaming everyone else for his bad luck when he was losing, had been typical of all obsessive gamblers, that in fact he suffered from an illness, one that could have been treated, with his co-operation—something he would never have given!

  It hadn't helped the situation that, following Sophie's departure from their flat, Malcolm began to win again! Not big wins, nothing near enough to pay off the crip­pling debts they still had, but enough to convince him he had been right about Sophie being the jinx in his life.

  Not that Sophie had cared what he thought by that time; it was far too late to salvage anything from their marriage. And she was still trying to pay off all those debts they had acquired herself, feeling that one of them at least should make some effort to do so. And so she had found whatever work she could to support herself and make a start on paying some of the bills, knowing that there was no way her parents could help her, that it was up to her to get herself out of this mess.

  And she had done it, for the main part, had organised her life now in such a way that she slowly paid off those mountainous debts while at the same time being able to continue with her Open University course. It wasn't a perfect arrangement by any means, but it was better than a lot of people managed in her position, and, last of all, it was the best she could do.

  And now, for reasons of his own, Maximilian Grant had thrown the whole thing back up in her face like some avenging spectre!

  Well, she wasn't going to sit here and wallow in self-pity; she had her packing to do, and a train to catch, she decided determinedly as she got to her feet. The sooner she got herself moving, the better.

  The only trouble was, she realised once her packing was complete, was that the red ‘I-shirt and denims she had worn to go riding, and since thrown in the machine to be washed, were still downstairs in the washing machine, very damp too, no doubt. Which was just too bad, because her wardrobe wasn't extensive enough for her to just leave the two items behind. She would just have to put them in a plastic carrier bag and take them with her that way.

  It was the final blow in an already traumatic day to find, after quietly making her way to the laundry-room, that tangled up with her ‘I-shirt and denims were two of Maximilian Grant's white shirts. At least... she pre­sumed the shirts had once been white. But they certainly weren't any longer.

  The red colour from her cheaply bought ‘I-shirt had obviously run, and the white shirts were now a lovely shade of pink!

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SOPHIE’S first thoughts were ones of horror and panic! Would this catalogue of disasters which seemed to have been dogging her since she had arrived here never cease?

  And then she tried to reason with herself that perhaps she hadn't dyed the shirts at all, maybe they had been pink to start with. Maximilian, in a pink shirt? Not just one, but two, in exactly the same shade? It didn't seem very likely. How about Paul Wiseman, then? That seemed even more unlikely. The other man's choice of clothing was even more conservative than Maximilian's had been. Besides, Paul Wiseman had only arrived this morning; it wasn't very likely that one of the first things he had done was throw two shirts into the washing machine!

  No, she finally realised heavily, she would just have to accept that she had dyed two of Maximilian Grant's expensive—probably silk, knowing her luck!—shirts a glorious shade of pink!

  Actually, she acknowledged with growing hysteria, as dyes went, she had done rather a good job! The colour wasn't patchy or faded, but a beautiful all-over bright pink that could have been achieved professionally. Not that she thought Maximilian would appreciate that fact, or indeed that he would ever want the colour pro­fessionally introduced to his shirts!

  She heard a noise in the adjoining kitchen, hurriedly bundling the shirts inside her red ‘I-shirt before tucking the crumpled bundle under her arm, forcing a bright smile to her lips as she marched forcefully into the kitchen, her bravado deflating somewhat when she saw it was May, not her aunt, who was moving efficiently about the kitchen. She couldn't believe that something had gone right at last, that she had a brief reprieve from Aunt Millie! It would only be a brief one, to be sure, but anything was better than nothing.

  May gave her a startled look at the big beaming smile Sophie bestowed on her, hastily busying herself with the pie she was about to put in the oven.

  Sophie's good luck seemed to be continuing as she made it back to her bedroom without meeting anyone else.

  But she almost collapsed from shock when she turned, after closing the door quietly behind her, to find Maximilian sitting calmly on the side of her bed!

  The bundle of clothes she carried fell unheeded to the floor, Sophie's hands moving up protectively even as she gasped her surprise at finding him there.

  ‘I'm sorry.' Maximilian stood up slowly, silver-blue eyes narrowed on the paleness of her face. ‘I didn't mean to startle you.'

  Sophie recovered quickly. After all, this was his house; he was at liberty to go where he pleased in it. She just hadn't expected him to want to come to the bedroom he knew she had been allocated. Unless—her mouth tightened—he had come to make sure she went.

  'Well, you did,' she snapped accusingly, grabbing up the damp clothing from the floor and dropping them down on t
o the bed—those pink shirts, thankfully, still rolled up inside her ‘I-shirt!

  His mouth thinned at the impatience of her rebuke. ‘I did apologise,' he rasped in a hard voice.

  'So you did.' Her mouth twisted. 'And I suppose I should feel grateful for that—'

  ‘I realise you probably have a right to feel resentful, Sophie,' he sighed. 'But—'

  'Do you?' Her eyes flashed deeply hazel. 'Believe me, Mr Grant, there's no probably about it! It's a very-nauseating experience, learning that your life has been put under someone else's microscope—and found wanting!'

  'There was a good reason for that!' he put in defensively, a nerve pulsing in his tightly clenched jaw.

  'I'm sure there was,' Sophie scorned. ‘I wonder just how close a scrutiny your own life would bear without—'

  'We aren't discussing me,' he told her stiffly.

  'That's just the sort of reasoning that disgusts me!'

  Maximilian's nostrils flared angrily, his eyes as cold as ice. 'You know nothing about it!'

  'I know that I judge a person on what I find them to be, not on what some cold-blooded report tells me about them,' she challenged.

  Every muscle and sinew seemed to be tensed with furious tension as Maximilian watched her with narrowed eyes. 'Cold-blooded,' he repeated in a silkily soft voice. 'Is that what you consider me?'

  Sophie's own anger faltered slightly as she sensed a sudden change in his manner. There was something...

  'Oh!' she gasped as she was suddenly pulled up against the hard length of his body, the warmth of his hands against the base of her spine. At that moment he felt anything but cold! 'Mr Grant—'

  'Max or Maximilian,' he told her huskily. 'Don't try and put a distance between us with formality.'

  Distance between them? A wisp of air would have dif­ficulty getting in between them at this moment, their bodies were moulded so closely together! He had to stop doing this...!

  'Maximilian.' She shook her head. 'I don't think—'

  'I've been trying very hard not to since the moment you joined us for lunch wearing these!' His hands moved caressingly down the length of her hips and thighs in the body-hugging black leggings. 'You have the most fan­tastic legs...! And you look sexy as hell in these things,' he added with a heartfelt groan.