His face matched his body. He had a solid torso–broad chest, wide shoulders above slender hips. About five feet eleven, he gave the impression of greater height and strength because of his powerful build. From the moment she had met him she had been aware of his potency and masculinity. No other man had ever affected her the way he did.
Now he was standing in front of her, the smile still lingering on his mouth. He pulled her into his arms and held her close to his body; the towel and her clothes fell from her hands onto the floor in a heap, and her arms went around his shoulders. And as he bent his head towards her his mouth found hers. He kissed her deeply, passionately, and she felt his erection against her thigh, and for a moment she thought she would succumb, become an all-too-willing partner in his bed for a second time that day. And she clung to him, dissolving.
But then the brainwashing of years kicked in and she remembered the Harte rules and she knew she had to go to Pennistone Royal. Whatever her physical desires and needs were, no matter how much she wanted this man, her upbringing overrode everything else. A Harte was in trouble, and every other Harte must stand alongside, to defend their rights.
When they finally stopped their kisses, India gently pushed Dusty away, her hands resting on his chest. For a moment he resisted, and then quite suddenly he stepped back with an abrupt movement, looked into her face, his own questioning.
‘You know the rules,’ she murmured. ‘I told you about them ages ago.’
‘A Harte always goes to the aid of a Harte in trouble!’ he exclaimed. ‘You don’t have to embellish. I got it then, I get it now.’
‘Please don’t be angry.’
‘I’m not,’ he snapped, turning away, walking over to the window, where he stood looking out, his stance rigid, his face a mask of discontent.
Without another word she collected her clothes, went into the bathroom, tidied herself up, slipped into her bra and panties, pulled a black linen dress over her head, then slid her feet into high-heeled, black leather mules.
When she returned to the bedroom he was still standing at the window looking out, but he had quickly dressed, was wearing his jeans and a white t-shirt.
At the sound of her heels clicking on the parquet floor he swung to face her. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, and for once he looked shame-faced.
India walked over to him, touched his cheek gently. ‘I want to stay, to be with you, you know that, and you also know how I feel about you. This sense of duty to the family is something I can’t help.’ She shrugged and finished, ‘I suppose it’s just…ingrained in me.’
He caught her hand in his, brought it to his mouth, kissed it. ‘I know. And I’m a belligerent sod at times.’ He laughed his deep-throated laugh. ‘Most of the time, wouldn’t you say? Okay, I’ll let you go.’ He led her towards the door. ‘On one condition.’
She caught the lightness in his tone, saw the sudden mischievous laughter in those amazing eyes. ‘I agree to any condition,’ she said, ‘as long as it’s a condition involving you.’
‘You’ll regret saying that when you know what it is.’ He hurried her out of the bedroom and down the grand staircase.
‘Will I really?’ she asked, her expression suddenly flirtatious. ‘So, tell me what it is, then.’
‘You have to sit for me.’ He stopped on the stairs, turned to look at her.
India gaped at him, her jaw dropping. ‘You want me to sit for you? You want to paint me? Me?’ She was flabbergasted.
He saw that he had startled her, and realized that her amazement was genuine, and for a moment or two he was baffled by this. They had paused in the middle of the staircase, were standing just underneath the domed glass ceiling. Light was streaming in, turning her hair into a silver halo and her silvery-grey eyes seemed to be lit from within. In contrast, her face was sensual, her mouth ripe and bruised. He caught his breath, wishing he could start painting right away. His fingers tingled.
She said quickly, ‘You’re staring at me, and you have the most peculiar look on your face.’ Her hand came up to smooth her hair; suddenly, she felt ungroomed, self-conscious about her appearance. ‘I know I look a mess.’
He took her face between his hands and gazed deeply into her beautiful, transparent eyes. ‘I wish I could start painting you right now, capture you the way you look at this moment. So vulnerable and open, the sensuality still lingering. You look like a woman who has just been well and truly bedded.’
‘I was.’
‘You’ll do it then? You’ll sit for me?’
‘If you really want me to, Dusty.’
He smiled and reached out, took hold of her fingers, and they went on down the stairs hand in hand. When they got to the bottom Dusty paused, gave her a long, thoughtful look. ‘How will you explain it?’
India frowned in puzzlement, returned his steady gaze with one that was slightly surprised. ‘I’m not with you.’
‘How will you explain the painting to your father?’
‘I don’t know what you mean, Dusty.’
He peered at her more closely, wondering if she was being dense or perhaps even kidding him. And then he suddenly understood she was neither. Very simply, she just didn’t get it. He shook his head and began to laugh softly. After a moment, he explained, ‘Every one of my paintings is exhibited, even the portraits for private clients, and they are always photographed. Your father is bound to see photos of the picture I paint of you when they appear in the newspapers and magazines. He’ll know I’ve been screwing you.’
She winced inside; sometimes his bluntness took her breath away, but she gave him a sweet smile and answered, ‘Don’t be so ridiculous, he won’t know any such thing.’
‘He will, because the painting I intend to paint of you will be very sensual–the way you look now. It won’t leave much to the imagination.’
‘Oh Daddy won’t care, he’s…a man of the world.’
‘He’s also the Earl of Dunvale, and believe me he’ll care. He won’t want the world to know I’m…you know…having it off with his daughter. Me? The notorious, rabble-rousing working-class lad from the back streets of Leeds. Not ’alf he won’t.’
‘Now you are being silly. You’re the greatest painter in the world today. Everyone knows that. Anyway, I actually don’t care what my father or anyone else thinks. I’m twenty-seven and I can do anything I want. And I want to be painted by you, in fact I’m flattered that you asked.’
‘It’s a deal?’
‘Of course.’ She thrust out her hand. ‘Let’s shake.’
His boisterous laughter filled the air as he shook her hand, then he pulled her into his arms and embraced her. Against her hair he said, ‘There’s another condition. Before I paint you we’ll have to be together, if you get my drift. You do understand that, Lady India?’
‘Absolutely, Mr Rhodes. I’m in total agreement.’
He put his arm around her shoulder. ‘Come on, I’ll walk you to your car,’ he murmured and turned the handle of the French windows. They opened up onto the terrace of the south façade of the house, which was very beautiful; there was a portico supported by four soaring columns, and the wide terrace stretched the length of the house and around the two end wings.
The heat of the August afternoon hit them as they stepped outside, and Dusty said, ‘It’s muggy, and it looks like rain.’ He glanced up. ‘Thunderclouds, India, but you’ll get to Pennistone Royal before the rain starts.’
‘I hope so,’ she murmured, also glancing up, and instantly thinking of the search party out on the estate in rainy weather. But hopefully Adele had been found, or returned, by now. Involuntarily, she shivered when she thought of the missing child.
Dusty noticed and took hold of her arm as they walked along the terrace, heading for the courtyard. After a short silence, he said, ‘Maybe I should go with you. You’re just three women out there and–’
‘Four with Evan,’ India cut in.
‘All right, four women. But you might need a bloke around. A bloke like
me, who knows what’s what. Mark Longden could show up making demands, you know. From what you’ve told me he’s nasty.’
‘Yes, he is, but we’ll be all right, please don’t worry. There’s Wiggs, the head gardener, and Joe, who runs the estate.’
‘And then there’s that other rule, isn’t there, India? No outsiders allowed.’
India eyed him through the corner of her eye, trying to ascertain his mood. He had sounded slightly annoyed; spotting the hint of mischief in his eyes, she laughed. ‘Well, I will say this, you do learn fast, Mr Rhodes.’
‘So do you, Lady India,’ he shot back. ‘How long do you intend to stay up here?’
‘I’d planned to stay for a week before this happened. But who knows, I could be here longer now, if I’m out at the house and not at the store in Leeds. I’ve a lot of work there, and I’ll have to stay until it’s finished.’
‘When can I start the painting?’
‘Tomorrow. Hopefully. It all depends.’
He picked up on the concern in her voice, and said quietly, ‘I’m sure Adele will show up, India, I really mean that. And certainly I hope so.’
‘Thanks, Dusty…’ Her voice trailed off and she searched in her bag for the car keys, found them and headed towards her car parked next to the barns.
‘I do envy you this,’ Dusty said when he drew to a standstill, patting the bonnet. ‘An Aston Martin DB2-4, a piece of vintage mechanical art if ever there was one.’
She smiled up at him. ‘Wasn’t it nice of Daddy to part with his favourite wheels?’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘But then I am his favourite, you know,’ she added, getting into the car.
‘Don’t rub it in,’ Dusty responded, his laughter rising. ‘Give me a shout later.’
‘I will.’ After blowing him a kiss through the open window she turned on the ignition.
Once the Aston Martin had disappeared from sight, Dusty turned on his heels and crossed the cobbled yard, went down to the ornamental lake. He stood looking into its depths, taking pleasure at what he was seeing–a perfect reflection of the Georgian house on the hill, a mirror image clearly visible in that placid body of water as smooth as glass. How clever they were, those architects of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, he thought, nodding to himself. Whenever the topography allowed, they set the house on a hill and created a man-made lake at the bottom so that the house was reflected in all its glory. A double image. Very impressive indeed.
Dusty had studied architecture for a time, and he was particularly interested in the designs of Andrea Palladio. He considered it part of his training as an artist. And he had always thought that a Palladian villa set in a verdant English park was a very beautiful sight. He saw it as the perfect marriage of a building with nature. Dusty loved the classicism of the designs, because he loved all things classical, and of the Renaissance. William Kent, a follower of Inigo Jones, the great seventeenth-century architect, had designed and built his house, Willows Hall, over two hundred and seventy-five years ago, and it was pure Palladian. Dusty had fallen in love with it the first time he had seen it, although he had become concerned when he began to understand how neglected it truly was. The surveyors he had brought in had told him it was mostly surface damage, and that everything could be restored to its original state with some good repair work by master craftsmen.
He began to walk towards the house now, climbing up the grassy hill, and his thoughts automatically swung to India Standish. If anyone looked as if she belonged in this house it was she; after all, she had grown up in a very similar place–Clonloughlin in Ireland, a renowned Georgian house of impressive proportions and great beauty. And so of course she was at ease with the grand overtones of Willows Hall. He knew he looked right in it, too, even though he had been brought up in a back-to-back, a far cry from this place indeed.
Dusty had lavished a great deal of time, effort, care, love and money on Willows Hall over the past eight and a half years, and in doing so he had made it his own; he couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.
When he reached the top of the hill he stood gazing at the south front façade for a moment, and he couldn’t help admiring the way the pale stone gleamed in the afternoon sunlight; it looked as if it had been polished. It was perfectly beautiful.
As he lifted his eyes to the sky Dusty was happy to see that the thunderclouds had blown away; it wasn’t going to rain after all. Turning, he walked down the length of the terrace, making for his studio. This stood a little away from the house on the left, and it was of his own design. From the outside it looked like a guest villa, echoing the main house since it was in the Palladian style.
When Dusty went inside he stood blinking for a moment. The studio was one vast, open space with a high-flung ceiling that seemed to soar endlessly upward, with many windows on both sides. There were a series of skylights set in the ceiling, and the whole area was filled with intense glittering northern light. Still blinking, he touched several buttons and electric window shades slid into place over the windows, dimming the daylight, cooling the room.
Moving lithely, he crossed to a drawing board, picked up a charcoal crayon and quickly made a series of dramatic and vivid sketches of India’s face. Suddenly, he stopped, threw the crayon down and stepping away from the drawing board, went and lowered himself into an armchair.
Why was he painting her? The idea was ridiculous. It was really asking for trouble. In every way. Trouble for her. Trouble for him. Her father wouldn’t like her association with him; whatever she believed, he knew he was right. They came from entirely different worlds. She was an aristocrat from very high altitudes; he was a working-class boy. Yes, he was famous. Very famous, in fact. And rich. All because of his talent, and doing something he couldn’t live without doing. Painting. But as far as he was concerned, the Earl of Dunvale wouldn’t care about those things. Other considerations mattered to a man like her father. Propriety and background, and stupid things like where he had gone to school, and what his father did, and whether he had a posh accent.
No, it wasn’t fair to her, or to himself, actually, since he had no intention of becoming serious with India. He was wasting his valuable time with her, when he could be painting, and he was setting her up to get hurt when he said goodbye. Yes, she was trouble. For a variety of reasons.
The red phone on the counter top began to ring. He looked across at it balefully, reluctant to answer it. But it didn’t stop after six rings, so he got up in exasperation and strode over to the counter, snatched at the receiver.
‘Hello?’
‘Russell?’
‘Hello Melinda.’
‘How did you know it was me?’
‘Recognized your voice.’
‘I want out of this place, Russell,’ she wailed. ‘Get Dr Jeffers to release me.’
‘You know I can’t. You’ve got to stay there until he thinks you’re properly de-toxed. Then he’ll sign your release. I don’t have anything to do with it, you know that.’
‘Russell, please ask him.’
‘You know very well he won’t listen.’
‘Please don’t punish me this way.’
‘I’m not doing that, Melinda. You signed yourself into the clinic’
‘I’ll tell Atlanta what you’re doing to me.’
‘I’m not doing anything. Anyway, she’s too young to understand.’
‘Is she all right?’
‘Yes, she’s wonderful. I spoke to your mother yesterday and she said she’s as happy as a lark. Look, Melinda, I’ve got to go. I’m working.’
‘Will you talk to the doctor? Please.’
‘Yes, I will. I’ll give him a ring tomorrow. Now rest quietly, and get well. ’Bye.’ He hung up and stared at the phone. Now that was trouble if anything was. And then some.
He groaned. What was he going to do about Melinda and his child? He dreaded the thought of someone finding out about them. And yet he knew it would leak out some time soon…he was far too famous for it not to…He let t
his disturbing thought go, unable, suddenly, to cope with it.
Unexpectedly, his thoughts veered to Tessa Longden and her predicament about Adele. He fully understood how she felt, the agony of mind she was going through. After all, he had a three-year-old of his own, and he could well imagine how beside himself he would be in the same circumstances.
India drove along the motorway at a steady pace; she was soon leaving Harrogate behind and heading towards the village of Pennistone Royal. The sky had changed, the thunderclouds had drifted out to the North Sea and it was a lovely pale blue again. She was relieved. There would be nothing worse than tramping over sodden fields and meadows looking for a lost child.
Was she lost on the estate? No. Mark Longden had taken her out of spite. As a bargaining chip, as Dusty had suggested. Dusty. He was such a difficult man in so many ways, and so full of contradictions. He was loaded with baggage, most of it about his background and their class differences, all of which she found silly. He wouldn’t listen to her. But no matter, she had fallen in love with him the night she had first met him, and nothing was going to change that. He was the only man she wanted, the only man for her, and she was determined to get him. Permanently. Long term. Marriage. That was her goal. It wasn’t going to be easy, she was fully aware of all the problems.
Dusty was extremely independent, loathed being pinned down. Nor did he like to make commitments. That was obviously why he had never married or had a long-term relationship. ‘Love ’em and leave ’em, that’s always been my motto,’ he had said to her when they first met several months ago, as if warning her. And then he had begun to laugh uproariously, seemingly highly amused by his own attitude.
He laughed a lot and she liked that. She couldn’t bear glum people who sounded like the voices of doom with their dire predictions of impending disasters and gloomy outlook. He was usually in top form, cheerful, optimistic, raring to go, and ready to take a chance on life, except when it came to wedded bliss, of course. That was verboten even as a subject, not open for discussion at all.