A Man For All Seasons Read online

Seraphim was riveted. “Do you think he'll come back?”

  “No, I don't think so. Apparently he's involved in some big corporate deal now.”

  Seraphim's head was spinning. There was so much to digest and she needed some time to take it all in. “Sorry Jess, I have to go.”

  She placed the receiver carefully back down into the cradle.

  Julian has split up with Georgia. The words echoed around her head, bouncing off her skull and ricocheting to her heart. Julian Horden, second cousin on her mother's side, was single. At last.

  She moved swiftly to her bureau drawer and fished around under her carefully folded clothes. Her hand found the photo's soft edge and she pulled it out. At once her eyes caressed the faded image, from the crown of golden hair, to the vivid blue eyes, prominent nose and hollow cheeks. The mouth was full and sensitive, soft as feather down. Her forefinger brushed down the cool surface. How long had she loved him? She paused to calculate. Several minutes later, she gave up in disgust. Really, her math was shocking. But she must have been about fourteen when she felt the first stirrings of passion.

  He'd been her partner at her debutante ball. He'd been twenty-two then, she seventeen. All night he'd been charming and attentive and she'd been smitten.

  A fortnight later he'd announced his engagement to Georgia Washington. Everyone loved Georgia; she was a 'good sport'. She was also smart, employed in something or other to do with law, and loaded with old-fashioned family money. Oh yes, everyone loved Georgie Girl. Everyone except Seraphim. She loathed her.

  And then two years ago, he'd gone. Flown to Australia to some distant planet called Queensland, and Seraphim's dreams had finally turned to dust. She'd thought she'd got past it. After all, wasn't she engaged to Barry?

  Slowly she uncurled and pulled the towel from her hair and observed herself in the long mirror. Her classically lovely face stared back, but she didn't really see herself. Julian and Georgia had split up. She could barely get her head around this momentous fact.

  The wall clock chimed the half hour and she jumped. Reluctantly she slid off the bed. She didn't want to go to dinner. She wanted to stay in her room alone with her thoughts. She wanted to explore this development and all its possible ramifications. The thought of spending a long evening making polite conversation seemed utterly dreadful.

  With a critical eye, she examined the long lavender dress hanging ready for her to wear. It had been chosen by her mother, as usual. Suddenly Seraphim felt a surge of resentment. She was a little disturbed by this flush of anger. After all, her mother knew best. But the more she looked at the dress the more irritated she became. It was a dull dress.

  In a rare flash of spirit she turned to her wardrobe, opened the door, and ran her eyes slowly down the long row of gowns. Initially they skipped across the black dress but then she paused and went back, lifting the dress carefully out and looking at it. It had been an impulse buy at a Dior fashion parade. Her mother had said that it was far too revealing for good taste.

  Made from the finest of micro wools, the dress fell in soft draping folds to the floor. Simple in design, its chaste appearance went out the window when viewed from the rear. It was backless. The soft folds plunging to the panty line, daring and chic. Seraphim loved it but had never worn it, fearing her parents' disapproval. And, if she were honest, her fiancés too.

  Still she hesitated. Unsure, anxious even. Inside her chest a small flag of defiance unfurled. Why shouldn't she wear the dress? After all, she was nearly twenty and not a child.

  Then, before she could change her mind, she stepped into the filmy folds and zipped up the side, turning to inspect the result. It was so elegant. Sexy, even. She turned and peered awkwardly at her back. Her pale pink knickers stood out in an ugly line.

  “Pooh,” she muttered. Then she lifted the silky skirt and whipped her undies off. The soft material shimmied back down over her hips and thighs with a soft sigh.

  With shaking hands she twined her hair into a twist, high on her head. She added a touch more lipstick and, a little breathless at her own daring, pulled on black high heels, barely recognising the vision of sophistication reflected before her. With a long, shuddering sigh and a small toss of her head, she set off for the dining room.

  Everyone was already seated at the long walnut table, its splendid polished surface hidden beneath a white damask cloth. Tapering candles burned brightly in their silver candelabras and jostled for space amidst silver cutlery and clusters of glistening crystal glasses.

  As she entered the room, the soft hum of voices faded and she felt her soul cringe beneath the weight of several pairs of judgmental eyes. Immediately she spotted her fiancé, his eyes wide as an owls behind the thick lenses of his glasses. His expression betrayed nothing, but she could have sworn that the end of his long nose seemed somehow more pinched than usual. It irked her, though why this should be so, she wasn't quite sure.

  Her mother swooped upon her and instantly she felt ridiculously gauche.

  “Darling, didn't I put out the lavender?”

  Seraphim squared her shoulders, momentarily aware of the soft caress of air down her back. She had a sudden urge to look down at her crotch, terrified that her bush would be glaringly obvious beneath the fine, black material. She crossed her hands in front of herself instead. “I just felt like the black tonight.” She was pleased that her voice carried clearly, without any trace of the jitters.

  Beneath the artfully applied make-up of her mother's beautiful but austere face, a small nerve jumped beneath the left eye. “What would you like a drink?” Margot Driscoll's words might have been courteous enough, but Seraphim could feel waves of disapproval rolling off her mother like clouds of toxic waste.

  Suddenly she wished she'd worn the lavender. “A large G and T, please.”

  Her mother nodded. “You're seated next to Barry, opposite Chad. I thought you youngsters could organise a few outings together.”

  Seraphim sank down next to her fiancé thankfully. But her relief was short lived. Unlike her mother, Barry apparently had no reservations about voicing his views.

  “Isn't that a little risqué darling?” He peered over the black rims of his glasses with eyes both censorious and moist.

  A sudden vision of Julian filled her mind's eye; so elegant in his dashing black tie, laughing down at her with cornflower blue eyes as they waltzed around the springy ballroom floor. And she finally acknowledged the truth that she had been holding firmly at fingers length for several months.

  Quite simply, she did not love Barry Wellington-Worth.

  Halfway through her gin and tonic she lifted her flushed cheeks and dared a quick glance across the table. Two wide-set, deep topaz eyes, watched her. In the still depths of Chad Cherub's eyes intelligence gleamed, watchful and patient.

  Mesmerised she stared back. Where had she seen eyes like that before? She pondered on the matter for several moments. But it was no good; the answer remained frustratingly elusive.

  Three

  Chad gazed at Seraphim and listened to her fiancé in frank amazement. What the hell was his problem? Too risqué? He was kidding, right? Too risqué for what exactly? Was the man gelded? Perhaps they still had eunuchs in England.

  The dress was a bloody ripper. She looked like something out of a Bond film. It clung to her soft curves like plastic wrap, her porcelain white skin gently warmed by the candlelight. Chad felt his blood thicken in his arteries. He longed to run a finger down the long, naked length of her spine.

  His amusement fanned as he remembered Wally's final instructions when he'd escorted him to his room earlier. “We dress for dinner.” Well that was an understatement if ever he'd heard one. He glanced down at his nearly new jeans and blue denim shirt. Thank God he'd cleaned his boots before he'd left. Or rather, Chin his cook had spirited them away and returned them as good as new.

  He tried to imagine Seraphim Driscoll back home. But somehow it seemed impossible to place this vision in any part of his large rambling home
or amidst the great dusty outdoors. He grinned to himself as he pictured the faces of his men if she were transplanted into the kitchen. They'd be horrified. Or terrified. Or both.

  Then he realised he was still staring, somewhat rudely, in a direct line at his hostesses' daughter. His embarrassment intensified as he became aware that he was being checked out in return. He had a brief impression of dark eyes, smoky and smoldering. Christ she was stunning. Maybe he could kidnap her and keep her in captivity.

  A large white bowl materialised over his left shoulder. He peered into its steaming depths and breathed in appreciatively. It smelt good and he was starving.

  “Chad, red or white?” Several spaces down the way, Wally held a bottle in each hand.

  A little reluctantly Chad stilled his spoon in the soup and considered. Neither really appealed but he chose the white.

  “It's an Australian, you'll be pleased to hear. A rather excellent chardonnay.”

  Chad tried to look suitably impressed by his host's thoughtfulness. Shame it wasn't a beer.

  The wine was carefully poured by a smartly-dressed young maid. It was only as she pressed one full breast softly into his back that Chad realised it was the same young woman he'd met briefly in the kitchen.

  “That will do Shelley, thank you,” said Margot Driscoll. Her voice could have sliced through a cold cut.

  Opposite him, Seraphim made an odd little noise. For a minute Chad thought she was laughing but when he glanced at her she was dabbing at her lush mouth with a large linen serviette. Not convinced he returned to the soup, which, unlike the wine, was pretty good.

  Fogs of tiredness began to roll over him as the meal progressed. He realised that his efforts at conversation were stilted and somewhat curt, but it was the best he could manage. Confused by the vast array of silver knives and forks flanking his setting, he watched carefully for cues and managed to get by without embarrassment.

  Around him, conversation flowed and ebbed but his tired brain could barely make sense of it all. A third course arrived. Visions of the large, comfy bed waiting for him upstairs floated in and out of his mind. He looked at the plate. Lamb. Picking up the tiny cutlet in his hand, he chewed absently. Not bad. Then he noticed that around him the volume had abruptly dropped. Some sixth sense awakened him to the fact that he was the focus of this odd phenomenon.

  He looked at the half eaten cutlet poised in his fingers, then put it down carefully. “Sorry,” he said, utterly mortified by his carelessness. This, he thought miserably, was exactly why he'd never made the journey before.

  “Sorry for what exactly?”

  There was no mistaking her voice. He looked across at Seraphim, who observed him quietly. She waved a cutlet at him. “British lamb is the best in the world,” she said and then proceeded to chew on the bone with apparent relish.

  He grinned at her, unbelievably grateful. Her kindness, to say nothing of her quick wit, had surprised him. He felt a twinge of guilt. He'd fallen into the age-old trap of looking only at the surface. Candy to the eye she might be, but beneath the wrapper lay a treasure trove of undiscovered goodies. She was a good person.

  He picked up his cutlet and saluted her. “Second best.”

  He was rewarded with a small smile that washed away the accumulated layers of fatigue and set his hormones on fire.

  Walter Driscoll guffawed loudly. “Well said, old chap!”

  Mercifully, conversation resumed and the moment passed. The remaining meal passed without incident and by the time they reached dessert, Chad felt he'd had his fill. But when the pert young maid reappeared bearing a black cherry cheesecake, he decided it would be rude to refuse.

  The first mouthful exploded with tangy flavors. The creamy texture melted like candy floss in his mouth.

  He felt, rather than saw, her eyes upon him.

  Seraphim leaned forward a little in her seat. “Do you like it?”

  Like it? It was, quite simply, a slice of heaven. His thoughts swung briefly back to the menu back home. He swallowed. “It's beaut.”

  Walter Driscoll piped up. “My daughter's not just a pretty face. She cooks like the angel she's named after. Barry's a lucky man.”

  Seraphim blushed softly. “Don't be silly Daddy, it's only cheesecake.”

  The blush undid him entirely. She was engagingly modest too. What a women! But then Wally's words wafted back to him and he deflated like a flat tyre. Damn it. Barry was a lucky sod, the great blimp. He eyed him none too kindly. What did she see in him anyway? Despite his six-foot frame, Barry had the pious, earnest air of newly ordained Pope. Only younger.

  An enormous grandfather clock mournfully chimed the hour. Chad counted carefully. It was ten. He couldn't believe they'd been at dinner for over two hours. What a waste of time. At home meals were eaten because one was hungry. None of this idle chitchat.

  He glanced at Seraphim who was engaged in conversation with Barry. Viewed in profile, he could enjoy the long, slender neck and the soft curved line of her jaw and he cheered up. The view in his own dining room was nowhere as rewarding.

  Finally coffee was done. Chad had reached the stage where he longed for bed but couldn't summon the energy to move. He felt quite content to sit and listen to Seraphim's sweet voice and bask in the occasional smile she sent his way.

  Wally woke him from his fugue. “Chad, why don't you go out for a ride with Miffy in the morning? The forecast is good.”

  Chad struggled. Who the hell was Miffy?

  “That's a super idea, Daddy,” said Seraphim eagerly. She looked at Chad. “I could take you down to the river.”

  Chad's heart leapt in delight. Miffy must be Walter's pet name for his daughter.

  Seraphim turned to her fiancé. “Why don't you come too, darling?”

  Chad held his breath. Barry's small mouth puckered up in distaste. “No, no, I don't think so. Far too cold for starters.”

  Chad suppressed a large cheer. “That'd be great,” he told her. A spot of exercise would be just the thing to blow off the cobwebs, to say nothing of Seraphim's exclusive company.

  Wally beamed a smile. “All settled then. I'll get one of the staff to knock on your door at six. It doesn't begin to get light until nearly seven, so that'll give you time to look around the yard and choose a mount.”

  Shortly thereafter Chad made his excuses and trundled up the long flight of stairs and, after a few false starts, into his room. Wearily he cleaned his teeth and attired in just his boxer shorts, then collapsed into bed. He thought he'd fall asleep immediately, but his brain went into hyper drive.

  Left to his own devises he couldn't help but worry. He'd never been away from home for longer than a weekend before. How were they managing? Had any of the mares foaled? Had it rained? Had Jimmy Farthing been making a pain of himself? How was The Huntsman? Finally, with gargantuan effort, he put the brakes on. After all, he'd left the phone number with Chin. They were good blokes. They'd do fine.

  But then his thoughts turned to Seraphim. Miffy. He whispered her name into the darkness. He hugged the prospect of seeing her in the morning to himself like a lucky charm. Her image danced behind his closed eyes. So desirable. So unobtainable.

  Finally he slipped into sleep. He dreamt that she was at home, riding out to muster on a big bay horse, but her long black gown kept tangling in the animal's legs. He told her to put on pants, but she laughed and said she wasn't brought up that way. Then it began to rain. It came down in sheets. The river rose like a tidal wave and swept her away.

  He awoke abruptly. In the pitch black of the room his eyes stared blindly around. To his surprise his keen ears picked up the distinct shrill bark of a fox and he felt strangely comforted by the familiar sound. But then he froze when he realised that someone or something, was moving softly toward him. He could just make out the soft rustle of material and the faint intake of breath. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up in apprehension.

  It was probably a ghost. Then as he recalled his somewhat sketchy study
of Jane Eyre back in

  school and decided it was more likely some crazed Driscoll relative come to burn him in his bed. He sat up, his body taut, adrenaline rushing through him like sherbet.

  The entity stilled. “Chad?” it whispered.

  The mattress sank slightly as the ghost slid softly into bed with him. His confusion was considerable. What the hell was going on? Who the hell was it? Could it possibly be Seraphim? The idea left him both wildly optimistic and strangely disappointed.

  “It's me, Chad. Shelley.”

  Oh my God. It was the maid.

  A hand slid softly across his bare chest. “Mr Driscoll asked me to wake you early.”

  “Erm… thanks.” He tried to hold off the wandering hands, largely unsuccessfully. Bloody hell! Finally he slid out of bed and stumbled over to the wall, groping for a light switch. He snapped it on. Light flooded the room and he squinted in the glare. Shelley smiled at him, eyes wide, full breasts boiling over the top of a filmy nightgown like two delicious dumplings.

  “I'm awake now, Shelley,” he said. There was an understatement. For a moment he wondered if he were mad to knock back such an eager, willing partner. But he shook his head. Those days were long gone. At twenty-six he wanted something more than a casual affair. It took considerable willpower to push away the dark eyes and laughing mouth of Seraphim; he wasn't going there either.

  “Perhaps, you should go now.”

  Shelley artfully crossed her arms beneath her chest. The effect was quite profound. “If you're sure.”

  His mouth went dry. “Yes, I'm quite sure.”

  She didn't appear to take offence as she slowly pulled back the covers; the silky nightgown leaving little to the imagination. She sashayed over to him and smiled up into his face. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

  He grinned, amused by her phenomenal face. “Thanks, Shelley.”

  But his amusement swiftly changed to dismay. Both he and Shelley looked at the door in response to a soft tapping upon its outer surface.

  Someone rapped louder. “Chad, are you awake?” It was a soft, clear, feminine voice.