Mistress for a Night

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It was thoughtful of you.’

The tears she despised but seemed to have no control over brimmed in her eyes. Mrs Moody was no fool; she would have seen the way the plump, graceless teenager had stuck to Jason like a limpet whenever he visited, mooning over him with her silly calf’s eyes. And she had saved the pathetic mementoes because maybe there was a closet romantic beneath that grim exterior.

Perhaps the elderly woman half believed that Jason would see the new slim Georgia in a different light…

In your dreams! If she could remove herself from this house without having to set eyes on him again she would be more than pleased. She’d be ecstatic.

After the last of the guests had departed Jason closed the main door and leant against it. The silence of the house folded around him. Everything had gone smoothly; the only surprise had been Georgia’s obvious distress. She’d tried to hide it, but he’d been able to see she was swamped by grief.

Even while his mother had still been alive he’d been aware that Harold strayed. Furtive little affairs—a seventeen-year-old without a brain in her head who’d been hired to give Mrs Moody a hand about the place, the nineteen-year-old daughter of the village publican—always young things, fluff-brained. The list, if he thought about it—and he always tried not to—went on and on. So when Harold had accused Georgia of throwing herself at him he hadn’t believed a word of it, had stayed behind to read him the riot act after Georgia had shot out of the room.

But now, for the first time, real doubt had crept in, and he was no longer so sure. She’d corresponded with Harold, met up with him after she’d returned to the UK. He’d left her all his worldly possessions, a very considerable fortune, and her grief today had been real enough to touch.

And he hadn’t known the real Georgia back then. While he’d been defending her against Harold’s accusations, with Vivienne volubly taking her husband’s part, Georgia had been running to her friend, probably already planning an abortion.

The sequence of events ran through his mind like a video tape.

When he’d found the car she’d used had gone he’d guessed she’d gone to Sue’s and would be OK. He’d only planned on staying at Lytham a few hours—just long enough to break the news of their marriage arrangements. He’d had to get back to London, to his apartment, to work. He was briefing a barrister early the following morning, for an important case of alleged fraud.

Back at his apartment, he’d phoned Sue’s home. Her brother, Guy, had answered. Georgia was with them, asleep in bed, and yes, he’d tell her Jason had called.

He’d spent the next few days trying to contact Georgia, to reassure her that he was there for her and their coming child. But he’d got no reply. Frustrated by his need to be at his office, he’d ended up phoning Vivienne, saying no one was answering at Sue’s number.

‘Guilty conscience, darling?’ she had responded tartly. ‘And you sounded so self-righteous when you were calling poor Harold vile names! Georgia phoned me late that night and told me about her pregnancy. If it’s true, and frankly I don’t give a damn, it proves she came on to Harold, not the other way around as you so nastily suggested. If it is yours, then she must have thrown herself at you, and you didn’t display Harold’s good sense and tell her to get lost. In any event, the problem needn’t give you sleepless nights. It’s sorted. She’s got rid of it, and you’ve me to thank for giving her that sound piece of advice.

‘You won’t be able to reach her. That friend of hers and the brother collected my daughter from a private clinic early this morning and took her off to their holiday beach home to recuperate. As I said, problem sorted, and that’s the end of it. I haven’t mentioned any of this unsavoury mess to Harold, and I’d be grateful if you never mentioned the little hussy’s name in my hearing again.’

He hadn’t. He hadn’t visited Lytham again, and he had cut Georgia Blake, and what she had done to the child he had surprised himself by wanting so badly, right out of his life, right out of his head.

Until, out of necessity, she’d come back into it.

But it would soon be over, he told himself tightly. He’d just check she intended to speak with Harold’s solicitor—he’d given her the telephone number first thing this morning—assure himself that she would make adequate provision for Baines and Mrs Moody, then drive back to London.

He hardened his jaw. He might even contact Sylvia, suggest dinner. They’d been dating, occasionally, for almost a year now. A journalist, forcefully attractive, she was married to her career. They enjoyed each other’s company, enjoyed sex, and neither of them was interested in long-term commitments.

&n

bsp; Which suited him just fine. He’d lost the inclination, and probably the ability, to get emotionally involved with any woman since—

He strode in the direction of the kitchens. First he’d let Mrs Moody know he was leaving, then find Georgia, say what he had to, and get the hell out.

He met Georgia as she exited the kitchen regions. She was carrying a cardboard box and her face was wet with tears, her eyes huge, tormented, her wide mouth clamped as if she was refusing to let herself speak to him.

He should have said what he wanted to say, then left it, kept everything cool, walked away and made it final.

Instead he found his eyes marking every feature, as if committing it to memory, skimming the glorious tousle of hair that tumbled to her shoulders, the tear-spiked dark lashes that framed those golden eyes, the delicate arch of the cheekbones that had emerged from the roundness of adolescence, the fragile creamy throat rising from the white thing she wore around her neck. Found himself actively pushing contempt into his voice as he slid his hands into his pockets, rocked back on his heels and drawled, ‘My goodness, Georgia, you look as if you’re mourning a lost and passionately adored lover, not an elderly stepfather you saw just occasionally.’

He really should have left it. He immediately despised himself, as he would despise anyone who was deliberately cruel, wishing the mocking words unsaid as he saw her face crumple, heard the harsh tug of her breath. He began to make an apology but she cut across him.

‘You never could see it was all lies, could you? The things Harold said that day.’ Her voice was raw with all the pain, the long memory of it. She hated the man in the elegantly tailored dark grey suit, the man with the severe, forbidding face and taunting, merciless eyes.

Hatred and pain spurred her, and she hissed at him, ‘Or maybe you just preferred to believe those lies because they gave you a let-out you could take without compromising your notion of bloody duty! You turned your back on me and our baby and thanked your lucky stars you didn’t have to marry a fat teenager and make yourself a laughing stock. You didn’t care at all.’ Her eyes were wide, feral with deep loathing. ‘I wanted our baby, more than anything. But you weren’t even interested enough to ask what happened then—so why should I bother to explain myself now?’ She jerked her head up, pushed past him as he would have detained her. ‘You’re in my way. I have an appointment in Gloucester.’

She walked stiffly away, controlled, distanced. She had spilled out the pain, told him. Reminded him of how foul he was.

It was the only consolation she had.

Luck was with her, she decided as she put her foot down on the way back to Birmingham. A scant five minutes after that final confrontation with Jason she’d left Lytham without seeing him again. Her meeting with the solicitor had been smooth, and now traffic was light.