Edge of Temptation Read online

'Yes,' he grated. 'Thank you for your time!' And without a backward glance he strode out of the shop.

  Limply, Catherine sought the sanctuary of her desk, and she had barely had time to compose herself before Mary Grant put her head round the door. Her immediate appearance prompted the anxiety of wondering exactly where she had been hiding herself while Rafe was here, an anxiety which was not allayed by her words.

  'Has he gone?' she asked, excitement bringing a husky squeak to her voice, and Catherine guessed she knew full well he had. 'Wasn't he gorgeous? How did you get to know him?' She paused, to give her next words full effect. 'I—er—I didn't realise your uncle's family was on such friendly terms with Lord Penwyth!'

  Somehow Catherine managed to stifle the gulp of astonishment that escaped her, but it was not so easy to find words to hide her dismay. 'You—must know that was not—Lord Penwyth,' she ventured, as the other girl eased herself into the office with a conspiratorial tapping of her forefinger against her nose, and Mary pulled a wry face.

  'As good as. It was Rafe Glyndower, wasn't it? His son. And from what I hear, he makes all the decisions at Penwyth now. The old bloke's virtually senile, isn't he, since that stroke he had a couple of years ago.'

  'Where did you get all this information?' exclaimed Catherine, appalled. 'And how did you—know who it was?'

  Mary shrugged. 'I told you. I didn't think I'd seen him before, but there was something familiar about him. Then I remembered. He opened the chapel fete, two Christmases ago. I never forget a face, not a face like his anyway.' She hesitated. 'Why did he want to see you? Was is something to do with your uncle?'

  In ordinary circumstances, Catherine knew, Mary would never have had the audacity to ask such a question, but they were both aware of the subtleties of this situation. For some reason, Mary considered she was free to say what she liked, and Catherine would have given a lot to know exactly what she was thinking.

  However, she was not about to satisfy her curiosity. If the girl thought she knew something, she could come right out and say it. Catherine was not going to make things easy for her.

  'It was a—business matter,' she stated now, making a pretence of studying the stock lists on her desk. 'Did you finish checking those jeans?'

  When no reply was immediately forthcoming, Catherine was forced to lift her head, her lips tightening at Mary's knowing expression. The girl was watching her closely, and irritation took the place of apprehension.

  'Well?' she prompted, controlling her colour with great difficulty. 'Did you?'

  'Did I what, Miss Tempest?'

  'Did you finish checking those jeans, as I asked you to do?'

  'Oh—oh, yes.' Mary nodded absently. Then she came forward to lean against her employer's desk, saying astonishingly. 'You don't have to worry, you know, miss. I won't tell anyone.'

  Catherine pushed back her chair then and got to her feet with trembling indignation. 'You won't tell anyone what, Mary? If you've got something to say, then say it, I've got nothing to hide.'

  Mary hesitated, torn between the obvious desire to state her suspicions, and the possible outcome of admitting that she had been eavesdropping.

  'A—about you and Mr Glyndower, miss,' she conceded at last, the words coming out with a rush. 'I mean—well, he's married, isn't he, and I don't suppose his wife knew he was here visiting you.'

  The pencil Catherine had been holding snapped between her fingers, and she thrust it impatiently aside. Then, choosing her words carefully, she said: 'You surprise me, Mary, you really do. I didn't realise you were so small-minded. Is it so inconceivable that Mr Glyndower and I should have a business relationship? He is my uncle's landlord, you know, and he has every right to stable horses at Penwyn, if he so desires.'

  'Stable horses…' Mary was at sea, and Catherine took advantage of her opportunity, realising with fervent relief that whatever else she had learned, Mary could not have heard the slap she had administered. If she had, she would have said so, used that as her argument right away. But it was terrifying to realise how easily a relationship could be misconstrued.

  'Yes, stable horses,' Catherine continued now. 'One horse, at least. Mr Glyndower has asked me if I'll exercise his son's mare for him. The animal needs exercise, and the boy, Thomas, is not yet old enough to handle her himself.'

  She had some misgivings about admitting this, but after all, she was bound to be seen about the valley sooner or later. Surely, if she volunteered the information, without giving anyone the opportunity to find out for themselves, it would allay suspicion, not arouse it.

  Mary was looking a little sulky now, as if sorry at being deprived of a secret. But she had one last thing to add.

  'Well, if I was his wife, I wouldn't like it. Him coming here, asking you to do him favours—it's not natural, is it? I mean, why can't he exercise his own horse, or sell it, if the boy's not old enough?'

  Catherine schooled her features. 'That isn't really our business, is it, Mary?' she retorted tautly. 'Now, if you don't mind, we'll get on with our work.'

  Her aunt rang that evening, almost as soon as she got home from the boutique.

  'Do you know about this horse of Glyndower's that Owen's having to make room for?' she asked without preamble, and Catherine expelled her breath on an uneasy sigh.

  'Oh, Aunt Margaret!' she exclaimed. 'I was going to come out to the farm and see you about that this evening.'

  'Well, I shouldn't,' remarked her aunt dryly. 'Tempers are too frayed at the moment, as it is, and I think you might have thought twice before burdening us with more work.'

  'But I haven't!' Catherine sank down wearily on to the bench beside the phone. 'Aunt Margaret, I'm going to look after the horse myself. And, if you've seen Glyndower, you must know he's going to provide its feed.'

  'But whatever possessed you to take on such a responsibility?' her aunt exclaimed impatiently. 'You know how your uncle feels about the Glyndowers. This is like— like rubbing salt into old wounds!'

  Catherine pushed back her hair with unsteady fingers. Put like that, it did sound thoughtless. 'I'm sorry,' she said. She always seemed to be apologising these days. 'I'm sorry, I didn't think.'

  'No.' Her aunt sounded as if she agreed with her. 'Well, I hope you know what you're doing.'

  'Aunt Margaret, you know the stables at Penwyn are never used. The roof leaks, I know that, but it's only in one place, and I'm sure I can find a stall that's dry enough and warm enough for one animal.'

  'Maybe so. But who's going to muck it out?'

  'I will,' declared Catherine firmly, wishing she had had more time to prepare for this. But Rafe Glyndower had not given her any choice, and in any case, Aunt Margaret knew he was entitled to stable his horses anywhere on the estate.

  'Well…' her aunt brought the call to a close, 'you've done it now. I just hope you won't regret it.'

  'So do I,' murmured Catherine fervently, as she replaced the receiver.

  Afterwards, it was incredibly difficult to concentrate her attention on anything else. The reasons why Rafe should have involved her in his affairs didn't make sense, and it would have been just as easy for him to stable the mare with the local riding school, and let them take charge of it. Aside from this, there were other people, friends of the Glyndowers, with daughters only too eager to ride anything on four legs, without asking the niece of one of his tenants, a girl who had already interfered in matters which should not have concerned her.

  Which reminded her of Thomas, and what Rafe had told her about him, bringing with it a reassuring feeling of gratification that perhaps she had played some small part in persuading his father to change his mind. She wondered how he was settling down in his new school. Was he happy now? He was living at home, of course, which was bound to make a difference, and at weekends he would have the company of his parents. She guessed his mother might resent this at first, creating, as it did, the need for someone to take care of him on those occasions when she and her husband wanted to go out, but no doubt she wou
ld employ a nanny, or someone in a like capacity, to take the less appealing aspects of a small boy's upbringing off her shoulders.

  Catherine sighed, emptying the contents of a tin of spaghetti bolognaise into a saucepan. She couldn't be bothered to prepare anything more interesting this evening, and as she watched the coils of orange pasta bubble over the heat, she reflected that if Thomas was her child, she wouldn't need a nanny to take care of him. She liked children, and he was an adorable little boy. Her own childhood had been devoid of the friendship of brothers and sisters, and she guessed part of Thomas's problem was the fact that he was an only child.

  She turned abruptly away from the hotplate. It was nothing to do with her. She must stop involving herself in other people's problems, particularly those of the Glyndowers. She was quite sure that if Lucy Glyndower had wanted another baby, she would have had one. Perhaps she had been advised not to have any more children after Thomas was born. She was very small. Her hips were probably very narrow. Maybe she wasn't built for childbearing. Or maybe she just didn't like the inconvenience…

  Inconvenience! Catherine ran an exploring hand over her own flat stomach. She would not have found it inconvenient to have Rafe's child. To imagine his seed growing inside her brought a wave of heat rushing over her body. It was useless to deny it. Once, when she was a child of eleven, he had kissed her, and she had never forgotten that. He had been sixteen at the time, and he had pushed her, more roughly than usual, down the ladder from the hayloft, where they had been having their lunch with Owen. She had slipped down several steps and fallen painfully on the barn floor. Owen had only laughed, and gone charging off, with the callous insensitivity of a nine-year-old, but Rafe had picked her up and apologised, and then, on impulse it seemed, bestowed a light, restoring kiss on her parted lips. Afterwards, he had never mentioned it again, but she had never forgotten…

  The smell of something burning brought her out of her reverie. Her hasty rescue of the spaghetti did not remove its acrid aroma, and she grimaced at the browned mess in the bottom of the pan. It was ruined; and she felt in no mood to open another tin.

  The ringing of the telephone was a welcome interruption, but as she went to answer it she paused to wonder who her caller might be. She hoped it wasn't her uncle, or Owen, phoning to make their objections known. She didn't think she could stand any more opposition today.

  When she picked up the receiver, however, it was Robert's amiable tones that greeted her, and her own response was that much warmer because of the depressing slant of her thoughts.

  'I didn't know I was such a popular person around Pendower,' he remarked, in answer to her obvious pleasure at hearing from him. 'The last time I was there, I recall, I was made to feel very much the outsider.'

  'Oh, Robert! Don't be silly.' Catherine was prepared to overlook the friction which had characterised their last weekend together. 'You know you're always a welcome caller.'

  'Do I?' Robert sounded less convinced. 'However, in this instance, you may revise your opinion. When are you planning on coming up to town?'

  'To town?' Catherine frowned. 'Why? Is something wrong? I heard from Sarah the other day, and she seems to be coping pretty well.'

  'Oh, she is.' Robert was enthusiastic. 'You couldn't have found yourself a better manager. Unfortunately, it's nothing to do with Sarah's management.'

  'Unfortunately?'

  'Yes. Managers can be replaced, but leases can't. At least, not always.'

  'Leases?' Catherine hesitated. 'You don't mean that old chestnut's reared its head again?'

  'I'm afraid so.' Robert was apologetic. 'Don't you read a newspaper in that backwoods town? Old Haughton died last week. I've been warned by his solicitors that the new executors of the estate may not be prepared to renew the lease when it comes due at the end of the year.'

  'Oh, no!' Catherine couldn't believe it. After the day she had had, the last thing she needed was to hear that her Hammersmith boutique was in danger of being closed. She shook her head disbelievingly. 'Robert, what am I going to do?'

  'That's what I'm here for,' he declared encouragingly. 'As a matter of fact, we do have an alternative.'

  Catherine hunched her shoulders. 'What alternative?' she asked dully, a headache beginning to make itself felt behind her temples. 'Robert, why didn't you ring me this morning? Don't you know it's not good to give people bad news in the evening?'

  Robert snorted. 'Wait until you hear all I have to say before flexing your muscle! The alternative shouldn't be overlooked. It's a double-fronted unit in Chelsea. Two floors, with a flat above, and plenty of room for storage.'

  Catherine gasped. 'Robert! Are you out of your mind? Property in Chelsea costs the earth, and you know it. The shop we have now is only viable because the rent was fixed some time ago. I couldn't afford to open a store in Chelsea, particularly not that size!'

  'You could if you closed down the Pendower shop,' argued Robert smoothly. 'Concentrate all your energies on one boutique. Increase the amount of garments you design yourself. Employ your own seamstresses, instead of contracting the work. You could do it—you have the ability.'

  Catherine sank down weakly on to the bench seat. 'You can't be serious! Robert, what you're suggesting is— is—'

  'Ambitious? All right, I admit it. So what? It was ambitious to open a boutique in the first place, and even more ambitious to start again in a place like Pendower.'

  'But the Pendower store is making money,' she protested. 'Young people buy my clothes. It doesn't seem to matter that money is in short supply. Girls still spend every penny they can spare on clothes.'

  'I know that.' Robert sounded impatient. 'But remember, one of the reasons they come to you is because your clothes are just that little bit different. Teenagers always go for the unusual. Those mock-suede skirts you designed have been tremendously successful, and Sarah's put an order in for another dozen. And those boots, with the leather fringes—'

  'You're not suggesting I open my own shoemakers, are you, Robert?' she demanded dryly, and then went on, without waiting for his reply; 'I don't think I want that kind of business. Honestly! I mean, I'm sorry about this trouble over the lease, but I can't see me ever opening another shop in London.'

  'Why not?' Robert sounded angry now, and she had to admit he had some justification. 'What about Sarah? Don't you care about her? If the Hammersmith shop closes, she'll be out of a job. And why? Because you have some sentimental urge to indulge yourself in nostalgia. Really, Catherine! I don't know what's the matter with you. Since going to live in Pendower, you seem to have lost touch with reality!'

  Catherine sighed. The words 'I'm sorry' trembled on her lips, but were not spoken. After all, she was only one of Robert's clients. Just because he thought himself emotionally involved was no reason for her to feel guilty, when the decision was all hers. She was sorry about Sarah Fairfax, of course. She was a good worker, and a loyal employee. But she could easily get another job, and Catherine would see she didn't suffer financially. And besides, it wasn't altogether definite that the lease would not be renewed.

  'So you won't be coming up to town to look at the property?' Robert said now, his voice tight with resentment, and Catherine agreed. 'When will you be coming to London, then?' he added, taking another line. 'Your mother phoned me the other day and asked whether I'd heard from you lately. I think she'd like to see you, too.'

  Catherine moved the receiver into her other hand, flexing her fingers in mild impatience. 'I'll let you know,' she said, and as she said the words, she realised that in one thing at least, he was right. She was losing touch with her life in London, and that could be a mistake.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Rafe walked into his wife's bedroom, as she was changing for dinner. Their apartments were in the west wing, well away from the other occupants of the house—a situation Lucy had arranged, when Thomas was a baby in the charge of a nurse, and inclined to cry occasionally during the night. She had never had any time for him when he was a baby, dis
liking his baby smell, and avoiding his moist, clutching fingers, and she had not changed much since he had grown older. She was prepared to suffer his presence when he was home from school, but Rafe knew she could hardly wait for him to leave again, and she never involved herself in any of the difficulties he experienced. He was a necessary encumbrance, the price she had had to pay to become the next Lady Penwyth, but aside from that, she had no affection for the boy. He set her nerves on edge, and Thomas, aware of her censure, was more than usually clumsy in his mother's company. In consequence, she was always screaming at him, a circumstance which terrified him so much that he invariably ended the scene in tears. It was the main reason that Rafe had agreed to Lucy's suggestion that Thomas be sent away to school. He had convinced himself that nothing could be worse for the boy than her hysteria, but in this, it appeared, he had been wrong.

  Now, she looked round from her seat at the dressing table and regarded him without pleasure. She was almost ready, just putting the finishing touches to her make-up, the dress she was to wear that evening laid out in readiness on the bed.

  'Must you barge in here without knocking?' she exclaimed, testily, turning back to her reflection with thinning lips, and Rafe moved his shoulders in an indifferent gesture.

  'You are my wife, Lucy,' he reminded her, strolling across to the dressing table and regarding her through the mirror. 'And I do have certain—rights, you know.'

  Lucy's eyes widened. 'You don't intend to exercise them now, I hope,' she declared distastefully, and Rafe's mouth assumed a mocking curve.

  'No, thank you,' he replied, deliberately cutting. 'As I haven't exercised that right for the past two years, I doubt the sight of you—even in that flimsy underwear—could cause me any discomfort.'

  'You're coarse, Rafe!' she asserted jealously, getting to her feet and reaching for her gown. 'Just because I haven't the appetites of one of your back street harlots, it does not give you the right to insult me. I haven't denied you my bed. You're welcome to join me any time you wish. But I know I can't satisfy you, and I see no reason why I should have to curb your lust! You know I don't enjoy sex. I never have. But I'm prepared to—'