The Royal Secret Page 14

  “James’s room, where I shall be kipping. It’s a very big bed . . . ,” he whispered in her ear as he pulled her toward him.

  “Marcus! Stop it,” she said firmly as she wriggled out of his grasp.

  He pushed a strand of her hair away from her face and sighed. “Jo, you have no idea how much I want you.”

  “You hardly know me. And besides, I’m not into one-night stands.”

  “Who says it would be? Christ, Jo, do you really think that’s what I want?”

  “I have no idea what you want, but I know what I don’t.”

  “Okay,” Marcus sighed, “I surrender. You may have noticed that patience has never been one of my virtues. I promise I won’t touch you again.”

  “Good. Now, I’m going to have a bath, if you’ll kindly show me where the bathroom is.”

  Ten minutes later, Joanna was lying in the claw-foot bath, feeling like a Victorian virgin contemplating her wedding night. She groaned, thinking of the self-control it had taken to pull herself out of his arms. Why was she being so old-fashioned?

  Apart from the fact that sleeping around had never appealed to her, Joanna knew she was scared. If she gave Marcus what they both wanted, wouldn’t he tire of her, as he had of all the other women? And then how stupid and used would she feel?

  Well, there’s no point overanalyzing it, she thought as she stepped out of the bath. Shivering her way back to the bedroom, she threw on her warmest sweater before pulling her jeans back on.

  “Joanna!”

  “Yes?” she shouted.

  “I’m pouring the champagne! Come down.”

  “Coming.” She padded downstairs to find him on the leather sofa in front of a newly restoked fire.

  “Here.” He handed her a glass as she sat down beside him. “Look, Jo, I just want to apologize for behaving like a lothario. If you don’t want me in that way, it’s absolutely fine. I’m sure I’m mature enough to enjoy your friendship, if that’s all you want to offer me. What I’m saying is that you’ll be perfectly safe tonight. I promise I will not creep into your bedroom and ravage you. Now, I hope we can relax and have a nice evening. I’ve booked a table at the pub in the village. They have nice plain English fare, none of this fancy sophisticated stuff that I’m already gathering you don’t like. Anyway, cheers.” He raised his glass and smiled at her.

  “Cheers.” She smiled back, feeling relieved yet disappointed at his fervent apology and acceptance of being “friends.”

  Half an hour later, they drove the bumpy mile down the pitch-black lanes to the local village. The ancient inn was low roofed and cozy with its dark wooden interior and huge fire. A cat dozed on the bar top as Marcus ordered a couple of gin and tonics and chatted to the barman before the two of them took their seats at a table in the dining room.

  “By the way, this is my treat,” said Joanna as they studied the menus, “to say thank you for arranging all this for me.”

  “My pleasure. And as it’s your treat, I’m going to have the steak.”

  “Me too.”

  The young waitress came to take their order and Joanna chose a bottle of claret from the surprisingly extensive wine list.

  “So, tell me about your idyllic childhood in Yorkshire,” Marcus prompted.

  As Joanna did so, Marcus listened with more than a little envy to her descriptions of family Christmases, riding horses on the moors, the tight-knit community that worked together to help their neighbors through the long, hard winters.

  “The farm’s been in my family for generations,” she said. “My grandfather died about twenty years ago and Dora, my granny, handed the place over to my dad. But she still came and helped out at lambing time, right up until last year when her arthritis got the better of her.”

  “What will happen when your dad retires?”

  “Oh, he knows I’m not interested in running the farm, so he’ll keep the farmhouse and rent out the land to the neighboring farmers. He’d never sell. He keeps hoping I’ll change my mind, which makes me feel guilty, but it’s not for me. Maybe one day I’ll have a son who has a thing for sheep, but . . .” She shrugged. “Dynasties have to end at some point.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m the next in line to the Harrison dynasty and I’ve made a rubbish job of it so far,” Marcus said.

  “Speaking of which”—Joanna cut into her steak—“any program I found I put in a pile. They really shouldn’t be left up in the attic to rot. I’m sure the London Theatre Museum, for example, would be interested. Or I suppose you could hold an auction, raise money for the memorial fund, maybe?”

  “That’s a good idea. Mind you, whether Zoe would approve, I just don’t know. Those boxes were willed to her, after all. But there’s no harm in putting the idea to her, anyway.”

  “Excuse me for being blunt, but the way you describe her makes your sister sound like quite a tough cookie,” commented Joanna.

  “Zoe? No.” Marcus shook his head. “I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression, but you know what siblings are like.”

  “I don’t. I’m an only child. When I was younger, I always wanted a brother or sister to confide in.”

  “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” Marcus said darkly. “I mean, I love Zoe, but we hardly had the ideal upbringing . . . I suppose from all the reading up on the family you’ve done, you know that our mum died when we were both young?”

  “Yes,” she said quietly, seeing his expression. “I’m sorry, that must have been awful for you.”

  “Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “But you know, I coped. We both had to grow up pretty quickly. Especially Zoe, what with Jamie arriving when she was so young . . .”

  “Do you know who the father is?”

  “No. And even if I did, I’d never tell,” he said abruptly.

  “Of course not. And I promise I wasn’t asking that with my journalist’s hat on.”

  “Course not.” His expression softened. “Besides, I like you whatever hat you’re wearing. Anyway, Zoe’s great, fiercely protective of those she loves and very insecure beneath that serene exterior.”

  “Aren’t we all?” Joanna breathed.

  “Yes. So, what’s the score with your love life, Miss Haslam? I detect a deep distrust of the male species lurking somewhere in your psyche.”

  “I had a long relationship with someone, which ended just after Christmas. I thought it was for life, but it wasn’t.” Joanna sipped her wine. “I’m getting over it slowly, but these things take time.”

  “At the risk of getting my head bitten off for flirting, whoever that bloke is, he’s an absolute idiot.”

  “Thanks. And the one good thing that’s come out of it is that I’ve realized I’m just not willing to change who I am to suit someone else, if you know what I mean.”

  “I do,” he said. “And you’re right not to let that happen—you’re lovely just as you are.” As the words came out of his mouth, Marcus felt a peculiar tug at his heart. “Now, I fancy one of those enormous desserts with lashings of whipped cream, chocolate sauce, and glacé cherries that you’d never see gracing the tables of London’s so-called fashionable restaurants. How about you?”

  After coffee, Joanna paid the bill and they made their way back to Haycroft House. Marcus insisted Joanna sit by the fire while he went off to the kitchen. He arrived back a few minutes later clutching a furry hot-water bottle under each arm.

  “There you go. If I can’t keep you warm, then this will have to do instead.”

  “Thanks, Marcus. I’m going to go straight up, if you don’t mind. I’m exhausted for some reason. Good night.” She moved toward him and kissed him on the cheek. He returned the kiss, dropping it lightly on her lips.

  “Night, Joanna,” he murmured.

  He watched her as she left the room, then sat down on the sofa and stared into the fire. There was just the tiniest chance, he admitted to himself, that he was actually falling in love with her.

  * * *

  Joanna closed the bedroom
door behind her. She swallowed, trying to still her heartbeat. God, she’d wanted him just then . . .

  No, this is a job, she told herself.

  It was dangerous to become emotionally involved with Marcus. Apart from the fact that he might break her heart, it might cloud her judgment, complicate things.

  Joanna took off her jeans and climbed into the big bed. And, tucking the hot-water bottle under her sweater, closed her eyes and tried to sleep.

  13

  On Saturday evening, Zoe was upstairs in her bedroom sorting out her laundry when she heard the doorbell ring. She decided to ignore it. Whoever it was, she couldn’t face them tonight. Tweaking aside the net curtain that shielded her from the busy street beneath, she looked down.

  “Oh God,” she whispered when she saw the figure standing on the doorstep. She dropped the curtain back into place quickly, but not before he’d looked up and seen her.

  The doorbell rang again.

  Zoe looked down at her tracksuit trousers and ancient sweatshirt. Her hair was piled untidily on the top of her head and she wasn’t wearing a stroke of makeup.

  “Go away,” she whispered, “please go away.”

  At the third ring Zoe leaned against the wall, her resolve crumbling, then went downstairs to open the door.

  “Hello, Art.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Sure.”

  He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Even dressed like a regular person in jeans and sweater, he was an arresting sight. Zoe couldn’t bring herself to meet his gaze.

  “What happened yesterday?” he asked. “Why did you leave Norfolk without telling me? My driver waited for you for over two hours.”

  “Art, I’m sorry, I . . .” She finally looked up into his warm green eyes. “I ran away. I was so . . . frightened.”

  “Oh, darling.” He pulled her into his arms and held her close.

  “Don’t, please, it’s wrong, we’re wrong . . .” She tried to pull away, but he held her firmly.

  “I nearly went mad when I couldn’t get through to you, when I realized you were running away again. Zoe, my Zoe”—he smoothed away the blond hair from her face—“I’ve never stopped thinking about you, wanting you, wondering why—”

  “Art . . .”

  “Zoe, Jamie’s mine, isn’t he? Isn’t he? However much you deny it, I’ve always known he was.”

  “No . . . no!”

  “It didn’t matter that you spun me some ridiculous story about another man. I didn’t believe you then and I won’t believe you now. After everything we shared together, even though we were so young, I knew you couldn’t have done that to me. I knew you loved me too much to deceive me in that way.”

  “Stop! Stop! Stop!” She was crying now, still trying to break free of his grasp, but he held her tight.

  “I have to know, Zoe. Is Jamie mine? Is he?!”

  “Yes! Jamie’s yours!” she screamed. All her energy spent, she sagged in his arms. “He’s yours.”

  “God . . .”

  They stood in the hallway, holding each other in mutual despair. Then he kissed her, first on the forehead, then on her cheeks, her nose, and eventually her mouth.

  “Have you any idea how I’ve dreamed of this moment, longed for it, prayed for it . . . ?” He caressed her ears, her neck, then in one easy movement pulled her gently to the floor.

  Afterward, as they lay in the hall in a tangle of discarded clothes, Art was the first to speak. “Zoe, forgive me. I . . .” His hands roamed the soft skin of her back, unable to stop touching her, confirming her physical presence next to him. “I love you. I always have and I always will. Listen, the car’s waiting for me outside, but please, let me see you again. I understand how impossible this is for you, for both of us, but . . . please,” he begged her again.

  She offered him his boxer shorts and his socks, silently reveling in the intimacy of seeing him put on the mundane items.

  When he was dressed, he stood up and pulled her to standing too. “There is a way, darling. For now, we just have to see each other in secret. I know it’s not how it should be, but surely we owe it to ourselves to try it for a while?”

  “I don’t know.” She leaned into his chest and sighed. “It’s Jamie . . . I’m so scared for him. I don’t want anything in his life to change. He mustn’t be affected.”

  “He won’t be, I promise. Jamie is our precious secret. And I am so very glad you told me, Zoe,” he murmured. “I love you.” He gave her a final smile, then headed for the door. With a kiss blown toward her, he opened it and was gone.

  Zoe staggered to the sitting room and sank onto the sofa. She stared into space for a while, reliving every second of the past forty-five minutes. Then the demons began threatening to invade her mental tranquility, whispering their doubts and warnings about the ramifications of breaking the promise she’d vowed to keep forever.

  No . . . Not tonight.

  She wouldn’t let the past or the present torture her. She would take this moment and wrap its pleasure and its peace around her for as long as she could.

  * * *

  Joanna woke at eight on Sunday morning, unaccustomed these days to the quiet of the countryside—no shouting from the street outside or car alarms, just silence. She allowed herself a delicious stretch in the comfortable old bed, before climbing out and dressing, then shivering her way down the stairs. She donned her coat, which hung over the banister at the bottom, and went to stir the glowing embers of yesterday’s fire, adding firelighters, tinder, and logs to try to banish the god-awful cold.

  There was so little time, she thought, staring at the boxes, and such an impossible mountain of documents still upstairs in the attic. At this rate, she’d need weeks to go through them carefully and systematically. Beginning again on the second box, she set to work.

  At eleven o’clock, Marcus finally appeared, his face creased from sleep, an eiderdown wrapped round his shoulders. Yet somehow, he still managed to look attractive.

  “Morning.”

  “Morning.” Joanna smiled up at him.

  “Been up long?”

  “Since eight.”

  “Blimey, the middle of the night. Still at it, I see.” He indicated the half-empty box next to her.

  “Yep. I’ve just found some unused clothing coupons from 1943.” She flapped the pieces of paper at him. “I wonder if Harvey Nicks would still accept them.”

  Marcus chuckled. “No, but they must be worth a few bob in their own right. I think Zoe and me’ll have to seriously wade our own way through that stuff soon. Tea? Coffee?”

  “I’d love a coffee.”

  “Right.” Marcus shuffled out in the direction of the kitchen. Joanna, in need of a break, followed him and took a seat at the old oak table.

  “I don’t think your grandfather started collecting stuff until the mid-1930s, which is a real pain, because the biographies are all very vague about his childhood and early adulthood. Do you know anything about it?”

  “Not really.” Marcus lifted the range’s hob cover and put the stovetop kettle on to boil. He sat down opposite her and lit a cigarette. “From what I know, he was born somewhere near here and ran away to London town to tread the boards at sixteen. At least that’s the folklore, anyway.”

  “I’m surprised he didn’t marry again after Grace died. Ninety-five years is a long time for just one marriage of eight years.”

  “Ah, well, that’s what true love can do for you.”

  They sat in contemplative silence for a couple of minutes until the kettle whistled from the hob and Marcus stood up to take it off and pour the hot water into a mug. “There you go.” He put a steaming coffee in front of her, and she held the mug to her chest.

  “Your poor dad, losing his mother so young.”

  “Yeah. At least I had my mum around until I was fourteen. The women in our family seem to be accident prone, while the men thrive and live to grand old ages.”

  “Don’t tell Zoe.” She took a
sip of the coffee.

  “Or any future wife of mine, for that matter,” Marcus added. “Anyway, are you going to take time out for a traditional Sunday roast, or do I have to go by myself?”

  “Marcus, you’ve only just got up! How can you even think about beer and roast beef!”

  “I was thinking of you, actually, and how hungry you must be.”

  “Really?” She raised an eyebrow. “That’s very thoughtful of you. Okay then, I’ve got enough to write a half-decent article now anyway. I was wondering, though, whether you’d allow me to take one photo that I found with me to put in the article. It’s of Sir James, with Noël Coward and Gertrude Lawrence—really atmospheric of the era. I thought the idea of having a photo of him as a young actor would mirror nicely the fact that the memorial fund is for the young actors of today. I’d send it straight back, of course.”

  “I don’t see why not. I’ll have to okay it with Zoe before you print it,” Marcus replied.

  “Thanks. Now”—Joanna stood up—“can you help me bring down another box?”

  At one o’clock, Marcus pulled Joanna to her feet and bundled her into the car, ignoring her protests.

  “How many words is this article going to be?” he asked her. “You’ve got enough for a whole bloody book! Let’s enjoy what’s left of the weekend.”

  * * *

  Joanna leaned back in her seat and gazed out the window, savoring the views of the glittering white countryside. They drove through the small town of Blandford Forum, its streets lined by tall Georgian houses, and Marcus, with a wry grin, pointed out all the pubs he had been kicked out of as a teenager. He pulled up outside a small red-brick pub with a cheerful green front door. “This place does the best Sunday roast for miles around—with the biggest Yorkshire puddings you’ve ever seen.”

  “That’s a serious promise you’re making to a Yorkshire girl,” she giggled. “I hope you can keep it.”

  After a scrumptious lunch, complete with the crispy-yet-doughy Yorkshire puddings Marcus had promised plus lashings of gravy, Joanna dragged her companion to his feet.