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Saving Grace
Carole Mortimer
Carole Mortimer is one of Mills & Boon’s best loved Modern Romance authors. With nearly 200 books published and a career spanning 35 years, Mills & Boon are thrilled to present her complete works available to download for the very first time! Rediscover old favourites - and find new ones! - in this fabulous collection…Taming the ruthless tycoon…Enigmatic property developer Jordan Somerville-Smythe is ruthless when it comes to business. So when he books in to Charlton House to check out the development potential, it’s under the pretence of being a guest.Landlady Grace Brown is as beautiful and enchanting as her country house. And Jordan is surprised by his strong reaction to her—the protectiveness he feels and the claim he wants to stake! But will Grace forgive his deceit when she discovers Jordan’s true plans for her home?
Saving Grace
Carole Mortimer
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Cover (#u2e2a68e3-be63-59b5-a45a-86445e8b6883)
Title Page (#u501507d3-b944-5d0f-8d7d-236f94405ac7)
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
EPILOGUE
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE (#u46d31959-7544-5884-8132-a04ce6692a48)
‘OUCH, Tim,’ came the wounded cry. ‘I told you not to do that!'
Silence followed the protest, and the man who had unwittingly stumbled upon the two hesitated among the undergrowth and bushes that shielded them from his view. And him from theirs.
Jordan had stopped his car and got out on to the roadside on impulse, drawn by the perfect blanket of snow in the field, the fine horse-chestnut trees in the middle of it all still weighed down by their bounty of conkers.
He wasn't even sure what had made him stop, didn't normally notice his surroundings that much. But even the most hardened cynic—and some would say he was one!—couldn't remain untouched by the beauty of the Lake District, even in November, and Jordan had finally succumbed to the perfection of this snowy-white field, pulling his car over to the side of the road before crossing over the verge and walking across the crunchy snow.
‘Tim, if you do that again, we're going home,’ that voice complained huskily.
He certainly hadn't expected to stumble across a pair of lovers in the snow! Surely they could have chosen somewhere a little more comfortable—and dry!—for their meeting?
So much for his impulse. What was that saying—he couldn't remember it exactly, but something to do with ‘stopping along the way to smell the roses'? The season was all wrong but, even so, the first time in years he had done something so completely out of character, and he almost fell over a couple of lovers in a passionate tryst!
He decided to chance a glance at the couple, trapped as he was among the foliage. He didn't want to be caught here if the couple decided to go any further in their lovemaking!
Identical red bobble-hats were pulled low over their ears to keep out the cold, blue duffel coats buttoned up to the throat, blue jeans tucked into black wellington boots.
The two boys might almost have been twins except that the one on the right was taller by at least a foot. But the faces beneath the red woollen hats were both finely drawn, almost delicate-looking, a smattering of freckles across small pointed noses. Obviously the two of them were brothers. The village of Grasmere wasn't too far from here, so they had probably escaped up here to play.
As the taller of the two boys held out a conker suspended on a piece of string, the reason for his earlier protests became obvious: his opponent, now wielding a slightly larger conker, didn't pull his punches!
Jordan felt a constriction in his chest, a yearning for—for what? he scorned himself. How could he possibly feel wistful for something that had never been his?
The larger of the brothers had his conker smashed into pieces with the first forceful strike this time, shaking his head when the younger suggested they thread another conker on to his string and have a re-match. From the look of the broken conkers at their feet, the older boy had suffered a humiliating defeat.
He pocketed the knotted string before bending down to pick up a handful of snow, quickly moulding it into shape before launching it at his unsuspecting brother.
The snowball fight that followed was fast and furious, with both opponents collapsing into each other's arms in a fit of the giggles after five minutes, their clothing, hats, and faces covered in melting snow, mittens protecting their hands from the worst of the cold.
Once again Jordan felt that tug inside, these two young boys’ pleasure in each other's company evoking feelings of deprivation inside him, feelings he had tried so hard to fight over the last two years, but which were becoming more and more difficult, rather than easier, to dampen down as time went on.
If he was honest, and it seemed he had to be, that had been one of the reasons he had wanted to get away for a while. Rhea-Jane and Raff were wonderful, couldn't have made him feel more wanted, but he was still a third person, who had to be an intrusion into the intimacy of their lives.
So he had chosen to come away on this business trip himself rather than sending one of his assistants. It was probably going to be a waste of his time, but it was a valid excuse to get away at least. He had even felt guilty about needing the excuse, knowing it was ridiculous, but Rhea-Jane, his well-meaning young sister, tended to be over-protective of him since she had married Raff, not wanting him to be on his own now that she had moved out of the home they had shared in London since their parents died. She had even gone so far—horror of horrors!—as to introduce him to several women she thought might make him a suitable wife.
He didn't want a wife, suitable—whatever that might be!—or otherwise!
But he wanted something, he was willing to acknowledge that. Something. And he didn't know what it was—just knew he had an aching inside of him, an emptiness that couldn't be filled by Rhea-Jane and Raff, or their darling daughter Diana, and certainly not by some woman presented to him as suitable wife material!
These two boys, as they played together so innocently, somehow had, for all Jordan's wealth and comfortable lifestyle, so much more than he did. But at thirty-two he could hardly expect that same anticipation of the promise of the future that such youth was bound to have. Indeed, he wondered if he had ever had it.
The two boys were brushing the snow from themselves now, their faces aglow, grinning with the satisfaction of the battle.
The older boy glanced at a watch that seemed to be hidden between the cuff of his duffel coat and the snow-damp mitt; hopefully it was a waterproof one, or he would be in trouble when he got home!
‘We had better get back.’ He spoke in a voice that, although husky, didn't seem to have broken yet, but perhaps he was a little young for that.
The younger boy made a face. ‘Oh, do we have to?’ he protested.
His brother looked regretful. ‘You know we do.'
‘I suppose so.’ The younger one sighed, not at all enthusiastic.
‘Come on,’ the older boy encouraged brightly. ‘I'll race you back!'
The challenge had no sooner been offered than it was taken up, the smaller boy turning—luckily in the opposite direction to where Jordan still stood!—and running off towards the village.
Jordan watched as his brother deliberately gave him a good head start before giving chase.
Jordan was finally able to emerge from his hiding-place, well aware that in London his behaviour would have been looked upon with suspicion. Who would understand the explanation that he had been gazing upon a stolen childhood?
Was that really what he was looking for? Of course not, he chided himself. That time had gone and could never be given back to him.
As the two boys had gone by the time he looked in the direction they had run off to. Except for their footprints in the snow, the disturbed snow from their snowball fight, they might never have been here at all.
Except that seeing them had had an effect on Jordan that couldn't be dismissed as easily. That aching emptiness inside him was becoming so vast it was starting to control him rather than the other way around.
The last thing he felt like doing was going on with the business of visiting, and being charming to, the aged spinster Miss Grace Brown. She was sure to be a fluffy old dear who couldn't even begin to deal with a businessman of his calibre, and the idea of talking her into selling the ‘ancient pile’ that had probably been in her family for generations, so that he might make it into a leisure complex, somehow now left a nasty taste in his mouth. Most of the people who knew him—or thought they did—wouldn't recognise this emotion in him at all, would think he had gone soft. And maybe he had.
He gave one last wistful glance in the direction the two boys had taken, before turning on his heel and walking purposefully back towards his parked car, the mantle of Jordan Somerville-Smythe firmly back in place.
Or almost …
CHAPTER ONE (#u46d31959-7544-5884-8132-a04ce6692a48)
MISS GRACE BROWN, when she came in answer to the jingling bell that could be heard in the depths of the house after he had pulled the bell-rope outside, was exactly as Jordan had imagined her to be from the letters she had sent to his solicitors in reply to their correspondence concerning selling her home: small and delicate, with fluffy white hair caught back in an untidy bun at her nape, sparkling—but faded in colour—blue eyes in a face that had once been beautiful, the pink twin-set accompanied by the customary string of pearls about her throat, her skirt the expected tweed, as her shoes were the expected brown brogues.
The house was as he had imagined too from the reports—huge, old, and dilapidated. But it did have extensive grounds, and a house could be renovated, made to be what you wanted it to be. As in a leisure complex …
At the moment this elderly lady ran it as a sort of boarding house, although she seemed to have only two permanent guests, with the occasional casual visitor during the summer months. There was hardly enough income there, his sources reported, to keep the place ticking over on a day-to-day basis. By the look of the threadbare carpet in the hallway behind Grace Brown, and the emulsioned rather than papered walls, that income didn't keep things ‘ticking over’ very well.
‘Good afternoon.’ She smiled up at him brightly, her movements birdlike, even her voice light and a little girlish. ‘Come in.’ She opened the door wider, turning to walk down the hallway where a light already glowed in the gloomy interior despite the efforts of the bright emulsion. ‘We've been expecting you, of course.’ She shot him another smile over her shoulder.
‘You have?’ Jordan frowned; David, his personal assistant, had already made the blunder of misplacing their main file on Charlton House and its inhabitants—if he had now also warned them of Jordan's arrival here, then Jordan had seriously misjudged him. Arriving here unannounced had been his only advantage without the benefit of that file!
‘Do come in.’ She turned at the end of the hallway to reveal a little reprovingly, ‘You're letting in a draught!'
Suitably chastened, Jordan entered the house and quickly closed the door behind him. It wasn't much warmer inside than it had been out!
Miss Brown waited for him to reach her before turning into a sitting-room, a room that was shabbily welcoming, the worn sofa and four armchairs of differing patterned brocade, the carpet in here even more threadbare than the one in the hallway, in a pattern of faded pink and cream flowers.
There was too much furniture in the room, several tables, one with a chess-set on top of it, the pieces left about the board, as if the two players had been disturbed mid-game. And yet there was no one else in the room.
A tall old-fashioned standard-lamp stood beside the chair nearest the fireplace, alight, but really adding little to the illumination of the room. An old piano, its dark brown wood scourged with scratches, stood against one wall, the lid raised above the keys, a music sheet open on its stand, again giving the impression that someone had been playing it recently but been disturbed.
A fire gleamed in the darkened fireplace, logs crackling warmly.
It was a room totally unlike any Jordan had ever been in before, and yet just being here gave him a warm feeling inside, as if he had finally come home …
Miss Brown was looking up at him curiously. ‘You're very late, you know.’ She made it a statement rather than a reprimand, smiling sweetly.
Jordan was still dazed at the strange feeling that had enveloped him as soon as he entered the house, the cut-throat world he existed in in London fading into the background as if it had never been.
‘I am?’ he said uninterestedly.
‘Very.’ She frowned. ‘Nick was sure you weren't coming,’ she added sadly.
Jordan drew his attention from the yellow flames in the fireplace with effort, resisting, for the moment at least, the sudden urge he had to stretch out in one of the armchairs and fall asleep. ‘Nick?’ he prompted, fighting to control these feelings of lethargy that was such anathema to his usual character; he hadn't taken a holiday in years, let alone felt lethargic!
She nodded, giving him a coy smile. ‘He boards here,’ she explained trilly. ‘But he's a little shy about meeting new people. He was playing the piano until you rang the doorbell. And he plays so well too,’ she added wistfully.
Jordan instantly felt as if he had deprived this sweet little woman of a special treat, realising now that Nick must be one of the permanent boarders here. ‘I'm sorry—–'
‘Don't be.’ She dismissed the mood of melancholy that had swept over her as quickly as it had first appeared, smiling again now, her emotions erratic, to say the least, Jordan decided.
His solicitors hadn't mentioned that Miss Grace Brown, as well as owning Charlton House, was also a little strange!
‘Nick will soon get used to you,’ she told him confidently, squeezing his arm reassuringly.
Jordan gave a frown; he didn't think he was going to be here long enough for anyone to ‘get used’ to him.
Which was a pity …
Even Rhea-Jane, who, as sisters went, was one of the best, couldn't help but be surprised at the unexpected feelings of homecoming he felt in this house, wouldn't understand his feelings at all. He wasn't altogether sure he did!
He straightened his shoulders beneath the navy blue overcoat that was accepted wear among his contemporaries in town, but which, he realised, looked far too formal here. ‘If we could get down to business—–'
‘Oh, you don't want to talk to me about that,’ the tiny birdlike woman told him teasingly.
Jordan's frown deepened. No one had told him that Grace Brown had a business adviser. According to the last report he had, she had flatly refused to consider any offer for her home; in fact she hadn't even wanted to hear about it.
It seemed that someone had been a little remiss all round concerning Miss Grace Brown and Charlton House!
She picked up some letters from one of the coffee-tables. ‘You'll need to talk to Grace about that,’ she smiled. ‘I have to take down the post that arrived today, so if she's in the kitchen I'll tell her you're here.'
Only one thing in that twittering speech really mattered to Jordan. ‘You aren't Grace Brown?’ He hadn't spent the last ten minutes talking to a complete stranger, had he—a stranger, moreover, who was ‘strange', in the nicest possible way, of course, but definitely a little odd, if harmless enough?
‘Goodness, no!’ She laughingly dismissed the very thought of that. ‘Although it's nice of you to think so, Mr Gregory.'
Mr Gregory? Who the hell was—–?
‘I'm Jessica Amery.’ She held out one tiny hand to be shaken. ‘But everyone calls me Jessie.'
The other permanent boarder here, Jordan realised frustratedly, deliberately keeping the grip light, afraid he might crush her fragile bones in his much stronger hand. He shook his head. ‘I think there must be—–'
‘You know,’ she gave him a rather piercing look from beneath silvery brows, releasing her hand slowly, ‘I always tend to judge a man by his handshake.'
Oh, dear, and his rather limp grasp hadn't found favour, he was sure.
But once again she had interrupted him when he had been about to correct her mistake concerning his own identity; he didn't know who this Mr Gregory was, but he certainly wasn't him. Although the mistake in identity at least explained a lot of her earlier remarks; they hadn't been meant for him at all, but for the absent Mr Gregory. The other man would probably find himself being addressed as Mr Somerville-Smythe when he did at last arrive, just to add to the confusion!
And no one deserved to be saddled with that name unless they had to be, Jordan thought with bitterness.
‘Everyone calls me Jordan,’ he invited dully, wondering how long before, or indeed if, he was going to be reconciled to the past.
‘Jordan,’ Jessie repeated brightly. ‘We all wondered what the “J” stood for,’ she nodded.
Whether from approval, he wasn't sure. But the mix-up in names seemed to be getting a little out of hand. ‘I—–'
‘Ah, I think that must be Grace now.’ Jessie tilted her head to one side as she listened to the slamming of the front door. ‘I thought she was in the kitchen preparing dinner. That means the meal is going to be late.’ She frowned. ‘Unless we're having salad. But we wouldn't be having salad on a day like this. I wonder—–'
‘Jessie. Miss Amery,’ Jordan cut in a little impatiently. Really, Jessie was charming, in small doses, and he was sure the subject of what she was being served for dinner was of interest to her; she didn't give the impression that her life was a hot-bed of new and wild experiences. But this habit she had of wandering from the point could be more than a little irritating, especially when because of it he had spent the last ten minutes believing he was talking to someone else entirely! ‘I think perhaps I ought to meet Miss Brown,’ he suggested pointedly.
‘Grace?’ Jessie blinked a little dazedly. ‘Is she here?'
‘She just came in—remember?’ Jordan prompted as muffled voices could be heard in the hallway, making a move towards the door.
‘So she did,’ the elderly lady recalled happily. ‘She will be so pleased you've arrived at last.'
And he would be glad when he could talk to someone who would understand the mistake there had been about his identity!
‘Grace? Grace!’ Jessie reached the door ahead of him, quick on her feet in spite of her years, stepping lightly out into the hallway. ‘He's here! And we were all wrong—his name is Jordan,’ she announced excitedly.
Quite what Grace Brown's initial reaction to this was Jordan had no idea, the other woman still being out in the hallway. He could only hope Miss Grace Brown wasn't as scatty as the irrepressible Jessie, or he was going to be explaining himself forever!
His eyes widened incredulously as it wasn't an elderly lady who entered the room but a young boy of about seven with a blaze of bright red hair, his gaze distinctly critical as he looked up at Jordan.
‘Jordan!’ he finally said disgustedly. ‘I said you were a Jeremy. Jessie said it had to be John—–'
‘Because it's one of my favourite names,’ the elderly lady explained dreamily.
‘Nick chose James,’ the young boy continued as if he hadn't been interrupted at all, probably used to the elderly lady's habit of deviating from the real point of the conversation, Jordan decided.
Jordan had no idea who this young boy was, but he had an appealingly impish face beneath that startling red hair, his eyes more grey than blue. ‘And what did Grace—Miss Brown—think?’ he prompted drily, prepared, for the moment, to humour the little boy. His friends in London would be astounded at his forbearance, he realised, but his time since he had arrived here had already been one of the strangest he had ever spent; why should it stop now?
‘I refused to play guessing games with something as important as a person's name,’ remarked a husky voice from the doorway.
Miss Grace Brown at last!
No, not Grace Brown but the elder brother of the two Jordan had been watching less than an hour ago …
The wellington boots had gone now, showing the denims tucked into thick black woollen socks. But the duffel coat was the same, and so was the red bobble-hat, the elfin features that so matched the younger boy's in the room the same, too, Jordan now realised.
A glance at the little boy revealed the red woollen hat stuffed into one of the pockets of his duffel coat, the dark mittens into the other.
Then where was Grace Brown? he wondered frustratedly. Even as he tried to look past the elder brother out into the hallway behind him, the boy lifted a hand and removed the red woollen hat. Jordan couldn't hold back his gasp as a riot of deep red curls fell down about the slender shoulders to surround the tiny features covered with that smattering of freckles.
Not a boy at all, but a young girl, a girl so startlingly lovely that she took Jordan's breath away!
‘But if I had made a guess—–’ the girl came further into the room, dark grey eyes thoughtful ‘—I would have said—Joshua!’ she announced with satisfaction.
Not just any young girl, it appeared, but Miss Grace Brown!
And not an elderly lady either, but a young woman of probably nineteen or twenty. He had assumed from the old-fashioned name, and the circumstances under which she lived, that Grace Brown was elderly. But he realised now that no one had actually said she was.
This young woman was ethereally lovely, long dark lashes surrounding the most beautiful smoky grey eyes he had ever seen, red hair so thick and luxuriantly lovely that Jordan had to clench his hands into fists at his sides to stop himself from reaching out and burying them in that fiery magnificence.
This simply wasn't like him. Oh, he had his relationships with women, beautiful women, but they had always been convenient arrangements for both of them, with very little actual emotion involved. He could never before remember an instantaneous response like this to any woman, let alone one who looked so delicately young.
He didn't know what was happening to him!
He didn't look like a Joshua, Grace had to admit ruefully. Not that she was sure what a Joshua would look like, but this tall, distinguished man with his expensively tailored clothing, short-styled dark hair and cobalt-blue eyes somehow wasn't a Joshua.
Because he was a Jordan. Although he looked more than capable of ‘knocking down a few walls’ if he chose to!
Grace looked at him consideringly. A stern man, she would guess by the harsh lines beside his nose and mouth. But forthright too, she would say, from the directness of that dark blue gaze. He had beautiful eyes, the darkest blue, and yet with that intense light behind them. She had seen a car that colour once, had commented on the beauty of its colour to Timothy; he had been absolutely disgusted with her for liking the colour of the car and not realising it was a Porsche! What she knew about cars, the expensive kind or any other, could be written on the back of a postage stamp.
Although as she and Timothy had walked up to the house a few minutes ago even she had recognised the sleek green model parked outside in the driveway as a Jaguar; even she knew what a Jaguar looked like. It was because Timothy had spotted the car that the two of them had come in the front door at all; they would usually have gone down the back stairs straight into the kitchen. But they had both been curious as to who their visitor was.
Jordan.
Why was he here?
There was something in the depths of his eyes, she realised compassionately, that same bewilderment she had known after the death first of her mother giving birth to Timothy, and then of her father eighteen months ago from a heart-attack. Jordan had known a similar loss; she could sense that.
He also looked a little dazed at the moment!
Jessie: darling, muddle-headed Jessie. Grace smiled fondly at the elderly lady; what had she been doing with the poor man while he waited for them to come home?
‘What are we having for dinner, Grace?’ Jessie looked at her anxiously.
Ah, so that was what they had been discussing. Or, at least, one of the things, Grace correctly read from Jordan's rueful expression. She knew herself how erratic Jessie's conversation could be, but she was a dear, none the less. And she did have a passion for her food. And why not, when her only child, a son, only ever came to see her with the intention of trying to talk her into going into a home? Food didn't hurt her. Grace smiled at the elderly lady affectionately. ‘I put a casserole in the oven before I went to collect Tim from school,’ she assured her.
Jessie's face instantly brightened. ‘You're such a warm, considerate girl, Grace. There you are, Mr Gregory—–'
‘Jordan,’ he put in abruptly.
Grace looked at him concernedly; he really was very tense. And extremely attractive, those dark blue eyes mesmerising, she had to admit. But also filled with that bewildered pain and disillusionment …
‘Oh, thank you, Jordan.’ Jessie clasped his hand warmly. ‘And you must call me Jessie,’ she invited with a coy smile. ‘And how lovely for you, now that you've at last arrived, that you should get here in time for dinner. Grace is such a wonderful cook,’ she added effusively.
‘Chicken casserole is hardly cordon bleu, Jessie,’ Grace said drily. ‘I'm sure Mr—Jordan,’ she amended at his sharp-eyed look, ‘is used to much more exciting fare—–'
‘How long before dinner is ready, Grace?’ Timothy cut in, his eyes bright.
She eyed her little brother suspiciously; he wasn't usually concerned with punctuality where meals were concerned. ‘Half an hour or so …’ she told him questioningly.
He turned excitedly to the tall man now standing beside the fireplace. ‘Would you take me for a drive in your car before dinner?'
‘Timothy!’ she gasped incredulously, looking awkwardly across the room at Jordan.
Her brother looked slightly rebellious. ‘But I've never been in a Jag, and—–'
‘Jaguar, Timothy,’ she corrected quietly, still a little taken aback at this uncharacteristic show of bad manners; obviously the lure of the thought of a drive in a Jaguar superseded everything she had tried to teach him about politeness! ‘And I'm sure Jordan would much rather go up to his room and unpack before dinner.’ She turned to the man as he watched them so intently. ‘The room has been aired, even though you are two days later than you expected to be in your original letter—–'
‘I—–'
‘But, of course, I realise you weren't a hundred per cent sure about the twenty-fifth as your day of arrival.’ She smiled to take away any rebuke he might have read into her earlier words. ‘I'm not that strict about arrival dates,’ she said, and shook her head. ‘And I don't exactly have people beating a path to the door this time of year!’ Or the rest of the year really, although they did pick up the occasional summer visitor looking for solitude rather than luxurious accommodation; the latter she certainly couldn't offer here! But Jordan was a ‘winter visitor’ in search of solitude.
Jordan looked at her wordlessly for several seconds, blue gaze piercing, flickering away with a vulnerability that was vaguely endearing. He seemed undecided. Which Grace guessed was an unfamiliar emotion to him. He had aroused her curiosity about him in spite of herself.
‘Oh, please take me for a drive in your car!’ Timothy was the one to break the silence, gazing imploringly up at Jordan. ‘I've never been in a Jaguar before,’ he added, eyes wide with anticipation, and Grace could already hear the tales he would tell his schoolfriends about the adventure in the morning.
Jordan was looking almost wistfully at Timothy now, Grace thought, her own frown thoughtful. He was an enigma, this man Jordan. And she felt an intense curiosity to know more about him.
‘Did you enjoy your snowball fight earlier?’ He was talking to Timothy now, his tone gentle.
Grace looked at him sharply, wondering how he could possibly know—she hadn't realised anyone had watched them earlier, but how else could this man know about the snowball fight if he hadn't actually seen them have it?
Timothy gave the grin of the victor. ‘Grace isn't bad at snowballing, for a girl,’ he shrugged.
‘Timothy Brown, you only won at all because you played dirty and put one down my neck!’ she rebuked good-naturedly.
Jordan watched her intently. ‘You run this house alone, Miss Brown?'
‘Grace,’ she corrected as automatically as he had earlier, knowing that what he was really asking was where her parents were, that she should have the responsibility of Timothy plus the running of a big house like this one. From the intentness of his gaze she had a feeling he had intended disarming her with the unexpectedness of the question, knew herself matched with a sharp intelligence. ‘I manage,’ she dismissed, her gaze steady.
Jordan met that gaze. ‘I'm sure you do,’ he acknowledged quietly.
She straightened. ‘And right now I had better take off the rest of these damp things and finish cooking dinner,’ she said brightly, knowing that although the two of them knew little about each other they at least understood each other; Grace was here ‘managing’ this house because circumstances had dictated that she do so, and because they had she did it with all the love and care that she could. Jordan was here for reasons of his own, but those reasons owed just as much to circumstances as her own.
Timothy was still looking up at Jordan with hopefully expectant eyes. Grace knew that look only too well, had succumbed to the pleading there too many times herself not to know it. And she could see Jordan wasn't unmoved by the pleading over-big eyes either.
‘If you would like to bring your things in from the car I'll show you up to your room …?’ she politely prompted Jordan, removing her scarf.
He was looking at her again now, indecision in the dark blue depths of his eyes. She smiled at him, knowing instinctively that the vulnerability she sensed in him wasn't a part of himself he felt able to cope with.
Grace doubted he would be able to cope with her response to that either; he didn't look as if he very often had women he was barely acquainted with throw their arms around him because they felt an overwhelming need to comfort him in whatever pain it was he was suffering!
There was an answering flicker of warmth in the dark blue depths of his eyes, although he barely smiled in response to hers. She wondered what he would look like if he ever laughed. Younger, was her instant guess. He had an air about him of someone much older than the early thirties she guessed him to be. Too much responsibility at too young an age, she surmised, wondering if she had a similar air herself.
She didn't think so, because she wasn't unhappy. And this man obviously was. Very unhappy.
‘I haven't brought much with me,’ he finally answered in measured tones. ‘But I'll bring it in after I've taken Tim for his drive,’ he added decisively.
Any reply Grace might have made to this remark was drowned out by Timothy's whoop of delight and his cries for them to go right now, this very second. Just in case Jordan should change his mind, Grace guessed with affection.
Jordan stood across the room with Timothy's hand clinging determinedly to his much larger one, awkwardly so, as if the trust in him this young child showed came as a shock. ‘Is that all right with you?’ He looked at Grace enquiringly.
‘Of course,’ she nodded, smiling at her brother as he beamed his excitement up at her. ‘Behave yourself,’ she warned indulgently.
He replied in the affirmative, but in truth it was obvious he barely heard her remark, his thoughts already transfixed on driving in the back seat of a Jaguar. Compared to the old Mini Grace drove him about in he would feel like royalty, the leather interior of the car parked outside being plush to say the least.
She watched them walk to the door together, the tall dark-haired man, and the small red-haired boy who was the centre of her world.
She had known from the day her father died so suddenly and left Timothy in her sole care that she would always do everything she could to ensure that her brother's world would be as secure as she could make it for him. As she stood and watched Jordan and Timothy walk out to the car side by side she had a vague feeling of disquiet, as if her world would never be quite the same again from this moment on …
CHAPTER TWO (#u46d31959-7544-5884-8132-a04ce6692a48)
WHAT the hell was he doing?
He should have told them exactly who he was the moment he realised the mistake there had been over identity. But something had held him back from doing that. Jordan deliberately pushed the image of dark grey eyes surrounded by long dark lashes to the back of his mind.
He was here, in Grace Brown's home—a Grace Brown who had turned out to be far from the elderly spinster he had expected to meet—under a false identity, and false pretences.
He looked about the room he had been given for his stay—or rather, J. Gregory had been given! It was as worn and faded as the rest of the house, but it was clean and comfortable, and somehow homely and welcoming.
There was another flowered carpet on the floor, green this time, cream-coloured paper on the walls, and Jordan hadn't seen a candlewick bedspread like the one on the double bed that took up most of the room for years, the convenience of duvets not seeming to have entered this old-fashioned household.
The bathroom was down the hallway, something he definitely wasn't used to, and yet he felt at home here already. Rhea and Raff were going to think he had taken leave of his senses, but he intended staying on here.
He would have to telephone them, of course, otherwise they were likely to send out a search-party after a couple of days. And, as he was here as a ‘Mr Gregory', the last thing he wanted was for them to do that.
Mr J. Gregory …
The other man had obviously changed his mind about coming here after all, and hadn't bothered to let Grace Brown know that. At least, Jordan hoped that was what had happened. He was going to look worse than ridiculous if the real Mr Gregory should turn up after all. Especially as he would then have to tell them who he really was.
Oh, hell! He should leave here now, he knew he should. And yet somehow he couldn't do it, felt at peace for the first time in a very long time. Over two years, in fact.
Two years … Since he had discovered the man whom he had always believed to be his father wasn't his father after all.
It had been the merest chance that his sister Rhea had met Raff Quinlan in the first place. Fate, Rhea called it.
And the secrets that had emerged after that meeting had shattered Jordan's world forever.
Rhea was married to Raff now, and they had a beautiful daughter Diana, with Rhea's red hair and Raff's serious charm, but for the last two years Jordan had been avoiding facing the confusion and pain he felt about even his own identity. He wasn't really Jordan Somerville-Smythe, had no right to that name, and yet, if he wasn't Jordan Somerville-Smythe, who was he?
He wasn't sure any more. The Lake District, this house, seemed a strange place to begin to find the answer to that, and yet this was the first time he had felt truly relaxed in years. He couldn't leave now even if he wanted to.
Besides, he excused his own actions, his curiosity had been well and truly aroused now. The boy, Tim, had talked incessantly when Jordan had taken him for the promised drive in his car, but he hadn't seemed to find the fact that he lived in this huge house with his sister, Jessie Amery, and the elusive Nick—the other man had still been absent when Jordan had returned with Tim a short time ago—interesting enough to go into in great detail.
It was a very strange household for a young woman of the nineteen or twenty Jordan had guessed Grace to be. A girl of those tender years should be out enjoying herself with other people her age, but Grace didn't give the impression she in the least resented the responsibilities she had.
In fact, she had a calmness and serenity that Jordan envied …
* * *
What a strange mixture of contradictions her new boarder was, Grace mused as she set the dinner out on the big tray ready to take upstairs to the dining-room—where hopefully Timothy would have laid the table for their meal by now.
Jordan looked a stern, uncompromising man, as if he wouldn't suffer fools gladly, and yet he had given in to the whim of a child good-naturedly enough. Timothy hadn't yet been able to stop his bubbling excitement over being driven about in a Jaguar, his face aglow still with the pleasure of it.
When she had shown Jordan into his room a short time ago she had been quite able to see its clean shabbiness through his eyes, knew from the very look of him that this couldn't be the class of place he was used to staying in.
And yet she also knew, instinctively, that he didn't want to leave.
She only hoped his presence here wasn't going to be too disruptive to the rest of the household, wondered, curiously, what he and Nick were going to make of each other.
Jessie was already seated at the dining-room table when Grace entered with the laden tray, and Grace knew it wasn't that the elderly lady was particularly greedy, or even that she would eat a lot of the meal anyway—her appetite was birdlike—it was just that mealtimes were the most sociable times of the day for Jessie, who spent a lot of her time alone. Nick kept to his room a lot, Timothy was at school during the day, and Grace had her part-time job at the library to go to every morning during the week and had work to catch up on when she was at home. Breakfast and dinner were really the only times all of them were together.
She smiled at Jessie. ‘Ready at la—–’ She broke off with a start as Jordan stepped out of the shadow of the bay-window across the room, her smile returning as she realised who it was.
He still wore the trousers to the suit he had been wearing earlier, and the cream shirt, but he had pulled on an Aran sweater over the latter, emphasising the fitness of his body, and darkening his skin.
From the small overnight bag he had finally brought in with him Grace had a feeling the Aran jumper was the only other clothing he had brought with him, giving the impression he hadn't intended staying long. The thought made her frown.
‘Is something wrong?'
She looked up to find Jordan watching her intently, doing her best to shake off the sudden heaviness that seemed to have descended over her mood. It was ridiculous, she didn't even know this man, so why should the thought of his leaving have any effect on her?
Because he was another of her lame ducks, her father would have pointed out affectionately. As a child she had always been bringing home birds and animals that had been abandoned or injured, taking care of them until they could fend for themselves.
It had been a trait her father had believed she had carried on into adulthood, pointing out Jessie as a prime example of her compassion. And maybe she was, Jessie's son Peter making no secret of where he thought she should live, but Jordan hardly fitted into the same category. Although perhaps he did in a different way; she didn't think she was wrong about the emotional pain she glimpsed in his eyes at unguarded moments.
‘No, nothing,’ she answered him brightly, straightening. ‘I'm glad you seem to be finding your way about the house so easily.’ She had a feeling there was very little that this man wasn't completely in control of in his life!
He shrugged, as if to say he had found no difficulty with the problem. As, indeed, he probably hadn't, Grace acknowledged ruefully.
She frowned as she set the food dishes down the centre of the table so that they might each help themselves to what they wanted of the casserole and vegetables. ‘Timothy seems to have missed laying a place—–'
‘Nick won't be coming down to dinner,’ Jessie told her disappointedly—Nick being a favourite with her, she had tidied her hair and powdered her cheeks before coming down for the meal.
Grace couldn't say she was surprised at Nick's decision, had half guessed what would happen when he had made himself scarce on Jordan's arrival.
She put one of the warmed plates back on the tray, starting to take the lids off the steaming bowls of food. ‘Timothy?’ she called as she began, absently, to spoon food on to the plate she had put back on the tray.
‘I'm here, Grace.’ He came bouncing into the room with his usual energy.
‘Hands washed?’ She arched dark brows teasingly.
‘Yep,’ he grinned.
She glanced up with a conspiratorial smile for the other adults in the room, noticing as she did so that Jordan was watching her as she put the chicken casserole and accompanying vegetables on the plate. ‘For Nick,’ she explained awkwardly, instantly wondering at this need she felt to explain herself to this man. ‘He—often eats alone,’ she added dismissively. ‘Although I don't make a habit of providing food in the rooms,’ she was quick to add, not wanting there to be two of them she ran up and down the stairs after. Nick was different.
Jordan nodded non-committally. ‘Then I should take it up while it's hot.'
For some reason she felt irritated as she carried the tray up the stairs to Nick's room. It hadn't been so much what Jordan had said as the way he had said it. A man accustomed to giving orders and expecting them to be obeyed unquestioningly.
As she had just done!
Jordan was feeling more and more curious about the man Nick. Timothy had mentioned the other man a couple of times when they had gone for their drive before dinner—nothing specific, but it was significant enough, it seemed to Jordan, that the other man should have been mentioned at all.
And now Grace was running up the stairs with the other man's meal on a tray because he had decided he ‘wasn't coming down to dinner'.
It was the idea of Grace having to do such menial tasks that Jordan found he didn't like. Which was ridiculous; he was probably the reason the elderly man had disappeared into his bedroom in the first place!
He gave Grace a rueful smile when she came back into the room to have her own dinner, although even as he did so he realised she couldn't possibly know the stupidity of his thoughts. The smile felt unfamiliar, and he realised it was the first relaxed smile he had given anyone for months. By the widening of Grace's calm grey eyes that was an easily recognisable fact!
‘Could I use your telephone after the meal?’ He decided to change the subject altogether, knowing he would have to telephone Rhea and Raff tonight or they would worry he hadn't arrived safely. He had only brought an overnight case with him—a fact he was sure Grace had noticed earlier!—and so the other couple would be expecting him back some time tomorrow at the latest. He would have to let them know of his change of plan, of his intention of taking a holiday in the Lake District.
‘Of course,’ Grace confirmed instantly. ‘Timothy, don't do that with your potato, dear,’ she turned to scold gently.
Jordan watched her firm gentleness with the small boy, realising it was an occupation he could become fond of.
He must be getting senile!
Maybe he needed this holiday more than he had realised. He certainly was in a reflective mood today, for him.
But the food was good, even if the conversation did consist mainly of Timothy's questioning as to his opinion on one fast car after another. Never having owned any of the exclusive models the little boy mentioned, his opinion was an unlearned one, much to Timothy's obvious disgust. He could see by the end of the meal that he had fallen a couple of notches in the little boy's estimation.
Strangely, that mattered to him very much …
His experience with children was limited to his niece Diana, but, as she was only fifteen months old, and the admiration he felt for her was more than returned, it wasn't a very good example. Timothy, for all that he was only seven years old—another snippet of information he had given Jordan on that short drive out!—was an intelligent and discerning little boy. And, for reasons Jordan couldn't even begin to explain to himself, he wanted the two of them to get on together.
Although if he stayed on at Charlton House long, enjoying Grace's delicious cooking, he was going to put on weight!
Even at the leisure complex which Raff had made of his home, and which he and Rhea ran together, as a family they tended to eat in the hotel restaurant for convenience, and so it was months since Jordan had enjoyed the luxury of a home-cooked meal. Grace's chicken casserole had reminded him of just how good it could be.
‘The telephone is in the small room, next to the sitting-room, that I use as an office,’ Grace informed him as she stood up to clear away after the meal.
Jordan stood up too. ‘I'll help you do this first—–'
She was shaking her head even as he began to gather up the plates, firmly taking them from him. ‘You're a guest here, Mr—Jordan,’ she amended at his fierce look. ‘This is what you pay your rent for,’ she added dismissively.
And a very small amount it was too, he had learnt earlier. Jordan found it incredible to believe Grace could make any money at all from the small payment she asked for overnight accommodation and meals.
A house like this must have ten or twelve bedrooms already, and would benefit greatly by extension—could be worth a small gold-mine if it were renovated properly and run on a more businesslike basis.
His wandering thoughts had brought him back to the reason he had come to Charlton House at all. He and Raff, business partners in the luxury complex Raff had made of Quinlan House, had been searching around for another suitable house with grounds to make into a similar venture. His own personal assistant, given the task of seeking out such a property, had come up with Charlton House in the Lake District. Unfortunately, their advances to Grace Brown about selling the house to Quinlan Leisure, the name of the company Jordan and Raff ran the business under, had been rejected with a haste that had seemed pretty final. Not to be put off, Jordan had continued to correspond with Miss Grace Brown through his solicitors. She had remained adamant in her decision not to sell, which was when Jordan had decided to come up here himself to talk to her.
Taking on a false identity, which was sure to be misconstrued if discovered, seemed to have put an end to any negotiations he might have pursued in that direction himself. But for the moment he didn't care, felt more at peace with himself than he had for a long time. There was just Raff and Rhea's minds to put at rest and then he could forget about business completely for a while. Who knew? He might even start to enjoy life again. Now that would be a novelty!
‘If you're sure …’ he accepted politely, much more interested in going in search of the ‘office', he had to admit.
It wasn't so much an office as a private sitting-room, had the charm and neatness of Grace Brown stamped all over it. Not that the furniture or the décor in here were any more luxurious than in the room next door, because if anything the floral-covered sofa and armchair in here looked older than the furniture in the adjoining room. But they were clean, completely neat and tidy, as was the sideboard bearing several photographs, and the small dining-table Grace seemed to use as her desk, from the look of the neat piles of correspondence upon its surface. Jordan wouldn't be at all surprised if the half-dozen or so letters sent through his solicitor didn't sit among this number.
Sitting neatly in the middle of the table was the sought-after telephone. But it was to the sideboard bearing the photographs that Jordan went. There were several photographs of Tim, instantly recognisable, from babyhood up, and, next to these, formal photographs of a man with hair as bright a red as his two offspring—for this surely had to be Grace's father—and he was laughing down into the face of the woman who stood at his side, a woman with Grace's face and yet somehow different: her mother and father, Jordan knew without a doubt.
On the other side of these was a display of ones of Grace Brown from babyhood through to adolescence and on up to the present day. In at least two of these—it was exactly two, Jordan knew without hesitation!—a tall, blond-haired man stood at her side. Tall and blond, handsome in a rakish way, several years older than Jordan himself, vaguely familiar, as if Jordan should recognise him, and yet he didn't.
What was he doing in the photographs with Grace? Could he be her boyfriend? Jordan frowned at this possibility.
‘Did you manage to find the telephone?'
He turned with a guilty start at the husky sound of Grace's voice, although she didn't look accusing, just curious.
‘The pictures of Timothy caught my attention,’ he excused with a shrug—although it must be obvious to Grace that he hadn't been standing anywhere near the photographs of Timothy when she entered the room! ‘He's a lovely child.'
‘Yes,’ she acknowledged indulgently, moving further into the room to pick up one of the earlier photographs of her brother. ‘He was a good baby too,’ she reminisced, remembering the fun she and her father had had with the contented baby Timothy had been; it had been an outlet they had both needed after the death of her mother.
Jordan looked at her as she stood bent over the photographs, lost in memories he couldn't even begin to guess at, let alone share, her face given a warm glow from the light given off by the small lamp that stood on the sideboard.
She looked very young and vulnerable at that moment, no more than a child herself, certainly not capable of carrying all the responsibilities she seemed to have. Jordan wanted to take her in his arms and relieve her of all those responsibilities, wanted to smooth that frown from between her eyes, wanted to kiss the soft peach of those slightly parted lips—what the hell …?
Grace looked up, misunderstanding the scowl on his face, putting the photograph down with a thud. ‘I'll leave you to make your call,’ she excused, turning to leave.
Jordan was too dazed by his unexpected response to her seconds ago to try and stop her!
Oh, he wasn't as cold and removed from human need as his sister seemed to think he was, had been attracted to women, desired them, made love to them. But that attraction had always been to women, moreover women who knew exactly what sort of relationship he required of them, the relationship always terminating amicably, with perhaps an expensive gift of jewellery on his part to soften the blow of parting. These affairs had been games, with both players knowing the rules.
Grace Brown wasn't a player.
She wasn't even a woman, merely a vulnerable young girl. But a few minutes ago he had wanted her with a fierceness he could never remember experiencing before! His hand shook slightly as he reached out to pick up the receiver, needing contact with his normal life.
He should really leave here now—that would be the best thing to do before he became any more embroiled in Grace Brown's life. Before he couldn't control that desire he had had to take her in his arms and kiss her until they were both breathless.
Rhea answered the call on the private line at Quinlan House, her voice warm with recognition once he had said hello, the contentment she had found as Raff's wife evident even over the telephone. ‘How did you get on?’ she prompted interestedly.
‘Fine,’ Jordan evaded.
‘And Miss Brown, is she—–?'
‘We'll talk about it when I get home,’ he cut in curtly.
‘OK,’ his sister accepted easily, used to his abrupt ways.
‘The thing is …’ he continued. No, Jordan, no, he anxiously instructed himself. Tell Rhea you'll be back tomorrow, as originally planned, that you'll be back in time for lunch, dinner at the latest. ‘I've decided not to come straight back,’ he heard himself add lightly. ‘I thought I might take a short holiday up here.'
He should leave now. Not tomorrow. Not in a few days’ time. But now. He knew he should leave.
‘We've been telling you for months to take a holiday,’ Rhea said with warm approval. ‘But isn't the weather a little cold up at the Lakes this time of year?'
‘Possibly,’ he accepted non-committally. ‘But I need the break more than the warm weather.’ But not here, he was desperately telling himself inside his head. Not anywhere near Grace Brown!
‘Yes, but—–'
‘Rhea,’ he cut in tersely, ‘unlike you when you decided to flit off and not tell anyone—least of all me—where you were going, I am
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Carole Mortimer
Carole Mortimer is one of Mills & Boon’s best loved Modern Romance authors. With nearly 200 books published and a career spanning 35 years, Mills & Boon are thrilled to present her complete works available to download for the very first time! Rediscover old favourites - and find new ones! - in this fabulous collection…Taming the ruthless tycoon…Enigmatic property developer Jordan Somerville-Smythe is ruthless when it comes to business. So when he books in to Charlton House to check out the development potential, it’s under the pretence of being a guest.Landlady Grace Brown is as beautiful and enchanting as her country house. And Jordan is surprised by his strong reaction to her—the protectiveness he feels and the claim he wants to stake! But will Grace forgive his deceit when she discovers Jordan’s true plans for her home?
Saving Grace
Carole Mortimer
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Cover (#u2e2a68e3-be63-59b5-a45a-86445e8b6883)
Title Page (#u501507d3-b944-5d0f-8d7d-236f94405ac7)
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
EPILOGUE
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE (#u46d31959-7544-5884-8132-a04ce6692a48)
‘OUCH, Tim,’ came the wounded cry. ‘I told you not to do that!'
Silence followed the protest, and the man who had unwittingly stumbled upon the two hesitated among the undergrowth and bushes that shielded them from his view. And him from theirs.
Jordan had stopped his car and got out on to the roadside on impulse, drawn by the perfect blanket of snow in the field, the fine horse-chestnut trees in the middle of it all still weighed down by their bounty of conkers.
He wasn't even sure what had made him stop, didn't normally notice his surroundings that much. But even the most hardened cynic—and some would say he was one!—couldn't remain untouched by the beauty of the Lake District, even in November, and Jordan had finally succumbed to the perfection of this snowy-white field, pulling his car over to the side of the road before crossing over the verge and walking across the crunchy snow.
‘Tim, if you do that again, we're going home,’ that voice complained huskily.
He certainly hadn't expected to stumble across a pair of lovers in the snow! Surely they could have chosen somewhere a little more comfortable—and dry!—for their meeting?
So much for his impulse. What was that saying—he couldn't remember it exactly, but something to do with ‘stopping along the way to smell the roses'? The season was all wrong but, even so, the first time in years he had done something so completely out of character, and he almost fell over a couple of lovers in a passionate tryst!
He decided to chance a glance at the couple, trapped as he was among the foliage. He didn't want to be caught here if the couple decided to go any further in their lovemaking!
Identical red bobble-hats were pulled low over their ears to keep out the cold, blue duffel coats buttoned up to the throat, blue jeans tucked into black wellington boots.
The two boys might almost have been twins except that the one on the right was taller by at least a foot. But the faces beneath the red woollen hats were both finely drawn, almost delicate-looking, a smattering of freckles across small pointed noses. Obviously the two of them were brothers. The village of Grasmere wasn't too far from here, so they had probably escaped up here to play.
As the taller of the two boys held out a conker suspended on a piece of string, the reason for his earlier protests became obvious: his opponent, now wielding a slightly larger conker, didn't pull his punches!
Jordan felt a constriction in his chest, a yearning for—for what? he scorned himself. How could he possibly feel wistful for something that had never been his?
The larger of the brothers had his conker smashed into pieces with the first forceful strike this time, shaking his head when the younger suggested they thread another conker on to his string and have a re-match. From the look of the broken conkers at their feet, the older boy had suffered a humiliating defeat.
He pocketed the knotted string before bending down to pick up a handful of snow, quickly moulding it into shape before launching it at his unsuspecting brother.
The snowball fight that followed was fast and furious, with both opponents collapsing into each other's arms in a fit of the giggles after five minutes, their clothing, hats, and faces covered in melting snow, mittens protecting their hands from the worst of the cold.
Once again Jordan felt that tug inside, these two young boys’ pleasure in each other's company evoking feelings of deprivation inside him, feelings he had tried so hard to fight over the last two years, but which were becoming more and more difficult, rather than easier, to dampen down as time went on.
If he was honest, and it seemed he had to be, that had been one of the reasons he had wanted to get away for a while. Rhea-Jane and Raff were wonderful, couldn't have made him feel more wanted, but he was still a third person, who had to be an intrusion into the intimacy of their lives.
So he had chosen to come away on this business trip himself rather than sending one of his assistants. It was probably going to be a waste of his time, but it was a valid excuse to get away at least. He had even felt guilty about needing the excuse, knowing it was ridiculous, but Rhea-Jane, his well-meaning young sister, tended to be over-protective of him since she had married Raff, not wanting him to be on his own now that she had moved out of the home they had shared in London since their parents died. She had even gone so far—horror of horrors!—as to introduce him to several women she thought might make him a suitable wife.
He didn't want a wife, suitable—whatever that might be!—or otherwise!
But he wanted something, he was willing to acknowledge that. Something. And he didn't know what it was—just knew he had an aching inside of him, an emptiness that couldn't be filled by Rhea-Jane and Raff, or their darling daughter Diana, and certainly not by some woman presented to him as suitable wife material!
These two boys, as they played together so innocently, somehow had, for all Jordan's wealth and comfortable lifestyle, so much more than he did. But at thirty-two he could hardly expect that same anticipation of the promise of the future that such youth was bound to have. Indeed, he wondered if he had ever had it.
The two boys were brushing the snow from themselves now, their faces aglow, grinning with the satisfaction of the battle.
The older boy glanced at a watch that seemed to be hidden between the cuff of his duffel coat and the snow-damp mitt; hopefully it was a waterproof one, or he would be in trouble when he got home!
‘We had better get back.’ He spoke in a voice that, although husky, didn't seem to have broken yet, but perhaps he was a little young for that.
The younger boy made a face. ‘Oh, do we have to?’ he protested.
His brother looked regretful. ‘You know we do.'
‘I suppose so.’ The younger one sighed, not at all enthusiastic.
‘Come on,’ the older boy encouraged brightly. ‘I'll race you back!'
The challenge had no sooner been offered than it was taken up, the smaller boy turning—luckily in the opposite direction to where Jordan still stood!—and running off towards the village.
Jordan watched as his brother deliberately gave him a good head start before giving chase.
Jordan was finally able to emerge from his hiding-place, well aware that in London his behaviour would have been looked upon with suspicion. Who would understand the explanation that he had been gazing upon a stolen childhood?
Was that really what he was looking for? Of course not, he chided himself. That time had gone and could never be given back to him.
As the two boys had gone by the time he looked in the direction they had run off to. Except for their footprints in the snow, the disturbed snow from their snowball fight, they might never have been here at all.
Except that seeing them had had an effect on Jordan that couldn't be dismissed as easily. That aching emptiness inside him was becoming so vast it was starting to control him rather than the other way around.
The last thing he felt like doing was going on with the business of visiting, and being charming to, the aged spinster Miss Grace Brown. She was sure to be a fluffy old dear who couldn't even begin to deal with a businessman of his calibre, and the idea of talking her into selling the ‘ancient pile’ that had probably been in her family for generations, so that he might make it into a leisure complex, somehow now left a nasty taste in his mouth. Most of the people who knew him—or thought they did—wouldn't recognise this emotion in him at all, would think he had gone soft. And maybe he had.
He gave one last wistful glance in the direction the two boys had taken, before turning on his heel and walking purposefully back towards his parked car, the mantle of Jordan Somerville-Smythe firmly back in place.
Or almost …
CHAPTER ONE (#u46d31959-7544-5884-8132-a04ce6692a48)
MISS GRACE BROWN, when she came in answer to the jingling bell that could be heard in the depths of the house after he had pulled the bell-rope outside, was exactly as Jordan had imagined her to be from the letters she had sent to his solicitors in reply to their correspondence concerning selling her home: small and delicate, with fluffy white hair caught back in an untidy bun at her nape, sparkling—but faded in colour—blue eyes in a face that had once been beautiful, the pink twin-set accompanied by the customary string of pearls about her throat, her skirt the expected tweed, as her shoes were the expected brown brogues.
The house was as he had imagined too from the reports—huge, old, and dilapidated. But it did have extensive grounds, and a house could be renovated, made to be what you wanted it to be. As in a leisure complex …
At the moment this elderly lady ran it as a sort of boarding house, although she seemed to have only two permanent guests, with the occasional casual visitor during the summer months. There was hardly enough income there, his sources reported, to keep the place ticking over on a day-to-day basis. By the look of the threadbare carpet in the hallway behind Grace Brown, and the emulsioned rather than papered walls, that income didn't keep things ‘ticking over’ very well.
‘Good afternoon.’ She smiled up at him brightly, her movements birdlike, even her voice light and a little girlish. ‘Come in.’ She opened the door wider, turning to walk down the hallway where a light already glowed in the gloomy interior despite the efforts of the bright emulsion. ‘We've been expecting you, of course.’ She shot him another smile over her shoulder.
‘You have?’ Jordan frowned; David, his personal assistant, had already made the blunder of misplacing their main file on Charlton House and its inhabitants—if he had now also warned them of Jordan's arrival here, then Jordan had seriously misjudged him. Arriving here unannounced had been his only advantage without the benefit of that file!
‘Do come in.’ She turned at the end of the hallway to reveal a little reprovingly, ‘You're letting in a draught!'
Suitably chastened, Jordan entered the house and quickly closed the door behind him. It wasn't much warmer inside than it had been out!
Miss Brown waited for him to reach her before turning into a sitting-room, a room that was shabbily welcoming, the worn sofa and four armchairs of differing patterned brocade, the carpet in here even more threadbare than the one in the hallway, in a pattern of faded pink and cream flowers.
There was too much furniture in the room, several tables, one with a chess-set on top of it, the pieces left about the board, as if the two players had been disturbed mid-game. And yet there was no one else in the room.
A tall old-fashioned standard-lamp stood beside the chair nearest the fireplace, alight, but really adding little to the illumination of the room. An old piano, its dark brown wood scourged with scratches, stood against one wall, the lid raised above the keys, a music sheet open on its stand, again giving the impression that someone had been playing it recently but been disturbed.
A fire gleamed in the darkened fireplace, logs crackling warmly.
It was a room totally unlike any Jordan had ever been in before, and yet just being here gave him a warm feeling inside, as if he had finally come home …
Miss Brown was looking up at him curiously. ‘You're very late, you know.’ She made it a statement rather than a reprimand, smiling sweetly.
Jordan was still dazed at the strange feeling that had enveloped him as soon as he entered the house, the cut-throat world he existed in in London fading into the background as if it had never been.
‘I am?’ he said uninterestedly.
‘Very.’ She frowned. ‘Nick was sure you weren't coming,’ she added sadly.
Jordan drew his attention from the yellow flames in the fireplace with effort, resisting, for the moment at least, the sudden urge he had to stretch out in one of the armchairs and fall asleep. ‘Nick?’ he prompted, fighting to control these feelings of lethargy that was such anathema to his usual character; he hadn't taken a holiday in years, let alone felt lethargic!
She nodded, giving him a coy smile. ‘He boards here,’ she explained trilly. ‘But he's a little shy about meeting new people. He was playing the piano until you rang the doorbell. And he plays so well too,’ she added wistfully.
Jordan instantly felt as if he had deprived this sweet little woman of a special treat, realising now that Nick must be one of the permanent boarders here. ‘I'm sorry—–'
‘Don't be.’ She dismissed the mood of melancholy that had swept over her as quickly as it had first appeared, smiling again now, her emotions erratic, to say the least, Jordan decided.
His solicitors hadn't mentioned that Miss Grace Brown, as well as owning Charlton House, was also a little strange!
‘Nick will soon get used to you,’ she told him confidently, squeezing his arm reassuringly.
Jordan gave a frown; he didn't think he was going to be here long enough for anyone to ‘get used’ to him.
Which was a pity …
Even Rhea-Jane, who, as sisters went, was one of the best, couldn't help but be surprised at the unexpected feelings of homecoming he felt in this house, wouldn't understand his feelings at all. He wasn't altogether sure he did!
He straightened his shoulders beneath the navy blue overcoat that was accepted wear among his contemporaries in town, but which, he realised, looked far too formal here. ‘If we could get down to business—–'
‘Oh, you don't want to talk to me about that,’ the tiny birdlike woman told him teasingly.
Jordan's frown deepened. No one had told him that Grace Brown had a business adviser. According to the last report he had, she had flatly refused to consider any offer for her home; in fact she hadn't even wanted to hear about it.
It seemed that someone had been a little remiss all round concerning Miss Grace Brown and Charlton House!
She picked up some letters from one of the coffee-tables. ‘You'll need to talk to Grace about that,’ she smiled. ‘I have to take down the post that arrived today, so if she's in the kitchen I'll tell her you're here.'
Only one thing in that twittering speech really mattered to Jordan. ‘You aren't Grace Brown?’ He hadn't spent the last ten minutes talking to a complete stranger, had he—a stranger, moreover, who was ‘strange', in the nicest possible way, of course, but definitely a little odd, if harmless enough?
‘Goodness, no!’ She laughingly dismissed the very thought of that. ‘Although it's nice of you to think so, Mr Gregory.'
Mr Gregory? Who the hell was—–?
‘I'm Jessica Amery.’ She held out one tiny hand to be shaken. ‘But everyone calls me Jessie.'
The other permanent boarder here, Jordan realised frustratedly, deliberately keeping the grip light, afraid he might crush her fragile bones in his much stronger hand. He shook his head. ‘I think there must be—–'
‘You know,’ she gave him a rather piercing look from beneath silvery brows, releasing her hand slowly, ‘I always tend to judge a man by his handshake.'
Oh, dear, and his rather limp grasp hadn't found favour, he was sure.
But once again she had interrupted him when he had been about to correct her mistake concerning his own identity; he didn't know who this Mr Gregory was, but he certainly wasn't him. Although the mistake in identity at least explained a lot of her earlier remarks; they hadn't been meant for him at all, but for the absent Mr Gregory. The other man would probably find himself being addressed as Mr Somerville-Smythe when he did at last arrive, just to add to the confusion!
And no one deserved to be saddled with that name unless they had to be, Jordan thought with bitterness.
‘Everyone calls me Jordan,’ he invited dully, wondering how long before, or indeed if, he was going to be reconciled to the past.
‘Jordan,’ Jessie repeated brightly. ‘We all wondered what the “J” stood for,’ she nodded.
Whether from approval, he wasn't sure. But the mix-up in names seemed to be getting a little out of hand. ‘I—–'
‘Ah, I think that must be Grace now.’ Jessie tilted her head to one side as she listened to the slamming of the front door. ‘I thought she was in the kitchen preparing dinner. That means the meal is going to be late.’ She frowned. ‘Unless we're having salad. But we wouldn't be having salad on a day like this. I wonder—–'
‘Jessie. Miss Amery,’ Jordan cut in a little impatiently. Really, Jessie was charming, in small doses, and he was sure the subject of what she was being served for dinner was of interest to her; she didn't give the impression that her life was a hot-bed of new and wild experiences. But this habit she had of wandering from the point could be more than a little irritating, especially when because of it he had spent the last ten minutes believing he was talking to someone else entirely! ‘I think perhaps I ought to meet Miss Brown,’ he suggested pointedly.
‘Grace?’ Jessie blinked a little dazedly. ‘Is she here?'
‘She just came in—remember?’ Jordan prompted as muffled voices could be heard in the hallway, making a move towards the door.
‘So she did,’ the elderly lady recalled happily. ‘She will be so pleased you've arrived at last.'
And he would be glad when he could talk to someone who would understand the mistake there had been about his identity!
‘Grace? Grace!’ Jessie reached the door ahead of him, quick on her feet in spite of her years, stepping lightly out into the hallway. ‘He's here! And we were all wrong—his name is Jordan,’ she announced excitedly.
Quite what Grace Brown's initial reaction to this was Jordan had no idea, the other woman still being out in the hallway. He could only hope Miss Grace Brown wasn't as scatty as the irrepressible Jessie, or he was going to be explaining himself forever!
His eyes widened incredulously as it wasn't an elderly lady who entered the room but a young boy of about seven with a blaze of bright red hair, his gaze distinctly critical as he looked up at Jordan.
‘Jordan!’ he finally said disgustedly. ‘I said you were a Jeremy. Jessie said it had to be John—–'
‘Because it's one of my favourite names,’ the elderly lady explained dreamily.
‘Nick chose James,’ the young boy continued as if he hadn't been interrupted at all, probably used to the elderly lady's habit of deviating from the real point of the conversation, Jordan decided.
Jordan had no idea who this young boy was, but he had an appealingly impish face beneath that startling red hair, his eyes more grey than blue. ‘And what did Grace—Miss Brown—think?’ he prompted drily, prepared, for the moment, to humour the little boy. His friends in London would be astounded at his forbearance, he realised, but his time since he had arrived here had already been one of the strangest he had ever spent; why should it stop now?
‘I refused to play guessing games with something as important as a person's name,’ remarked a husky voice from the doorway.
Miss Grace Brown at last!
No, not Grace Brown but the elder brother of the two Jordan had been watching less than an hour ago …
The wellington boots had gone now, showing the denims tucked into thick black woollen socks. But the duffel coat was the same, and so was the red bobble-hat, the elfin features that so matched the younger boy's in the room the same, too, Jordan now realised.
A glance at the little boy revealed the red woollen hat stuffed into one of the pockets of his duffel coat, the dark mittens into the other.
Then where was Grace Brown? he wondered frustratedly. Even as he tried to look past the elder brother out into the hallway behind him, the boy lifted a hand and removed the red woollen hat. Jordan couldn't hold back his gasp as a riot of deep red curls fell down about the slender shoulders to surround the tiny features covered with that smattering of freckles.
Not a boy at all, but a young girl, a girl so startlingly lovely that she took Jordan's breath away!
‘But if I had made a guess—–’ the girl came further into the room, dark grey eyes thoughtful ‘—I would have said—Joshua!’ she announced with satisfaction.
Not just any young girl, it appeared, but Miss Grace Brown!
And not an elderly lady either, but a young woman of probably nineteen or twenty. He had assumed from the old-fashioned name, and the circumstances under which she lived, that Grace Brown was elderly. But he realised now that no one had actually said she was.
This young woman was ethereally lovely, long dark lashes surrounding the most beautiful smoky grey eyes he had ever seen, red hair so thick and luxuriantly lovely that Jordan had to clench his hands into fists at his sides to stop himself from reaching out and burying them in that fiery magnificence.
This simply wasn't like him. Oh, he had his relationships with women, beautiful women, but they had always been convenient arrangements for both of them, with very little actual emotion involved. He could never before remember an instantaneous response like this to any woman, let alone one who looked so delicately young.
He didn't know what was happening to him!
He didn't look like a Joshua, Grace had to admit ruefully. Not that she was sure what a Joshua would look like, but this tall, distinguished man with his expensively tailored clothing, short-styled dark hair and cobalt-blue eyes somehow wasn't a Joshua.
Because he was a Jordan. Although he looked more than capable of ‘knocking down a few walls’ if he chose to!
Grace looked at him consideringly. A stern man, she would guess by the harsh lines beside his nose and mouth. But forthright too, she would say, from the directness of that dark blue gaze. He had beautiful eyes, the darkest blue, and yet with that intense light behind them. She had seen a car that colour once, had commented on the beauty of its colour to Timothy; he had been absolutely disgusted with her for liking the colour of the car and not realising it was a Porsche! What she knew about cars, the expensive kind or any other, could be written on the back of a postage stamp.
Although as she and Timothy had walked up to the house a few minutes ago even she had recognised the sleek green model parked outside in the driveway as a Jaguar; even she knew what a Jaguar looked like. It was because Timothy had spotted the car that the two of them had come in the front door at all; they would usually have gone down the back stairs straight into the kitchen. But they had both been curious as to who their visitor was.
Jordan.
Why was he here?
There was something in the depths of his eyes, she realised compassionately, that same bewilderment she had known after the death first of her mother giving birth to Timothy, and then of her father eighteen months ago from a heart-attack. Jordan had known a similar loss; she could sense that.
He also looked a little dazed at the moment!
Jessie: darling, muddle-headed Jessie. Grace smiled fondly at the elderly lady; what had she been doing with the poor man while he waited for them to come home?
‘What are we having for dinner, Grace?’ Jessie looked at her anxiously.
Ah, so that was what they had been discussing. Or, at least, one of the things, Grace correctly read from Jordan's rueful expression. She knew herself how erratic Jessie's conversation could be, but she was a dear, none the less. And she did have a passion for her food. And why not, when her only child, a son, only ever came to see her with the intention of trying to talk her into going into a home? Food didn't hurt her. Grace smiled at the elderly lady affectionately. ‘I put a casserole in the oven before I went to collect Tim from school,’ she assured her.
Jessie's face instantly brightened. ‘You're such a warm, considerate girl, Grace. There you are, Mr Gregory—–'
‘Jordan,’ he put in abruptly.
Grace looked at him concernedly; he really was very tense. And extremely attractive, those dark blue eyes mesmerising, she had to admit. But also filled with that bewildered pain and disillusionment …
‘Oh, thank you, Jordan.’ Jessie clasped his hand warmly. ‘And you must call me Jessie,’ she invited with a coy smile. ‘And how lovely for you, now that you've at last arrived, that you should get here in time for dinner. Grace is such a wonderful cook,’ she added effusively.
‘Chicken casserole is hardly cordon bleu, Jessie,’ Grace said drily. ‘I'm sure Mr—Jordan,’ she amended at his sharp-eyed look, ‘is used to much more exciting fare—–'
‘How long before dinner is ready, Grace?’ Timothy cut in, his eyes bright.
She eyed her little brother suspiciously; he wasn't usually concerned with punctuality where meals were concerned. ‘Half an hour or so …’ she told him questioningly.
He turned excitedly to the tall man now standing beside the fireplace. ‘Would you take me for a drive in your car before dinner?'
‘Timothy!’ she gasped incredulously, looking awkwardly across the room at Jordan.
Her brother looked slightly rebellious. ‘But I've never been in a Jag, and—–'
‘Jaguar, Timothy,’ she corrected quietly, still a little taken aback at this uncharacteristic show of bad manners; obviously the lure of the thought of a drive in a Jaguar superseded everything she had tried to teach him about politeness! ‘And I'm sure Jordan would much rather go up to his room and unpack before dinner.’ She turned to the man as he watched them so intently. ‘The room has been aired, even though you are two days later than you expected to be in your original letter—–'
‘I—–'
‘But, of course, I realise you weren't a hundred per cent sure about the twenty-fifth as your day of arrival.’ She smiled to take away any rebuke he might have read into her earlier words. ‘I'm not that strict about arrival dates,’ she said, and shook her head. ‘And I don't exactly have people beating a path to the door this time of year!’ Or the rest of the year really, although they did pick up the occasional summer visitor looking for solitude rather than luxurious accommodation; the latter she certainly couldn't offer here! But Jordan was a ‘winter visitor’ in search of solitude.
Jordan looked at her wordlessly for several seconds, blue gaze piercing, flickering away with a vulnerability that was vaguely endearing. He seemed undecided. Which Grace guessed was an unfamiliar emotion to him. He had aroused her curiosity about him in spite of herself.
‘Oh, please take me for a drive in your car!’ Timothy was the one to break the silence, gazing imploringly up at Jordan. ‘I've never been in a Jaguar before,’ he added, eyes wide with anticipation, and Grace could already hear the tales he would tell his schoolfriends about the adventure in the morning.
Jordan was looking almost wistfully at Timothy now, Grace thought, her own frown thoughtful. He was an enigma, this man Jordan. And she felt an intense curiosity to know more about him.
‘Did you enjoy your snowball fight earlier?’ He was talking to Timothy now, his tone gentle.
Grace looked at him sharply, wondering how he could possibly know—she hadn't realised anyone had watched them earlier, but how else could this man know about the snowball fight if he hadn't actually seen them have it?
Timothy gave the grin of the victor. ‘Grace isn't bad at snowballing, for a girl,’ he shrugged.
‘Timothy Brown, you only won at all because you played dirty and put one down my neck!’ she rebuked good-naturedly.
Jordan watched her intently. ‘You run this house alone, Miss Brown?'
‘Grace,’ she corrected as automatically as he had earlier, knowing that what he was really asking was where her parents were, that she should have the responsibility of Timothy plus the running of a big house like this one. From the intentness of his gaze she had a feeling he had intended disarming her with the unexpectedness of the question, knew herself matched with a sharp intelligence. ‘I manage,’ she dismissed, her gaze steady.
Jordan met that gaze. ‘I'm sure you do,’ he acknowledged quietly.
She straightened. ‘And right now I had better take off the rest of these damp things and finish cooking dinner,’ she said brightly, knowing that although the two of them knew little about each other they at least understood each other; Grace was here ‘managing’ this house because circumstances had dictated that she do so, and because they had she did it with all the love and care that she could. Jordan was here for reasons of his own, but those reasons owed just as much to circumstances as her own.
Timothy was still looking up at Jordan with hopefully expectant eyes. Grace knew that look only too well, had succumbed to the pleading there too many times herself not to know it. And she could see Jordan wasn't unmoved by the pleading over-big eyes either.
‘If you would like to bring your things in from the car I'll show you up to your room …?’ she politely prompted Jordan, removing her scarf.
He was looking at her again now, indecision in the dark blue depths of his eyes. She smiled at him, knowing instinctively that the vulnerability she sensed in him wasn't a part of himself he felt able to cope with.
Grace doubted he would be able to cope with her response to that either; he didn't look as if he very often had women he was barely acquainted with throw their arms around him because they felt an overwhelming need to comfort him in whatever pain it was he was suffering!
There was an answering flicker of warmth in the dark blue depths of his eyes, although he barely smiled in response to hers. She wondered what he would look like if he ever laughed. Younger, was her instant guess. He had an air about him of someone much older than the early thirties she guessed him to be. Too much responsibility at too young an age, she surmised, wondering if she had a similar air herself.
She didn't think so, because she wasn't unhappy. And this man obviously was. Very unhappy.
‘I haven't brought much with me,’ he finally answered in measured tones. ‘But I'll bring it in after I've taken Tim for his drive,’ he added decisively.
Any reply Grace might have made to this remark was drowned out by Timothy's whoop of delight and his cries for them to go right now, this very second. Just in case Jordan should change his mind, Grace guessed with affection.
Jordan stood across the room with Timothy's hand clinging determinedly to his much larger one, awkwardly so, as if the trust in him this young child showed came as a shock. ‘Is that all right with you?’ He looked at Grace enquiringly.
‘Of course,’ she nodded, smiling at her brother as he beamed his excitement up at her. ‘Behave yourself,’ she warned indulgently.
He replied in the affirmative, but in truth it was obvious he barely heard her remark, his thoughts already transfixed on driving in the back seat of a Jaguar. Compared to the old Mini Grace drove him about in he would feel like royalty, the leather interior of the car parked outside being plush to say the least.
She watched them walk to the door together, the tall dark-haired man, and the small red-haired boy who was the centre of her world.
She had known from the day her father died so suddenly and left Timothy in her sole care that she would always do everything she could to ensure that her brother's world would be as secure as she could make it for him. As she stood and watched Jordan and Timothy walk out to the car side by side she had a vague feeling of disquiet, as if her world would never be quite the same again from this moment on …
CHAPTER TWO (#u46d31959-7544-5884-8132-a04ce6692a48)
WHAT the hell was he doing?
He should have told them exactly who he was the moment he realised the mistake there had been over identity. But something had held him back from doing that. Jordan deliberately pushed the image of dark grey eyes surrounded by long dark lashes to the back of his mind.
He was here, in Grace Brown's home—a Grace Brown who had turned out to be far from the elderly spinster he had expected to meet—under a false identity, and false pretences.
He looked about the room he had been given for his stay—or rather, J. Gregory had been given! It was as worn and faded as the rest of the house, but it was clean and comfortable, and somehow homely and welcoming.
There was another flowered carpet on the floor, green this time, cream-coloured paper on the walls, and Jordan hadn't seen a candlewick bedspread like the one on the double bed that took up most of the room for years, the convenience of duvets not seeming to have entered this old-fashioned household.
The bathroom was down the hallway, something he definitely wasn't used to, and yet he felt at home here already. Rhea and Raff were going to think he had taken leave of his senses, but he intended staying on here.
He would have to telephone them, of course, otherwise they were likely to send out a search-party after a couple of days. And, as he was here as a ‘Mr Gregory', the last thing he wanted was for them to do that.
Mr J. Gregory …
The other man had obviously changed his mind about coming here after all, and hadn't bothered to let Grace Brown know that. At least, Jordan hoped that was what had happened. He was going to look worse than ridiculous if the real Mr Gregory should turn up after all. Especially as he would then have to tell them who he really was.
Oh, hell! He should leave here now, he knew he should. And yet somehow he couldn't do it, felt at peace for the first time in a very long time. Over two years, in fact.
Two years … Since he had discovered the man whom he had always believed to be his father wasn't his father after all.
It had been the merest chance that his sister Rhea had met Raff Quinlan in the first place. Fate, Rhea called it.
And the secrets that had emerged after that meeting had shattered Jordan's world forever.
Rhea was married to Raff now, and they had a beautiful daughter Diana, with Rhea's red hair and Raff's serious charm, but for the last two years Jordan had been avoiding facing the confusion and pain he felt about even his own identity. He wasn't really Jordan Somerville-Smythe, had no right to that name, and yet, if he wasn't Jordan Somerville-Smythe, who was he?
He wasn't sure any more. The Lake District, this house, seemed a strange place to begin to find the answer to that, and yet this was the first time he had felt truly relaxed in years. He couldn't leave now even if he wanted to.
Besides, he excused his own actions, his curiosity had been well and truly aroused now. The boy, Tim, had talked incessantly when Jordan had taken him for the promised drive in his car, but he hadn't seemed to find the fact that he lived in this huge house with his sister, Jessie Amery, and the elusive Nick—the other man had still been absent when Jordan had returned with Tim a short time ago—interesting enough to go into in great detail.
It was a very strange household for a young woman of the nineteen or twenty Jordan had guessed Grace to be. A girl of those tender years should be out enjoying herself with other people her age, but Grace didn't give the impression she in the least resented the responsibilities she had.
In fact, she had a calmness and serenity that Jordan envied …
* * *
What a strange mixture of contradictions her new boarder was, Grace mused as she set the dinner out on the big tray ready to take upstairs to the dining-room—where hopefully Timothy would have laid the table for their meal by now.
Jordan looked a stern, uncompromising man, as if he wouldn't suffer fools gladly, and yet he had given in to the whim of a child good-naturedly enough. Timothy hadn't yet been able to stop his bubbling excitement over being driven about in a Jaguar, his face aglow still with the pleasure of it.
When she had shown Jordan into his room a short time ago she had been quite able to see its clean shabbiness through his eyes, knew from the very look of him that this couldn't be the class of place he was used to staying in.
And yet she also knew, instinctively, that he didn't want to leave.
She only hoped his presence here wasn't going to be too disruptive to the rest of the household, wondered, curiously, what he and Nick were going to make of each other.
Jessie was already seated at the dining-room table when Grace entered with the laden tray, and Grace knew it wasn't that the elderly lady was particularly greedy, or even that she would eat a lot of the meal anyway—her appetite was birdlike—it was just that mealtimes were the most sociable times of the day for Jessie, who spent a lot of her time alone. Nick kept to his room a lot, Timothy was at school during the day, and Grace had her part-time job at the library to go to every morning during the week and had work to catch up on when she was at home. Breakfast and dinner were really the only times all of them were together.
She smiled at Jessie. ‘Ready at la—–’ She broke off with a start as Jordan stepped out of the shadow of the bay-window across the room, her smile returning as she realised who it was.
He still wore the trousers to the suit he had been wearing earlier, and the cream shirt, but he had pulled on an Aran sweater over the latter, emphasising the fitness of his body, and darkening his skin.
From the small overnight bag he had finally brought in with him Grace had a feeling the Aran jumper was the only other clothing he had brought with him, giving the impression he hadn't intended staying long. The thought made her frown.
‘Is something wrong?'
She looked up to find Jordan watching her intently, doing her best to shake off the sudden heaviness that seemed to have descended over her mood. It was ridiculous, she didn't even know this man, so why should the thought of his leaving have any effect on her?
Because he was another of her lame ducks, her father would have pointed out affectionately. As a child she had always been bringing home birds and animals that had been abandoned or injured, taking care of them until they could fend for themselves.
It had been a trait her father had believed she had carried on into adulthood, pointing out Jessie as a prime example of her compassion. And maybe she was, Jessie's son Peter making no secret of where he thought she should live, but Jordan hardly fitted into the same category. Although perhaps he did in a different way; she didn't think she was wrong about the emotional pain she glimpsed in his eyes at unguarded moments.
‘No, nothing,’ she answered him brightly, straightening. ‘I'm glad you seem to be finding your way about the house so easily.’ She had a feeling there was very little that this man wasn't completely in control of in his life!
He shrugged, as if to say he had found no difficulty with the problem. As, indeed, he probably hadn't, Grace acknowledged ruefully.
She frowned as she set the food dishes down the centre of the table so that they might each help themselves to what they wanted of the casserole and vegetables. ‘Timothy seems to have missed laying a place—–'
‘Nick won't be coming down to dinner,’ Jessie told her disappointedly—Nick being a favourite with her, she had tidied her hair and powdered her cheeks before coming down for the meal.
Grace couldn't say she was surprised at Nick's decision, had half guessed what would happen when he had made himself scarce on Jordan's arrival.
She put one of the warmed plates back on the tray, starting to take the lids off the steaming bowls of food. ‘Timothy?’ she called as she began, absently, to spoon food on to the plate she had put back on the tray.
‘I'm here, Grace.’ He came bouncing into the room with his usual energy.
‘Hands washed?’ She arched dark brows teasingly.
‘Yep,’ he grinned.
She glanced up with a conspiratorial smile for the other adults in the room, noticing as she did so that Jordan was watching her as she put the chicken casserole and accompanying vegetables on the plate. ‘For Nick,’ she explained awkwardly, instantly wondering at this need she felt to explain herself to this man. ‘He—often eats alone,’ she added dismissively. ‘Although I don't make a habit of providing food in the rooms,’ she was quick to add, not wanting there to be two of them she ran up and down the stairs after. Nick was different.
Jordan nodded non-committally. ‘Then I should take it up while it's hot.'
For some reason she felt irritated as she carried the tray up the stairs to Nick's room. It hadn't been so much what Jordan had said as the way he had said it. A man accustomed to giving orders and expecting them to be obeyed unquestioningly.
As she had just done!
Jordan was feeling more and more curious about the man Nick. Timothy had mentioned the other man a couple of times when they had gone for their drive before dinner—nothing specific, but it was significant enough, it seemed to Jordan, that the other man should have been mentioned at all.
And now Grace was running up the stairs with the other man's meal on a tray because he had decided he ‘wasn't coming down to dinner'.
It was the idea of Grace having to do such menial tasks that Jordan found he didn't like. Which was ridiculous; he was probably the reason the elderly man had disappeared into his bedroom in the first place!
He gave Grace a rueful smile when she came back into the room to have her own dinner, although even as he did so he realised she couldn't possibly know the stupidity of his thoughts. The smile felt unfamiliar, and he realised it was the first relaxed smile he had given anyone for months. By the widening of Grace's calm grey eyes that was an easily recognisable fact!
‘Could I use your telephone after the meal?’ He decided to change the subject altogether, knowing he would have to telephone Rhea and Raff tonight or they would worry he hadn't arrived safely. He had only brought an overnight case with him—a fact he was sure Grace had noticed earlier!—and so the other couple would be expecting him back some time tomorrow at the latest. He would have to let them know of his change of plan, of his intention of taking a holiday in the Lake District.
‘Of course,’ Grace confirmed instantly. ‘Timothy, don't do that with your potato, dear,’ she turned to scold gently.
Jordan watched her firm gentleness with the small boy, realising it was an occupation he could become fond of.
He must be getting senile!
Maybe he needed this holiday more than he had realised. He certainly was in a reflective mood today, for him.
But the food was good, even if the conversation did consist mainly of Timothy's questioning as to his opinion on one fast car after another. Never having owned any of the exclusive models the little boy mentioned, his opinion was an unlearned one, much to Timothy's obvious disgust. He could see by the end of the meal that he had fallen a couple of notches in the little boy's estimation.
Strangely, that mattered to him very much …
His experience with children was limited to his niece Diana, but, as she was only fifteen months old, and the admiration he felt for her was more than returned, it wasn't a very good example. Timothy, for all that he was only seven years old—another snippet of information he had given Jordan on that short drive out!—was an intelligent and discerning little boy. And, for reasons Jordan couldn't even begin to explain to himself, he wanted the two of them to get on together.
Although if he stayed on at Charlton House long, enjoying Grace's delicious cooking, he was going to put on weight!
Even at the leisure complex which Raff had made of his home, and which he and Rhea ran together, as a family they tended to eat in the hotel restaurant for convenience, and so it was months since Jordan had enjoyed the luxury of a home-cooked meal. Grace's chicken casserole had reminded him of just how good it could be.
‘The telephone is in the small room, next to the sitting-room, that I use as an office,’ Grace informed him as she stood up to clear away after the meal.
Jordan stood up too. ‘I'll help you do this first—–'
She was shaking her head even as he began to gather up the plates, firmly taking them from him. ‘You're a guest here, Mr—Jordan,’ she amended at his fierce look. ‘This is what you pay your rent for,’ she added dismissively.
And a very small amount it was too, he had learnt earlier. Jordan found it incredible to believe Grace could make any money at all from the small payment she asked for overnight accommodation and meals.
A house like this must have ten or twelve bedrooms already, and would benefit greatly by extension—could be worth a small gold-mine if it were renovated properly and run on a more businesslike basis.
His wandering thoughts had brought him back to the reason he had come to Charlton House at all. He and Raff, business partners in the luxury complex Raff had made of Quinlan House, had been searching around for another suitable house with grounds to make into a similar venture. His own personal assistant, given the task of seeking out such a property, had come up with Charlton House in the Lake District. Unfortunately, their advances to Grace Brown about selling the house to Quinlan Leisure, the name of the company Jordan and Raff ran the business under, had been rejected with a haste that had seemed pretty final. Not to be put off, Jordan had continued to correspond with Miss Grace Brown through his solicitors. She had remained adamant in her decision not to sell, which was when Jordan had decided to come up here himself to talk to her.
Taking on a false identity, which was sure to be misconstrued if discovered, seemed to have put an end to any negotiations he might have pursued in that direction himself. But for the moment he didn't care, felt more at peace with himself than he had for a long time. There was just Raff and Rhea's minds to put at rest and then he could forget about business completely for a while. Who knew? He might even start to enjoy life again. Now that would be a novelty!
‘If you're sure …’ he accepted politely, much more interested in going in search of the ‘office', he had to admit.
It wasn't so much an office as a private sitting-room, had the charm and neatness of Grace Brown stamped all over it. Not that the furniture or the décor in here were any more luxurious than in the room next door, because if anything the floral-covered sofa and armchair in here looked older than the furniture in the adjoining room. But they were clean, completely neat and tidy, as was the sideboard bearing several photographs, and the small dining-table Grace seemed to use as her desk, from the look of the neat piles of correspondence upon its surface. Jordan wouldn't be at all surprised if the half-dozen or so letters sent through his solicitor didn't sit among this number.
Sitting neatly in the middle of the table was the sought-after telephone. But it was to the sideboard bearing the photographs that Jordan went. There were several photographs of Tim, instantly recognisable, from babyhood up, and, next to these, formal photographs of a man with hair as bright a red as his two offspring—for this surely had to be Grace's father—and he was laughing down into the face of the woman who stood at his side, a woman with Grace's face and yet somehow different: her mother and father, Jordan knew without a doubt.
On the other side of these was a display of ones of Grace Brown from babyhood through to adolescence and on up to the present day. In at least two of these—it was exactly two, Jordan knew without hesitation!—a tall, blond-haired man stood at her side. Tall and blond, handsome in a rakish way, several years older than Jordan himself, vaguely familiar, as if Jordan should recognise him, and yet he didn't.
What was he doing in the photographs with Grace? Could he be her boyfriend? Jordan frowned at this possibility.
‘Did you manage to find the telephone?'
He turned with a guilty start at the husky sound of Grace's voice, although she didn't look accusing, just curious.
‘The pictures of Timothy caught my attention,’ he excused with a shrug—although it must be obvious to Grace that he hadn't been standing anywhere near the photographs of Timothy when she entered the room! ‘He's a lovely child.'
‘Yes,’ she acknowledged indulgently, moving further into the room to pick up one of the earlier photographs of her brother. ‘He was a good baby too,’ she reminisced, remembering the fun she and her father had had with the contented baby Timothy had been; it had been an outlet they had both needed after the death of her mother.
Jordan looked at her as she stood bent over the photographs, lost in memories he couldn't even begin to guess at, let alone share, her face given a warm glow from the light given off by the small lamp that stood on the sideboard.
She looked very young and vulnerable at that moment, no more than a child herself, certainly not capable of carrying all the responsibilities she seemed to have. Jordan wanted to take her in his arms and relieve her of all those responsibilities, wanted to smooth that frown from between her eyes, wanted to kiss the soft peach of those slightly parted lips—what the hell …?
Grace looked up, misunderstanding the scowl on his face, putting the photograph down with a thud. ‘I'll leave you to make your call,’ she excused, turning to leave.
Jordan was too dazed by his unexpected response to her seconds ago to try and stop her!
Oh, he wasn't as cold and removed from human need as his sister seemed to think he was, had been attracted to women, desired them, made love to them. But that attraction had always been to women, moreover women who knew exactly what sort of relationship he required of them, the relationship always terminating amicably, with perhaps an expensive gift of jewellery on his part to soften the blow of parting. These affairs had been games, with both players knowing the rules.
Grace Brown wasn't a player.
She wasn't even a woman, merely a vulnerable young girl. But a few minutes ago he had wanted her with a fierceness he could never remember experiencing before! His hand shook slightly as he reached out to pick up the receiver, needing contact with his normal life.
He should really leave here now—that would be the best thing to do before he became any more embroiled in Grace Brown's life. Before he couldn't control that desire he had had to take her in his arms and kiss her until they were both breathless.
Rhea answered the call on the private line at Quinlan House, her voice warm with recognition once he had said hello, the contentment she had found as Raff's wife evident even over the telephone. ‘How did you get on?’ she prompted interestedly.
‘Fine,’ Jordan evaded.
‘And Miss Brown, is she—–?'
‘We'll talk about it when I get home,’ he cut in curtly.
‘OK,’ his sister accepted easily, used to his abrupt ways.
‘The thing is …’ he continued. No, Jordan, no, he anxiously instructed himself. Tell Rhea you'll be back tomorrow, as originally planned, that you'll be back in time for lunch, dinner at the latest. ‘I've decided not to come straight back,’ he heard himself add lightly. ‘I thought I might take a short holiday up here.'
He should leave now. Not tomorrow. Not in a few days’ time. But now. He knew he should leave.
‘We've been telling you for months to take a holiday,’ Rhea said with warm approval. ‘But isn't the weather a little cold up at the Lakes this time of year?'
‘Possibly,’ he accepted non-committally. ‘But I need the break more than the warm weather.’ But not here, he was desperately telling himself inside his head. Not anywhere near Grace Brown!
‘Yes, but—–'
‘Rhea,’ he cut in tersely, ‘unlike you when you decided to flit off and not tell anyone—least of all me—where you were going, I am
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