Liz Fielding - Conflict Of Hearts

And then he smiled. All the way up until little pouches creased beneath his eyes. Impossible to fake that. And his mouth was bracketed by strong, deep lines carved into his cheeks. She swallowed hard.

‘Just what are you in the market for, Noah?’ she asked, a little shakily, avoiding the need to give him a direct answer.

The smile abruptly disappeared, and he removed his hand from her chin. ‘Nothing. My life is exactly the way I like it. Except for you.’ He got out of the car and came round to open her door. Before she could respond the front door swung open and a middle-aged woman stood in the entrance.

Noah turned. ‘And, as you see, you will be adequately chaperoned. Mrs Harper, this is Miss Elizabeth French,’ he said, his hand in the small of her back propelling her up the steps to the front door. ‘You’d better take her straight up to her room; we’re going out at seven.’

‘Of course, Mr Jordan. This way, Miss French.’

Lizzie hesitated. ‘Noah, this is—’

‘Mr Harper will bring your bags up in a moment,’ he said, not allowing her to finish, his eyes daring her to defy him. She was trapped. At least for tonight. She would have to go through with his horrible plan. But tomorrow she would leave. Nothing would stop her.

‘How did the wedding go?’ Mrs Harper asked as she led the way up the stairs. ‘Such a lovely day for it. I’m sure Miss Olivia must have looked quite beautiful. Your father is a lucky man.’

She chattered on, not waiting for answers to her questions. ‘Now, these are your rooms. This is the sitting room. Your bedroom is through there, and your bathroom. I expect you’ll want a shower after driving with the top down. Miss Olivia always says that she feels as if she’s covered in “essence of motorway” after driving with Mr Jordan.’ She chuckled. ‘I’ll go and fetch you a tray of tea.’

The woman’s endless chatter was oddly comforting—normal in a world that had turned upside down. ‘Thank you, Mrs Harper.’

The woman took the bags that her husband brought to the door and hung Lizzie’s dress over the wardrobe door. ‘Shall I unpack for you?’

‘Oh, no. I can do that. Thank you,’ Lizzie repeated a little belatedly as the woman withdrew.

She stared at the pale pink taffeta dress. It had been bought when she’d had to accompany her father to a formal dinner a couple of years earlier and had been worn only once. It was a little creased, but otherwise fine.

She pulled a face. No, it wasn’t. It was awful. It had been her father’s choice, and had been too young for her even then. But when she had protested he’d said that he wanted everyone to be sure she was his daughter, that he was not some foolish middle-aged man out with a bimbo. It had been hard enough to get him out of the house; she hadn’t been about to argue over the dress. Well, it would have to do—it was all she had. She quickly stowed the remainder of her belongings and went to take her shower.

Ten minutes later she emerged from the bathroom to find a tray laid with a pot of tea and a plate of tiny sandwiches waiting for her. Her dress had disappeared.

As she sipped her tea she sat at the dressing table wondering what to do with her hair. It was ridiculously long, she decided, twisting it up into a simple chignon. If she left it loose, with the pink dress it would simply emphasise the ‘Alice in Wonderland’ look. There was a tap on the door.

‘Come in,’ she called. It was Mrs Harper with her dress. And another gown, black and elegant, on a padded satin hanger.

‘I’ve pressed your dress, Miss French,’ she said, ‘but...’ The woman was clearly embarrassed. ‘Mr Jordan suggested you might... um...prefer to wear this.’

‘Prefer’? She had the feeling that he had said something a great deal stronger than that. A closer look at her dress had doubtless warned him that she wouldn’t look like anyone’s lover in such a garment—certainly not that of the urbane, the very sophisticated Mr Jordan.

What would he consider suitable? she wondered, regarding the black dress with interest. It was an exquisite, ankle-length black shift in the finest silk jersey, with long, straight sleeves, a scooped-out neck and not a single detail to distract from the purity of the line. It was simply beautiful.

But then, the man was a world-renowned art dealer. He had appeared in his own series on the television, discussing the merits of twentieth-century art, the unexpected success of which had been the devastating charm of the presenter rather than the subject matter. His good taste had never been in doubt.

‘Thank you, Mrs Harper. If s... very kind of Mr Jordan.’

The woman was clearly relieved at her reaction. ‘It should fit you well enough. Miss Olivia isn’t quite as slender as you, but that fabric clings rather, so I’m sure you’ll get away with it.’

‘This is Olivia’s dress?’ She hadn’t given a thought as to where the gown might have come from. But Olivia had been staying with Noah for the last few weeks while her own apartment had been decorated. Something in her voice must have betrayed her.

‘It will look lovely on you, Miss French,’ Mrs Harper pressed, a little anxiously. ‘I know Miss Olivia wouldn’t mind...’

Lizzie minded. She minded a great deal. But that wasn’t Mrs Harper’s problem. ‘Please call me Lizzie,’ she said, offering a reassuring smile. And Mrs Harper smiled with relief and left.

She quickly made up her eyes and flicked blusher over her cheek-bones, leaving her tan to take care of the rest. Then, ignoring the black shift, she slipped into the pink taffeta dress. It was a little tight across the bodice; she had fulfilled the early promise of womanhood since she had last worn it. She tugged up the zip and then, very slowly, released her breath. It held, and for a moment she regarded her reflection with a certain amount of grim satisfaction.

Then she fastened a pair of pearl studs to her ears and touched the oval locket that she always wore about her throat before going down the broad staircase in search of her nemesis. She was now quite cheerfully prepared to convince the world that she was Noah’s lover. But somehow she didn’t think he would be quite so eager.

He was staring at a painting as she entered the drawing room, his thick dark hair a crisp counterpoint to the immaculate perfection of black broadcloth that emphasised his wide, square shoulders. For a moment she was struck by the sheer grace, almost beauty of the man. How easy it would be to fall under his spell, if he chose to cast it, she thought. Then he turned as he heard her move towards him.

The feeling was clearly not reciprocated. Regarding Lizzie in silence, Noah’s glance moved quite deliberately in a chilling inspection of her appearance. She lifted her chin a little and stood her ground, although the fine hairs at the nape of her neck stirred as she sensed that her defiance had made him very angry indeed.

But as he moved towards her it wasn’t her dress that claimed his attention. It was the locket.

He laid the tip of one finger against it, his eyes dark as thunderclouds as he fixed her to the spot. Then, without warning, he grasped it in his hand and jerked it from her throat, the old, delicate chain offering no resistance to this brutal treatment.

‘No!’ Lizzie’s hand instinctively reached out to retrieve the precious object. But his hand snapped shut, and he dropped the locket into his pocket.

‘What were you going to do, Elizabeth? Show Francesca your pretty antique locket? It’s old and no doubt the clasp is worn, and if by chance it should happen to fall open...’ He turned away in disgust. Lizzie swallowed.

‘Please give it back to me.’

‘I’ll have it repaired,’ he said abruptly.