Sarah Holland - Extreme Provocation

‘You don’t earn much money.’ Edward counted her faults on long pale fingers. ‘You’re not qualified for anything more demanding than looking after three-year-old kids. You know nothing about finance or investment and you’re hopeless at maths.’ He raised his hands. ‘What possible use are you to anybody?’

Silent, she just stood there staring at him as his words sank in. She felt as though he’d cut her off at the ankles.

Edward smiled and bent his head to kiss her cheek. ‘You just stick with what you’re good at, darling. You’re far more help to your father and me when you’re cooking our meals and keeping the house tidy.’

She did not dare reply in case she slapped his face. And the knowledge that she wanted to slap him shocked her even more than the insults implicit in what he had said.

‘You serve the dinner, darling.’ Edward smiled, pleased by her silence. ‘I’ll go and have a drink with your father in the dining-room...’

As the door closed behind him, Lucy was struggling to suppress the anger rising in her. He had never spoken to her like that before. Never. How dared he...anger burned at the back of her eyes...how dared he...?

Suddenly, she put her hands to her hot face in self-recrimination. Edward’s right, she told herself again and again, but still that anger rose in her like a dark demon, and in the end all she could do to stop it bursting out was busy herself carving the lamb.

After lunch, Edward and her father fell asleep in the drawing-room. Lucy washed up. It took over half an hour. By the time she had finished, she was feeling an uncharacteristic burst of fury. Putting her head round the drawing-room door, she heard them both snoring. Edward was asleep in an armchair, a newspaper open beside him. Her father was asleep on the sofa, his mouth slack.

Quietly closing the door, she escaped upstairs. Her bedroom was filled with that damned scent. Prickling angrily, she opened a window, but it didn’t help much. All she could think of was Randal: his hard insolent face, the ruthless mouth and the mocking blue eyes.

She remembered him spraying the scent on the pulse that had throbbed at her throat. She remembered the intimate eroticism of the act, and the way he had promised he would scent her wrists and ankles.

Lying down on her bed, she thought she was furious, but she wasn’t...she was aroused. Her eyes closed and she remembered his hard body against hers, his hot mouth taking possession...

I hate him! she thought fiercely, sitting bolt upright on the bed. I hate him, I hate him, I hate him...! As for his boast that he always got what he wanted—he was in for a surprise. He could pursue her as much as he wanted—he would never catch this prey.

Three days later, her father got in at dawn and left a joyful, drunken note for her propped on the kitchen table.

‘Guess what! We’ve been invited to the Mallory Ball!’

Lucy read the note with a frown as she made herself breakfast at eight. The Mallory Ball? The name rang a faint bell, but she couldn’t place it, so she shrugged and went to work without giving it another thought.

When she got home that evening, she found Edward and her father drinking champagne in the drawing-room and laughing loudly while Carmina Burana crashed in fatalistic drama from the stereo.

‘Darling!’ her father laughed when he saw her. ‘You shall go to the Ball!’

Lucy slid her jacket off, frowning. ‘Yes, what is all this about?’

‘The Mallory Ball, darling!’ Her father turned the stereo down, smiling. ‘Only the most important event in the social calendar. My word, I’m surprised you’re not over the moon. Most young women your age would jump at the chance to go.’

‘But what is it?’ she persisted, sighing.

‘It’s a glittering affair,’ her father said, ‘held annually at Mallory Hall in Kent.’

‘Look it up in Tatler,’ Edward commented drily.

‘Who invited you?’ Lucy asked, impressed.

‘That’s the most exciting part.’ Her father was beaming. ‘Marlborough himself.’

‘Marlborough?’ Her eyes widened with dismay. ‘The casino...?’

‘The owner of the casino.’ Gerald Winslow nodded. ‘He also owns Mallory Hall—my God, he’s one of the richest men in England. And he obviously likes me, or he wouldn’t have invited me to his home.’

‘He’s a powerful man,’ Edward said, smiling at Lucy. ‘Owns a string of racehorses, several banks, and of course the casino. It’s a real accolade for your father to be invited to this Ball, Lucy.’

‘But it’s not just me,’ Gerald Winslow said proudly. ‘The invitation was delivered personally to me by Marlborough himself, and it includes my family.’

‘Shame I can’t go,’ Edward complained. ‘Couldn’t you pass me off as your son?’

‘I wish I could,’ Gerald sighed. ‘But I don’t dare. If he found out—well, I might destroy this sudden friendliness that’s sprung up.’

‘You’re right.’ Edward shrugged. ‘Take Lucy. I’ll be happy just to hear about it.’

‘I shall buy you a new dress for the occasion, Lucy.’ Gerald beamed at his daughter. ‘Something superb...a fairy-tale creation...’

‘No,’ she said at once, paling. ‘I have plenty of dresses good enough to wear.’

‘We’ll go to Harrods—’

‘We can’t afford it,’ she said, horrified. ‘Daddy, I don’t even want to go to this wretched ball and—’

‘You’ll do as you’re told,’ her father said flatly. ‘You must make a good impression on Marlborough. Edward—talk some sense into the girl.’

‘All right.’ Edward laughed, moving towards Lucy, taking her arm and leading her into the kitchen.

‘You shouldn’t encourage him like that,’ Lucy said as he closed the kitchen door behind them. ‘Making friends with the owner of that casino is just disastrous. Surely you can see—?’

‘It’s not disastrous,’ said Edward under his breath, pale blue eyes fierce and his tone a warning note. ‘It’s the best thing that could have happened, and you mustn’t interfere, Lucy.’

She stared at him, her lips parted. ‘But—’

‘No buts,’ he said flatly. ‘Don’t do anything to jeopardise this friendship with Marlborough. I can’t begin to tell you how vital this is. The invitation to Mallory Hall is a life-saver.’

‘But how can it be when—?’ she wailed.

‘Just do it, Lucy,’ he cut in angrily. ‘Go to the ball, wear something fantastic, and make a good impression on the man.’ He turned, opening the door, casting a brief, irritated look back at her. ‘And get the dinner on, will you? I’m starving.’

Lucy suddenly wanted to throw something at his back as the door closed. Fury rose in her like fire. How could he speak to her like that? After everything she’d said about how worried she was, how frightened about her father’s increasing gambling and drinking...to encourage him to go to this party.

Still, he had sounded earnest. Was it true that this friendship with Marlborough was the best thing that could have happened? And if so—why? It just didn’t make sense.

The day of the ball dawned. Lucy changed into the fairy-tale dress her father had bought her, and shuddered at the thought of how much it had cost.

Made of ivory satin, it was off-the-shoulder, flouncing to a boned waist and flowing over hoops to the floor. She looked like a fairy princess in it, her blonde hair piled in loose curls on her head, the Winslow pearls that had been her mother’s gleaming at ears and throat.

They drove to Kent in her father’s Bentley. Lucy felt deeply disturbed by the whole affair, aware that her finery could vanish at any moment, just as this expensive car could, and the house, stolen by bankruptcy and ruin... If only her father would stop.