“What about Adrian?”
“Oh, he was my mother’s darling — far too delicate and sensitive to go to boarding school.”
Rupert spoke without bitterness or self-pity. He was not given to introspection and never considered anything his parents had done might have affected his behavior in life.
Helen, who’d studied psychology, felt differently. Still hazy and emotional from an excess of champagne, she was flooded with compassion for poor, poor Rupert. Parents who’d never loved him, stepparents who neglected him, a mother who preferred his younger brother. No wonder he felt the need to beat other riders all the time; and to seduce women to bolster his self-confidence; then, unused to a loving relationship, break it off the moment things became heavy. I could change him, she thought expansively. I could arrest the rake’s progress and show him what real love is like.
Rupert’s mother lived in one of those large white Georgian houses looking onto an emerald green railed-in square. The garden was filled with grape hyacinths, scillas, and white daffodils. An almond tree was already scattering pink petals on the sleekly shaven lawn. Every window was barred. Rupert opened the door with several keys and sprinted in to switch off the alarm.
“Well, your mother certainly won’t get burglarized,” said Helen.
“No, but you’re just about to, my treasure,” said Rupert under his breath.
They went into the drawing room. As Rupert switched on the lights, Helen gave a cry of pleasure.
“What an exquisite room.”
There were pale primrose walls and carpets, old gold watered silk curtains, and sofas and armchairs covered in faded pale blue and rose chintzes. Two tables with long, pale rose tablecloths were covered in snuffboxes. The walls were covered in portraits of handsome arrogant men and beautiful women, their faces lit up by fat strings of pearls. Orchids in pots added to the exotic atmosphere. On the draped grand piano were photographs — one of Rupert’s mother as a deb and others of several men in uniform who were presumably replacement fathers. There was also a picture of Rupert on a horse being handed a cup by Princess Margaret. What caught the eye was a photograph of an extraordinarily beautiful youth, very like Rupert, but more fragile of feature.
“That’s my kid brother,” said Rupert. “What d’you want to drink?”
Helen shook her head. As Rupert poured himself a large glass of brandy, Helen caught sight of a study next door, the walls lined with books, all behind grilles.
“May I look?”
“Of course. Most of those on the left are first editions.”
Helen gave a cry of excitement: “Why, here’s Keats’
This seemed to amuse Rupert. “She’s never read any of them.”
“But that’s awful. Is there a key?”
“Somewhere, I expect.”
She got to her feet reluctantly. On the study desk was a huge pile of letters.
“Doesn’t your mother open her mail either?”
“It’s a family failing.”
“Will she be home soon?”
“She’s not here,” said Rupert, draining his glass of brandy. “She’s in the Bahamas escaping from the tax man.”
Helen looked at him, appalled.
“I must go. If I’d known she wasn’t going to be here, I’d never have come.”
“You haven’t come yet, sweetheart,” said Rupert softly, taking her in his arms, “but you soon will, I promise.”
She was almost overwhelmed by the warmth and sheer power of him, so different from Harold Mountjoy, who’d been a bit of a weed.
“No,” she yelped.
“Yes,” said Rupert into her hair. “You need some material for your ‘narvel.’ ”
“You shouldn’t have pretended your mother was here.” She struggled to get away from him.
“I didn’t. Anyway, all’s fair in love and war and I don’t imagine it’s going to be war between us,” and he bent his head and kissed her. For a few seconds she kept her lips rigid, then, powerless, she found herself kissing him back, her hands moving up to the sleek, surprisingly silky hair.
Rupert pulled her down on the faded rose pink sofa.
“I haven’t stopped thinking about you for a moment since I first saw you,” he said. He was running his hands over her back now, assessing the amount of underwear, planning where the next assault should come from. There were no clips on the gray dress which would have to come over her head, which might frighten her if removed too soon. Over her shoulder he met the jovial eyes of one of his forebears. “Atta boy,” he seemed to say.
“No,” said Helen, trying to prise off the hand barnacled over her left breast.
“You’re repeating yourself, angel. You must realize I’m unfixed, like your landlady’s tomcat.”
Through her dress he expertly undid her bra with his left hand. The thumb of his right hand began to strafe her nipple.
“No, I’m not like that.”
“Like what?” whispered Rupert. “D’you want to spend the rest of your life behind bars, unopened like those first editions?”
Helen burst into tears. At first she was crying so hard, Rupert couldn’t understand what she was saying. Then the first storm of weeping gave way to shuddering sobs and gradually the whole story came pouring out. How respectable her family were, what a terrible shock it had been when she became pregnant by a married man and flunked her finals. How her parents had been real supportive sending her to Europe to get over it all.
“This afternoon you appeared to be getting over it very well,” said Rupert. “Perhaps I should send your father a bill. What did you say this married man was called?”
“Harold Mountjoy.”
“Should have been called Mount Helen.”
Helen sniffed. “He’s a very distinguished writer,” she said reprovingly. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of his work.”
“You must know I haven’t heard of anyone,” said Rupert.
“I loved him,” said Helen. “I thought he loved me. But he only wrote once. He forgot Christmas, my birthday, Valentine’s Day.”
“Mothering Sunday?” asked Rupert, grinning.
“The pregnancy was terminated,” said Helen with dignity.
“I promise I won’t let you get pregnant,” said Rupert gravely.
“That’s not the point. I don’t want to be treated like a sex object.”
“Because you object to sex?”
“Oh, don’t be so flip,” wailed Helen.
Rupert got out a blue silk handkerchief and wiped away the mascara that was running down her cheeks. He had enough experience of women to realize that if you backed off and were kind and considerate on a first occasion, they dropped into the palm of your hand on the next.
More important, he suddenly felt terribly tired. Phenomenally strong, he could go for long periods without sleep, but he realized that, apart from a two-hour marathon in the four-poster with Gabriella on Friday night, he hadn’t been to bed for three days. He had to drive home to Gloucestershire that night, a dealer was coming to see him first thing in the morning, and he wanted to buy Satan quickly before the Army started producing all kinds of red tape. He also had a string of novices to take to an indoor show the following evening.
“All right,” he said, getting to his feet, “go home to your narvel. Let me put on a jersey and I’ll drive you back to your coven.”
Helen felt absolutely miserable, convinced that she’d lost him. The sun had set and the trees and the houses, losing their distinctive features, were darkening against a glowing turquoise sky. Rupert didn’t speak on the way to Regina House, nor did he say anything about taking her to Crittleden. Let her work up a good lather of anxiety, he thought. Helen got lower and lower. Perhaps he was hurt by her saying she couldn’t sleep with him because she
