Watching him sleep in the bed beside her – he always slept after they made love – Annelise felt her heart twist to the point of pain. She would never have believed that such a thing was possible, that loving a man could have this extraordinary effect on her. There was no logic to it; he was, after all, no more than flesh and blood. Yet he could reduce her to an absurd state of greedy need for his touch, for his hands and mouth to caress her body. When he did, it was as though his fingertips had the power to scorch her skin. But there was pain, too.
None of which Annelise could make sense of. It baffled her. She didn’t like how weak her love for Harry made her feel. Was uncertainty the reason for that, constantly wondering when, or if, he would ever be a free man?
Carefully, so as not to disturb him, she turned over to look out of the sash window. The late afternoon light was fading, and rain was now pattering against the glass. When she came back to Oxford following Kit and Evelyn’s party, the Cuban missile crisis and the immediate threat of a nuclear war had passed. Diplomacy had won the day. She and Harry had celebrated the news with a bottle of champagne in bed. This very bed in fact. For some reason she had hoped he might then say he was going to leave his wife. But he hadn’t.
‘I can’t possibly sleep with your mind working away like a pneumatic drill,’ murmured Harry. ‘What are you thinking of?’
‘Nothing of any significance,’ she lied, still facing the window.
He put a hand to her shoulder and turned her to look at him. ‘That’s one of the things I love about you, Annelise.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The way you never reveal what you’re really thinking. Most women are only too quick to unravel their minds to a man and bore them rigid in the process.’
‘Perish the thought I’d ever do that to you,’ she said with some acerbity.
He grinned. ‘You could never do that to me. You’re an enigma, you keep me puzzled and wanting more.’
Wanting more of what?She wanted to ask. But nothing on earth would have allowed her to stray into theno-go area of their relationship. To hint to Harry that she wanted more than to be his mistress would be the end. He would not want to escape the confines of his loveless marriage only to be imprisoned by another demanding woman.
She sat up abruptly. ‘I have to go,’ she said.
‘But it’s not yet four o’clock,’ he said. ‘What’s the hurry?’
‘My aunt is visiting. I told you I would have to leave early.’
‘Did you? It must have slipped my mind.’ And then he smiled again and ran his hand down her neck and to her breast. ‘I had better things to think of than your aunt paying you a visit.’ He stroked her nipple lightly, then more firmly, twisting it skilfully so that from nowhere she was fully aroused. He raised himself to kiss her, his lips hovering so close, but not quite touching, his breath mingled with hers. ‘Are you sure you can’t stay?’ he murmured, hisbluey-grey eyes challenging her to say no. ‘Just a little longer?’
With the heat of her arousal flaring from her core and fanning out through her body, right to her fingertips, she kissed him intensely. It was this visceral need in her that she was powerless to disguise. The raw baseness of her desire thrilled her, made her believe that if she had only these moments in her life, it would be enough. It would sustain her.
It was dark when she left the Randolph Hotel to go back to her rooms at St Gertrude’s. With the rain coming down harder now, she hurried along St Giles in the glare of the headlamps and then on to the Woodstock Road. Luckily she had brought an umbrella with her.
Roberts the porter greeted her at the lodge with a cheery smile. ‘Your guest has arrived. I hope it was all right, miss, but I took her up to your rooms.’
‘That was absolutely the right thing to do, thank you.’
A shy smile on his face, Roberts went on. ‘I also took the liberty of giving MrsDevereux-Temple a cup of tea here in the lodge by the fire.’
‘Oh, you needn’t have gone to all that trouble.’
‘It was no trouble. I’m a big fan of her books so it was an honour to have her company for twenty minutes. I told her she’s welcome to join me for a cuppa any time she likes.’
Annelise left the man glowing in his appreciation for her aunt. Romily might not be ablood-relation, but Annelise had always regarded her as such, and the best of aunts at that. Crossing the front quad, she passed the chapel on her right, itsstained-glass windows lit up from within where a choir practice was taking place. Annelise would have loved to join the choir, but alas she was as good as tone deaf. ‘You look like an angel,’ Hope once told her, ‘but let’s face it, dear, you sing like a harpy.’
Annelise had been eleven years old when Hope made the comment and all these years on, she could still feel the sting of the criticism. Silly really to be bothered by something so trivial when there were far bigger issues in the world to deal with.
She had received a letter from Stanley yesterday inviting her to join him on a protest march organised by CND. If she could spare the time from work, she would go. Before she’d left Island House to return to Oxford, Stanley had apologised for his behaviour that night at Meadow Lodge and while she was still saddened at what he’d said, she had promised him it changed nothing between them. She would do all she could to ensure that he didn’t feel awkward around her. It would be awful if they couldn’t retain the closeness they’d always enjoyed.
She reasoned that it was not unusual for those who grew up closely together to develop strong emotional attachments to each other; perhaps it was to be expected. She herself had had a crush on Stanley as a young girl, but had eventually grown out of it. She couldn’t remember exactly when it happened; certainly there had been no conscious decision on her part. Maybe it was no more than growing up.
There had been nothing in Stanley’s behaviour towards her to indicate that he viewed himself as any more than a devoted big brother. Not once during any of his visits to see her in Oxford had he betrayed himself.
Stanley hadn’t been the only person on her mind since the night of the party at Meadow Lodge. Evelyn had been a source of concern too. Annelise had told no one of what she’d overheard in the garden. How could she, when she had been blatantly eavesdropping?
At the top of the stairs on the landing outside her rooms, Annelise breathed in the familiar scent of Romily’s favourite perfume – Joy by Jean Patou.
‘Romily!’ she exclaimed happily when she let herself in and threw off herrain-soaked woollen coat, which smelt of an old dog in contrast to the delightfully floral air she had walked into. ‘I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.’
