IT WAS true what people said — you were more alone in a
crowd than any other place on earth. Eloise Lawton felt as
lonely tonight as she ever had.
All she wanted to do was go home, run a bath and soak away
her troubles. Instead she was here, making social small
talk and avoiding the barbs of people who were fearful of
what she might say about their dress sense. As well they
might; she'd become more vitriolic of late. She couldn't
seem to help it.
Eloise shifted her weight from one leg to the other,
acutely aware of the way her Eduardo Munno sandals cut
into the sides of her feet. Stunning to look at, but
desperately uncomfortable when they were a size too small.
Borrowed plumes for a woman who didn't fit in. Not with
these people.
Everyone was vying for position, all judging the others on
what they owned and who they were connected to. It was
pitiful. Except it wasn't pity she felt. It was a deep,
sickening sort of loathing. The kind that made her feel
she needed to stand under the shower for half an hour to
rid herself of the contamination.
But it was work. It paid the mortgage — and she didn't
have the luxury of a handsome trust fund or an inherited
ancestral pile. Unlike every second person here.
Eloise gave her wrist-watch a surreptitious glance and
calculated how long she'd have to stick it out before she
could make her excuses to Cassie. Not so long ago this
kind of event would have filled her with excitement, but
now...
Well, now things were different. A spontaneous decision to
take her mother's belongings out of storage had changed
everything.
It had seemed such a sensible thing to do. After six years
it was certainly past time. She'd completed all the
release paperwork without the slightest presentiment that
she was opening a Pandora's box of emotions.
She'd known it was a mistake almost instantly. So many
memories had rushed to crowd around her. Barely healed
wounds had been ripped open and they felt as fresh and raw
as when a lorry driver falling asleep at the wheel had
altered everything.
She'd re-read the letter her mum had so carefully tucked
inside her will and, six years on, she'd read it with a
slightly different perspective.
Eloise let her eyes wander around the galleried grand
hall. Enormous chandeliers hung down from the cavernous
ceiling and huge displays of arum lilies, white orchids
and tiny rosebuds had been tortured into works of art. No
expense had been spared. Everything was perfectly
beautiful.
A magical setting — but it felt like purgatory. How could
it not? An ostentatious display of wealth for no apparent
purpose. And her role in all this?
She no longer cared what colour anyone should be wearing
or whether silk was the fabric of the season. When she sat
at her keyboard tomorrow she'd summon up enough enthusiasm
to get the article done but tonight it left her cold.
There was too much on her mind. Too much anger. Too much
resentment. "Mutton dressed as lamb," Cassie hissed above
the top of her champagne flute. "Over there. At three
o'clock."
Eloise jerked to attention and swivelled round to look at
the woman her boss was referring to in such disparaging
terms.
"No, darling." The editor of Image magazine tapped her
arm. "That's nine o'clock. I said three. Bernadette
Ryland. By the alabaster pillar. Under that portrait of
the hideously obese general."
Obligingly, Eloise twisted the other way. "In the yellow.
Well, almost in the yellow. What was her stylist thinking
of? The woman looks like some kind of strangulated
chicken."
Cassie wasn't kidding. It was a shame because the actress
had been a strikingly beautiful woman before she'd
succumbed to the lure of the surgeon's knife. It gave her
face a perpetually surprised look. And that dress... It
almost defied description. Certainly defied gravity.
Cassie took another sip of champagne. "And Lady Amelia
Monroe ought to rethink that haircut, don't you think? It
makes her face look very jowly. Oh —" she broke off ' —
oh, my goodness... There's Jeremy Norland. And with Sophia
Westbrooke. Now...that's the first interesting thing
that's happened this evening. I wonder..."
"Jeremy Norland?" Eloise asked quickly, even as her eyes
effortlessly fixed themselves on his tall, dark figure.
She'd seen a couple of photographs of him, one taken when
he'd been playing polo and the other at a society wedding,
but he was smoother-looking than she'd expected. Chocolate
box handsome.
"By the door. Know him?" 'No." Eloise's fingers closed
convulsively round her glass. "I don't know him. I heard
his name mentioned, that's all," she managed, her voice a
little flat.
"Haven't we all, darling?" Cassie Sinclair lifted one
manicured hand and waved it at a lady in grey chiffon
who'd been trying to attract her attention. "That's the
sister of the Duke of Odell," she explained in a quiet
undertone Eloise scarcely heard. "Married a mere mister.
Kept the title of Lady, of course, and makes sure everyone
knows it." She swung round to exchange her empty glass for
a full one.
Eloise stood transfixed. Jeremy Norland. Here. Her mind
didn't seem capable of processing any other thought.
Viscount Pulborough's stepson was here. In London. He was
standing by the heavy oak door, his face alight with
laughter. Not a care in the world.
But then why should he have? He was living a charmed life.
Cassie followed the line of her gaze. "Gorgeous, isn't he?
All that muscle's been honed by hours on horseback. And
that suit is fabulous. Look at his bum in those trousers.
The man's sexy...very sexy."
"And doesn't he just know it?" Eloise returned dryly,
watching the way he glinted down at Sophia Westbrooke.
"Can't blame the man for knowing the effect he has on
women, darling. Looks. Money. Connections. Pretty lethal
combination, I'd say."
Eloise forced a smile. "I thought he didn't like London."
"He doesn't. He stays down in Sussex on his stepfather's
estate. Makes tables, chairs, that kind of thing."
"Fine cabinetry. Yes, I know." Eloise sipped her own
champagne. "I read something about that."
"You need a second mortgage to buy the leg of a foot-
stool," Cassie agreed. "Sophia's dress too, I imagine. Do
you know who made it?"
"Yusef Atta. Up-and-coming designer. Specialising in
embroidery on chiffon," Eloise answered
automatically. "Very romantic silhouettes. That kind of
thing."
"Worth a feature?" 'Perhaps," Eloise agreed, watching the
way the teenager gazed up adoringly. Sophia Westbrooke
couldn't be older than nineteen. Could she? Whereas Jeremy
was thirty-four. Thirty-five, perhaps — she couldn't quite
remember from the Internet article she'd read two nights
ago.
Cassie seemed in tune with her thoughts. "Just back from
Switzerland. Not a day over nineteen. And with a man like
Jem Norland. Lucky cow."
"There's no luck about it. It's all part of the in-
breeding programme. Like marries like, don't you know?"
she said in her best parody of an up-market accent.
Cassie gave a delighted chuckle, her acrylic-tipped nails
clinking against her champagne flute. "Wicked child. Now
circulate, darling. Get me the gossip and no more ogling
the natives. They bite."
How true. It was a pity no one had mentioned that to her
mother twenty-eight years ago when she'd first started
work at Coldwaltham Abbey, not much older than Sophia
Westbrooke — but Eloise would lay money on their fates
being completely different.
Eloise watched her boss network her way back through the
crowded room. Cassie didn't fit in any more than she did,
but you'd never know it from her demeanour. She just owned
the space, dared anyone to reject her.
Eloise had used to be like that, ambitious to the core —
but things had changed in the past fourteen weeks.
Fourteen weeks and three days, to be precise. The day
she'd brought home those two crates. Who would ever have
thought such a short space of time could make such an
incalculable difference? Her eyes flicked back to Jeremy
Norland, universally known as Jem.
He was the epitome of upper class living. His suit was
fabulous. Hand-stitched, no doubt. Criminally expensive.
Money and opportunity had been poured on him from the hour
of his birth. He'd the bone-deep confidence of a man who'd
been to the best schools and who knew the old boy network
would support him in comfort till the day he died.
And she resented him with a vehemence that surprised even
her.
He reached across to kiss the cheek of the effervescent
Sophia, who giggled appreciatively. He was so arrogant —
it shone from the top of his dark expensively cut hair
right down to his handmade Italian leather shoes. He knew
exactly what he was doing — and the effect he was having
on his youthful companion. Eloise just longed for her to
rear up and tell him to get lost.
It didn't happen, though. Sophia smiled coquettishly and
rested a hand on his shoulder. Eloise couldn't honestly
blame her. She wasn't to know. It was years of sitting in
a ringside seat seeing someone else's unhappiness that
meant she would never be so stupid as to fall for a man
like Jem Norland.
Anger and hatred had been building up inside her ever
since she'd re-read her mother's letter and now she
couldn't bear to be near these self-absorbed people who'd
destroyed her mother's life so completely.
Her life.
With their grand houses, their horses and their public
school accents. She hated them all.
A few short weeks ago she'd been fascinated by them. A
detached and slightly amused observer. But now...
Now she had nothing but contempt for them. For Jem
Norland. The privileged stepson of the man she really
loathed — Laurence Alexander Milton, Viscount Pulborough.
Her father.
Father!
That was a joke. He'd been no more than the sperm donor.
Six years ago, when she'd first read that letter, she'd
been too numbed by shock to really take it all in. The
sudden loss of her mum had been trauma enough and she
almost hadn't had the emotional space to register what she
now knew to be the identity of the man whose gene pool she
shared.
Viscount Pulborough wasn't part of her life. He'd meant
less than nothing to her. It was her mum missing her
graduation ceremony that had filled her mind and twisted
the screw of pain a little tighter.
So she'd packed all her mum's things away and scarcely
thought about it...for six years.
Six years. Time had passed so fast. Life had been busy.
There'd been so much to do — building her career, saving
for her deposit, trying to pretend she didn't feel so
incredibly alone in a big, frightening world.
There'd always been plenty of excuses as to why her mum's
belongings should stay safely locked away. She'd had a
small bedsit... She'd be moving on soon, so what was the
point...?
The excuses stopped when she'd bought her flat. Her own
home. It was time to finally sort out the last of her
mum's possessions. All those things she'd put in box files
and refused to think about.
The letter.
It had always been there. A time bomb ticking away — only
she hadn't realised it.
Re-reading her mum's words six years later, she had found
her emotions were different. She had a new, fresh
perspective and, as she read, her antipathy had turned to
anger.