Voice of the Heart. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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hands met and held and their eyes locked, and simultaneously they exchanged a startled glance. Looking down into the delicate face upturned to him, Victor saw the shining amber-flecked eyes widen and fill with the astonishment he himself was feeling. A tremulous smile touched her mouth briefly, and was gone. I’ve never met her before, but I recognize her, he thought with incredulity. I know her. I’ve always known her, somewhere deep in my heart and soul. This strange and surprising knowledge shook him, and momentarily he was thrown off balance.
Being adroit, he swiftly pulled himself together. ‘I’m pleased to meet you too, Lady Francesca,’ he said with a slow lazy smile, but his black eyes were serious and searching, and his gaze remained unswervingly on her face.
‘Oh please, do call me Francesca.’ Two faint spots of colour stained her ivory cheeks.
‘I’ll be glad to, if you’ll call me Victor.’
She nodded and gently extracted her hand, which he was still holding tightly, and stepping back, she lowered herself into the chair. Victor remembered the package under his arm, bent forward and handed it to her, instantly wishing it were something more personal, more appropriate like – like an armful of fragile white May lilac, fragrant after a drenching of spring rain. Yes, lilac was the ideal flower for her. It suited her delicacy and freshness. He said, ‘I almost forgot. This is for you.’
Francesca looked up at him, surprised. ‘Why thank you. How very kind.’ She began to unwrap it, her head bent, her fingers moving slowly, and she wondered why she was suddenly trembling internally, not recognizing the dynamic chemistry interacting between them. However, Victor, who was wise in the ways of the world and of men and women, knew it. At least, he knew she had affected him strongly, and that he had responded to her on a variety of levels, not the least of which was sexual. He looked at her sharply, a keenness in his eyes. She appeared serene and unperturbed. Cool as a cucumber, he thought. He remembered that look of astonishment they had shared a moment ago, the startled glance exchanged. Had he imagined them? He was not sure. Perhaps the attraction had not been mutual, but merely one-sided. His side. He smiled faintly to himself.
Victor had no way of knowing that Francesca had a natural poise that belied her years, and a great measure of that special self-confidence so endemic to the English aristocracy. She rarely lost her composure. And so, despite her equally strong reaction to Victor, one she found extraordinary and baffling, she let no emotion show on her face. But she was disturbed, and understandably so. To begin with, she had had little or no experience of men, and certainly she had never encountered one of Victor Mason’s ilk. Then again, her boyfriends had been, for the most part, chums of Kim’s and the same age, and she had never taken any of them seriously. At nineteen she was sexually inexperienced, and, in comparison to her girl friends, who were much more worldly, unusually innocent for a young woman who mixed in smart London society.
In all truth, Victor Mason had unnerved Francesca. Gradually this, realization began to formulate in her mind. How absurd she was being, allowing herself to become rattled by this man. Yet, she had to admit he was devastatingly attractive; she thought: If Katharine Tempest seems improbable, with her stunning beauty and allure and vivacious personality, then he is undoubtedly larger than life. And very disconcerting.
Abruptly, Victor left his position in front of the fire, and without glancing at her or addressing another word to her, he moved over to the chest. He stood talking to Kim as if they were old friends, and not total strangers from worlds so wide apart it was debatable whether they had any common ground upon which to meet. Francesca observed him through the corner of her eye, her head still bent in concentration on the package. It struck her that he looked unconcerned, as if she no longer existed, as if he had not given her those fierce stares. It was then that she wondered whether he always behaved in this manner, when first meeting women, in view of who and what he was, believing, perhaps, that it was expected of him. Although she was not the typical film fan, she was sufficiently well-informed to know that Victor Mason was idolized by women all over the world. Few men had ever been the recipients of the kind of female adulation which was showered on him. There was no doubt in her mind that he could pick and choose at will from a galaxy of women infinitely more beautiful and interesting than her, and so she concluded she had not been singled out for any special treatment. And why should she be?
Francesca swung her eyes away from Victor when Katharine’s clear laughter echoed across the room; then she could not resist focusing her attention on the three of them. Victor turned slightly, also laughing, and leaned towards Katharine, teasing her. Katharine looked up at him as she returned his banter.
Clutching the crumpled wrapping paper and the bottle of Pommery and Greno, Francesca got up and went to the door. Without looking at Victor, she exclaimed, ‘Thank you for the champagne. It’s lovely. Look, Katharine. Kim. Victor brought this.’ She held out the bottle and went on, ‘I’ll go and put it in the refrigerator. And turn the oven on, otherwise we’ll never get supper tonight.’ She went out, closing the door quietly behind her.
When Francesca returned a few minutes later, she was surprised to see Victor standing at the far end of the drawing room, quite obviously admiring the paintings that graced the walls. He and Katharine were listening attentively to Kim, who was giving them a long dissertation on the Constables and Turners in the room. Francesca chose not to join them. She went to the fireplace, picked up the brass fire tongs, plopped a couple of logs on the diminished embers, sat down in the chair and picked up her glass. She peered at Victor over the rim. A faint image of him from his films had apparently lingered at the back of her mind, for it surfaced suddenly. It was the image of an excessively handsome man, glossy and too sleek, who looked as if he had been patted and pummelled and polished, and then varnished into smooth and characterless perfection. She sneaked another look at him, and saw how utterly false this image now proved to be.
He was handsome, there was no quarrelling with that, yet in reality he was rough-hewn and rugged. His face was more craggy and raw-boned than she had remembered and, far from lacking character, it had a virility and strength, and was webbed around the eyes with those faint tell-tale lines of experience which are the real evidence of a life well-lived, and to the fullest. His skin had a leathery, almost weather-beaten texture, and she knew that his deep sunburn was the type acquired only by a man who is always out of doors. His features were more sharply denned than she had recalled, from the strong Roman nose and the prominent black brows above those black and forceful eyes, to the wide humorous mouth and the large white teeth. Even the thick black hair, brushed smoothly back from the furrowed brow, seemed to have a vitality and life of its own. He was powerfully built, broad-shouldered and massive across the chest and back.
In all truthfulness, the only sleek things about Victor Mason were his clothes. They were of the finest quality and appeared to have been assembled with unerring precision. And they’re just a little too perfect, Francesca thought. She noted the excellent cut of the black cashmere jacket, the grey flannel slacks with their knife-edge creases, the pale blue cotton-voile shirt, the darker blue silk tie, the grey silk handkerchief in the breast pocket of the jacket, the velvet-soft brown suede loafers on his feet. He lifted his hand at this moment and put a cigarette in his mouth and fit it, and she caught the gleam of sapphires in the French cuff, the flash of gold on the wrist. Poor Kim, he looks positively shabby in comparison, she said to herself, even though he is wearing his new suit. Unaccountably, this had a crumpled and well-lived-in appearance. Francesca had to smile. Victor Mason’s clothes would never look crumpled, of that she was quite positive.
Watching them, or more precisely, watching Victor, Francesca was struck by a sudden and unsettling thought. There was something about Victor which disturbed her, something she could not put her finger on. It came to her. She felt curiously threatened by him. But why? She did not have to do much analysing to define the reasons. Because he is extraordinarily good looking, a famous celebrity, and very, very rich, she said to herself. And all of these so-called assets add up to one thing – power. Yes, he had immense power, albeit of a somewhat special nature, and powerful men, whatever the roots of their power, were eminently dangerous to know. He is also arrogant and so … so … sure of himself, and filled with a conceit that is quite insufferable. She shivered involuntarily and goose-flesh ran up her arms. He also frightens me, she thought, and she