An Excellent Wife?. CHARLOTTE LAMB
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than my grandpa.’
Being compared to her grandfather went down like a lead balloon with James. Tight-lipped, he said, ‘Get in the car, please. I’ll give you a lift home.’
The crowd began to disperse, seeing that no further excitement was likely.
Her hazel eyes glinted mischievously up at him. ‘Remember, I might pick your pocket if you let me get close enough.’
‘Very droll, Miss Kirby. Please get into the car.’
She obeyed this time, but was still looking up at him, which was why she stumbled over the edge of the kerb.
Before she could hit her chin on the open car door James grabbed her, slid an arm around her waist, another behind her knees, and carried her to the car, very conscious of her glinting red hair brushing his jawline, her heart beating under that shabby old sweatshirt she wore, picking up a faint, flowery scent from her throat. If you missed the slight rise of those tiny breasts you’d think she could be a boy, she was so slightly built, so skinny of hip and leg, but it would be a mistake to forget her femininity. He had already been stung by it once or twice. Looking at her was one thing; having her in his arms made an entirely different and disturbing impression.
She looked like a child, but she got her own way with a woman’s maddening deviance. He had been determined not to visit her home and here he was, committed to doing just that—and the really infuriating part was that he didn’t even really mind.
Not that he was really attracted to a skinny brat like this, of course! Good God, no! It was just that... He tried to explain his reactions to himself, to be rational and level-headed, but she had slid her arms round his neck and put her head on his shoulder and James was suddenly having some sort of problem thinking at all.
Almost feverishly he deposited her in a hurry on the back seat of the car and climbed in beside her, trying not to make his agitation visible.
What the hell was the matter with him? He was behaving like some sex-starved lunatic.
Slamming the door, he watched Barny get back behind his driving wheel. Without looking at the girl, James asked curtly, ‘What’s the address?’
‘Muswell Hill, Cheney Road; the house is called The Cedars.’
The address intrigued him; it sounded Victorian, gracious, and didn’t fit this girl at all. He would be curious to see what her home looked like, what sort of family she came from. But he wouldn’t go into the house; he was not letting her win every trick. He would drop her and drive away.
‘Make for Muswell Hill. Barney,’ James said, leaning forward to open a small cabinet fixed to the back of the front seats. It held among other things first aid items; James selected a box of paper handkerchiefs, a bottle of still water and a couple of sticky plasters.
“Turn your face to me, Miss Kirby.’
‘Patience,’ she said, obeying.
‘That’s a very old-fashioned name.’
‘My aunt’s; she was rich and my parents hoped she would leave me her money if they called me by her name.’
‘Did she?’
‘No, she left it to a cat’s home. In her will she said she had always hated her name, and if my parents hadn’t called me Patience she would have left me her money, but she despised them for saddling an innocent child with a name like that and said money had never helped her enjoy life so I’d be better off without any.’
James laughed. ‘She sounds interesting. And were you?’
‘Was I what?’
‘Better off without her money.’
Sadly she shook her head.
He began cleaning the blood from her forehead, exposing a long but thankfully merely a surface cut. James washed and dried it before covering it with a plaster, then washed the rest of her heart-shaped face and dried it carefully, very aware of her looking up at him, curling dark gold lashes deepening the effect of those eyes. He wished she would stop staring. Uneasiness made him brusque. ‘Head hurting much?’
‘Not at all.’
He held up three fingers. ‘How many fingers can you see?’
‘Three, of course.’
He stared into the centres of the hazel eyes but the pupils seemed normal, neither dilated nor contracted. She smiled, a sweet, warm curve of the mouth that made him flush for some inexplicable reason.
He scowled. No, that wasn’t honest; he knew very well why he had gone red. He had wanted to kiss that warm, wide mouth. He still did; in fact just contemplating the possibility made him dizzy. I’m light-headed, he thought. Am I coming down with some bug? There is flu going around the office. That must be it. Why would I want to kiss her? I don’t even like this girl; she’s a nuisance. She isn’t much to look at, either. Not my type.
She’s too young for you, anyway, a little voice inside his head insisted. Look at her! You can give her a good fifteen years.
Don’t exaggerate! he told himself. Ten, maybe—she’s in her early twenties, not her teens!
She had been watching him, now she looked down, her dark gold lashes stirring against her cheeks. James hoped she hadn’t picked up what was in his mind. He didn’t want her getting any crazy ideas about his intentions. As far as she was concerned, he did not have any!
A moment later Barny slowed, turning a corner. ‘This is the road; where exactly do I find the house, miss?’ He and James both contemplated the road of detached houses in large gardens. It certainly matched the address the girl had given them, but it did not match the girl herself. She didn’t look as if she came from one of these gracious period homes set among trees and shrubs, with curving drives, and lawns.
‘Keep driving and I’ll tell you when to stop,’ Patience said, and obediently Barny kerb-crawled until she said, ‘This is it!’
The car stopped outside and both men stared curiously at the high Victorian house with gabled pink roofs on several levels, twisty red barley sugar chimneys, latticed windows behind which hung pretty chintz curtains. Built of red brick, the woodwork painted apple-green, the design made it took more like a cottage than a large house, a typical design of the last quarter of the nineteenth century. It was set well back from the road in large gardens in which spring was busy breaking out.
A flurry of almond blossom on black boughs, green lawns covered in daisies, yellow trumpets of daffodils and purple crocus showing in naturalised clumps—James hadn’t noticed until now how far spring had progressed. There was an over-civilised tidiness to his own garden that missed out on this lyrical note.
‘The Cedars?’ he queried drily. ‘What happened to them?’
‘There is one, but it’s at the back. There were two when the house was built; the other one blew down in a storm years ago.’ She gave him a defiant glare. ‘And will you stop being sarcastic?’
He didn’t answer. ‘Barny, take us up to the front door.’
Barny swung the car through the green-painted open gates and slowly drove up to the porch which sheltered a verandah and a green front door. He stopped right outside; James got out of the car and turned to help Patience out.
‘Here you are. Goodbye. And I don’t want to see you again.’
She slid down from the car and stumbled over his foot. Quite deliberately, in his opinion, but it would be useless to point that out. Sighing, James caught her before she hit the path and picked her up. She was beginning to feel comfortable in his arms. He would have to watch that. This girl was insidious as ivy; she would be growing all over him soon if he wasn’t careful.
‘Okay, this is the last thing I do,’ he told her coldly. ‘I will carry you to your front door, but I am not going inside.’
He waited for an argument,