That Kind Of Man. Sharon Kendrick
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the windows of the lighted drawing-room, Abigail could see people opening bottles and bottles of champagne, and she mentally steeled herself to confront them, wishing that she could order them out of her house and have the place to herself again. Time to lick her wounds and recover.
But tomorrow they would all be gone, she reminded herself. Tomorrow she would have the peace she craved.
‘It’s strange,’ Nick remarked as the car drew to a halt with a soft, swishing sound, ‘but I never imagined that you would end up living in a big, impressive pile in the English countryside, out in the middle of nowhere like this.’
‘Orlando wanted to,’ she found herself telling him. ‘And I liked it here, too,’ she added defensively.
His gaze was unwavering. ‘And did Orlando always get what Orlando wanted?’
Did he know? Had he somehow guessed? Was that the reason for the piercingly direct gaze which seemed perceptive enough to be able to read her mind? Abigail shuddered violently as shame and revulsion washed over her. There was no point in denying what was as obvious as the nose on her face. ‘He did, mostly,’ she managed. ‘He was well schooled in the art of persuasion, you know.’
‘Yes. So I believe.’ Nick looked down at her pale hands, knotted together and lying against the black skirt. ‘Abby, you’re trembling.’ He sounded appalled. ‘What on earth is the matter with you?’
She settled for her only credible source of defence. ‘Need you ask? It’s been a fraught day. A fraught week. And I’m not particularly looking forward to going in there and mingling with people I don’t even like.’
‘Then don’t do it.’
She gave him a sad little smile. ‘I can’t just opt out like that.’
‘Can’t you?’ he queried softly. ‘You can do whatever you want to do, you know.’
‘Only if your name happens to be Nick Harrington,’ came her dry response. ‘And we don’t all have your determination.’
This received the glimmer of a smile. ‘Come on,’ he said, and helped her out of the car with an old-fashioned courtesy which she was quite unused to. It had the effect of making her feel very warm and safe and secure. A girl could get used to being cosseted like this, thought Abigail with a wistfulness which was totally alien to her.
Her instincts had always taught her to be wary where this man was concerned, but instinct also told her that nothing could ever harm her while Nick was around. In a topsy-turvy world, he had a rare strength and constancy of character.
She watched him as he slammed shut the door of the limousine behind them and they slowly began to mount the pale blonde stone of the front steps.
Nick Harrington would, she thought, with a sudden, unwelcome pang of realisation, make some woman one hell of a husband.
They had almost reached the front door when she stopped and turned to face him. ‘You always give me such a hard time, Nick—’
‘Do I?’
‘You know you do. You always have done.’
‘You need someone to say no to you, Abby. You’ve had a whole lifetime of people spoiling you, giving you exactly what you want.’
‘No,’ she corrected. ‘People giving me what they wanted me to have. It isn’t the same thing at all.’
Was that understanding which momentarily glimmered in the verdant depths of his eyes? On an impulse she placed her hand on his forearm. ‘Thank you for coming today,’ she told him honestly, because right at that moment he seemed the only solid, familiar shape in her quicksand-shifting world. ‘I appreciate it. Really, I do.’
He nodded as she let her arm fall but, far from looking gratified at receiving possibly the first compliment she had ever paid him, his face was grim and unyielding. ‘Don’t speak too soon, sweetheart,’ he said ominously, turning the door handle and pushing it open.
And Orlando’s friends were suddenly flocking around them, like vultures at a carcass, before Abigail had a chance to ask him exactly what he meant.
In Ireland the post-funeral party was known as a wake, though Abigail had often wondered why, since, judging from the facial expressions of most of the people here today, they looked about as unawake as she could imagine. In fact, a few of them looked just about ready to pass out.
She did what little mingling was necessary, but the effort it took must have shown on her face, for Nick soon came to stand beside her; he frowned, and then dipped his dark head to say in an undertone, ‘Why don’t you sit down? Take the weight off your feet.’
She didn’t know why she found it so difficult to follow suggestions when they were made by Nick—but she did. She always had done. And yet what he said made sense. Come on, Abby, she reasoned with herself, stop beating yourself up.
‘Okay.’ She nodded, and sat down stiffly in one of the high-backed chairs, forcing herself to sip from a glass of champagne, but pushing aside the untasted smoked salmon sandwiches on the place beside her, which were already curling up at the edges.
She drank the whole glass down, thinking that it might make her feel better, but by the end of it she felt resoundingly and head-achingly sober, though everyone else was well away, quaffing like mad at the vintage brand which Orlando had always preferred as though it were going out of fashion.
Nick had, in effect, she thought gratefully, now taken on the role of host. Abigail had barely been able to string two sentences together since they had returned—to find the party in full swing.
‘Do you want me to get rid of them?’ he asked her softly as they listened to one of Orlando’s buddies from drama school telling an outrageous story about her dead husband.
‘Soon,’ she answered.
Nick winced as the teller reached the predictably lewd and lascivious punchline, which was greeted with raucous laughter. ‘Doesn’t that kind of talk about your husband bother you?’ he asked her curiously.
Oh, what little he knew! Abigail shook her head. ‘Very little bothers me these days,’ she answered calmly, thanking a benevolent God that Orlando’s elderly parents, living in Spain because it was a kinder climate for people with chest problems, had been considered too frail and in too much shock to attend their son’s funeral.
‘Some of these people have come a long way to be here today, Nick,’ she explained quietly as she met his bemused stare. ‘Let them have their fill of food and drink. I need never see any of them again.’
He raised dark, quizzical eyebrows. ‘That bad, huh?’
She nodded her head reluctantly, the thick hair feeling hot and heavy against her neck. ‘That bad. So let them feel free.’
And they felt free, all right. The trouble was that they seemed like bottomless pits where the alcohol was concerned. Abigail was seriously concerned that, any minute now, someone would completely disgrace themselves. I really ought to go and ask the caterers to start serving coffee, she thought tiredly, unable to summon up the energy to move as she watched the guests group and regroup, dark dramatic figures, swaying more and more as each second passed.
Jemima, the dark, elfin-looking creature, with stray feathers from the feather boa sticking tantalisingly to her scarlet lips, was behaving quite outrageously—even for a member of Orlando’s entourage.
She made a beeline for Nick as soon as she spotted him, and then tried to drape herself all over him.
Abigail observed him with wry amusement as he politely attempted to keep her at arm’s length. His body language spoke volumes! Surely even Jemima must be able to sense that he was not in the least bit interested in her?
Apparently not. Jemima let a wing of raven hair fall provocatively over one half of her face, and looked up at Nick with huge dark eyes, blurred by alcohol. ‘Are you Abigail’s