tendrils from her temples.
Carol took time to find an answer. “You could break my heart, Damon. I’d forgive you.”
Her answer rocked him. For the second time he had to pitch a fierce battle for control. Eventually his sense of what was best for them won out. He lifted her to her feet. “I would never do that.”
“Not deliberately. No.” Carol placed her hands against his chest.
“Not for anything. I know something about the wedding photo of your parents shocked you. Or it shocked a memory out of you. You promised me you’d tell me about everything that disturbs you. I’m going to hold you to that.”
She knew he would. “I have to get things together in my own mind, Damon,” she said in as calm a voice as she could muster.
“Okay, that’s a start. I’m ready to listen whenever you want.”
Words she desperately needed to get out choked in her throat. She needed time. “I suppose we’d better go back downstairs. They’ll be wondering where we are.”
“You don’t have to account to anyone for your time, Carol. If you think you can manage the sack of baubles, I can manage the tree.”
She picked up the large cotton sack filled with Christmas baubles, considering its weight. For all the contents, it was feather-light. “No problem. I’ll lead the way.” She smiled at him. A lovely smile, yet it trembled.
They had left their close and comfortable relationship way behind. That relationship had taken a giant leap into the unknown. Those ecstatic moments between them could not be taken back. Unforgettable as they were, it didn’t guarantee ownership of one by the other or increasing intimacy between them. There were hazards ahead for both of them to overcome.
* * *
Amy Hoskins, the housekeeper, didn’t know what to do. As far as she knew, all the house guests had arrived. She hurried into the drawing room where the whole party was enjoying drinks.
She addressed Maurice as a matter of course. “There’s a Mr and Mrs Emmett at the gate, sir.”
“Good Lord!” Maurice Chancellor’s handsome face flushed. He turned his head. “Did you know about this, Carol?”
Was she supposed to apologize? Damon wondered, feeling hot under the collar. Maurice Chancellor was having a hard time remembering who actually owned Beaumont.
Carol hid her perturbation. What a Christmas this was going to be! “My mother never ceases to surprise me,” she said, looking past her uncle to the housekeeper. “Go let them in, Mrs Hoskins.”
Amy Hoskins didn’t argue. She didn’t know what might be in store for her if she got on the wrong side of ‘the heiress.’ That was what Mrs Chancellor always called her niece by marriage. No love lost there.
“I call that cheek!” Dallas cried out in a voice so cataclysmic it cut off all conversation. She hated, positively hated Roxanne—the woman who had everything she didn’t. She would never forgive her husband for saying that. “So what will we do now?”
“Enjoy yourself as best you can, Dallas,” Carol advised, wondering what her mother had done to earn so much hatred. “My mother is devoted to me.”
Dallas was on the point of responding, only at the last minute she caught her husband’s eye. It gave her fair warning. People always did mistake Maurice’s superficial charm for weakness. They had no idea of his full weight. Any warmth Maurice projected was fake.
CHAPTER SIX
ROXANNE, LOOKING SIMPLY stunning, swept into the entrance hall, her manner that of a world-famous diva making an appearance.
“It’s called making an entrance,” Damon murmured in Carol’s ear.
“And it’s taken an awful lot of practice.”
Roxanne acknowledged them with Euro-style kisses—longer, more lingering, on Damon’s tanned cheek. “Lovely to see you again.”
“May I wish you a Happy Christmas,” Damon responded suavely.
Roxanne took that as a positive sign. “Looking forward to catching up later.”
Without excuse or explanation, as was her wont, she by-passed those congregated in the drawing room with no more than a flourishing wave. Most of the guests were sitting agog, nursing a drink, as though it was intermission time at a theatre. Roxanne allowed her daughter to escort her and Jeff to the best of the remaining guest rooms.
“This won’t do, Carol,” Roxanne pronounced sharply, poised on the threshold as though refusing to go in. “Who’s in the Yellow Suite?”
“Chazza and his wife,” Carol mocked. “He’s the short bald guy.”
Roxanne frowned while Jeff supplied a name. “You know, Roxy—Chazza Millar.”
“That old bore!” Roxanne exclaimed. “You’ll have to find something better than this, Carol. I won’t stay here.”
“That’s okay, Mother. You weren’t invited.”
“Never