That Would Be a Fairy Tale - By Amanda Grange Page 0,20

again in the most mortifying circumstances. She seemed to be cursed!

‘Mr Peterson is mistaken, I assure you,’ said Cicely, trying her best to hide her agitation. ‘I have no need to supplement my income and I am not in the least desirous of becoming a secretary.’

The words were clumsy and out of her mouth before she had given any thought to them, and she was convinced he could not fail to see through them. Indeed, he seemed to realize she was lying, because something in his face changed. His eyes, which had been astonished, now hardened . . . but when he spoke, Cicely was surprised to discover that he had misunderstood her words and her manner entirely.

‘You mean you have not the least desire of becoming my secretary,’ he said bitingly. There was an air of tension about him, and she was forcibly reminded of the fact that his background was very different to hers. If he had been a country gentleman he would not have made such a remark, nor would he have spoken so bitingly. But Alex Evington was completely different from the men she was used to. He was harder, more ruthless, and disinclined to sweep anything under the carpet. It made things far more difficult for her. And yet in a way she respected him for it.

‘That is not what I meant at all,’ she said, raising her head. Now that the encounter could not be avoided she knew she must rise to the challenge, and she prepared to defend herself against his mistaken beliefs. But it was not going to be easy.

‘Isn’t it?’ he demanded.

His eyes darkened with some barely-suppressed emotion which was clearly composed of anger, but there was something else there as well. Something it was much more difficult to read.

‘You are clearly bored with doing nothing all day long,’ he continued, ‘or else why would you visit such an office? And as you told Mr Peterson you wanted to find a position as a secretary - unless you are calling him a liar?’ he digressed, his voice hard.

‘Certainly not,’ she replied, her own anger beginning to rise.

‘Very well, then. As you told Mr Peterson you wanted to find a position as a secretary, I may safely assume that a position as a secretary is what you were looking for. But the second you were offered one at Oakleigh Manor you changed your mind. And as soon as I entered the room you decided you must leave.’

Cicely felt a feeling of frustration wash over her. He had got it all wrong. But how could she tell him so without confessing that she needed money? Which she had no intention of doing. Her pride simply would not let her.

‘ I know you don’t like me, Miss Haringay,’ he went on harshly, ‘but is it really necessary to make it so obvious every time we meet?’

By this time Cicely had recovered somewhat from her shock, and the injustice of this last remark stung her. ‘I hardly think you are in a position to lecture me on my behaviour,’ she returned. ‘Your own behaviour is hardly a model of decorum.’ Gaining confidence, she raised her chin and looked him in the eye. ‘You delight in laughing at me every time we meet, and when you are not laughing at me you are making it clear what you think of the landed classes. Can you really say you would have employed me, even if I had applied for the post?’

‘I — ‘ He broke off.

‘There. You see. You don’t like me any more than I like you,’ she retorted. ‘We can both of us congratulate ourselves on having had a lucky escape. And that being the case I will bid you good day.’

She turned towards the door, but he surprised her by saying, ‘Yes. I would.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ she asked, turning round.

‘You’re right.’ His mouth was grim. ‘I don’t like you any more than you like me. But I would still have offered you the post, because you are the one person in all the country who would be able to give me exactly what I need.’

‘Oh? And what is that?’ she demanded, wanting to maintain her anger, because anger made it easier for her to deal with him, but intrigued despite herself.

He ran his hand through his dark hair. ‘An intimate knowledge of the local people and the customs of the Manor. It isn’t only the Sunday school picnic.’ He shook his head, as