could I? Astrid is always in my thoughts. I am so concerned about her. I’ll speak to Julius. I am sure he will know what to do.’
Beatrice’s disbelieving dread increased with every mile that took her to her husband. She suddenly found herself at war with herself. Half of her was besieged by the wild joy at the thought that the man who had obsessed her thoughts since she had first laid eyes on him was home at last, and the other half was indignant and furious that he intended to take from her the very thing that had brought them together in the first place, without any discussion on the matter.
Oh, but Julius Chadwick was a sly one. By blatantly ignoring her feelings, without so much as a by your leave, like some wicked puppet master it was his way of telling her that he had taken control of her life and there was nothing she could do about it.
On reaching the house she hurried inside. She was met by Hayes in the hall. In stentorian tones he welcomed her home and informed her that her husband was in his study, working.
‘Oh. Well, that’s too bad. Tell him I’m here, will you, Hayes, and that I want to see him.’
‘As you wish, my lady.’
Hayes crossed the hall to do her bidding. Breathing rapidly, Beatrice waited, her hands on her waist, the toe of her foot tapping impatiently, her eyes glued to the study door, behind which lurked the man responsible for her fury. She heard Hayes clear his throat and then proceed to tell Julius that his wife had arrived home and wished to speak to him.
Julius’s low voice vibrated with annoyance. ‘Tell my wife to go to her room. I will be up to see her shortly. In the meantime I have important work to attend to.’
Furious at being ordered to her room like a mindless piece of chattel, without further ado Beatrice marched to the wood-panelled study and pushed her way past Hayes. Julius was sitting at his desk, dictating a letter to his secretary. His head snapped up, his gaze riveting on her, and his expression went from shock to relief to cold anger. ‘Beatrice!’
Putting a tight rein on her temper as she walked across the carpet, Beatrice could not take her eyes off him. He looked just as handsome as ever, just as ruggedly virile and formidably large. She refused to admit, however, that his chiselled male perfection had any effect on her. With unarguable logic, she said, ‘I apologise for disturbing you, Julius. Obviously you consider me of less importance than your business concerns, but after an absence of four months, I’m sure you can spare a few minutes to speak to your wife.’
With deadly calm, Julius laid down his quill and turned his gaze on his secretary. ‘Leave us, will you, Harry?’ he said curtly. ‘We’ll finish this later.’
When Harry and Hayes had left the room Julius turned his attention on his wife. He took one look at her face and knew that his ruse to bring her back to London had worked. What he read in her face was a mixture of fury and dread. Little did she know that he had been waiting for her, that he knew that when Mr Sinclair introduced himself and informed her of his reason for being at Larkhill, it wouldn’t take long for her to come hurtling back to London. He was not disappointed. In fact, she had made it faster than he’d imagined.
There was an air of barely controlled impatience about her that fairly crackled. Her hair hung in a tangled pennant of glossy waves. She was flushed. Her eyes had a luminous quality, green and dazzling, of a woman who had spent weeks in a state of bliss and contentment and with no wish to have it spoiled by a returning husband. It maddened him and fascinated him and made him desire her all at the same time, but he controlled the urge to drag her off to bed and looked at her in chilly, fierce reproach.
‘Since you’re here, I suppose we’d better get this over with now rather than later.’
Beatrice’s head was whirling as she cast about for words. Until then she had thought she remembered exactly how he looked, but she was mistaken. His tan jacket clung to his wide shoulders and his thick hair was brushed back from his wide forehead. His face was one of arrogant handsomeness, with its