The Terms of Their Affair Read online

“Caradoc’s.” She rolled her young eyes and kicked some gravel beneath her feet. She was angry. “Most of them just want to talk to him. Shouldn’t it be about dad?”

  “Of course. I’m sure it is. But sweetheart, people feel obliged to speak to the family who have suffered a loss.”

  “Not me.”

  “Well,” Finn nodded slowly. “You’re only nine. People often don’t know how to speak to children at times like this.”

  “You do.” Maddie muttered.

  Finn might have felt gratified if it weren’t for the fact the poor little girl was so miserable. “Yes, well. It’s not the first time I’ve met you. I know you.” She patted Maddie’s shoulder comfortingly. “And I know about loss. I do sort of understand a little of how you’re feeling.”

  “Do you?” Hope flared in Maddie’s face and she forgot to be polite and circumspect. “Because your mother died when you were a baby?”

  Finn pushed the door open and held it for Maddie to slip through. She shook out of her coat and handed it Finn, who hung it from a hook with a small smile. The little girl was very used to people doing things for her. That wasn’t her fault, nor was it a failing. It was just the way she’d been brought up. It was how things were done.

  “This way,” Finn pointed down the hallway, towards the servants’ hall.

  Maddie followed, taking a moment to gaze around the large kitchen with its antiquated decorating.

  “How do you know, Finn?” Maddie pushed, sitting down at the long oak table and resting her chin in the palms of her hand. Finn flicked the kettle on and pulled a pot from the cupboard above the hearth.

  “Yes,” she said finally, placing some tea leaves into it and then adding the water. She assembled the tray with sugar and a jug of milk, and then carried it to the table. “Because my mother died.” She poured Maddie’s tea first, adding a liberal amount of milk and sugar. “It’s not at all the same as what you’re feeling. I never knew her, except from the stories my dad would tell. So I have only my imaginings and not my memories.” She sat down opposite the little girl and curled her hands around her mug.

  “I guess I’m lucky, in a way. Having never met her, I don’t have any specific things to miss or regret.”

  “But you never got to know her,” Maddie said with passionate empathy that was beyond her years. “I wouldn’t have missed out on my time with dad for anything.”

  Finn nodded sagely. “Tell me about him. What did you like to do together?”

  Maddie wrinkled her little nose. “Well, he was very busy and often very sick. Even now, when he’s so old, he sits … I mean he used to sit in his office until late at night. But he would let me go in and help him.”

  “Did he? What kind of things would you do to help?” Finn asked, a smile playing at the corners of her lips.

  “Oh, you know, type stuff for him and update the numbers in his phone. He was crap with technology.”

  Finn refrained from reminding Maddie that crap was a grown up word. After all, she had no clue what rules had been placed on Maddie’s young shoulders, but she did know that the girl was far too fragile to handle any criticism at that time.

  “That was very kind of you.”

  “I loved doing it,” Maddie’s eyes were enormous in her face. So like Caradoc’s! Gower’s must have been the same. “And when my mother travels, which is a lot, dad would let me stay up as late as he did. I couldn’t though,” she shrugged. “He didn’t sleep much.” Like his son, Finn thought. She was amazed by how little sleep Caradoc was able to function on.

  “Your dad sounds like he was a lot of fun,” Finn smiled.

  “Yep.” Maddie lifted her tea and smelled it suspiciously. “Not like my mother.”

  Finn was no psychologist, but she’d read about a million books, and she had a keen understanding of human emotions. In Finn’s opinion, it was natural for Maddie to want to push a remaining parent away having suffered the loss she had. “Well,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “Everyone is different.”

  “But she never lets me do anything. When mother is around, I’m to go to bed early and eat only what she gives me. It’s sooo boring.”

  Finn nodded, a serious expression on her face despite the way amusement was dancing inside of her. “Believe it or not, your mother has those rules because she loves you. You’ll understand one day.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “No, I’m sure you don’t right now.” Finn felt a pang of sympathy for this woman she’d never met. Despite the strange impression she’d garnered that Elizabetta Moore was a vapid, superficial twit of a woman, she was still Maddie’s mum, and a bereaved widow. “Try to remember that your mum is very sad right now. She’ll need you to be with her.”

  Maddie’s eyes met Finn’s and it was obvious that being needed by anyone had never even occurred to her. She sipped her tea contemplatively and quickly. Finn was pleased. Tea had always been her comfort drink; she had turned to it in any moment of worry, and many, many, many times in between.

  “I’ve never been in this kitchen,” Maddie said after a moment.

  “Haven’t you?” Finn frowned. She looked around the enormous space with a sense of awe. “If I grew up in this house, I would have discovered every single nook and cranny. What a beautiful home it is.”

  “Yes,” Maddie nodded. “It’s sort of magical, isn’t it?”

  “That’s exactly what it is!”

  “Have you finished Matilda?”

  Maddie nodded, her eyes wide. “Oh, I loved it, Finn. The moment Mrs Trunchbull was in the classroom and the chalk started to write … I got goose bumps.”

  “Roald Dahl is a wonderful storyteller,” Finn agreed. “Did you start on any others of his?”

  Maddie shook her head.

  “Well then, let’s go and pick one out. For my part, I think The Twits might be another one you’ll adore.”

  It was, once again, in the library that Caradoc found them.

  His young half-sister kneeling down in the same black dress she’d worn to the funeral, and Seraphina, the angel from his bed beside her. She wore overalls that were strangely sexy, her long hair pulled into a bun that had come half loose. He stared at them for a moment and then expelled a long sigh.

  The funeral had been hell. Making small-talk with strangers who used sympathy as an excuse to meet him was far from how he had wanted to spend his time. His mourning for Gower was a complex beast. Though he had arrived at Bagleyhurst with nothing but derision, the longer he’d walked the halls, the more the power of the dead man had begun to infiltrate his soul. It brought a heaviness to him he hadn’t expected to feel.

  And yet the funeral had still been an act. Caradoc had no interest in showing his conflicting feelings to the world at large. He did not grieve publicly. It had been an arduous afternoon.

  But here was Seraphina, and everything was okay again. At least, it would be, as soon as they could be alone.

  CHAPTER SIX

  His hand was tracing intricate patterns in the small of her back. Finn’s lips lifted in a groggy smile, but she could do little more. Her body was exhausted; her mind spent.

  She smothered a yawn and pressed her head into the pillow.

  “What were you and Madison whispering about when I found you?”

  Caradoc, in contrast, sounded as energized as ever. How did he do that? She sometimes wished she could bottle his energy.

  Finn’s eyes were heavy. She blinked, and tried to focus on the thick velvet of the curtains across the room. “Were we whispering?”

  He smiled. “Yes.”

  Finn smothered another yawn. “We were talking about books. Have you started reading The BFG yet?”

  He frowned. “The what?”

  His forgetfulness irked her. “The book I picked for you.”

  “Oh.” He loved the way her skin felt; so soft and warm. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, beautiful Seraphina, the time I have when I’m not working,
I much prefer to spend like this.”

  “You could read in bed,” she said with a pout.

  “That would be a waste of the time I have you for.”

  Something heavy tugged at her heart. It felt like a reminder of the temporary state of their relationship.

  “You are very good with Madison.”

  Finn pushed the worry from her mind. She knew they were temporary. Nothing he could say would change that. “I like her.”

  Caradoc’s voice was thick with an emotion she didn’t comprehend. “The funeral was hard for her.”

  His admission surprised Finn. She rolled over in the bed, her eyes scanning his face. “Just for her?”

  He wore an implacable mask, and Finn wondered how he did that? Surely he felt the same as everyone else. And yet he behaved as though nothing and no one had the ability to upset him.

  “She is a child; and she was close to Gower.”

  “Yes,” Finn nodded, her eyes not leaving his face. She didn’t know it, but Caradoc was often unsettled by that habit she had of staring at him as though she saw every crenulation of his soul.

  “My father’s wife Elizabetta is not attentive to Madison’s needs.”

  Finn compressed her lips while she sought for the appropriate rejoinder. “Isn’t she?”

  Caradoc smiled slowly, and Finn’s heart turned over in her chest. “If you have been speaking with Madison as much as I believe then surely you have come to this conclusion yourself.”

  Finn looked away now, her beautiful face conflicted with emotions. She was torn. How could she feel so intimate with this man, and yet so estranged from him at times too?

  “I don’t think it’s my place, or yours for that matter, to judge.”

  “You don’t think it’s my place?”

  Her eyes skidded back to his face and her heart thumped hard against her ribcage. His handsomeness was exasperating. Every now and again she forgot just how beautiful he was; and then it hit her like a sledgehammer.

  “Well, it’s more your place than mine, I guess,” she said with a smile most men would have found adorable.

  “A big concession,” he muttered, flicking her arm lightly.

  “So?” She prompted, curiosity unfurling in her gut. “You do stand in judgement of your step-mother?”

  “She’s no more my step-mother than Gower was my father,” Caradoc intoned flatly. “And yes. I think she was an average wife and a less-than-spectacular mother.”

  Finn pursed her lips, but his statement was too intriguing to be let go. “In what way do you think she was wanting in the wife department?”

  His sneer was so full of emotion that Finn felt a dangerous warning trickle down her spine. “She, like many women, saw my father as a never-ending bank account, and little else.”

  Finn propped her head up on her palm, partly just to stop herself from drifting off. This conversation was one she wanted to have, though she refused to analyse why it mattered so much to her. She picked her way through her mind, trying to find the right words for what she wanted to say.

  “Did you know,” he murmured, dropping his hand to her breast so that he could draw invisible circles around her nipple, “that you have a very particular expression when you are trying not to offend me?”

  Her nerve endings were tingling. Being in Caradoc’s bed was a form of sexual torture. She had never felt greater pleasure or exhaustion, and somehow she was never satisfied enough nor exhausted enough to be able to resist him. Already she felt desire swirling anew in her gut and she had to concentrate to keep her thoughts in order.

  “Do I?”

  “Yes.” He leaned forward and kissed the edge of her lips. “And as much as I think you look beautiful when lost in thought, let me save you the trouble. You cannot offend me. No matter what you say, I assure you, I’ve heard worse.”

  Her eyes widened at the arrogant challenge; she instinctively knew it to be true, though. Caradoc Moore, for all his charisma and success, was a man who would easily polarise most people.

  “Fine,” she smiled up at him sweetly, but his fingers on her breast were making her body quiver. Goosebumps danced along her spine. “You’ve told me that you haven’t seen Gower more than a handful of times in recent years. Do you really think …”

  “That I know what I’m talking about?” He interrupted; another habit of his that Finn wished she found more frustrating. It was bad mannered, but on Caradoc, it was just … sexy. It was pure him.

  She nodded, transfixed by the subtle flecks of gold in his eyes.

  “I’m better placed than most to know exactly what I’m talking about.” He compressed his lips and Finn burst out laughing.

  “Now you’re worrying about offending me,” she chided softly. “That’s not like you.”

  His frown was deep. “No, it’s not.” He studied her thoughtfully. “You aren’t a thing like the women I usually sleep with.”

  She hated how he did that. At every opportunity, Caradoc found a way to remind Finn that they slept together. That they weren’t actually together in the true sense of the word. But she pretended not to notice. “In what way?”

  “In every way,” it was a quick pronouncement and she wasn’t sure if she should feel put-down. “That’s a compliment,” he said, intuiting her muted reaction. “You are beautiful. One of the most beautiful women I’ve ever known.” His hand moved away from her breast, to run down her side, so that he could lay it on the swell of her hip. He moved forward, and she felt his erection hard against her stomach. It made her groan softly.

  “But?” She prompted, her voice husky.

  “You didn’t pursue me. In fact, I suspect that you actually hesitated about this situation, in the beginning.”

  She pursed her lips. “Damn right I did.”

  His laugh was velvet and cocoa.

  “Why is that funny?”

  “Because,” his hand drifted lower, to curve around her buttocks, and he pulled her forward, so that his arousal was teasing her core. “Usually, I do not need to ask twice.”

  “To … ask twice?” She arched a brow, wishing she could cool down her damned libido for a moment. “So what? You decide you want a woman and that’s it? End of?”

  “Yes.”

  “And these women you usually decide you want,” she said, pretending her heart wasn’t screeching with envy at the very idea. “What are they like?”

  “Like Elizabetta,” he said, with the lazy cynicism she had heard him employ previously.

  “In what way? You know, for a smart man, you can be incredibly cryptic and vague at times.”

  “It’s difficult to describe to someone like you. It’s a thousand traits that form one particular kind of woman. They’re beautiful. Polished. Well-spoken. They always have very expensive tastes in all things – clothing, jewellery, cars, houses, holidays. They generally don’t clean, cook or parent for themselves. They are professional husband-hunters.”

  “My God, you are such a chauvinist,” Finn snapped, and she pulled her body away a little, to put some vital space between them. Her hand she clamped against his chest, lest he decided to follow her. “Do you honestly think you can generalise like that?”

  “I make a living from generalisations,” he said seriously. “Assumptions. Lightning fast assessments. That’s how I live. And yes, Finn, I believe I can generalise. I have met more than my fair share of Elizbettas.”

  “And I bet you slept with more than your fair share, too, despite your personal disapproval of them?”

  “Yes,” he shrugged with self-righteous insolence. “Haven’t you worked out by now that this is how I blow off steam?”

  “Woah.” Finn shook her head and expelled a slow breath. Desire was still bubbling beneath her veins, but anger was there too.

  “You are the first woman I’ve been with who isn’t just looking for a shortcut to retirement.”

  “Woah,” she said again, and she forced herself to get out of the bed. The room was freezing. She ignored h
er discomfort. At least the cold air served to jolt her into wakefulness.

  “Why does that offend you? I’m complimenting you, Finn, because you’re not like that.”

  “Yes, but…! You’re speaking like … like … women have no brains in their head, and only the personal motivation to fuck their way to unimaginable wealth. That’s bullshit.”

  Though Finn never swore, under the circumstances, it felt incredible to lash him with the curse.

  “No, not all women.” He was frustratingly, infuriatingly calm. “Just the women that turn up at the same events I do.”

  “So don’t go to those events!” She said angrily. “Or don’t sleep with them. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “Should I?” He was smiling. Her indignation was amusing him! It only angered Finn further. “Why?”

  “Because! You are having sex with these women and scorning them at the same time. That’s really just a totally lousy thing to do.”

  He shrugged. “They’re sleeping with me in the hope it will lead to their becoming Mrs Moore.”

  “Woah.” She rubbed her temples as his steadfast commitment to this ludicrous theory became apparent. “You’re like … someone in receipt of stolen goods trying to argue that none of it’s your fault because the burglar chose to give the stuff to you. I mean, if these women are just looking for a fantastically wealthy husband, and you know that, and you take them back to your … to your … lair, don’t you think that makes you just the worst of the worst? You’re giving them false hope!”

  He narrowed his gaze thoughtfully and for a minute she thought she might have gotten through to him. “We’re running off topic here.”

  “No, we’re not,” she muttered. “You were being an arrogant piece of work and I was telling you that I don’t like it. So far, we’re exactly on topic.”

  He flipped onto his back and stared at the ceiling. “I could write you a list, if you’d like, of the women I remember taking to my lair, as you creatively call it. I think if you googled them, you’d see that they’re married now to men like me, or they’re doing their best to become that way.”

  “Yeah, well, clearly they dodged a bullet in not hooking you,” she said angrily. “How could anyone stand to be married to you when you are capable of such cruel derision and disrespect?”