***The new painting was finished. Smiling, Clare wrapped the freshly framed canvas in bubblewrap to protect the glass as she transported it from Cornwall to London, where Francesca had asked her to attend the party. Clare hadn’t been sure at first. She imagined Steve’s face when she walked in. Would he show even a spark of recognition for the artist whom he knew so much better than any of the guests would have suspected? Misreading Clare’s apprehension, Francesca had assured her that she would not reveal that Clare had been anything other than a painter of pictures to the good lady wife of the subject. Eventually Clare had been persuaded, but, she told Francesca, she would have to turn up a little late. She had things to do in Cornwall and wouldn’t be able to get away until at least seven. Francesca begged her to send the picture down ahead, just in case, but Clare refused. ‘I might have to tighten the canvas in the frame again before I can let you have it,’ she had explained.‘You'
Synopsis:Bored graduate Karen Heywood starts a new job in a stately home and discovers a haven of sensual pleasures. Only one part of the house remains forbidden to her - the private apartment of Blackwood Towers' mysterious owner . . .CHAPTER 1‘WE'RE SPENDING THE summer on the Greek islands. D’you have to take that job? Why not come with us?’ Jeremy pleaded, using that littleboy-lost expression he had learned at his nanny’s knee. Karen grinned, knowing this ploy worked wonders with female students and lecturers alike. Not with her, however. She recognised their relationship for what it was - mutual lust and nothing more. Not for her the agony of sighing after this handsome, feckless young man, the jealous pangs, the heart-breaking wait by the phone for calls that rarely came. Thank God he doesn’t affect me that way, she thought, resting back against the flat corduroy boat cushions as he poled the punt along the placid surface of the Cherwell. I can admire his well-shaped head, b
Karen looked out through the landing window. Below lay the quad, across it the stately buildings that had sheltered aspiring students for over five hundred years. Not women, of course — they were a late addition. At one time no females had been permitted beneath the sacred portals of those male-dominated seats of learning. Just one more night spent there. It was sad, really. Despite her assertions to Jeremy, Karen was nervous of taking up the position she had been offered. She unlocked the door of the college flat. Inside the cosy panelled sitting room she stepped out of her sandals, padded across to the little kitchen and switched on the kettle. While waiting for it to boil, she opened the letter. Dear Karen, Am looking forward tremendously to having you join me at Blackwood Towers. You'll like Porthcombe. Miles of beach, a pounding sea and spectacular cliffs. The library is a mess. I really need your help. It’s too much for one person. The late marquis neglected it. He was only in
I DON'T KNOW about fucking in the hay, thought Armina Channing as she proceeded to do just that. It’s scratchy - smelly. Bits stick into one’s most delicate and private parts — though you could hardly call mine private. The brawny young man who was pleasuring her, head burrowed between her spread legs, seemed to have no such reservations. Hidden in a stall at the back of the stable, they were practically invisible. This would have been a great place to do it if it had been less uncomfortable. Armina revelled in the refinements of life - satin sheets, the touch of velvet against her pampered skin, perfumed bath water — exquisite cuisine, fine wines and decadent luxury. Yet a bit of rough could be stimulating, and Tayte Penwarden was rough all right — Lord Burnet’s head groom. And Armina was one of His Lordship’s mistresses, the chief odalisque of the seraglio. But while the cat was away the mice would play, and anything Tayte lacked as a sophisticated lover, he made up for in enthusi
Karen nodded and followed him up a winding flight of stairs leading from a doorway next to the fireplace. There was no landing. A few steps, and she was standing beneath the low attic ceiling. The windows were on a level with the uneven floor. They were open. The smell of roses crept in. It was a strictly masculine room: a mirror supported on a dressing table, a built-in wardrobe, a chest of drawers and a wide mahogany bed, neatly made, the duvet pulled straight. ‘You keep your house very tidy,’ she commented, remembering vividly the chaos of his flat, the floor strewn with books and papers, the dilapidated settee where she had lost her cherry. ‘I’ve a woman who “does”.’ He put the tray on the bedside table. Gin and tonic splashed into the glasses, topped with shaved ice and a twist of lemon. ‘Here’s to my assistant librarian,’ Tony said, smiling into her eyes as he toasted her. ‘I recommended you for your abilities, not because I expected to screw you, though I'll admit that wasn
TONY LED KAREN up the meandering, holly-hock-bordered path to a house not far from his own. The whitewashed walls were dappled with ochre lichen and cushiony green moss. He produced a key and opened the oak front door, standing back with a flourish so she might enter. ‘Voila, madame! Your very own country retreat.’ ‘The marquis has given this to me?’ It was more than she had expected. ‘Not exactly, dear. It’s a tied cottage. Part of your wages. If you stop working for him you're out, lock, stock and barrel. Nothing is for nothing. These were designed especially to quarter the lord of the manor’s peons — field hands, groundsmen and foresters. Slavery wasn’t invented by the Americans.’ It was a carbon copy of Tony’s cottage. A basic one up, one down, with the later addition of a kitchen and bathroom built on at the back. ‘There’s not much room.’ Karen humped her holdall up the stairs and set it down on the patchwork quilt spread over the double bed. Tony followed her, a suitcase i
‘You see how wonderful they are,’ Tony said unsteadily, hand working up and down the outside of his trousers, distended and dampened by his urgent cock-head. ‘It’s great to look at them with you here. You, of all people, who understand and appreciate them.’ Karen’s nipples and honey-pot were burning; the entire surface of her skin had become unbearably sensitive. She struggled for control. This was absurd and most unprofessional, throwing her into an ethical tizzy. She should be able to give a cool, unbiased assessment of the artistic merits of Dick Bedwell’s work. ‘I can see why they’re so valuable,’ was all she managed to gasp. Tony pushed the drawings to the far side of the table. ‘Lie down, Karen,’ he said in a dark, persuasive tone. There was no way she could deny him or herself as he pressed her back, the hard table edge cutting into her thighs. He possessed her lips hungrily, and she sighed with satisfaction at the feel of his tongue moving insidiously in the wetness of her
THE AINSWORTH ARMS had merited a mention in every good-food guide covering Devon. Though its restaurant was fully booked, the landlord always kept a table in reserve for Lord Burnet or his friends. The pub occupied a prime position at the top of the main street winding down to the crescentshaped bay, an ancient hostelry which had opened its doors to travellers since the Middle Ages. That night was no exception. Every room had been taken, the holiday season being in full spate. Karen was charmed by this fine example of a traditional coaching inn, a place of sooted beams hung with polished horse brasses, and open fireplaces that would blaze with logs in cold weather. Gleaming copper warming-pans adorned the panelled walls, and a collection of willow-pattern china, ships in bottles, enamelled signs and a hundred and one curios. Their table was in the wide semi-circular window looking out over the harbour. The dying sun spread a dazzling copper path across the sea, and masts reared int