The hairbrush hit the closed door.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘STOP there.’ She must have this wrong. Fortunately he’d offered her a seat before he’d enlightened her as to the reason for this meeting or she might just have been stretched out on the ankle-deep Aubusson carpet by now.
There was no way Sir Stuart Arden could be saying what she thought he was. She’d probably feel extremely silly later for saying this.
‘You want me to sleep with your son?’
She tried to make a joke of it but failed miserably; the persistent tremor reflected her bewilderment. He wasn’t laughing and he wasn’t looking furious at her presumption either.
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You implied it!’ She was apparently to offer her body as inducement to Ben. Outrageousness seemed to be a congenital condition in the Arden family.
‘You’re a very blunt young woman, Miss French. I like that.’ He beamed with generous approval at her.
‘I thought I was unsuitable material for…’ she began drily.
‘I admit I might have been a bit hasty. I didn’t like the idea of my son being saddled with a ready-made family.’
‘I assure you that I’m not on the look-out for a rich husband—rich, or any other sort!’
‘Since then I’ve been watching you.’ Now there was a very unsettling thought, she reflected wryly. ‘And I’m impressed by what I’ve seen.’
She judged it was time to put an end to this farcical situation. ‘You’ve got this all wrong, you know. Ben isn’t leaving because of me,’ she said earnestly. As mistakes went this one was up there with the big boys. The ever-present bleakness settled around her heart like a steel band.
She could see she hadn’t convinced him. It was made more difficult when he was pretty well sold on the popular theory of his own infallibility. When she’d been instructed to go to the big man’s office several scenarios had crossed her mind—instant dismissal was one, a leave-my-son-alone lecture was another. Use your feminine wiles to make my son stay home hadn’t been in the running!
‘You’re not the usual type he goes for at all.’ Benedict’s father obviously considered this a clinching argument but the significance remained unclear to Rachel. ‘It’s obvious he thinks he’s in love.’
‘Your son isn’t in love with me.’ She was able to say this without a blush; unfortunately she didn’t have the same control over her heart as she did her complexion, and it hurt—it hurt a lot to actually acknowledge this.
With a slow nod of his head he conceded she might be right. It obviously didn’t occur to him that it was tactless to concur. Rachel’s exasperation was increasing by the second.
‘He might think he is, though. He’s not used to rejection.’
His surveillance network wasn’t infallible, then. Rejection! Hysteria wouldn’t be far away if she dwelt on that one too long!
‘Benedict made this decision before he even came back to England.’
‘Hah!’ he said triumphantly. ‘He’s confided in you; I thought as much. Benedict doesn’t do that—it just goes to prove it.’
‘Prove what?’
‘He’s serious about you.’
‘I really don’t have any influence with your son.’
‘You’ve got more than me.’ For the first time she glimpsed the depth of his frustration and anxiety. ‘I’m asking you to use it to stop him making a terrible mistake. He’ll thank us for it eventually.’
‘I don’t think Ben would thank anyone for conspiring behind his back.’ If he ever found out about this little tête-à-tête she didn’t want to be around.
‘Conspiracy is a harsh word.’
‘But accurate,’ she insisted firmly.
Stuart Arden wasn’t used to asking anyone for anything and it showed. She felt something she’d never imagined she’d feel for this man—she felt sympathy. It must have cost him a lot in pride to come to her and ask for her help. He must really be desperate to keep Ben in the country. However, she kept a tight hold on the sympathy; it wouldn’t do to forget that behind the concerned father was a ruthless man who would do anything and use anyone to get his own way.
‘I don’t think Ben has taken this decision lightly.’
‘Have you got any idea how gifted he is?’ he asked, banging his fist down on the desk. ‘He has a brilliant future to look forward to. He’s throwing it all away! And for what? Some dry dustbowl!’ he said scornfully. ‘You must be able to see how ludicrous the idea is. This is a whim, nothing more. Do you want him to go?’ She averted her face too slowly. ‘I thought not.’ He gave a triumphant grunt of satisfaction.