Sandy shrugged and looked away. ‘Well, you two are something of an item round here. It’s no great secret either that Mrs Little has been wanting Tom to get married for ages. She’s longing for grandchildren and a domesticated daughter-in-law.’
‘I think you’re rather jumping to conclusions,’ Chelsea told her mildly. ‘Tom and I are friends…’
‘You mean you’re not interested in him now you’ve got bigger fish to fry in the shape of Slade Ashford,’ Sandy burst out bitterly, pushing past her and hurrying down the street, leaving Chelsea to stare unhappily after her.
Sandy’s reference to Slade had given the truth away. The poor girl was jealous, and if she did but know it, with scant cause. Poor Sandy, Chelsea reflected as she made her purchases. She had liked her and had hoped they could have become friends. She sometimes felt lonely at Darkwater and would have welcomed the company of another girl. She missed her chats with Ann and the cheerful company of Kirsty. She was tempted to hurry after Sandy and tell her the truth, but she doubted that the younger girl would have believed her. She hero-worshipped Slade and would undoubtedly believe that Chelsea was simply trying to discredit him.
The sight of Tom’s Range Rover outside the house as she drove towards it helped to lift Chelsea’s spirits considerably.
Mrs Rudge smiled grimly when she opened the door and imparted the information that Tom was waiting for her in the study.
He grinned when he saw her, and sensing that he was going to kiss her, Chelsea moved away, wondering how on earth she could explain to him that all they could be was friends, without betraying her own love for Slade.
‘You’re a welcome sight for a poor farmer,’ he teased, studying her slim form in cord jeans in a rich dark blue toned with a blue and rust checked Vyella blouse and a blouson cord jacket which matched her jeans.
The wind had whipped her hair into soft tendrils round her face and the pure Border air had brought new colour to her cheeks. Blusher was something she had quickly discovered she didn’t need up here. Although she was unaware of it the rich blue of her cords and jacket emphasised the colour of her eyes, and Tom observed her with male appreciation as she waited for him to speak.
‘I know you claim you can’t leave your work long enough to spend Christmas Day with us,’ he began, ‘but this time I won’t take no for an answer. I’ve got tickets for the Young Farmers’ Ball—quite a social highlight in these parts. It’s held on Boxing Day night. Formal gear’s the order of the day, and it’s normally very good…’
Chelsea frowned. ‘Oh Tom, I can’t,’ she apologised. ‘I haven’t got anything formal to wear with me.’
Neither of them had been aware of the front door opening and closing as they spoke, nor of the grim expression in Slade Ashford’s eyes as he overheard their conversation.
Tom was still struggling for the right words to overcome Chelsea’s objections, mentally cursing himself for ever mentioning formal evening attire, when Slade walked slowly into the room.
‘Nothing to wear?’ he mocked, making it plain that he had overheard. ‘Surely that can’t be true? Or had you forgotten this?’ he added cruelly. ‘You left it in my room.’
Chelsea’s expression betrayed her immediately she saw the crumpled blue silk dress he was holding in his hands, and too late she saw the bitterness in Tom’s eyes, and knew that he had seen the instant recognition in hers.
‘Tom…’ she started to protest as he turned away, ‘I can explain.’
‘Go ahead,’ Slade told her savagely, ‘tell him exactly how this came to be in my possession. Or have you forgotten? In that case let me refresh your memory a little.’
‘Is it yours?’ Tom asked dully, and even though she longed to plead with him to listen to her, Chelsea could only nod her head, knowing the conclusions he must be drawing from her admission and hating Slade for subjecting her to such humiliation.
‘I see.’ The two words fell between them like flat hard pebbles. ‘I have been a fool, haven’t I?’ Tom said bitterly. ‘And I thought you were different—innocent and untouched.’ He laughed harshly, ‘My God, I couldn’t have been more wrong! It won’t last, you know,’ he told Chelsea. ‘Ask Mrs Rudge—she knows all about Percy men. Thirty years she worked for Matt Percy, every one of them hoping he’d marry her, but he never did. She was good enough for him to take to his bed before she married Bert Rudge, but marriage—no way!’
Chelsea couldn’t bring herself to look at Slade. Tom’s allegations were too convincing to be denied as mere gossip, and Chelsea suspected that Slade must have known the situation and why Mrs Rudge was so bitterly opposed to him. No doubt all those years she had been thinking not simply that Matt Percy’s own son ought to succeed him but that that child could have been hers.
‘You don’t have to make any excuses any more,’ Tom said quietly as he walked towards the door. ‘I quite understand the position.’
Chelsea said nothing until she heard the Range Rover engine fire. All the colour had left her face, and her fingernails bit into her palms as she fought for self-control.
She felt Slade move behind her and out of the corner of her eye saw him pick up her dress.
‘God, I hope you’re satisfied!’ she managed finally in a thick choked voice. ‘How could you do that?’
‘Quite easily,’ came the urbane response, ‘but I’m not satisfied, as you put it, Chelsea, and I won’t be until I have you in my bed, responding to me without a thought in your greedy little head apart from how much yo
u want my hands on your body.’
‘I’ll never want you like that,’ Chelsea told him half hysterically, ‘Do you hear me? Never!’
She turned towards the door, hating him as she had never hated anyone in her whole life—not even Darren—unable to forget the look in Tom’s eyes. She had thought Tom was his friend, and yet he had destroyed his pride as callously as he might crush an insect underfoot.
‘How could you do that to Tom?’ she demanded from the door, her eyes blazingly blue in her pale face. In her book only one emotion could justify such a vindictive action, and that was the same searingly painful jealousy she experienced whenever she thought of him with another woman. She was appalled to discover that he could so easily destroy another human being, totally without compunction, merely as a means of inflicting pain on her, and for what? Simply so that he could reinforce his threats and save the tiny bruise she had inflicted on his ego.
‘You’re despicable!’ she told him bitterly. ‘To have hurt Tom like that. In a wildly jealous lover your behaviour might have been excusable, but…’
There was an odd expression in his eyes, a tenseness about his jaw that warned Chelsea she was treading on dangerous ground.
‘But what?’ he prompted softly, watching her.
‘But you have no excuse,’ Chelsea told him tiredly, the adrenalin anger and fear had released into her blood suddenly ceasing, leaving her feeling drained and exhausted. ‘And Tom…’
‘Forget Tom,’ he told her brutally. ‘He’ll find solace soon enough, and with someone far better equipped to make him happy than you.’
‘Who?’ Chelsea demanded, too stunned by his comment to stop the word from forming.
‘Sandy,’ Slade told her unequivocally.