Prince Of Darkness. Kate Proctor

she added furiously.

      ‘Liar,’ he laughed with lazy self-assurance. ‘Tell me, Ros—are you absolutely sure you won’t change your mind about staying?’

      ‘Absolutely,’ she spat, her cheeks crimson.

      ‘Well, if that’s the case, we really should consider moving your things into my room—because that’s the place those irresistible instincts of yours will sooner or later lead you.’

      CHAPTER TWO

      IT WAS turning into a complete nightmare, thought Rosanne frantically, her eyes refusing to meet the mockery gleaming openly in those of Damian Sheridan as he held open the door of the blue drawing-room...the one that was in fact green. And it was a nightmare that was completely self-inflicted, she reproached herself futilely as she forced her reluctant legs forward.

      For two years, the most intensely happy in her entire life, she had been a whole and contented person, cocooned in the love so unstintingly lavished on her by her grandfather. And it had been a mutual love, so sure and safe in its joyous strength that even her gradual learning of the cruel treachery perpetrated on her in the past had been powerless to taint it with its evil darkness.

      ‘I’m an old man who has received the most precious jewel—one he never dreamed was rightfully his,’ he had told her. ‘Yet when I first learned of your existence I was like a madman, filled with a murderous need for revenge on those who had perpetrated this monstrous evil. And, God forgive me, had George Cranleigh been alive that day, I think I could have killed him with my bare hands.’ Even the embers of that hatred, flashing momentarily in his eyes as he had spoken, had been awesome. ‘But the instant I found you love freed me from that destructive hatred...can you understand that, my darling child?’

      Oh, how she had understood, cherishing each precious moment of those glorious months into which they had crammed a lifetime of loving. But even the powerful legacy of that love he had lavished on her had been unable to prevent the anger and bitterness rampaging alongside her anguish once he had gone—just as he had always tried to warn her it would. And, because he had foreseen the need that would one day drive her, he had done all he could to ease her way along the hazardous path that would eventually lead her here.

      And here, she told herself, her heart pounding, was to this exquisitely elegant room in delicate greens and to the frail, bird-like woman almost lost in the moss-green hugeness of a fan-backed velvet chair...and to feelings akin to terror.

      ‘Miss Ros Grant to see you, Hester,’ teased Damian, striding over to the tiny woman and kissing her upturned cheek. ‘I know how you hate abbreviated names, but I’m afraid Ros is all she’ll answer to.’

      Ros, an anguished voice cried out inside her, because Rosanne was a name she dared not utter—the name her mother had vowed to give a daughter if she ever had one.

      ‘Stop prattling, Damian,’ scolded Hester Cranleigh affectionately, ‘and bring her over here so that I can see her.’

      As Damian beckoned her, Rosanne took several steps forward, her knees like jelly, her eyes lowered from the woman they could not bring themselves to examine.

      ‘Good gracious!’ exclaimed Hester Cranleigh, her words freezing the now terrified girl.

      Grandpa Ted had told her that it was because she was such a perfect blend of her mother and father that her likeness to either one wouldn’t immediately strike anyone who had known them...but that had been Grandpa Ted’s opinion.

      ‘You’re just a child!’ exclaimed the old lady. ‘I was expecting someone a lot older.’

      ‘But I’m twenty-four...I mean, twenty-five,’ stammered Rosanne, almost collapsing with relief.

      ‘Any advance on twenty-five?’ drawled Damian, his look taunting.

      ‘I keep forgetting,’ muttered Rosanne. ‘You see, I’ve only recently had a birthday.’ Her twenty-fourth, she reminded herself angrily—unnecessary lies were bound to tie her up in knots. She had to get a grip on herself!

      ‘Damian, stop browbeating the poor child,’ chided Hester, smiling sympathetically up at Rosanne, ‘and draw up a chair for her—nice and close to me.’

      Damian did as requested then, as Rosanne gingerly sat down, flung himself full-length on the sofa beside them, linking his hands behind his head as he gazed over at the two women.

      ‘You’d better be Mother, Ros,’ he said, indicating the laden tea-trolley beside him. ‘I tend to be accident-prone around china.’

      ‘Damian tends to be accident-prone around anything he doesn’t feel like doing,’ murmured Hester drily, flashing Rosanne a warmly conspiratorial look that had the effect of freezing the blood in her veins. ‘Darling, haven’t you some horses or something to attend to?’ she enquired pointedly of the supine man.

      ‘No,’ he replied uncooperatively, flashing her one of his megawatt smiles.

      ‘Damian, I won’t have you being difficult,’ warned Hester with a sigh. ‘And I’m sure you know perfectly well why Ros is here.’

      ‘Oh, I do, darling,’ he murmured. ‘I had to horse-whip the information out of her—since you omitted to tell me we were expecting her. And, to make things even simpler, I’ve let her know exactly how I feel about all this—so we’ve absolutely nothing to hide.’ He rose to his feet, his movements languidly graceful, then smiled cherubically. ‘And just this once I’ll be Mother,’ he said, then added, ‘though another point I felt it only fair to warn our guest about is my feudal attitude to women.’

      Hester Cranleigh’s eyes twinkled as they met Rosanne’s.

      ‘And just you keep that warning in mind, my dear,’ she whispered, loud enough for the man she plainly adored to catch. ‘I’d like to be able to tell you it’s because of his scandalous behaviour towards you girls that he’s still a single man at almost thirty-two, but I’m afraid I can’t. Despite the appalling way he treats them, the poor fools queue up in their droves to have their hearts broken. I do so hope you don’t turn out to be one such fool, my dear,’ she murmured, then startled an almost paralysed Rosanne into shocked awareness by winking broadly at her.

      ‘Now who’s prattling?’ demanded Damian with an unconcerned smile, placing a tray on her lap.

      ‘Thank you, darling,’ murmured the old lady, smiling up at him. ‘And, by the way, I was thinking it would be rather nice to have the Blakes over for dinner again soon.’

      Damian’s reaction was to scowl blackly at her, then return to the tea-trolley.

      ‘Gerry Blake is Damian’s vet—such a nice man,’ murmured Hester. ‘And his daughter Nerissa—’

      ‘What do you take in your tea?’ cut in Damian rudely, addressing Rosanne. ‘Or perhaps you’d rather pour it for yourself?’

      ‘I’d pour it myself, if I were you, my dear,’ murmured Hester, raising a slice of cake to her mouth. ‘He’s slopped mine in the saucer.’

      Rosanne rose, in the thrall of a terrible sense of unreality as she poured herself some tea. Reason had always warned her it was impossible to prepare herself for this—especially for what sort of person her grandmother might turn out to be. But what now confused and distressed her was the realisation that, in different circumstances, she could have so easily fallen under the spell of this outgoing and, to be completely honest, delightfully humorous old lady.

      ‘You might as well pour me one while you’re up,’ muttered Damian, once more sprawled along the length of the sofa.

      Rosanne hesitated, strongly tempted to tell him to pour his own.

      ‘Well, well,’ chuckled the old lady delightedly. ‘It seems as though Ros is actually contemplating not complying with that graciously worded request of yours, my lad. Nerissa Blake, on the other hand, would already