Devil In Velvet. Anne Mather

       Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author

       ANNE MATHER

      Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the publishing industry, having written over one hundred and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

      This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful, passionate writing has given.

      We are sure you will love them all!

      I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

      I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

      These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

      We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is [email protected] and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

      Devil in Velvet

       Anne Mather

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

       Table of Contents

       Cover

       About the Author

       Title Page

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

       CHAPTER SIX

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       CHAPTER NINE

       CHAPTER TEN

       CHAPTER ELEVEN

       Copyright

       CHAPTER ONE

      THE door wasn’t locked, so she didn’t need the key, and as she pushed it wide, the sickly-sweet odour of dampness and decay, and what might have been rotting apples, assailed her nostrils. A wooden table flanked by wooden benches and a disreputable old rocking chair near the hearth was the only furniture she could see, and a chipped enamel sink was surmounted by the kind of pumping mechanism she had thought obsolete for years. The stone floor was littered with leaves and other debris, blown in through the open gaps in the window, no doubt, and an ominous scuttering in the corner seemed to signify squatters of another species. Considering the heat outside, the air was cool, and her shirt which had been sticking to her back now sent a shiver of chill along her spine. The huge blackened hole of the fireplace had not even been swept clean before the last tenants departed, and the ashes from the grate had filmed everything with a fine grey dust.

      Harriet’s heart sank. How could they possibly stay here? The place was filthy, and damp; and what was that rustling sound she could hear? Rats? Involuntarily, she shifted from one foot to the other, suppressing a desire to wrap the flared cuffs of her trousers about her ankles. Where was the spotless furnished farmhouse she had expected? The white-painted retreat, set in the lush valley of the Dordogne, the land overflowing with wine and pâté de foie gras, as the brochure extravagantly put it? How could anyone sell this as a suitable dwelling place, when it resembled nothing so much as a derelict? Her temper rose. How dared anyone sell such a place—and to her!

      She had left Susan in the car, but now she heard the girl’s footsteps on the path behind her, and turning to face her endeavoured to disguise a little of the rage and frustration that was gripping her. Susan had had enough to stand these past weeks. Harriet hoped the sight of this place would not undo all the good work that had been done. It had seemed such a good idea, bringing her niece to France for a couple of months, giving her a completely new change of scene. Charles, Harriet’s employer, had been so kind, giving her the time off like this. But practically all Harriet’s savings had gone on this place. She had relied on the Paris agent’s assurances that this farmhouse in Rochelac was exactly what she wanted; and now to find that this was not so was the most bitter kind of humiliation.

      ‘Well?’ Susan’s young voice was reassuringly bright. ‘Is this the place?’

      Harriet allowed a small sigh to escape her. ‘Unfortunately,’ she conceded.

      ‘Unfortunately?’ Susan brushed past her to stand inside the door. ‘Why unfortunately?’

      ‘Why?’ Harriet gazed at her incredulously. Then she waved an expressive arm. ‘Need you ask?’

      Susan shrugged. ‘It is dirty,’ she agreed, with the casual gift for understatement of a fourteen-year-old. ‘But that doesn’t matter, does it? I mean, we can soon clean it up.’

      ‘It’s damp!’ retorted Harriet flatly. ‘Can’t you see those patches on the walls? I dread to think what it’s like upstairs. As for the furniture…’

      ‘Have you looked around?’ enquired Susan, crossing the floor, apparently unperturbed by the possible presence of their unwelcome visitors, and opening a door which hitherto Harriet had taken little notice of. ‘Hmm, this must be the parlour. Is that what it’s called in France?’

      ‘The salon,’ replied Harriet automatically, staring bleakly about her. ‘Susan, do mind where you’re putting your feet. I heard scufflings when I came in.’

      ‘Field mice probably,’ called Susan airily. ‘They always invade empty houses. Where are the stairs?’

      ‘Oh, Susan, I don’t know.’ Harriet heaved another sigh, and looked round. ‘I wonder who—’ She broke off abruptly. ‘It’s my own fault, I suppose. I should have insisted on seeing this place before spending a penny. Wait until I lay my hands on Monsieur Frond! I doubt if he’s ever been further south than Orleans!’

      Susan came back into the kitchen. ‘Why are