The Garden Of Dreams. Sara Craven

      They both bent, placing the brooch against the glittering three-diamond ring on Jenny’s engagement finger, and studying the two closely.

      Jenny shook her head. ‘It must be zircons. I mean, there just aren’t diamonds that big any more, and the cutting looks different too. But it’s an antique, and no mistake.’

      ‘I don’t doubt it,’ Lissa said a little despondently. ‘The problem now is how to return it gracefully.’

      ‘Your main problem at the moment is getting ready for the big night out,’ said Jenny. ‘I don’t know what time Paul is calling for you, but the immersion heater’s been on for ages.’

      ‘Heavens!’ Lissa glanced at her watch. ‘I had no idea it was so late. I must fly!’

      Some ten minutes later, her fair hair pinned into a topknot, Lissa lay luxuriating in hot scented water. She ignored the fact that time was pressing and closing her eyes against the steam, let the worries of the day, including this latest one, slowly submerge. Margaret Desmond, her employer, was one of the most charming people alive and by no means a slavedriver, but when the idea for a new book was paramount with her she demanded total concentration, and Lissa had to acknowledge that since Paul’s proposal two nights earlier, she had been unable to keep her mind wholly on the job in hand.

      Although, as she reminded herself with slightly rueful amusement, the new book had been the means of her meeting Paul in the first place.

      Maggie was currently engaged on researching background for a novel about the French Revolution and Lissa had been sent to the French Embassy to collect a promised list of reference books and biographies of the period from an eminent French historian, with whom Maggie had been in correspondence, and who was staying in London for a few days.

      Her note of introduction had been handed in the first instance to Paul, whose job it had been to conduct her through a bewildering array of corridors to the suite being occupied by the historian. By some strange coincidence, and somewhat to Lissa’s relief, he was still waiting when she emerged, and not only conducted her back to the foyer, but insisted on driving her back to Maggie’s flat in his low-slung and very expensive sports car.

      Maggie had received him amiably, offered him her special sherry, and allowed him to stay for lunch, presiding over the meal with the benign air of an inveterate matchmaker. That was one of the drawbacks of working for your own godmother, Lissa reflected. Maggie was too apt very often to take rather a personal interest in one’s off-duty moments, but Lissa knew that it was precisely this fact that gave her parents, hundreds of miles away in Devon, such a sense of reassurance.

      Maggie was quick to see romance even in the most unlikely situations, which perhaps explained the extreme popularity of her books, and it was obvious that Paul had her approval as a suitor for Lissa.

      ‘I daren’t tell her that he’s proposed to me.’ Lissa thought, ‘or she’ll write off to Mother and Dad and the wedding will be planned before I know it.’

      Madame de Gue. She said the name slowly, trying to relate it to herself, and giggled. It sounded alien and unreal.

      And if she did marry Paul, where would they live? In France? Lissa’s French was fairly fluent, especially with some recent coaching from Paul, but it was still on a pretty schoolgirl level, as she was the first to admit. Paul himself spoke almost perfect English, but he would have relatives, no doubt, who might not be bi-lingual.

      She got out of the bath and began to dry herself. ‘If I really loved him,’ she thought, ‘I wonder if I would be having all these doubts. I’d know that loving him was enough, and would get us across all the bridges as we came to them.’

      Physically he stirred her as no other man she had ever met had done, but she was uncertain whether this was due to genuine feeling, or was merely the reaction of a fairly inexperienced girl to what she suspected was a very experienced young man. Lissa grimaced. Again, it all seemed like a game to Paul, she thought, and she wondered if she had given in to his desires, whether he would still want to marry her now.

      It was not a particularly pleasant thought, and she pushed it away resolutely. Give Paul his due, he had always insisted that her instinctive recoil from his passion delighted him.

      The permissive society, he had made it clear, while enjoyable, did not extend to the woman he wanted to make his wife. Although Lissa had no desire to become part of the permissive society, this typically masculine attitude had annoyed her.

      ‘That’s a mediaeval way of looking at it,’ she had protested to him once.

      He laughed. ‘But it is true, chérie, and all men feel it in their hearts, even if it is no longer fashionable to say so aloud. The girls they marry must be for them alone. And I assure you that my attitude is positively enlightened compared with—let us say—my brother.’

      Lissa stared at him. ‘So, if I had slept with another man, you wouldn’t want me?’

      ‘I did not say that, my beautiful Lissa, but I would naturally feel—differently.’

      Lissa had always felt a spirit of rebellion rise within her at this attitude. She was no women’s libber.

      ‘But he must learn that he doesn’t own me,’ she told herself.

      She fastened the belt of her housecoat and padded into the bedroom. Her skin was naturally pale, but flawless, and she applied only light make-up, using eyeshadow to flatter the slightly tip-tilted grey-green eyes that were her loveliest feature. She brushed her long, almost silver-blonde hair until it shone, before winding it deftly into a smooth elegant coil at the back of her head, with just two curling tendrils allowed to escape and frame her face. The chiffon dress, a floating cloud of misty blues, greens and violet hung from the wardrobe door. It was a dress she particularly liked and Jenny called it her ‘sea nymph’ look. Some nymph, Lissa thought, slipping her feet into high-heeled silver shoes. She hoped that Paul would approve. It was the first time she had ever worn it for him, but she had got the impression that the party tonight was an important one and she was determined to look her best. She was used by now to the photographers with their flash-lamps who attended these affairs, and had frequently been the subject of their attentions, although she had never seen any pictures of herself actually featured anywhere. She guessed they would mainly be of interest to French magazines.

      When she was ready, she sprayed on some of her favourite scent, and stood back and looked at herself in the long mirror that she and Jenny had found in an old junk shop, and cleaned and polished up.

      Her skin gleamed against the deep V of the neckline and the full skirts floated out like cobweb as she turned.

      Jenny appeared in the doorway, holding the box with the brooch.

      ‘Gorgeous,’ she said appreciatively. ‘And this brooch would just be the finishing touch, you know.’ She held it against herself. ‘Look what it does for this old black jumper. And just think what it would do for the chiffon! Try it on at least, there’s no harm in that.’

      ‘I suppose not.’ Lissa took the brooch and pinned it at her neckline. Gleaming there, it seemed to reflect back every sensuous colour in the gown, and she stared at it longingly.

      ‘Oh, Lissa, you must wear it. It looks wonderful,’ Jenny pleaded.

      Lissa nodded ruefully, but as her hands went up to unfasten it, the door bell rang.

      ‘That’ll be Paul.’ Lissa swirled across the tiny bedroom and across the living room to the door and flung it open. She dropped in a mock curtsy. ‘Bonsoir, monsieur.’

       ‘Bonsoir, mademoiselle.’

      The right answer. The wrong voice. Lissa looked up for the first time and found herself confronting a complete stranger. He was tall and very dark. His hair was black and his thin face was tanned. The expression in his low-lidded eyes as he stood looking down at Lissa was unreadable, but a faint smile played without warmth about his firm mouth.

      There was something vaguely