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the
    hazel eyes, watching them grow curiously intent as his hand moved with
    new purpose on the swell of her breast, his fingers seeking the tumescent
    nipple through the thin dark blue cotton of her dress.
    And was as suddenly removed. He said, 'I think we have company.'
    In a disconnected part of her mind, Natalie heard the sound of voices, the
    crunch of boots on gravel. Wes, she thought, and the others coming back for
    evening stables.
    Eliot reached past her and retrieved the bag of carrots. His arm brushed
    against her, and her body wentrigid. He was aware of the reaction, and
    smiled sardonically down into her white face.
    'A piece of advice, Mrs Drummond,' he said lightly. 'In future when you
    want to slag me off, keep your voice down—unless you want to suffer the
    consequences.'
    He walked away, leaving her still leaning against the cupboard as if she had
    neither the strength nor the will to move.

CHAPTER THREE
    As SOON as she had pulled herself together, Natalie went up to the house and
    straight to her room, bypassing Beattie who could be heard humming
    happily to herself in the kitchen.
    And in her room she stayed, until a couple of hours later Andrew's Jaguar
    pulled away, with his passenger safely on board.
    When she ventured downstairs, Beattie was alone in the drawing-room,
    sipping a sherry, and putting a few stitches in a piece of embroidery with an
    air of satisfaction that was almost tangible.
    'I've persuaded your father to have a rest before dinner,' she told Natalie
    happily. 'I asked Andrew and Eliot to stay, but they had to get back.' Her
    eyes twinkled, and she lowered her voice conspiratorially. 'Andrew told me
    that Eliot didn't travel up here alone. Apparently he has a lady companion,
    booked into the International Hotel.' She pursed her lips with mock
    primness. 'Blonde hair, apparently, and a figure like a Page Three girl. I
    think Andrew was quite envious, poor old thing!'
    Natalie forced a smile, as she poured herself a drink. 'I suppose voluptuous
    blondes are going to become part of the scenery from now on.' She tried to
    speak lightly, but the words sounded stilted, but fortunately Beattie seemed
    unaware.
    'One thing's certain,' she said. 'Nothing will ever be the same round here.'
    To Natalie, the words sounded like a prophecy of doom.
    That night, as she was brushing her hair, she found she was studying herself
    in the mirror, almost clinically. Her face, naturally pale under the cloud of
    copper hair, was like a small cat's with its green eyes and high cheekbones.
    Not the face of a woman at peace with herself, but there was little wonder
    about that. For the rest of her— medium height with a figure on the thin side
    of slender.
    About as far removed from a Page Three girl as it was possible to get, she
    told herself in bitter self-derision. And as that was where Eliot's tastes lay,
    that would seem to guarantee her immunity in the future as long as she
    behaved herself.
    He had things to settle in Lambourn, so he wouldn't be returning to
    Yorkshire immediately, which would give her a breathing space to come to
    terms with the change at Wintersgarth.
    He had commissioned Beattie to engage a local decorating firm to repaint
    the flat, and would be sending up a list of the exact colours he wanted on the
    walls. The quiet neutrals she had chosen were being banished for ever, it
    seemed.
    Over dinner, listening to Grantham and Beattie discussing their immediate
    plans, Natalie had broken in abruptly.
    'Did you know he might be bringing some extra staff with him?'
    'He mentioned it, yes,' Grantham nodded.
    'You didn't mention we were up to strength?'
    He smiled broadly, 'At the moment, lass, maybe. But an extra pair of hands
    won't hurt—and there'll be more horses to see to.'
    'Oh, of course,' she said, heavily sarcastic. 'We're going to be deluged with
    owners wanting us to take their horses now that the great Eliot Lang is
    coming amongst us. No doubt he told you so himself.'
    'He's