Greek Affairs: The Virgin's Seduction

And that same sense of anger, barely contained, that she’d found emanating from him only a short while ago.

But this time no human element in any of the paintings. No trace that anyone had ever inhabited these alien environments.

They were raw—they were vital. But they belonged to no comfort zone that she knew. She could not imagine hanging one of them on the plain neutral walls of her determinedly minimalist flat. Or living with it afterwards, come to that.

She suddenly remembered a book she’d read as a child, where the young heroine stepped through the pictures in the gallery of an old house to find herself in the world they portrayed.

But to walk into the kind of barren burning wilderness that confronted her now would be a terrifying leap into the unknown—with the possibility that she might never be able to find her way back again. That she’d be trapped for all eternity in some living nightmare.

She shivered suddenly. My God, she thought in swift self-derision, am I letting my imagination run away with me here?

And it was no excuse to tell herself that it was sheer overreaction, because she’d been knocked sideways emotionally in all kinds of ways. Because the sheer power of these paintings could not be dismissed so easily.

He said, ‘Your taxi’s gone. But I called a local cab company. They are on their way.’

She whirled around as his voice reached her, her hand going to her mouth to stifle her startled cry. Because she’d had no idea he’d come back into the studio. Been far too absorbed to register his approach.

But he was there, leaning against the frame in the sunlit doorway, one hand negligently hooked in the waistband of his jeans, the other holding his mobile phone as he watched her.

Harriet snatched at what was left of her composure. She said stiltedly, ‘Oh, right—thank you.’ Then paused. ‘I’ve been looking at your work. It’s—good.’ She recognised the lameness of that, and added hastily, ‘In fact, it’s probably far more than just good. It might be—amazing.’

‘Does this signal that you are changing your opinion about me?’ His mouth twisted mockingly. ‘I’m flattered.’

‘Well, don’t be,’ she returned curtly. ‘I may recognise you have talent, but it doesn’t follow that I have to like you any better.’

He winced elaborately. ‘I see that the flood of tears was a temporary aberration. The real Miss Flint is back, and firing on all cylinders.’

‘What I don’t understand,’ she went on, as if he hadn’t spoken, ‘is why you waste a moment of your time on those street portraits. They can’t bring in enough money to pay the bills.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I look on them mainly as relaxation. It’s good to get out sometimes—to meet new people. Don’t you agree?’

She remembered the entranced face of the girl he’d been sketching outside the Flint Audley offices.

She looked round the big room, deliberately letting her glance linger on the pile of papers that had fallen off the sofa, the remains of a meal left on a table, the unmade bed, only half hidden behind a large folding screen. She said, ‘And is this where you bring—your new friends?’

His tone was laconic as he followed her gaze. ‘It’s the maid’s day off.’

‘Then perhaps you should ask your girlfriend to clear up a little.’ Her response was immediate—tart—and completely unintentional. After all, she’d already made her point.

‘She does not come here for that,’ he said gently. ‘Also, she might spoil her beautiful hands, and I can put them to much better use.’

And no prizes for guessing what he meant, Harriet thought furiously, her face warming all over again in spite of herself. She said stonily, ‘I always understood decent men did not kiss and tell.’

He shrugged, unrepentantly. ‘Who mentioned kissing?’ and laughed softly as her flush deepened.

He glanced over his shoulder as a car horn sounded from the street. ‘And that is your cab, Miss Flint,’ he added with studied politeness. ‘Right on time.’ And stood aside to let her pass.

Harriet found herself clinging to the rail of the metal staircase as she descended, aware that her legs were shaking, and that she was strangely breathless again.

As she crossed the yard, she looked back swiftly, almost furtively, to see if he was watching her go. But the staircase was empty, and the door was closed.

And for one confused, disturbing moment, Harriet did not know whether to be glad or sorry.

CHAPTER THREE

HIS handkerchief was a small, forlorn bundle in the middle of her gleaming ash table.

Harriet’s instinct was to chuck it straight in the kitchen bin, possibly slamming down the lid as a coda, but she had to admit that current evidence suggested he might not have handkerchiefs to spare, and that it would be more gracious to return the damned thing laundered.

That was if she felt gracious.

And at the moment, in the seething maelstrom of her emotions, bewilderment seemed to predominate. Alongside anger.

She sank down into her black kid recliner chair, closing her eyes and allowing her whole body to go limp, while she breathed deeply and evenly, trying to recapture a modicum of calm and sanity.

She could not believe how her life had suddenly changed.

Twenty-four hours ago, she’d looked at the future with a kind of quiet confidence. She’d been about to take the next step up the ladder at Flint Audley, and she’d found a working solution to her grandfather’s autocratic and ill-judged attempt to force her into matrimony.

Like the horse being led to water, she would get married. But not even Gregory Flint could force her to stay married, she’d told herself grimly. That was not part of the deal. Nor had he specified how long this unholy wedlock would have to last. But he could hardly insist she stayed in an unhappy relationship, especially if he believed his ultimatum was the root case of her misery.

Something she’d planned to make bravely and wistfully clear. How she’d been rushed into a terrible mistake.

Or that had been her intention, she thought bitterly.

Her precious, foolproof plan. Now wreckage.

The rung on the corporate ladder. Broken.

Oh, the expansion scheme would go ahead, but possibly not under her direction, however hard she worked on it. And maybe if there was a glass ceiling, Gramps had ordered its installation.

I wouldn’t put it past him, she thought bleakly.

Perhaps she should have succumbed to the inevitable—picked one of the paralysingly dull but worthy young men who’d been regularly trotted out at dinner parties for her inspection. At least she’d have had the prospect of Gracemead as consolation.

But would that have been enough to reconcile her to the reality of marriage? Somehow she doubted it. She valued her independence too highly. Child as she’d been, she could remember only too well her mother’s unavailing attempts to revive relationships that had clearly exceeded their shelf lives.

Maybe it was then that she’d realised the danger of being at the mercy of her hormones, she thought wryly.

And while life could be lonely at times, especially as most of her schoolfriends now seemed to have husbands and, accordingly, other priorities, at least she was at no one’s beck and call when work was over. When her time became her own, along with her personal space.

And her time was now wasting.

She got up, and went into her bedroom, feeling her usual lift of satisfaction as she looked around her. All the furniture was built-in, and concealed behind anonymous doors, so the focal point was the bed. She’d picked the biggest she could find, with the most heavenly mattress, and dressed the whole thing in ivory linen, with olive green cushions adding the only colour note, one which she’d repeated in the shades of the lamps on the twin night tables flanking the bed.

The bathroom was equally austere in white and chrome, but she hadn’t stinted on the size of the tub, or the walk-in shower, and particularly on the pile of fluffy towels that were always waiting.

She undressed slowly, dropping her clothes into the linen basket, loosened her hair from its constricting band, and stepped under the fierce pelting of the shower, first smothering herself in her favourite scented body wash. How wonderful, she thought, as she turned herself languorously under the warm torrent, if the troubles of the day could be as easily rinsed away as this foam.

She dried herself, and put on a pair of her favourite pyjamas. She had a whole range of them, tailored in satin in cool pastel shades, and obtained from an exclusive mail order source, and tonight’s choice was pale turquoise.

She padded barefoot into her gleaming kitchen, taking a ready-cooked chicken breast from the fridge, preparing a dressing for the accompanying salad, and heating a small baguette. If she wanted dessert, there was always yoghurt.

As she ate, she pondered what she could put in tomorrow’s report for Tony. Nothing, for sure, that would sound like an excuse, or make it sound as if she wasn’t up to the job. She’d believed until today that they had a good working relationship based on mutual respect. Now it seemed as if he’d just been waiting for her to screw up.

Well, she was not so easily to be set aside, she told herself defiantly. She would fight, and fight again, and to hell with glass ceilings.

Because iron had entered her soul that afternoon, when she’d discovered what people really thought about her, and now she no longer merely wanted to take charge of the expansion plans. No, she wouldn’t be content now until she held the position her grandfather had once enjoyed—as chairman of the board.

At which point, they’d be laughing on the other side of their faces.

Her meal ended, she put on some Mozart and set to work, drafting and re-drafting the report for Tony until she was reasonably satisfied. She kept it short and pithy, maintaining the basic value of the scheme, but admitting she’d failed to gauge the level of opposition it might garner. That she felt this had been based on personalities rather than actual reasoning, and that next time she would ensure that opinion was more informed, so that there could be a genuine debate.

Then she printed it off, closed down her laptop, and sat back with a sigh, closing her eyes.

One rock shifted, hopefully, but a massive boulder still to go.

Keeping her job might be one thing. But hanging on to Gracemead was quite another, especially when her grandfather’s deadline was coming nearer by the day.

She supposed she could always try another small ad on one of the dating pages, then recalled with a grimace just how long it had taken to extract Peter from among the welter of total unsuitables who’d responded. None of whom she’d wish to encounter a second time.

Also, she had to be careful. If, by some remote but fatal chance, anyone at work found out or even suspected what she was trying to do, her life would become completely unbearable. And outside work she never met any men. Apart, of course, from today …

She sat up with a jolt, as if several hundred volts of electricity had suddenly passed through her, her mind going into overdrive.

Then stopped, as she remembered contemptuous dark eyes. A voice that dripped scorn. And took a deep breath. No, she thought, that’s nonsensical. That’s carrying the whole thing to the limits of absurdity. Don’t even consider it.

But the idea refused to go away. It nagged at her for the remainder of the evening, and even followed her to bed, where she lay, staring sleeplessly into the darkness as she continued to argue with herself.

On the face of it, she and this Roan had nothing in common, except their mutual antipathy. But he needed a boost to his career as an artist, which she might—just—be able to supply. And he was a good painter. He had a real gift. Whatever her personal opinion of him as a man, she was certain of that at least.

And if she was prepared to help him, she was surely entitled to ask for his assistance in return, even though she could guess his probable reaction when he learned the details, she thought, wincing.

But she’d simply have to stress that their dislike of each other was a positive advantage under the circumstances. And that any acceptance of her terms would be strictly business.

After all, she told herself grimly, she didn’t want that appalling male arrogance, which seemed as natural to him as breathing, to persuade him for one second that she found him even remotely attractive.

His pretty blonde might be a snag, of course, but she could hardly raise any real objections to the scheme, as she was married herself.

And as she turned over, punching the pillow into submission, a name came floating into her mind, reminding her of someone in the art world she might approach. ‘Desmond Slevin,’ she murmured with drowsy satisfaction, and closed her eyes, smiling.

The following morning brought a few misgivings, but no real second thoughts.

If he chose to co-operate, this Roan could secure Gracemead for her after all. Therefore she had to pursue the idea that had come to her last night.

At the office, having meekly handed her report to Tony, and attended to any urgent business, she did a quick computer check on her designated prey.

Desmond Slevin, an art dealer and collector, who owned the Parsifal Gallery in the West End, was a former tenant now living in Surrey.

Harriet had read a piece about him quite recently in one of the broadsheets, describing him as one of the treasure seekers of the art world, always on the look-out for new and gifted painters. If it was true, he might be just the man she needed.

Accordingly, she took an early lunch, and grabbed a passing taxi to whisk her to the gallery. And a few minutes later she was sitting in Desmond Slevin’s private office, drinking coffee.

‘So, what can I do for you, Miss Flint?’ He was a handsome middle-aged man on the verge of being elderly, with grey hair, and piercing blue eyes. ‘Are you here to persuade me to give up the commute and rent another London pad?’

Harriet returned his smile. ‘I doubt that I could. No, I read a recent article about you, and it—got me thinking.’

‘Oh.’ He pulled a face. ‘Frankly, I came to regret that interview.’ He gave her a narrow-eyed glance. ‘I trust you haven’t taken up painting as a hobby, because you were once very kind and helpful, and I’d hate to disappoint you.’

She laughed. ‘You’re quite safe, I promise.’ And paused. ‘But if I ever saw work that seemed to have real talent, might you be interested in—perhaps—taking a look?’

He said dryly, ‘And I’m wondering, in turn, if that question is quite as hypothetical as it sounds.’ He refilled her cup. ‘So, who is this undiscovered genius, Miss Flint? A boyfriend?’

‘God, no.’ Harriet sat bolt upright, nearly spilling her coffee down her skirt. Bright spots of colour burned in her face. ‘The exact opposite, in fact. Someone I barely know. I—I don’t even have his full name.’

‘Dear me,’ he said placidly. ‘All the same he seems to have made quite an impression.’ He watched her reflectively for a moment. ‘Is there a body of work involved?’

‘Yes, I suppose—I think so. He—he has a studio.’

He laughed. ‘Which doesn’t always mean much. Does he know that you’ve come to see me on his behalf?’

‘No,’ she admitted. ‘It was just an impulse, really.’

‘So you don’t know whether he’d be interested in selling his work?’

‘Well, of course he would. Why ever not?’

Desmond Slevin’s sigh held a touch of cynicism. ‘My dear, I’ve met many in my time who feel their work is unique, and of far too lofty significance to be handled commercially. Therefore I find it’s always best to check in advance.’

‘I don’t think that would apply in this case.’ Harriet drew a deep breath. ‘So, if I talk to him first, would you be willing to see his paintings? Give an opinion?’

‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘Why not?’ He raised a minatory finger. ‘Just as long as you both understand that it doesn’t necessarily mean a deal.’

‘Oh, I’ll make that very clear.’

‘Then I’ll wait to hear from you,’ he said, and rose.

‘You know,’ he said as he accompanied her through the gallery to the street door. ‘It occurs to me you’re going to a lot of trouble for a complete stranger.’ He paused, and patted her on the shoulder. ‘But I’m sure you know your own business best.’

I wouldn’t count on it, Harriet thought grimly as she pinned on a beaming smile and walked away. In fact, I might well be making one of life’s more serious mistakes.

If, in fact, she went through with it. Because, as she kept reminding herself, she didn’t have to do this. She could still pull out, and no harm done. Tell Desmond Slevin that, after all, the paintings hadn’t repaid a second, closer inspection, and she was sorry for wasting his time. A smile and a shrug, and it would be all over.

But so would Gracemead, as a telephone conversation with her grandfather that same evening swiftly confirmed. Because if she’d hoped that his attitude might be softening at this late stage, she was gravely disappointed. He was still completely adamant in his views.

‘Stay a career woman if that’s what you want, Harriet,’ he told her brusquely. ‘Although I hear even that isn’t going so well these days. Live alone in that bleak flat of yours. But you’ll have no need of a family house and Gracemead can be put to better use.’

She put the phone down feeling sick at heart, and not just about the house. His comment about her work had struck a chill too.

So, gritting her teeth, she sat down to bait her hook. But what could she say to tempt him? I have a proposal for you? No, too blatant. A proposition? God, even worse.

And where could they meet? She didn’t want to go to his studio again. Somewhere public would be preferable. Even essential. A restaurant maybe? But for lunch, perhaps, rather than dinner. Or was that all too social?

Eventually she came up with a form of words which would have to do. And she was annoyed to find her hand shaking as she dialled his mobile number. It was almost a relief to find she was speaking to his voicemail.

She said steadily, ‘This is Harriet Flint. I have a business matter I would like to discuss with you, which could be to your advantage. Perhaps you would meet me for afternoon tea on Saturday at the Titan Palace Hotel, at four-thirty.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘If this is inconvenient, please contact me at Flint Audley between nine and six to arrange another appointment.’

Well, that was brisk and businesslike enough, which was why she’d chosen the Titan Palace as an appropriate rendezvous. As one of the capital’s newest hotels, it was large, impersonal and catering for an upmarket business clientele. A place where deals were done.

Also, afternoon tea sounded very correct and English. Fairly aloof, too, so he couldn’t possibly infer that he was being asked out on some kind of date.

Although there was still no guarantee, of course, that he’d turn up, no matter how she phrased the invitation.

But Saturday arrived with no cancellation, so it seemed they were destined for another confrontation after all.

Harriet went through the predominantly black contents of her wardrobe several times before deciding on a pair of taupe linen trousers, with a matching thigh-length jacket worn over a stone coloured tee shirt. Neutral but neat.

Besides, one odious comparison with a bat was quite sufficient in anybody’s lifetime, she thought, her mouth tightening.

For a moment, she contemplated leaving her hair loose, then decided it was probably wiser to wear it in her usual style, severely drawn back from her face. And definitely no cosmetics.

She got to the appointment early, and took a seat in the hotel’s vast lounge, where she could keep a beady eye on the main entrance into the hotel foyer.

It was an impressive place, she thought, glancing round her, and busy too. Afternoon teas were clearly doing a roaring trade, and the soft sounds of a pianist playing gentle jazz were only just audible above the hum of conversation. But a crowd she could blend into was exactly what she wanted.

Although it was never her intention to become invisible, she thought with faint irritation, as she made another of several vain attempts to catch the eye of a scurrying waiter.

And as she settled back into her chair with a sigh, she suddenly realised that Roan was there, walking towards her. Was aware too of an odd stillness at his approach, with people leaning towards each other at neighbouring tables, and murmuring.

But maybe they were simply planning to have him thrown out for breaking some dress code, she thought with disfavour. The jeans he was wearing were elderly, but clean, fitting him like a second skin, and his white shirt had at least one too many buttons undone. The cuffs were casually turned back, revealing bronzed forearms, and his bare feet were thrust into espadrilles. He still needed a haircut, and a shave wouldn’t have gone amiss either. Yet for all that …

Barring any such thought, she got hurriedly to her feet. ‘Hi.’ She tried to sound nonchalant. ‘So you came after all.’

The dark eyes glinted at her. ‘Wasn’t that the idea?’

‘Yes, of course. Please sit down.’ She sounded as if she was conducting a job interview, but maybe that was the correct note to use, she thought as she resumed her own seat. ‘I’ve been trying to order tea, but—’

She broke off as he lifted a languid hand, and two waiters came running, as if all they’d been waiting for was his signal.

‘The lady would like tea. Coffee for me, please.’

Harriet, bewildered and pardonably annoyed, watched the deference with which his instructions were received.

‘How did you manage that?’ she asked.

‘It wasn’t difficult.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Do you wish to begin our discussion now, or shall we talk about the weather until we have been served?’

‘Now would be best, perhaps,’ she said stiffly. ‘You must be wondering why I asked for this meeting.’

His brows lifted sardonically. ‘I am breathless with curiosity.’

Harriet bit her lip—hard, then addressed herself to the prepared script. ‘First of all,’ she said, ‘I need to apologise for my behaviour at our last meeting. I can only say that I’ve been under a great deal of pressure lately, and your sketch of me was …’

‘The last straw?’ he supplied helpfully as she hesitated.

‘Well, yes,’ she agreed. Although unforgivable was what I really had in mind. ‘I want you to know that I don’t usually lose my temper in such a way.’

‘Reassuring,’ he said. ‘But did you bring me all the way across London just to tell me that?’

‘No, of course not.’ She swallowed. ‘I really want to talk about your work. You see, I wasn’t pretending when I said it was good, and I—I’ve mentioned it to an acquaintance of mine, who owns quite a well-known gallery—the Parsifal. You may have heard of it.’

‘Yes.’ The monosyllable gave nothing away.

Harriet ploughed on. ‘Anyway there’s a chance—if he also thinks you’re good—that he might stage an exhibition for you. Get you launched.’

At which point, the waiters returned. Plates of tiny finger sandwiches, scones, and cakes oozing cream were placed on the table, along with tea for Harriet, and a pot of coffee served black for her companion.

When they were finally alone again, she said, ‘You do realise what could be on offer here. Haven’t you—anything to say?’

‘I think I’m stunned,’ he returned slowly. ‘Also wary.’

‘It’s all perfectly genuine,’ she protested. ‘He’s a prominent figure in the art world. If he decides to feature you at his gallery, it would be a terrific break for your career.’

‘Undoubtedly,’ he said. ‘But what I need to know is why you, of all people, should have recommended me to this person. I find it puzzling.’

‘I feel you have talent which should be recognised. I’d like to play my part in that—recognition.’

She didn’t sound particularly convincing, she thought, vexed, but then the conversation was not going exactly as planned either. How can I ever thank you? was actually the response she’d been hoping for, if not depending on.

‘Ah,’ he said softly. ‘Is it really that simple?’ He shook his head. ‘Somehow I doubt it. Because I have to tell you, Miss Flint, that you are not my idea of a philanthropist.’

She sat very still. She said, ‘Then you’re not interested in this offer?’

‘Interested, yes, but not overwhelmed. You must understand I need to find out what you expect in return.’ His smile seemed to skin her to the bone. ‘In case the price is more than I’m prepared to pay.’

So that was that. For a moment she felt completely numb, then she reached for her bag. ‘In that case, there’s nothing more to be said. I’m sorry I’ve wasted your time.’

‘Now you’re being a fool,’ he drawled. ‘If you want me to consider your terms, I suggest you stay where you are. Do what the British generally do at a crisis, and drink some tea.’

For a moment, she was tempted to storm out, having first emptied the teapot over his head, then she remembered what was at stake here and reluctantly subsided, giving him a muted glare.

‘Has anyone told you that you’re insolent?’ she enquired coldly.

He shrugged. ‘And you, Miss Flint, are clearly both devious and determined,’ he retorted. ‘Let us accept that neither of us is perfect, and move on.’

She took a breath. ‘I have—a problem. I need a husband.’

He stared at her, eyes narrowed. ‘Then the answer is simple. Get married.’

‘But I don’t want to be married, not now, not ever.’ She spoke with quiet vehemence. ‘However, I don’t have a choice.’ She paused. ‘So, I need someone prepared to go through a marriage ceremony with me, then get out of my life.’

‘And I clearly need more coffee,’ he said. ‘Or even something stronger. Unless, of course, you can promise me that you have not, even for a moment, cast me in this unlikely role.’

‘Listen to me—please.’ She leaned forward. ‘It’s a form of words in a register office—that’s all. We say them—and we split. When the marriage has served its purpose, we divorce. And I pay all the expenses.

‘What’s more, I’ll pay you an additional lump sum big enough for you to stage your own exhibition, if the Parsifal Gallery isn’t interested in your work, or to spend in any other way you please. That’s not a variable. You really won’t lose out over this.’

There was a silence, then he said, ‘Tell me, Miss Flint, how long did it take for you to invent this incredible fantasy?’

She shook her head. ‘No fantasy. I’m deadly serious. And desperate.’

‘I was afraid of that,’ he said grimly. ‘But why?’ His dark gaze seemed to drill into hers. ‘And please do not say it does not concern me, when it clearly does.’

Harriet pushed away her untouched tea. ‘Very well—if you must know,’ she acceded reluctantly, ‘unless I’m married by my twenty-fifth birthday, I stand to lose something that means the world to me.’ She swallowed. ‘My grandfather, who operates from the Dark Ages, insists that he will not allow me to inherit my childhood home if I don’t have a husband to help with the running of the estate. He feels a family house would be wasted on a single woman, and that I might fall prey to unscrupulous—people.’

‘You think a husband picked off the streets would not fall into this category?’

‘Naturally, I would insist on a strict pre-nuptial agreement.’

‘Oh, naturally,’ he said. His expression was deadpan but there was a slight tremor in his voice.

She gave him a suspicious glare. ‘You seem to think it’s funny.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I think it’s tragic.’ He paused. ‘And your birthday is—when?’

‘In six weeks’ time.’

‘Strange,’ he said. ‘I would have thought you much younger.’ He added coolly, ‘And that is not intended as a compliment.’

‘Fortunately, your opinion of me doesn’t matter. My only concern is Gracemead.’ She looked down at her clasped hands. ‘I actually found someone to marry through a personal ad, but a few days ago he suddenly backed out—and now I’m stranded.’

‘Or had a lucky escape,’ he suggested unsmilingly.

‘I saw it as a no-risk strategy,’ Harriet said defiantly. ‘Where we both gain. I still do.’

He said harshly. ‘Then I am not surprised your grandfather wishes you to have a husband. I am only astonished he allows you to go about without a keeper.’

‘How—how dare you?’ Her voice shook. ‘If that’s all you can say, let’s forget the whole thing.’

‘Not so fast,’ he said, and there was a note in his voice that stopped her unwillingly in her tracks. ‘I presume that my introduction to this gallery owner depends on my acquiescence to this monstrous plan—am I right?’

‘Naturally,’ she returned curtly. ‘That’s the deal on the table. A straightforward quid pro quo.’

‘I do not think we share the same understanding of “straightforward”,’ he drawled. ‘How much are you planning to pay in cash for my compliance? I ask only because I have never been for sale before, and I wish to savour the experience—to the full.’

She sat up very straight. ‘The exact terms have to be agreed, but I think you’ll find me generous,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘I am quite sure that I will.’

She found his faint smile distinctly unnerving, and continued hastily, ‘Afterwards we would live and work exactly as we do now—apart.’ She coloured a little. ‘And of course you’d be free to conduct your—private life just as you wish. I wouldn’t dream of imposing any restrictions on your personal conduct.’

‘You are too gracious, Miss Flint.’ His voice was soft, but there was an edge to it. ‘And I would also be expected to turn a blind eye if you chose to take a lover? Is that what you’re saying?’