Chapter 4 BUILDED ATTRACTION 4

She had met David Allston at one of KissCo's parties held to launch some new product or other, but she had never discovered why he'd been invited. She guessed, since he was the sort of person constantly pictured in the gossip columns of Queen, Tatler, and even Vogue, KissCo's public relations department had thought his presence might attract a photo opportunity in some such magazine, although on this occasion, at least, they had been disappointed.

David Allston was, in fact, Viscount Bonmouth, the eighth Viscount in a succession dating back to

1781. He looked the part. He was slim - even thin

- with a beautifully tailored suit from the firm in Saville Row that had catered to his family for one hundred and fifty years, serving his father and his father's father. His white cotton shirt was from a shirtmaker's in Jermyn Street, who'd also served three generations of Allstons, and his hand-lasted shoes were from Loebbs. He had neatly cut brown hair and a fine, delicately boned face, with a narrow straight nose, and hollow, almost feminine cheekbones. His eyes were light green and oddly nondescript, shallow set and small though he did have the longest eyelashes Clare had ever seen.

His manner suggested his pedigree too. There was a poise about him and an innate elegance that meant no matter how he was sitting or standing he seemed to be perfectly in equilibrium. A little too perfectly sometimes, as his grace could be seen to border on the effeminate. His attitude was not haughty, however. He was not the sort of aristocrat who had seen everything and done everything and was bored with life. He was more like a clever and enquiring child, ready to take on new experiences. And, like a child, he could be very determined to get his own way.

'So when does the big boss arrive?' David asked, as Clare told him of Bridget Goldsmith's decision.

'Two weeks.'

'I'm sure it'll all be fine,' he said. He had never shown much interest in her work or work in general. As far as Clare knew he didn't do much more than see that the family 'pile' in Hert-fordshire was kept in good order. He certainly hadn't ever worked for a living and she imagined that it was hard for him to understand the exigencies of the daily grind.

'Do you want coffee?' he asked in a manner that suggested he hoped she would say no. He would have loved merely to have told her to get ready to leave but years of breeding had dictated that in social situations his own needs and desires should never be allowed to take precedence over those of anyone else, particularly those of a woman. From an early age, David had been indoctrinated that, according to the scheme of things, women existed to be cherished and adored, though, of course, they were not necessarily to be taken very seriously.

'Not really, she said.

'Me neither,' he said, as if they were sharing a secret.

He summoned the waiter and paid the bill with alacrity, hustling her out of the restaurant and into the car as quickly as he dared. The drive to his house was accomplished largely in silence, Clare finding she was in no mood for small talk.

The Allston family's London residence was in a Nash terrace in Regent's Park; it was a corner house with large rectangular windows, curved side walls and a grandiose, stucco-fronted façade with a portico. In square-sided wooden planters, pollarded, ball-shaped bay trees stood on each side of the black, panelled front door.

'Would you like a drink?' David asked, as they walked through the large vestibule, where a huge crystal chandelier hung from a domed ceiling above a black-and-white chequered marble floor.

'Yes. A brandy would be nice.' She needed a brandy to fortify herself, the moment of truth approaching rapidly.

He led the way into the sitting room, where large oatmeal-coloured sofas were arranged around a large fireplace, its grate currently occupied by an arrangement of dried flowers.

Normally, she knew, drinks would be provided by the butler, who divided his time between the London and country houses, but on this occasion David went to a large, walnut cocktail cabinet and poured the brandy himself, not wanting to summon the butler from the Stygian depths of the house.

He handed her the drink. She was standing by the window, looking out at Regent's Park.

'Cheers,' he said.

"Nothing for you?'

No. Not in the mood.'

An air of expectancy hung between them like autumn fog.