ahead.’
It was his dinner he wanted, not her company, he assured himself, as Julia pushed back her chair and stood up. And that sharp little knife-twist he could feel, of something that was almost pain, wasn’t a pain at all. It was just a pang of irritation caused by Julia being Julia.
* * *
Julia stared at the figures she had written down on the piece of paper in front of her. Her head was beginning to ache and she felt sick. No matter how much she juggled with the figures, there was just no way she was going to be able to find twenty thousand euros. She didn’t like to go into debt and didn’t even possess a credit card—but nor did she in the way of savings, either (she bought too many shoes!). Her family was wealthy but their money was all tied up in property—such as the Estate at Amberley and the London flat where she lived—assets that were supposed to be preserved for future Earls and so weren’t hers to sell. Perhaps she would have to try and raise a loan—but it was not as if she had any property to borrow against.
* * *
Silas picked up his wine glass and looked sombrely at the contents. It held a robust, energetic rioja, with a good parentage, that should have tasted warm and well rounded instead of slightly sour. Or was it his mood that had turned sour and not the wine? Why should that be? Not, surely, because Julia had left him to eat alone? Silas often ate alone. In fact he preferred to. He glanced down at his plate. His steak was cooked just as he liked, but he might just as well have been eating sawdust, he realised, as he pushed his plate away from himself and signalled for the waiter.
As the hotel lift took him up to the suite, he wondered what the hell was happening to him? Why hadn’t he simply stayed where he was and finished his meal? Why had both it and the evening lost their flavour and become flat and unappealing without Julia’s presence?
Engrossed in the figures in front of her, Julia did not hear the outer door open, or see Silas walk in until he was virtually standing in front of her.
‘What’s this?’ he demanded, picking up the piece of paper and studying it.
‘Nothing,’ Julia fibbed, but Silas wasn’t listening to her. He stared at the small, worried little sums, written down over and over again, and something inside him that he hadn’t known was there moved a painful little notch, like the cranking of some long-unused mechanism, its movement all the more agonising because of that.
‘You don’t seriously think that I expect you to repay me, do you?’ he demanded sharply.
‘Why not? Someone has to,’ Julia told him. ‘And I know that Lucy can’t. The business is barely breaking even, and if the business can’t repay you, then naturally I feel morally obliged to do so myself. Because I dealt with the Silverwoods’ event.’
Her eyes widened as Silas suddenly screwed up the piece of paper with an almost violent movement of his hand and threw it into the wastepaper bin.
He had no real idea quite why Julia’s comment should affect him so strongly, nor why he should feel so enraged because she didn’t realise that he didn’t want to be repaid.
‘You’re my fiancée, remember? The money I gave to the hotel manager I gave because I did not wish to see my fiancée being harassed and distressed. Therefore it was for my benefit as much as anyone else’s. There is no reason for Lucy to know about it and even less for her to pay me back,’ he told her grimly.
‘But our engagement isn’t real,’ Julia pointed out. ‘And even if it were I’d still want to repay you.’
Silas looked at her. ‘Why?’
‘Because I would. Because I don’t like what it does to a relationship when one person uses the other—financially or in any kind of way. How could you respect me? How could I respect myself if I let you carry me financially? I can’t match you for money, Silas, but if we were really a couple I would want to match you in respect and...and...all sorts
It was his dinner he wanted, not her company, he assured himself, as Julia pushed back her chair and stood up. And that sharp little knife-twist he could feel, of something that was almost pain, wasn’t a pain at all. It was just a pang of irritation caused by Julia being Julia.
* * *
Julia stared at the figures she had written down on the piece of paper in front of her. Her head was beginning to ache and she felt sick. No matter how much she juggled with the figures, there was just no way she was going to be able to find twenty thousand euros. She didn’t like to go into debt and didn’t even possess a credit card—but nor did she in the way of savings, either (she bought too many shoes!). Her family was wealthy but their money was all tied up in property—such as the Estate at Amberley and the London flat where she lived—assets that were supposed to be preserved for future Earls and so weren’t hers to sell. Perhaps she would have to try and raise a loan—but it was not as if she had any property to borrow against.
* * *
Silas picked up his wine glass and looked sombrely at the contents. It held a robust, energetic rioja, with a good parentage, that should have tasted warm and well rounded instead of slightly sour. Or was it his mood that had turned sour and not the wine? Why should that be? Not, surely, because Julia had left him to eat alone? Silas often ate alone. In fact he preferred to. He glanced down at his plate. His steak was cooked just as he liked, but he might just as well have been eating sawdust, he realised, as he pushed his plate away from himself and signalled for the waiter.
As the hotel lift took him up to the suite, he wondered what the hell was happening to him? Why hadn’t he simply stayed where he was and finished his meal? Why had both it and the evening lost their flavour and become flat and unappealing without Julia’s presence?
Engrossed in the figures in front of her, Julia did not hear the outer door open, or see Silas walk in until he was virtually standing in front of her.
‘What’s this?’ he demanded, picking up the piece of paper and studying it.
‘Nothing,’ Julia fibbed, but Silas wasn’t listening to her. He stared at the small, worried little sums, written down over and over again, and something inside him that he hadn’t known was there moved a painful little notch, like the cranking of some long-unused mechanism, its movement all the more agonising because of that.
‘You don’t seriously think that I expect you to repay me, do you?’ he demanded sharply.
‘Why not? Someone has to,’ Julia told him. ‘And I know that Lucy can’t. The business is barely breaking even, and if the business can’t repay you, then naturally I feel morally obliged to do so myself. Because I dealt with the Silverwoods’ event.’
Her eyes widened as Silas suddenly screwed up the piece of paper with an almost violent movement of his hand and threw it into the wastepaper bin.
He had no real idea quite why Julia’s comment should affect him so strongly, nor why he should feel so enraged because she didn’t realise that he didn’t want to be repaid.
‘You’re my fiancée, remember? The money I gave to the hotel manager I gave because I did not wish to see my fiancée being harassed and distressed. Therefore it was for my benefit as much as anyone else’s. There is no reason for Lucy to know about it and even less for her to pay me back,’ he told her grimly.
‘But our engagement isn’t real,’ Julia pointed out. ‘And even if it were I’d still want to repay you.’
Silas looked at her. ‘Why?’
‘Because I would. Because I don’t like what it does to a relationship when one person uses the other—financially or in any kind of way. How could you respect me? How could I respect myself if I let you carry me financially? I can’t match you for money, Silas, but if we were really a couple I would want to match you in respect and...and...all sorts
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