The Tender Years by Anne Hampton

Christine to wheel about, her heart giving an uncomfortable little jerk. She coloured, saw her sister’s eyes narrow and said swiftly, ‘Why not? I like long dresses.’ ‘Not for a barbecue, you don’t. In any case, that’s far too formal. Just where are you going, Christine?’
    ‘To—to Martha’s party.’
    ‘You’re a total failure as a liar,’ sneered Greta coming into the bedroom and standing just inside the door. ‘You’re going out with my husband, aren’t you?’
    ‘I—I—’
    ‘You rotten little snake in the grass! I always suspected that you had a crush on him and would have stolen him from me if you could! Well, miss, you’re not going!’
    Christine had been almost cowering under the onslaught but now she straightened up to her full height and her eyes flashed fire. ‘And who’s to stop me going?’ she demanded wrathfully.
    ‘I shall stop you.’ Greta’s voice was dangerously soft, her advance slow and threatening. Christine stood her ground, her shoulders erect, her eyes sparkling with challenge, ‘I’ll tear that dress off your back!’
    ‘Try it!’ But in spite of her confident words Christine felt the colour drain from her face. She was alone in the house with Greta, but for the servants, and she knew she would never call out if Greta should carry out her threat, or attempt to do so.
    ‘You are not going out with my husband!’
    ‘This is a dog-in-the-manger attitude,’ flashed Christine. ‘You don’t want to go out with him yourself and yet you can’t bear to think he’s going out with someone else!’
    Greta stopped very close to Christine, her eyes glittering in the most frightening way. That she was being held firmly in the grip of a violent emotion was plain, and with a flashback of memory Christine was seeing her as she had behaved a few years ago when she had been in an argument with her father. She had become hysterical and then aggressive, actually making an attack on him, and Christine had watched, terrified, as Arthur had gripped Greta’s hands and held them to her sides. There had been a fearful struggle, with Greta seeming to have acquired abnormal strength. At last her father had slapped her and she had fled, screaming, to her room.
    And now she appeared to be on the verge of a similar outbreak and Christine, no longer brave and defiant, was darting glances at the door, assessing her chance of getting through it to the safety of the corridor and the hall.
    Greta moved again and Christine swung an arm to ward her off, using all her strength. The action took Greta by surprise, and in the fleeting moment when she was off balance and trying to regain it Christine had raced past her and was out of the room. But as she reached the hall she tripped over the hem of her dress and crashed, headlong, to the floor. It was at that moment, with Greta almost upon her, and screaming out imprecations, that the front door opened and Luke stood there, his tawny eyes widening in bewilderment. But his reaction was swift in that he was stooping to pick Christine up within seconds of his entering the house.
    ‘What the devil’s going on?’ he demanded of Greta.
    ‘She—that thing —’ Greta pointed, her face blue with fury at being prevented from carrying out her intended assault. ‘That—viper! She’s made a date with my husband! I’d have marked her face if you hadn’t come in! And what are you doing here anyway?’ she shouted. ‘Walking in as if you own the place!’
    ‘The door was ajar. I’d been ringing and had no answer—’ He stopped, frowning heavily. He glanced down at the girl he had rescued, taking in the evening dress and dainty shoes. ‘You were going out with Steve?’ He seemed to be affording her a sort of cool attention, his accents smooth so that nothing could be gathered as regards his inner thoughts about this situation.
    ‘I am going out with Steve,’ answered Christine unsteadily. She shuddered against Luke’s hard body, every nerve