Leaping Hearts(58)

A.J. ignored him and headed through to the dining room, where she paused, looking over the vast mahogany table. There were three place settings clustered at one end, with linen napkins folded stiffly and silverware metastasizing out from stacks of china that bore the Sutherland family crest. In front of each elegant mound, there were three glasses, one for water and two for wine, and all over the table, like a swarm, were little silver bowls holding salt, pepper and butter squares.

It looked like a china store, A.J. thought, already missing the simplicity and ease of living at the farmhouse.

Devlin’s was a place where people propped themselves against the kitchen counter to gobble down lunch. It was a house where a towel could be hung on a doorknob and a barn coat tossed over a chair back. She’d walked around in her socks and let her hair dry on her shoulders, had even pranced around naked just because she felt like it.

That kind of freedom wasn’t to be had at the mansion. Not even close. Hell, she could face criminal indictment just for showing up at dinner wearing blue jeans.

Heart aching, she checked her watch. Whatever faults Regina had, a clock could be set by her schedule and it was one of the few things about the woman A.J. appreciated. Dinner would be served in one hour, which meant Peter would still be at his club’s bar having a libation of some fruity variety and Regina would be in her room donning her evening finery. Six o’clock also meant her father would be alone in his study, a stout glass of scotch next to his elbow, reviewing papers.

Moving quickly, she left the dining room and crossed the vast foyer space. With a quick trip through the library, she found herself at her father’s study, the hefty oak door partially closed.

Garrett looked up as she walked in.

Pleasure and concern mixed as he saw her face and then the sling.

“What happened?” He came around the desk.

“Hi, Daddy,” A.J. said into his shoulder as they embraced.

Taking a deep breath, she smiled sadly. Her father smelled as he always did, a lovely combination of the obscure English cologne he imported and the pipe tobacco he loved so much. The scent brought her back to childhood, when safety and comfort were easily found in his arms.

It was a shame, she thought, that the complications of an adult life couldn’t be as readily soothed as the stubbed toes and scraped knees of youth.

“Now, will you tell me what happened?”

“It’s nothing.”

“If it’s nothing, why is it in a sling?”

“At least it’s not in a cast.”

“True.”

He led her over to the old chesterfield sofa.

Her father’s study had always been one of her favorite rooms in the mansion. It was decorated in maroon and gold and was dark in a reassuring way. With its mahogany paneling and shelves filled with books on subjects like engineering and business management, it was a lush cave, suitable for thought and industry.

It was also home to a portrait of A.J.’s mother, the only one Regina had been unable to persuade her new husband to remove. The painting, which showed a woman who looked just like A.J. staring out from a sea of burgundy satin, was resplendent. Lights from overhead flooded the work of art, making it glow with life.

“Are you staying for dinner?” he asked.

“And for a few days.”

“Regina will be so pleased.”

“No, she won’t.” A.J. shot him a knowing smile.

“I am so pleased.”

“That I believe.”

Silence stretched between them.

“Why are you really here?” he asked.

“I just need a few days to heal.”

“From what injury?”

“I can’t ride like this.”

“The last time you took a day off was because you had a concussion from hitting some jump and landing on your head. It was only because we threatened to put you in a hospital bed that you agreed to stay in your room. Having your arm in a sling may prevent you from being up on that horse but it wouldn’t cause you to take time off.”

She looked away.

“The rumors are true, then,” Garrett said. “You are having an affair with him.”

A.J. was tempted to lie. A plausible denial was all she needed, but she didn’t have one she felt like offering.

In the silence, she could feel his disappointment. Her father had always hoped she’d marry a businessman like him and settle down into the cloistered life of a society wife. It would have been an existence he could understand, a vocabulary he was familiar with. She knew he imagined such a marriage would be easy, that it would be one endless, pretty stream of parties and dresses fronted by a man who cared for her, provided for her. Watched over her.

She knew he’d never understand it but, for her, a passionless marriage carpeted with jewels was no luxury, just a very pretty mausoleum where women rotted while walking around in Manolo Blahniks. When it became clear she was headed for a different future from the one he’d planned for her, they’d stopped talking about her life’s direction. Her father’s convictions were as tightly held as her own so they didn’t argue. Instead, they were both waiting for some future time when the other would finally see the light.

Her father was looking pained and she knew what he was thinking. Her affair with a riding champion turned tragic recluse was just one more part of a life he couldn’t relate to. The love for her was in his eyes but so was his sadness.