No Mark Upon Her by Deborah Crombie Read Free Book Online Page A

rear, French doors opened onto the garden.
    “Oh,” she said, on a breath of involuntary surprise. “It’s lovely. Small, but lovely.”
    Doug nodded, flushing again with obvious pleasure at her response. “There’s a full bath upstairs, and I’ll use one room for the bedroom and another for an office. The kitchen needs new cupboards and worktops. And in here”—he waved a proprietary hand at the living areas—“a new carpet, and a bit of paint, of course.”
    “Not going to stick with magnolia, then?” Melody asked, teasing. The walls were the color of curdled cream, with lighter patches where pictures had hung. Both sitting and dining room had fireplace surrounds that looked original, but the interiors had been boarded over.
    Doug shuddered. “No. And definitely not gray. I’ve had enough gray to last a lifetime.”
    “You could use the colors in the stained glass,” Melody said, considering. “With this light, it would be lovely. And you’ll have to put in some gas fires.” Melody walked to the back door and looked out. Steps led down to an oval of broken paving stones. Beyond that was a weedy patch of lawn surrounded on three sides by neglected beds.
    Melody, who could live anywhere she chose if she accepted more of her father’s help, felt a stir of envy. Not that there was anything wrong with her mansion flat in Notting Hill, except that it felt nothing like a home. It was also on the top floor of her building, its only access to the outdoors a tiny balcony. And lately she had developed an unexpected urge to get her hands in the dirt, to smell growing things.
    “I could help with the garden, if you like,” she offered, a bit hesitantly, turning back to him. “In the spring.”
    “Have you ever in your life worked in a garden?” There was a hint of mockery in Doug’s voice.
    “I suspect I know more about gardening than you do about painting and plumbing,” she said, equably enough. “I used to follow my grandparents’ gardener in Bucks around like a shadow. How hard can it be, compost and bulbs and things?” She studied him. “What about you? You grew up in St. Alban’s, didn’t you? Suburban mecca. Surely you must have had a garden.”
    He shrugged. “I was at school except for hols from the time I was eight. My dad mowed the lawn with a rotary mower. It was his Sunday relaxation and he wasn’t inclined to share.”
    Melody knew that Doug was also an only child, and that his father was a barrister from a well-off family that had put Doug down for Eton before he was born. But although Melody’s father could be autocratic, stubborn, and infuriating, he and her mother had always been generous with their time and attention.
    She had a sudden vision of Doug as a lonely and awkward boy, with a father who couldn’t bring himself to give his little son the pleasure of learning to push a lawn mower.
    Not wanting him to see compassion in her expression, she studied the fireplace surround, wiping dust from the mantel with a fingertip. “You’ll have to give a dinner party, once you’re settled,” she said.
    “No table. And probably not much else for a while. The only things I’m bringing from the Euston flat are the bed and my audio stuff.”
    Several comments sprang to Melody’s mind, but none of them seemed appropriate, and all made her feel the color start to rise in her face. God forbid she should start blushing as badly as Doug. “Fresh start?” she asked, instead, keeping her gaze averted.
    “Totally. Only thing is, I’ve no idea where to begin.” He gazed round the room, looking a little lost, as if just now contemplating the enormity of the undertaking. Then he shoved his wire-framed glasses up on his nose and glared at her, as if daring her to contradict him. “I’ve been told I’ve no sense of style.”
    “Hmm.” Taking in his off-the-rack suit and uninspired tie, Melody thought she might be inclined to agree, but she wasn’t about to say so. There was obviously