Indiscretions Read Online Free PDF Page A

year Venetia spent time with her mother in California, or occasionally she met her in Europe—and her two sisters. That was all Kate knew about her.
    “Vennie,” she had said, sitting up abruptly and hugging her knees, “why don’t you come home with me in Long Leave—it’s the weekend after next—right after the exams? We’ll celebrate.”
    Venetia had gazed at her, dazzled. She was called Vennie, and she had a friend. Kate had invited her home for the holidays and her whole life had changed.
    Venetia was still in the bath—the water was getting cold—when the sound of the doorbell intruded on her memories. She jumped guiltily. Goodness, they were here already and she wasn’t even dressed! And what was she going to wear? She dried quickly and ran to the cupboard to check. The guests were all older people tonight. Kate had gone to the theater and that meant Venetia would be the only young person there. Never mind, it would leave her free to take care of things in the kitchen, and with a bit of luck Marie-Thérèse would be back to lend a hand. She didn’t want the guest of honor to know she was American, she decided suddenly; she wanted to be very English tonight, a Lancaster, not a Haven. The ruffled pink Laura Ashley was a bit too milkmaidish, though,and the red silk from Georgio’s that fitted like a second skin and left one shoulder bare was too Beverly Hills. That left the eccentric creamy knit from Joseph with the gray silk-knit over-vest, or the conservative yellow Belville Sassoon that was an old favorite and in which she always felt comfortable. Venetia hesitated between the two. Oh, to hell with it, she thought, flinging on the creamy knit, why not be eccentric—after all, she was one of the Lancasters! She streaked a sparkle of fuchsia pink over her eyelids and smudged them with kohl, drifted a glitter of pink and gilt across her high angular cheekbones, and transformed her pretty mouth into a vivid hibiscus-pink petal. For a moment Venetia comtemplated spraying a streak of matching pink through her pale hair, feeling an urge just to shock people with sheer exuberant youth where decoration is a total art-form and not merely what you wear. Lydia wouldn’t have minded in the least, but perhaps it might upset the American. She decided against it. There was just time to slip into the kitchen and check that Marie-Thérèse had decided to return and might possibly be persuaded to lend a hand. The avocados were placed in the oven and instructions as to their removal in fifteen minutes given, and Venetia was ready.
    The drawing room buzzed with polite chatter and the discreet tinkle of ice, high-pitched English feminine laughter and charming public-school stammers voicing gentlemanly compliments. Venetia paused at the door to take in the scene. There was never any stiffness at Lydia’s dinners, they went with a swing from the start. Dinner jackets were worn with a comfortable air of belonging, no doubt because most of them were at least twenty years old, and dresses were unadventurous but “right.” Venetia felt quite outrageous in the Joseph knit.
    One man stood out as though he were from another planet. It wasn’t just that his dinner jacket was of superb cut and his was the only shirt with two—very discreetand very small—ruffles down the front; he was at the most only twenty-five years old. And, thought Venetia as their eyes met across the room, he was almost dazzlingly handsome.
    “Ah, Vennie darling.” Lydia hurried toward her. “Do come and meet Mr. McBain.” She turned her warm smile on the young man. “This is Venetia Haven, our ‘lodger,’ ” she announced cheerfully, “and also—luckily for you—our chef tonight. Venetia this is Morgan McBain.”
    “Oh”—Venetia’s smile was tentative—“but I thought … weren’t you supposed to be older?” she asked, puzzled. Morgan McBain’s firm, warm hand held hers.
    “Unfortunately my father couldn’t make it and sent me to