Miranda's Marriage

by Margery Hilton

  Wordlessly she took it, and wondered if she had imagined relief in his voice when that summons had come from Libby…

  * * *

  During the meal that followed he kept the conversation to com­pletely impersonal topics. Libby served a faultlessly cooked meal with a quiet, unobtrusive skill that evoked secret admir­ation in Miranda. She wondered how many unseen staff the house held, or if Libby were the only one. Somehow she had the impression that Jason would dislike too many people around him in his home in the spells he spent there—he was away so often, more of his time would be spent in the impersonal atmos­phere of hotels than in the privacy of his own home.

  By the time dessert was finished she had discovered that Jason was knowledgeable about art and collected oriental pieces, jade and ivory in particular; that he had a catholic taste in music but professed himself no expert personally at any aspect of it—there was a Steinway in the lounge which he referred to as an ancient family status symbol and tendered to her a casual invitation to try it, obviously remembering her earlier confidences concerning herself—and lastly that he was on the governing board of a children's home in the Midlands.

  'And please don't say "pity the poor orphans!"' he con­cluded.

  'I wasn't going to.' She felt surprise at this divulgence; it was an unexpected personal glimpse into the man behind the tycoon, and an orphanage was the last thing she would have thought of in connection with the high-powered, undeniably arrogant J.S.

  'Is it in a town or out in the country?' she asked, after a brief pause while he refilled her wine glass.

  'It's about five miles out of Milborough, in an old manor house. About a dozen of the older boys live at the manor farm.'

  'Do you go there very often?'

  He tilted the wine in his glass and shook his head. 'I wish I could spare more time, but it's impossible, I'm afraid.'

  'So you don't have much chance of getting to know the chil­dren,' she mused.

  Rather abruptly he drained his glass. 'I don't have time to sentimentalize about individual children, if that's what you mean. Such time as I do have to spare is devoted to the more mundane matters connected with the financial side of the home.' He tossed his napkin on to his side plate and she re­ceived the impression that he regretted introducing the subject. 'Libby will have taken the coffee into the lounge… shall we go through?'

  Without speaking, she rose. His hard statement had made plain his views on sentiment and she still felt the sting of recoil from his words. The feeling served to stiffen her guard against him and the increasing attraction she knew she could not deny he held for her. As he showed her to the other room she made a sudden resolve to try to keep out of his way in future. Not that it was likely to be very difficult—his path lay along a very divergent route from her own—and after tonight it was ex­tremely unlikely that fate would throw another set of circum­stances like those which had led to her presence here tonight. Which was just as well. In moments of cold sanity she saw all the danger signals that a fast-beating heart, a certain tensity, and that driving compulsion to be near one particular man meant. It would be folly to let herself fall for Jason Steele, of all men…

  That her resolve had come too late did not occur to her as she assumed her frail mantle of defence and held her head with an air of cool aloofness when she entered the door he indicated. She stepped into the long spacious room that ran from front to back of one whole side of the ground floor, and fell in love with it instantly.

  The walls were pale primrose, the paintwork white, and warm browns and ambers predominated in the soft furnishings. A thick, honey-hued carpet stretched from wall to wall, with a big oval Chinese rug of silky green and gold in the centre, and the whole was illuminated by diffused lighting from wide opaque panels in the ceiling. It was the kind of room that cre­ated an instant illusion of warmth and welcome as well as luxurious comfort, and Miranda's cold resolve melted as she sank into the deep cream cushions of one of the armchairs.

  Libby came in then with the coffee tray. She smiled at Mir­anda and set the tray on a long low table of glass and delicately wrought curly white metal. She went out, and Jason dropped into a chair, crossing his long legs and lounging back with one arm crooked behind his head. He waved at the tray. 'Go on—that's one job my feminine guests always have to do. I like mine black. No sugar.'

  'I remember.' She sat forward and reached to the tray. Her interest was still caught by the wealth of discovery the room held for new visitors. Here was part or all of his collection of jade and ivory, not housed in museum-like cabinets as were some collections but spaced out in modern wall units of glass and white and in harmony with the room. One item in par­ticular stood out, an intricately carved pagoda some eighteen inches high which stood on a small table near where she was sitting. It evoked in her that strange fascination the East in­spires so readily.

  'Coffee first,' said Jason, following her glance,, then added with some satisfaction, 'It never fails.'

  She concentrated on holding the silver coffee pot very steady. 'You mean everyone admires the ivory pagoda?'

  A rather wicked grin touched his mouth. It's one of my lures. I have several placed at strategic points around the room.'

  'Really?' Gravely she handed him his coffee. 'Do you need lures, Mr. Steele?'

  'Who doesn't—at least once in a lifetime?' A quirk of the dark brows had replaced the grin. 'I find the Chinese boxes within boxes are the most irresistible.' He reached out lazily to point. 'Those.'

  She had heard of this particular miracle of oriental crafts­manship, but this was the first opportunity she had had of examining one closely. However, she contented herself with a glance and resisted the temptation to accept the unspoken in­vitation to get up and cross to the small table behind his chair where the ivory box stood. Instead, when he seemed to have left the conversational ball in her court, she remembered a small question that had caused her some puzzlement.

  'How did you know I'd moved, Mr. Steele?' she asked.

  'Moved?'

  His frown of query was quite genuine, and she gestured. 'That afternoon you sent for me. Because I hadn't told Records.'

  'Oh, that… I wanted to get in touch with you. Someone called Miss Vanda Vayle informed me over the phone that you didn't live there any more.'

  For a moment of astonishment she wondered why he had made such a fuss. When she was in the same building seven hours a day, five days a week…

  'Was it something important?' The tension was building again, making her voice stiff.

  'I forget now.' The words sounded light, but there was a calculated undertone to them that deliberately tantalized. 'Maybe I wanted to send you that hotel bill.'

  'But that was after I offered you—!' She stopped abruptly, her mouth setting as she met the dark glints of amusement in his eyes. She indicated the coffee-pot. 'Do you want any more coffee?'

  'Please.'

  He held out the empty cup and she had no option but to go to him. Evading his eyes, she took the cup and saucer, but as she turned away he reached out and caught her free hand. Gently but insistently he tugged, and the pressure brought her help­lessly off balance. The cup rocked on the saucer, and the in­voluntary movement she made to steady herself brought her against his legs. A tremor shot through her as the hard warmth of his thigh burned into her own.

  She said unevenly, 'Don't you want that coffee, after all?'

  'Not really.'

  She looked down into the age-old challenge in a man's eyes and met it with difficulty. 'Then do you mind if I finish mine?'

  'You're my guest!' With the mocking little statement he re­leased her, and trembling unsteadily she put the length of the glass table between herself and temptation. From beneath lazy lids he watched her refill her cup and then sip it as though the action were the most vital one of the moment. When she had finished he observed carelessly:

  'So I can take it that you don't want to marry me, after all?'

  With a sense of shock she
realized she was still trembling inwardly and that flare of wantonness he had aroused in her earlier that evening was far from subdued. Its potency both frightened and shamed her, and she sought desperately to counteract its effect by clinging to her resolve and matching his carelessness with flippancy.

  'I don't think we need carry the farce that far. It was a clever move and did the trick, so,' she forced a brilliant smile, 'I won't try to keep you on the hook, Mr. Steele.'

  His brows flickered. 'I wasn't aware I was on the hook—I learned to avoid the delicate bait a long time ago, little Miss Meake.'

  Already her brief spurt of defiance was spent. She looked away. 'I—I didn't exactly mean that. It was just—well, one of those silly things that happen when—' she shrugged awkwardly, not knowing how to say that it seemed stupid to drag out the silliness to this extent, even if it did seem to amuse him.

  'I don't think you're quite sure yet what you do mean,' He uncoiled like a lithe spring out of his chair. 'I think perhaps a little music may help. What would you like? Tom Jones or Stravinsky?'

  She gave a gesture of hopelessness, and the sardonic little half smile played round his mouth as he crossed to the stereo set-up in the corner near the french window. He rifled through a section of the long record unit and selected one. A moment later the sensuous, pervading rhythm of a latin-American mood piece flowed into the room. The strings were sweet, an in­viting refrain that lay like a sparkling foil on the low throbbing beat of drums not yet allowed to approach their climax of domination.

  Jason moved, soft-footed, to touch switches, and the pearly radiance dimmed overhead, leaving soft pools of light from two crystal wall lamps. The room took on a new warmth, an en­folding intimacy to veil the tender trap with velvet.

  The soft steps paused behind her chair, and her heartbeat vied with the throb of the music.

  'It's known as setting the scene,' Jason said calmly.

  'I realize that.' She took a deep breath. 'But I didn't come here for seduction.'

  'I'm well aware of that.' He moved round and looked down into her wide eyes. Her cheeks had gone perceptibly paler, but there was determination in the tense line of her upturned face. He reached out and ran one questing forefinger down the taut little outline. 'I'm also aware that I've picked myself an appre­hensive little nymph this time. And so…' He left his sentence unfinished and turned away, opening a polished ebony box and extracting a cigarette from it. Flame leapt from the onyx lighter and snapped out again before he swung back to face her.

  'Contrary to whatever you may have heard about me,' he went on calmly, 'I don't make a practice of seducing unwilling victims. And so… it's been a delightful evening, and the moment you make for that door I shall understand it's time to take you home.'

  The thin blue coils of smoke spiralled up steadily from the glowing tip and Miranda stared aghast at the lean mocking face behind it. His expression flickered into a slight frown and he added abruptly: 'I'm sorry, I didn't offer you… Forgive me.'

  'No,' she put out a refusing hand, as he indicated the ciga­rette, 'I don't.'

  'Wise girl—I give up each morning and start again each night,' he said lightly, as though to the most casual of acquaint­ances.

  'That's better than the other way around,' she said in a voice that didn't seem to belong to her.

  'The other way around? Oh yes! I see. But I do cheat with the occasional cigar during the day.'

  She smiled mirthlessly. 'It's very difficult, isn't it, to give up bad habits one enjoys. I think perhaps it's time I—I—' She bit her lip and forced her limbs to move towards the door.

  'Yes, of course.' Unhurriedly he sought an ashtray and care­fully stubbed out the half smoked cigarette. 'I'll see you home.' He straightened. 'There's just one other thing.'

  Almost at the door, she stopped.

  'I did mean it, you know.'

  Her lips parted, but made no sound.

  He looked at her steadily. 'I do mean to marry you.'

  CHAPTER FIVE

  She had no idea how many seconds ticked by while she stood there with Jason's proposal echoing through her mind. The seconds could have been hours, so timeless did the spell of silence seem, until Jason himself broke it by saying coolly:

  'I think you need a drink before you commit yourself.'

  She became aware of the music still playing in the back­ground and some part of her subconscious mused that it seemed a very long recording. She saw him move to the cocktail cabi­net, then the chaotic rush started to whirl in her brain.

  J.S. wanted to marry her!

  But she hardly knew him. He hardly knew her. Yet he'd said it. It hadn't been her imagination. How could love come so quickly? Had it come to him the way it had come to herself? For she knew in a sudden delirious soar of joy that she had fallen totally, utterly in love with him. It was indescribable. Like a shooting star, the spinning of a great silver turntable of sound like triumphant bells. A new world belonging only to herself and Jason. Jason! Not J.S. Not Mr. Steele. The real man behind the figurehead she'd scarcely known.

  Then he came and put the cold glass in her hand and the magic stopped. It wasn't real. He looked exactly the same. He didn't even have that challenging glint in his eye, that mocking temptation that had beckoned her to flirt with him only moments ago. Why wasn't she in his arms? Sharing the zany ecstatic nonsense secrets lovers shared? Or so she'd always im­agined… not this block inside her that wouldn't let her be­lieve, let her take the first step towards him…

  'Are you serious?' she faltered.

  'Deadly.'

  She put out an unsteady hand. 'But how can you…? What am I supposed to say?'

  'One of three answers. The only three. Yes, No. Or don't know.'

  The matter-of-fact statement only increased her be­wilderment. 'But we—we hardly know each other,' she countered weakly.

  'That's easily remedied.' He smiled with mocking indul­gence. 'What do you want to know about me, Miranda?'

  She sighed despairingly, still striving to keep a sense of pro-portion before that unshakeable self-assurance of his. 'It isn't as easy as that, Mr. Steele. Sensible people don't—'

  'Let's leave out the vague generalities,' he broke in, 'and that silly little defence of yours. That is the last time you'll address me as Mr. Steele,'

  'But you are—' She bit her lip, an hysterical desire to giggle suddenly overtaking her. 'I can't stop thinking of you as Mr. Steele. And you don't know me, not well enough to—to marry me.'

  'That makes it more interesting.' He went to the stereogram and switched it off. 'Don't you want to get married?'

  'Yes, of course, but…'

  'And a home of your own?'

  She nodded, looking down.'

  'And children?

  'I don't visualize a marriage without them,' she said in a low voice.

  'You're going to need a man, then,' he said dryly.

  'Yes.' She put her glass down and looked at him steadily. 'But I want love, and a permanent relationship.'

  'Yes, I thought so.' He straightened and for a moment his eyes were remote, staring beyond her. 'I'll be honest, Miranda. I think that the old accepted idea of one permanent, idealistic relationship between a man and a woman is doomed to extinc­tion, sooner or later. For how can anyone pledge their entire life and future to one person? It's impossible to tell what the next twenty-four hours will bring, let alone the next twenty-four years.'

  'But that's the very reason why one must try. Don't you see?' she entreated. 'Because of that you have to try to make some­thing that will endure. Something to hold to when everything else seems to disintegrate.'

  'And so we come down to old basics. The love and the trust.' He held out one hand, and despite herself she took a step towards him. 'Have you any particular reason for not trusting me?' he asked softly.

  She held his glance a moment, then looked down.

  He watched the almost imperceptible shake of her head, then put his hands on her shoulders. A tre
mor ran through them under his touch, and his grasp tightened. 'I think you're more than half in love with me already,' he murmured, 'but you won't admit it.'

  The cool assumption stung, and a choking lump rose in her throat. She pulled herself away. 'No! And I'm not going to admit it. Nor can I marry you. You must know it couldn't work, not between two people who scarcely know one another. I—I don't know why you're going on about it,' she finished raggedly.

  'Because I want you,' he said flatly.

  'You want me?' She spun round to stare at him. 'You mean you just want—?'

  'I mean I want you, and I'm prepared to marry you.'

  'Just like that! Without love?'

  Disillusion was darkening her wide eyes, making them look enormous in her small pale face. He held up one hand.

  'Forget about marriage for the moment,' he said calmly. 'Tell me, would you be prepared to have an affair with me?'

  'No!'

  'Why not?'

  'Why not!' she echoed scornfully. 'Just like that! Have you any idea of how cold-blooded that sounds?'

  'No.' His brows went up. 'Premeditated, I'll admit. But not cold-blooded.'

  A chill sickness was creeping up round her heart. Despite the warmth of the room her hands felt icy, and she clasped them to still their trembling. 'I don't see any difference,' she said stub­bornly. 'I don't want that kind of affair.'

  'Are you afraid?'

  There was a subtle change in his tone and a certain intentness in his eyes. Before that steady gaze her instinctive denial faltered. 'Yes,' she said flatly.

  'Of me?'

  'Of all the things a girl is afraid of.' She turned away. 'I shouldn't have to spell them out.'

  'You've no need to be afraid. I'll take care of you, I prom­ise.'

  The intense silence that followed seemed to press round her, as though he bade it hold her prisoner until she gave him her answer. Her lips felt stiff, drained of their lifeblood, and it took every ounce of control to keep her voice steady as she said quietly: 'I'm sure you're quite sincere, but can't you see that you're making it sound more and more impossible? You—you might as well itemize it, like—like an order form. You want me, so you'll take care of me.' Her voice sharpened. 'Do you think you can buy me?'