by Sara Craven
‘Please,’ she said, ‘you don’t have to apologise—or explain.’
‘Naturally I’m concerned,’ he said. He hesitated again. ‘I hope you didn’t find my ardour—a little excessive.’
‘A little, maybe.’ She even managed a smile as cool as his own. ‘But I can hardly complain. After all, that’s what you’re paying me for. Isn’t it?’
And she turned and walked away from him, head high, and her shaking hands thrust safely out of sight in her pockets, leaving him staring after her.
Two weeks later they were married in a ceremony so brief and formal that Louise could almost have thought it a fleeting dream, but for the sudden presence of Alex’s wedding ring on her hand.
She supposed there would come a time when its golden gleam would not seem so alien, but, in a way, it was the least of her problems.
After the incident on the Embankment, she had decided that her only recourse was to treat the whole situation as a game. And a game with strict rules from which there could not be the slightest deviation.
And it seemed that Alex must have had similar thoughts during that silent taxi ride back to the flat, because ever since they had behaved with almost rigorous civility on the occasions when they were together, walking round each other as if they were treading on eggshells.
To her surprise, he had kept his word about the written contract she’d demanded.
‘Here.’ He’d tossed it into her lap. ‘I hope this is the reassurance you wanted about my good intentions.’
Louise had read it, her eyes widening. ‘Generous isn’t the word,’ she had said when she’d caught her breath. ‘I feel as if I’ve won the lottery.’
‘I’m glad you’re pleased,’ he’d said politely. ‘However, if you’re looking for the non-molestation clause, forget it. My lawyer’s eyes were popping out of his head as it was. So I’m afraid you’ll just have to take my word that I won’t touch you—or not without your express invitation, anyway.’
She had stared down at the typed words until they blurred. ‘Then I’ll just have to rely on that.’
But so far she had no real complaints. She had to admit that Alex had made things easier by spending a minimum of time at the flat, and she was managing to accept his appearances as well as his prolonged and unexplained absences with apparent equanimity.
She was slowly becoming accustomed to her new environment, too. The weather had been mainly fine and warm, encouraging her to spend a lot of time in the roof garden. She even sunbathed sometimes in the black bikini she’d bought for that very reason. She could even indulge her passion for reading as never before, and she’d also purchased a portable CD player so that she could listen to music and drama on disc while she relaxed.
It was, she thought, almost a life. And if her heart leapt painfully when she heard his key in the lock, then that was a secret she kept well-hidden, desperately ashamed of her own weakness.
Besides, if she seemed awkward or withdrawn at any time, she could always imply she was still heartbroken over David and Ellie. And only she would know it was a lie.
However, she supposed, they would both have to lower their guard a little for his grandmother’s birthday party—the next ordeal to be endured—if she did not count the forthcoming wedding celebration at the Savoy.
‘It was not my idea,’ Alex had told her flatly the night before. ‘My father insisted.’
Louise bit her lip. She had met George Fabian only once, a difficult rather stilted encounter at the Ritz. He had concealed his astonishment at his son’s choice of wife with smiling good manners, but Louise was tautly aware that he knew the exact reason for this amazing mismatch. Knew it—and disapproved.
‘Well,’ she’d said, ‘I’m sure he means to be—kind. And you did ask him to be one of our witnesses.’
‘Yes,’ he’d said. ‘I thought one of us at least should have a blood relative present.’
Louise flushed. Her visit to Trentham Osborne to inform her father that the wedding date had been set was not a treasured memory. But neither was reporting on it later to a cynical Alex.
‘Belated guilty conscience, darling?’ he’d inquired pleasantly, after she’d stumbled through her explanation that a long-planned trip to the States would prevent her father from attending their marriage. ‘Could he be feeling bad about selling you to me?’
‘No,’ she denied defensively. ‘He has all these meetings set up that he can’t postpone.’ She forbore to add that she had no chance of any kind of job with the family firm, her father having stared at her in disbelief before impatiently brushing her tentative enquiry aside. She did not want to hear Alex say that he’d told her so.
She paused. ‘And Marian is still down at the cottage, waiting to hear from Ellie. So that’s that.’ And in London, her father was doing exactly the same thing, and she knew it. She tried to smile. ‘Anyway, I’m glad that you invited Andie instead. I—I like her.’
She had not expected to do so. In fact, she’d been angry when Alex had ignored her protests, and insisted on his PA acting as her guide and mentor round the London fashion houses.
But Andie Crane had proved to be a slim blonde, whose high-powered chic had been set off by her merry face and insouciant manner, and who had clearly no intention of forcing her own tastes or opinions on her boss’s bride.
She herself had been married for less than a year, she’d confided, and had found the run-up to her own wedding positively nerve-racking. ‘And I had months to spend on the planning,’ she said, laughing. ‘Whereas you’ve had days rather than weeks. Although maybe it’s better that way,’ she added more thoughtfully. ‘Less time for second thoughts.’
Second, third, fourth and fifth, Louise thought wearily. With more to come.
She said quietly, ‘I don’t think Alex would allow them, anyway.’
Andie’s eyes twinkled. ‘Probably not.’
She must have been burning to know the story behind this unholy dash into matrimony, but was far too discreet to ask questions or attempt to invade Louise’s confidence.
And the hairdresser she recommended was a revelation, expertly layering Louise’s unruly dark curls into an altogether sleeker and more manageable style that also gave her, she felt, a much needed edge of sophistication.
While shopping, she soon discovered, could be fun with a knowledgeable companion—and, admittedly, when money, too, was no object.
Andie’s idea of a trousseau ranged from outfits for every conceivable occasion down to the prettiest, sexiest lingerie that Louise had ever possessed. Gossamer stuff, primarily designed to appeal to male senses, she realised, biting her lip. And totally wasted on her.
A visit to a beauty salon resulted in a make-up lesson, which she enjoyed, and a pastel leather case equipped with coordinated replacements for her own hotchpotch of cosmetics, which Andie advised her to ditch.
The pale pink sheath Louise wore for the much dreaded lunch at Perrins Bank had been bought on Andie’s advice, too.
‘Men love pink, especially the older ones,’ she said. ‘You’ll wow them.’
A slight exaggeration, perhaps, Louise thought, but the lunch had went better than she could have hoped, her obvious shyness doing her no disservice at all.
‘Well done,’ was Alex’s laconic comment when it was over, and she was disconcerted to find herself beaming as if she’d received some accolade.
Even the search for a wedding dress that was not too overtly bridal proved simplicity itself in the end. A small boutique in Knightsbridge produced a slender shift in ivory silk, high-necked and sleeveless, topped with a matching hip-length jacket, narrowly edged in gold, which floated as she moved. Plain kid court shoes and a tiny bag on a long gold chain completed the ensemble.
It was a far cry from the billowing white gown and veil she’d always envisaged, but then nothing about this marriage was like anything she’d ever contemplated—not even in her wildest nightmares.
And now it was done. She’d made her promises in
a small, calm voice, and become Mrs Alex Fabian, currently on her way to lunch at the Savoy in the chauffeur-driven car which had also, somehow, become part of her everyday life. Proof, if proof were needed, that Alex was a man who liked his own way, and expected to get it—even in minor matters.
He had kept his word about taking her to buy the wedding ring.
They’d gone to a discreetly exclusive jewellers, where they were shown into a private panelled room, offered a glass of excellent sherry, and where Louise’s finger was ceremoniously measured.
Tray after velvet-covered tray was then brought out for their inspection. So many shades of gold—Alex having decisively rejected platinum—in so many styles. Wide or narrow, plain or chased, no two rings seemed the same.
Louise had expected that the whole thing would only take a few minutes. That Alex, conscious that it was only a temporary measure, would make a swift selection, pretty much at random.
She was embarrassed too by the kindly smiles of the middle-aged jeweller, who so obviously believed they were happy lovers choosing a ring that would last their entire lives long.
I’m a fraud, she wanted to tell him. And we might as well use a brass curtain ring.
But she said nothing, and when Alex picked out a plain, elegant ring in a medium width, she smiled as he slipped it onto her other hand, and murmured truthfully that it was beautiful.
Now, seated beside him in the car, she stared down at the flowers she was holding—tiny cream and gold roses, their petals just unfurling, and tried not to think about the inevitabilities of the future. About the strain of maintaining the pretence, the topics of conversation that, for safety’s sake, remained strictly taboo. And, of course, the strict avoidance of all physical contact when they were alone. So that they seemed like two people trapped in separate vacuums. Isolated. Unreachable.
But that was the way she wanted it, she reminded herself, and the way it had to be. Because anything else would be unthinkable.
Alex had kissed her when they were pronounced man and wife, because it was expected of him. A swift, formal brush of his lips on hers that meant nothing, and would cause no restless, unhappy dreams. Or so she could only hope, she told herself as the car drew up in front of the famous Savoy façade.
George Fabian had reserved a table overlooking the river, where champagne was waiting, expertly iced. And, although she could not decide whether it was the wine, or the fact that she was finally married—committed, with no way back—that was the cause, she found herself able to relax a little and almost enjoy herself as her health was drunk.
The food was delicious too, with tiny asparagus tartlets being followed by poussins in a wine sauce, with straw potatoes and tender French beans. A rich confection of raspberries whisked into thick and alcoholic cream ended the meal.
Louise would have lingered over the coffee and petits fours, but to her surprise George Fabian was glancing at his watch and murmuring about appointments, and Andie, in a blue linen dress that matched her eyes, was saying briskly that she too needed to get back to Perrins.
Oh, God, Louise thought, staring at the tablecloth as if it fascinated her. They’re being tactful. Even his father, who knows precisely why we went through that ceremony this morning, thinks that Alex will want to be alone with me. That, now I’m his wife, he has a right to take full advantage of the circumstances, and won’t hesitate to do so.
She groaned inwardly, realising that Andie, who worked for him, and presumably knew his reputation, would imagine her as a more than willing bride, eager to respond to his expertise as a lover.
She made herself look up, swallowing, and found Alex watching her, the green eyes hooded and enigmatic, and her heart lurched in a kind of panic mingled with excitement.
‘It’s such a pity that your honeymoon has to be postponed,’ Andie sympathised quietly as they all made their way to the main entrance. ‘But there’s so much going on at Perrins now that Alex has definitely been confirmed as the next chairman. He really can’t afford to take any time off just now.’
Louise bit her lip. ‘It’s—not a problem. Really.’
‘No?’ Andie’s expression was faintly puzzled. ‘Well, I expect Alex will choose somewhere extra-glamorous and romantic to make up for it,’ she added cheerfully. ‘When the time comes.’ She gave Louise a swift hug. ‘Enjoy the rest of your day,’ she added with a wicked grin.
Louise stood beside Alex, waving goodbye as the cabs containing George Fabian and Andie went off in their different directions, and smiling so determinedly that it hurt.
Alone at last. The words came into her mind, along with Andie’s mischievous, knowing smile, and would not go away. She felt a faint shiver—half dread, half longing—run along her nerve-endings.
As she turned away Alex’s hand closed on her arm, and she glanced at him, her eyes blank with sudden alarm.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said softly. ‘I don’t think the Savoy rents rooms by the afternoon.’ He paused. ‘Although I could always ask.’
She hated herself for blushing. She said coldly, ‘Please don’t be absurd.’
‘It’s a fairly absurd situation,’ he returned shortly. He paused. ‘I have a meeting to go to in the City. Have you any plans for the rest of the afternoon? May I drop you somewhere?’
She shook her head slowly. Suddenly, she felt that she was the absurd one here, all dressed up with, patently, nowhere to go. And no one to go with.
She said, ‘You mean you’re going back to work?’
‘You have some objection?’
‘None,’ she said swiftly. ‘Only Andie didn’t mention it.’
‘Andie doesn’t know,’ Alex said shortly. ‘I arranged this meeting yesterday, after she’d left for the day.’
It was her wedding day, and she was being left totally to her own devices. And he hadn’t even said she looked nice, she thought childishly. Not even when she’d stood beside him in front of the registrar. Just one brief, unsmiling glance as he took her hand.
She sighed inwardly, soundlessly. ‘I think I’ll go back to the flat.’
‘As you wish.’ He signalled and the car drew up in front of them.
He was clearly impatient to be off. To be rid of her, and that hurt. Yet another absurdity, she thought.
She said carefully, as they emerged into the Strand, ‘Alex—is there anything wrong? Have I—done something?’
‘No, my sweet.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Your behaviour has been faultless throughout.’
‘Then what is it?’ She tried to smile. ‘If you’ve decided you don’t want to be a married man, after all, you’ve left it rather late.’
‘But that’s exactly it,’ he said, and she could hear the faint throb of anger under his even tone. ‘You see, I discovered there in the registry office that marriage doesn’t suit me, Louise. It doesn’t suit me at all. Yet here I am, the condemned man hearing the doors of the prison cage slam behind him—and knowing that he’s trapped.’
Pain tore through her. She managed, just in time, to suppress a little, shocked gasp.
She said stonily, ‘Then it’s a trap entirely of your own making. I just hope you think your precious inheritance is worth it.’
‘At the moment I have my doubts,’ he returned bleakly.
They didn’t exchange another word until they arrived outside the block of flats.
‘Do you want me to come in with you?’ He was frowning faintly, not looking at her, as if his mind had already leapt ahead to his City appointment.
‘No,’ she said, ‘thank you. Let’s just get on with the rest of our lives—shall we? And don’t look so furious,’ she added, striving for lightness. ‘Play your cards right, and you might get time off for good behaviour.’
She slammed the door of the car, and stalked across the pavement to the massive glass doors which the commissionaire was holding open for her, and went inside.
She was shaking with anger as she rode up in the lift. She was helping him, and he couldn’t even be bot
hered to make the day special for her.
He thought he was in prison? she thought, seething, as she let herself into the flat. Well, this was her cage too. It was luxurious—gold-plated even—but the bars were there just the same. And she was in solitary confinement.
But in her case, this was a cage she did not want to leave—ever…
She came to a stunned halt halfway across the living room, standing white-faced and motionless, staring into space, as she considered the implications of this unwanted revelation.
As she recognised, with a silent scream of anguish, that—somehow and unbelievably—she had fallen in love with Alex. No—more than that. That she loved him, and that was why he filled her thoughts by day, and haunted her dreams in the long, lonely nights.
Alex, she thought, shivering, who cared nothing for her. Who was already resenting his lost freedom, and, indeed, planning to discard her at the earliest opportunity.
He doesn’t want me, she reminded herself with swift, searing desolation. He never did, and he never will. And I have the written contract to prove it.
And—God help me—there isn’t a thing I can do about it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SHE sat for a long time in the corner of the sofa, twisting the wedding band on her finger, while the slow, scalding tears trickled down her face and dripped off the end of her nose.
She was being ridiculous, and she knew it, but all other choices had been removed in the light of her recent self-revelation.
She might argue with herself that it wasn’t love but simply physical attraction, triggered by that kiss, and that, left untended, it would wither and die of its own accord. But a female instinct she’d never known she possessed told her otherwise.
Suggested that she’d actually been fighting her awareness of him from day one. That there’d been a moment when that awareness had transmuted into an aching need. When he’d become part of the essence of her day, and to see him, and hear his voice brought their own meagre satisfaction. Because that might be all that she would ever have of him.