by Penny Jordan
He took a deep breath.
‘Okay…your Aunt Justine has told me all about this afternoon. What you were doing was very, very wrong, and very dangerous. Peter could have been seriously injured if you had set that bonfire alight, killed even.’
Two pairs of unblinking hazel eyes regarded him without expression. It was like talking to a brick wall. He knew that he was simply not getting through to them. Exasperated and exhausted, he pushed irate fingers through his hair. His hand itched to administer punishment of a more basic nature than a lecture, but Heather had been resolutely against any form of physical punishment and he had felt bound to abide by her wishes, even though he himself as a boy had felt his father’s hand against his backside on more than one occasion—events which he remembered without rancour when he recalled the misdeeds that had given rise to them.
‘Your Aunt Justine can’t look after you any more.’ He frowned, a solution presenting itself to him, and added slowly. ‘Perhaps I ought to send you both away to school.’
Briefly both sets of hazel eyes mirrored fear, and he had a momentary urge to reach out and enfold them reassuringly, but he knew that any attempt on his part to touch them would be fiercely repudiated. He had already talked over with Justine the wisdom of sending them away to school but she had been vehemently against it. ‘If you do they will grow up institutionalised, Lyle,’ she had told him. ‘They haven’t got enough self-confidence in themselves for that. They’d think of it as punishment.’ And now looking at them he could see that she was right.
‘Okay, no boarding school.’ He felt rather than saw them relax, and wished a little despairingly that they were not so close to the long school holiday. Previously they had stayed with Justine during the week, coming home to him at weekends, but today she had made it plain that that could not continue.
Justine had forced him into a corner with marriage as his only escape. But marriage was the last thing he wanted. His marriage to Heather had been a living hell, and he had loved her. But this marriage that Justine was promoting would not be like that, it would be a business arrangement, like employing a housekeeper or a nanny.
‘Why can’t the pair of you make more of an effort to get on with Peter?’ he demanded wearily as he got to his feet. ‘Your Aunt Justine loves you, but…’
‘No, she doesn’t.’ Stuart’s lip curled as he spoke. ‘She doesn’t love us at all,’ he continued, watching him. ‘She just puts up with us because you’re our father.’
There was enough truth in what he was saying for Lyle to be lost for a way to answer.
‘No one loves us,’ James piped up. ‘And we don’t love anyone, just each other.’
Slowly Lyle backed towards the door. Poor wretched little brats… But what on earth could he say to them? That he had loved the four and two-year-old sons he had been forced to leave when Heather wanted her divorce, but that the ten and twelve-year-olds they now were were strangers to him? Heather had demanded sole custody and had told him that she thought it would be better for the children if they didn’t see him, and his solicitor had advised him to accept her demands, so they had come to him virtually strangers.
Justine was right, he thought, opening the door abruptly. They did need someone of their own. She was also right about the pressure of his personal problems and the effect it was likely to have on his work, and as a doctor he could not afford to make mistakes.
What was she like, this woman who advertised so boldly for a husband, merely describing herself as twenty-six, single and self-supporting?
Well, thanks to Justine it looked as though he might soon find out.
CHAPTER TWO
ONCE HAVING MADE UP her mind to find herself a husband Jessica was amazed at how calm she felt about the whole thing.
She did not anticipate that David would attempt to tell Andrea what she was doing; to do so would constitute far too hard a blow to his pride, and she suspected that he found it very convenient to hide his brief flings with his female students behind her sister’s neurotic belief that he was having an affair with her.
More surprisingly however, neither did it stop him from attempting to make headway with her himself. She was a regular visitor to the university library, and it irritated her how often he managed to waylay her there, subjecting her to the heavy gallantry and smug male egotism that she most loathed about him.
His skin was so thick nothing could dent it, she reflected bitterly after one such encounter. He still refused to believe that she would actually get married and constantly taunted her about it, to the extent that she felt she would virtually marry the first man who asked her simply to prove him wrong.
Over and above all this, Andrea’s mental state worried her increasingly, and she was finding it almost impossible to concentrate on her work. She needed a calmer, more relaxing environment. She grimaced faintly to herself. Marriage, from what she had observed of it, was scarcely conducive to such virtues, and then because her sense of humour was highly developed and sometimes disconcertingly self-directed she wondered if embarking on such a marriage as she planned would confirm her research on arranged marriages, and how she would cope if it did not.
* * *
IF SHE HAD WONDERED what sort of person responded to advertisements in the personal columns, she was no nearer to discovering the answer over a week later when she had read through the replies she had received.
After discounting the cranks and frankly obscene responses she was left with over a dozen apparently genuine replies all from men who seemed united in only one thing—their loneliness. Apart from one, that was.
Thoughtfully she picked up the letter which had seemed so different from all the others and read it again. For one thing, it was much longer than the other replies; it was also extremely detailed and direct giving her much more information than her other correspondents, even to the point of being almost ‘chatty’ in places.
It described both the house and life-style of the writer, and made no bones about the problems he was experiencing with his two sons, nor his reasons for wanting a wife, ‘Primarily to take care of the boys and give their lives a focal point, and secondarily to provide for myself a well-organised home life, so that I can concentrate on my patients.’
It contained no false promises of emotional commitment or mutual happiness, being rather severely practical. In short, it represented a subtle challenge and the ideal background against which she could test out her research behind her new book, and Jessica felt herself responding to that challenge, her response in no way lessened by the knowledge that the letter was carefully designed to elicit such a response.
She was surprised by the degree of sympathy she felt towards the two boys, described unflatteringly in the letter as ‘a pair of holy terrors designed to try the patience of a saint, and who, despite their insecurities and needs, manage to be as obnoxious and unlovable as it is possible to be.’ No false imagery there. It was the cry of an exasperated adult, exhausted by the emotional problems he was ill-equipped to solve.
She retained sufficient memories of her own parents’ divorce to be fully aware of the nature of the children’s problems, and going into such a household was hardly likely to leave her as much free time as she was used to, to concentrate on her work, but despite that she found herself reading and re-reading the letter. Absently she searched among her books for a map, and found that as he had guessed the village was less than seventy miles away. Far enough away to put a distance between her and David, but close enough for her to get back quickly if Andrea needed her. Rather oddly the letter named a day and a time for a prospective meeting, taking things forward faster than she had anticipated. She wasn’t sure if she was ready for a direct confrontation with her prospective spouse as yet, but he it seemed had no qualms. The letter included a map and directions, she noticed, but no surname or telephone number so that it would be impossible for her to ring up and cancel the appointment. She simply either had to turn up or ignore the letter completely. Plainly there w
ere not going to be any half measures.
How would she like being married to a doctor? Contrary to popular opinion she had found that they were often harassed, ill-mannered brutes, anxious only to empty their surgery, but she was quite willing to be proved wrong. She had nothing against the breed per se.
A sense of adventure, long dormant inside her, made her lips curl in a slow smile, a feeling of light-heartedness, so alien after the miseries of the past months that it felt like champagne in her veins, and impelled her to study her diary. If she had nothing on on the day stipulated in the letter than she would go, she decided rashly, unaware that she had been holding her breath like an excited child until she turned over the pages and found the date completely free of other engagements.
Telling herself that it was completely ridiculous to decide what could be the whole of her future on such a simple whim, it nevertheless pleased her to find the date free. Guiltily she acknowledged that she had been playing a silly game of pretending she was not responsible for her own fate, and that somehow it lay in other, more powerful hands, thus also avoiding taking any responsibility for what might happen. Sometimes it was decidedly uncomfortable being a psychologist, she decided wryly. There were odd occasions when she might have preferred to remain in ignorance of her own motives.
Admittedly it was a little disconcerting to realise that on Friday she was going to have to face a stranger who might ultimately end up as her husband—and Friday was only two days away, but what was there to be gained by delaying? Daily Andrea grew more demanding, more frighteningly hysterical and emotional.
The scarlet Mercedes 380SL which had been her one extravagance on the fruits of her commercial success made light of the seventy miles from her home to Sutton Parva. The car was a childish indulgence which she knew she ought to have resisted, but which one part of her was stubbornly glad she had not. For one thing, it was extremely impractical having only two full seats and a very small back one, for another it guzzled petrol. But on a sunny day like today, with the soft top down and the scents of the countryside, not to mention the exhausts of other vehicles, freely available to her, she was unable totally to banish the faint thrill of pride that owning the vehicle gave her.
Having found the village she drove out of it again and stopped the car on a quiet country road to study her instructions and the map more carefully.
She didn’t want to be seen stopping in the village, where she would no doubt be remembered and perhaps gossiped about later, especially if… Illogically her mind shied away from the potential outcome of today’s meeting, and it was while she was mentally taking herself to task for this that the impatient blare of a car-horn reached her. Frowning, she swivelled round in her seat to see a tall dark man bearing angrily down on her from the ancient estate-car, parked only yards behind her.
A face which might otherwise have been described as handsome was screwed up in an expression of furious impatience, overlong thick black hair brushing the collar of a cotton checked shirt.
‘Sorry to interrupt Madam’s daydream,’ a harsh male voice gritted scornfully, ‘but you’re blocking the road, and have been for the last five minutes.’
Guiltily Jessica was aware of having been so engrossed in her own thoughts that she had been deaf to his arrival, but even so his impatient manner irritated her.
Coolly she let her eyes drift over his hard-boned face, noting the aggressive thrust of his jaw, and the dangerous flash of fire in his eyes.
He was breathing heavily, or rather almost snorting like an enraged bull, she thought in some amusement, noting the rapid rise and fall of his chest, and the strain his rage was putting on the four out of half a dozen or so buttons that enclosed it.
‘Finished the inventory?’
The scorn in his voice should have embarrassed her, especially since she was not in the habit of staring so openly at any man, stranger or no. Lean hips tapered down to long legs, and aware that it was annoying him, she deliberately let her glance linger before saying demurely, ‘Er…it seems that your zip’s gone.’
There was a moment’s stunned pause, compounded of astounded silence on his part and unholy glee on her own. She wasn’t quite sure why, but it amused her intensely to see such an arrogantly male man so utterly confounded.
He looked down, swore briefly and then turned his back on her, while she fought against the bubbles of laughter threatening to escape from her throat. By the look of him if she dared to laugh he was quite capable of murdering her.
When he turned back to her, he was still furiously angry although he was obviously trying to control it.
‘My apologies,’ he said between gritted teeth. Very nice white teeth, Jessica noticed absently. ‘But I am in something of a rush, so if you could bring yourself to shift your car.’
A rush? Why? Had he been on the point of being discovered by some angry husband? She looked at him and saw two things reflected in his eyes. The first was that he had guessed what she was thinking and the second that he was absolutely furious about it.
Almost she was tempted to dither, just to see what effect it had on him, but wisdom persuaded her otherwise, and so neatly reversing the Mercedes right to the side of the road, she made room for him to pass, which he did crashing his gears awfully and sending up a cloud of dust, which descended on the Mercedes’ immaculate paintwork in tiny gritty particles.
She spent another five minutes studying her map and then realised guiltily that she was going to be late for the appointment. Luckily she found the house on her first attempt, momentarily appalled by the uncontrolled wilderness that passed as a garden, as she drove slowly up the drive and parked outside the front door. The drive continued round the side of the house and presumably to the back, but Jessica had no intention of trusting her precious car to the gaping holes she could see in the fragmented drive that lay beyond the front door.
She climbed out of the car without bothering to look in her mirror. Her hair was slightly tangled from the drive, and she had put make-up on before setting out, but apart from that she had made no other feminine concessions to what lay ahead. After all if this man wanted to marry her it would be for reasons other than her looks. Indeed it would have to be because one thing she intended to make very clear indeed was that this would be a marriage in name only.
A noticed pinned to the front door announced that the waiting room and surgery lay to the left of the door, and that all other callers were to press the bell.
Dutifully she did as instructed, and had to wait so long for her summons to be answered that she turned her back on the front door and instead surveyed the wild tangle of rhododendrons that lined the driveway, some of them dead, allowing a glimpse at the awesomely neglected lawns that lay beyond. It would take an army of devoted gardeners armed with scythes to cut down that lot, Jessica thought drily, looking in vain for the point where the lawn ended and what she imaged must be the herbaceous border began. Lupins gone frantically to seed and almost uniformly blue were the only flower she could actually recognise and she shuddered faintly when she contrasted the overgrown wilderness in front of her with the neatly ordered gardens surrounding her flat.
‘Yes?’
The harsh voice was uncomfortably familiar and decidedly unwelcoming, the shock in the blue eyes as she turned to face him hardly flattering.
‘God, it’s you!’
Shock gave way to amusement as she recognised the man who had accosted her so angrily earlier.
‘I suppose you’d better come in then.’
He was scowling horribly at her, close to, even taller than she had first thought.
She followed him inside, grimacing faintly to herself at the decidedly unfriendly grimness in his voice as he pushed open a door and said curtly, ‘In here.’
The room was a hodge-podge of unmatching furniture, most of it worthy only of firewood or a jumble sale from what she could see. Closing her eyes, Jessica tried not to think of her own carefully chosen decor and antiques.
‘
So, you’re looking for a man.’
The openly derisory tone of his voice caused her eyes to narrow faintly. This antipathy was not what she had expected from his letter.
‘Oh no,’ she responded blandly, hiding her smile as he looked warily at her. ‘I can quite easily find a man,’ she told him truthfully. ‘What I’m looking for is a husband, and moreover one who is prepared to accept the restrictions I should want to place on such a relationship.’
If she had expected to provoke an adverse reaction by her provocative statement she would have been disappointed, Jessica admitted, watching him study her with the same thoroughness with which she had herself studied him so recently, although there was considerably less amusement in his eyes than there had been in hers, only a hard resentment which she recognised and wondered at. It was almost as though he didn’t want to marry her—her or anyone else—she acknowledged, as though in some way he was being forced. She frowned and looked at him, watching his eyes narrow as they saw the comprehension in hers.
‘That’s right,’ he said flatly. ‘None of this is my idea, it’s my sister’s. She’s the one who wrote to you, who brought you down here on this mad goose-chase.’
‘I see.’ Jessica studied him thoughtfully, half shocked by the swimming sense of let-down she was feeling. Good heavens, the man was rude, hostile and as patently the wrong type of material for the sort of marriage she wanted as it was possible for anyone to be, and yet she was feeling disappointed because he was making it so plain that he did not want her, or anyone else, as a wife.
Smiling calmly at him she made for the door. ‘Then there’s really nothing more to be said, is there?’ she said as she opened it.
‘Wait a minute.’
She herself was tall, but she had to look up to meet his eyes, half surprised by the strength in those lean hands as he pushed the door closed.