A Trial Marriage

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A Trial Marriage Page 13

by Anne Mather


  A door slammed somewhere, and she started nervously. Jake must be home. She licked her dry lips and picked up her mascara brush to finish darkening the golden tips of her lashes. It wouldn’t take her more than a minute to put on her dress and Jake would need at least half an hour to bathe and change. Her pulses quickened as they always did when she thought of him, and she felt an impatience with herself. She was a married woman now, not a schoolgirl on her first date. She must learn to control her foolish emotions.

  There was a sudden knock at her door, and the mascara brush smudged her cheek. ‘Damn!’ she mouthed silently, and then called: ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Me,’ came the laconic reply, and she dropped the brush nervelessly on to the tray. ‘Can I come in?’

  Rachel got to her feet, wrapping her silk robe closer about her slender form. It was the first time Jake had come to her door in the four weeks of their marriage, and while her thundering heart told her one thing, cold common sense warned her not to jump to conclusions.

  ‘Yes,’ she said now. ‘Come—come in!’

  The door opened and Jake entered, still wearing his dark city clothes. He looked tired, she thought anxiously, but he wouldn’t welcome her saying that, and instead she concentrated on the dark, sallow-skinned features and lean muscled body she ached to touch.

  His gaze moved over her swiftly, then pushing back his hair with a weary hand, he said: ‘We’ve been invited out this evening. Do you mind?’

  Rachel’s heart-rate subsided. ‘Out?’ she echoed faintly. ‘Er—out where?’

  Jake sighed. ‘It’s a party, actually. Being given by Jon and Petra Forrest, some—friends of mine. He’s a business acquaintance actually, but I’ve known the pair of them for years. I thought it was time you—well, began to meet people.’

  Rachel felt an unaccountable chill slide down her spine. ‘Do you want to go?’ she asked jerkily.

  ‘Don’t you?’ he countered.

  Rachel sighed uneasily. ‘Will—will there be many people there?’

  ‘A fair number. Twenty-five maybe, or thirty.’

  ‘Thirty!’ Rachel swallowed hard. ‘I see.’

  Jake’s hand went to loosen his tie. ‘It had to happen sooner or later,’ he remarked flatly. ‘This is your first real taste of what it’s like to be Jake Courtenay’s wife.’

  Rachel’s nails dug into her palms. ‘Is that what you think?’ She drew an unsteady breath. ‘Is that what you really think?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I think there’s more to being a wife than attending parties with one’s husband,’ she declared tremulously. ‘And my tastes lie in another direction entirely.’

  Jake pulled his tie free and unfastened the top buttons of his shirt. ‘So,’ he said, not looking at her, ‘will you come?’

  Rachel made a resigned gesture. ‘If you want me to.’

  ‘Good.’ Jake turned back towards the door. ‘It’s informal. We’ll leave in about an hour.’

  Rachel spent at least half that time taking another look at her limited wardrobe. The yellow jersey was all right for an evening at home, but what ought she to wear to an informal dinner party? She tried to remember what Della used to wear on informal occasions, but her tastes had been so much more sophisticated than Rachel’s own.

  She eventually decided to wear trousers, the black velvet pants and waistcoat she had worn the night Carl took her to the discotheque. That it was also the night when Jake had asked her to marry him she put to the back of her mind, refusing to associate her desire to wear the suit with any faint hopes she might have of arousing Jake’s awareness.

  When he saw her, however, his eyes did flicker for a second, and then he said quietly: ‘Wait—I have something for you.’

  He left the living room for a moment, and when he returned he was carrying a soft fur coat over his arm. Rachel viewed the sable skins without enthusiasm, but she turned obediently at his approach so that he could drop the warm garment about her slim shoulders.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said stiffly, realising her midi coat would not have stood examination by the kind of friends he had, and his eyes narrowed questioningly.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ he queried. ‘Don’t you like the coat?’

  ‘It’s very nice,’ she replied politely. ‘Shall we go? Or would you prefer I changed the rest of my clothes?’

  Jake’s lips thinned. ‘You look very attractive, as I’m sure you’re aware,’ he said. “If the coat doesn’t appeal to you, it can be changed.’

  ‘I don’t approve of animals being slaughtered for their skins,’ she declared primly, picking up her handbag.

  ‘I see.’ Jake pulled on his own leather overcoat over his fine mohair suit. ‘Well, I’m sorry, but furriers have to make a living, too. Rest assured that the animal from whose skin your coat was made is not an endangered species.’

  Rachel shrugged and walked towards the door, waiting, as she had become accustomed to doing, for him to open it for her. He did so, stretching past her to reach the handle, and in so doing making her overwhelmingly aware of the nearness of his hard body. His name broke involuntarily from her lips, and he turned to look at her, his eyes darkening as they rested on the parted softness of her mouth.

  Then, with a determined stiffening of his features, he wrenched open the door and the cool breeze from the corridor outside dispersed the moments of intimacy.

  It was the first time they had been out together since coming to London, and Rachel settled herself in the seat beside him in the Lamborghini with an irrepressible surge of excitement. Those moments in the apartment before they left had proved to her that in spite of his iron self-control he was not indifferent to her, and sooner or later he would have to give in to the undeniable desire he felt for her.

  The Forrests lived in Hampstead, but with the heavy evening traffic it took Rachel and Jake almost three-quarters of an hour to reach their house. There were already a dozen or more cars parked in the drive, and while Jake found a space to leave the Lamborghini, Rachel cast anxious eyes towards the lighted windows of the house. So many people, she thought sickly, and all strangers to her. It was terrifying. Even with Jake at her side she was frightened, and she wished their relationship were not such an oblique one. Sure of his love, she felt she could have faced anything, whereas who knows, there might be women at this party who knew her husband better than she did.

  Jake locked the car and took her arm to lead her towards the house. He must have felt her trembling because he looked down at her quickly, and said: ‘Don’t be nervous. They won’t eat you.’

  ‘Won’t they?’ Rachel felt she was answering all his comments with a question. ‘Did these people—well, were they friends of—of Denise’s, too?’

  Jake’s mouth turned down at the corners. ‘They knew Denise, yes. She was very—sociable.’

  ‘Were you?’ Rachel asked, as they mounted the shallow steps to the porch, and a wry smile touched his lips.

  ‘Not in the way you mean,’ he told her dryly, and she was unaccountably reassured.

  One ring at the bell brought a black-clad maid to let them in, and within seconds it seemed to Rachel they were surrounded by people. People of all ages, young and old, dressed in formal and informal attire, so that Rachel’s velvet suit went unremarked, much to her relief.

  Their host and hostess pushed their way through the throng to be introduced to Jake’s new wife, and Jon Forrest was unquestionably charming. His wife, Petra, was slightly less friendly, and Rachel guessed she had been a friend of Denise’s, and therefore felt a certain amount of loyalty towards Jake’s first wife.

  But she was introduced to so many people during the course of the next hour that faces began to run together, and names simply refused to stay put. Jake did his best to stay with her, but so many of the women wanted to talk to her about her background, about how she and Jake had met, and when they decided to get married that inevitably they were separated.

  The Forrests, it appeared, had no
children, and the ground floor of their house had been thrown into one enormous room, but even so, guests still seemed to find it necessary to sit on the open-tread stairs. There was a bar, and a plentiful supply of drinks, and long buffet tables providing food for anyone who felt hungry.

  Rachel, who had not eaten a thing since lunch time, and then only a light salad, found time to swallow several canapés, some sandwiches, and a fruit salad, remembering only too well what too much alcohol could do to an empty stomach. There were steaks simmering on an indoor barbecue for those who wanted them, but lots of the guests seemed quite content to drink their way through the evening.

  Music emanated from speakers set at the four corners of the room, and several of the younger guests were dancing to the rhythmic beat of drums. At the other extreme, Jon Forrest was seated at the baby grand strumming out popular melodies to a group of his contemporaries who joined in the choruses. At times the noise was terrific, and to Rachel, accustomed to the quiet conservatism of the hotels Della frequented, it was all rather loud and nerve-racking.

  Escaping from a young man who had asked her to dance, after introducing himself as a cousin of Petra’s, she sought the comparative peace of the basement cloakroom, and going into one of the toilets to avoid the curious stares of its other occupants, she leaned her forehead wearily against the cool tiling of the wall. Within a few minutes the room had emptied and the silence was as restoring as a benediction. She remained where she was for as long as she dared, and then, just as she was about to emerge, she heard voices as the outer door opened to admit two girls. They were laughing together as they entered, and Rachel’s hand faltered at the bolt. Perhaps if she waited a moment she would be able to make her exit unobserved, she thought, not immediately aware that she was in the position of an eavesdropper. Then one of the girls spoke, and her words caused Rachel to freeze into immobility.

  ‘She’s awfully young, isn’t she? I mean, after the women Jake’s known, you’d have expected him to marry someone a little more—sophisticated.’

  The other girl sounded less convinced. ‘Well, we all know what a bitch Denise was. Maybe he decided not to make the same mistakes again.’

  ‘Ah, but have you heard? Princess Denise is a widow, no less! Old Vittorio couldn’t stand the pace, apparently. Anyway, she’s on the loose again, and what’s the betting she’ll make a beeline for London?’

  ‘To see Jake, you mean?’

  ‘Who else? You know she never really cared about anyone else. Jake refused to be at her beck and call every minute of the day and night, and she decided to teach him a lesson, I guess. It didn’t work out quite the way she expected.’

  ‘His breakdown?’

  ‘Well, she must have had something to do with it, mustn’t she? After she left, Jake buried himself in his work, and look what happened!’

  Rachel’s throat felt dry. She wished with all her heart that she had made her presence known before this convesation began. Now she was obliged to go on listening to things she would so much rather not have heard.

  ‘And she’s a widow now, you say?’

  ‘Yes.’ The other girl lowered her voice slightly. ‘I did wonder whether that might not be why Jake got himself married so precipitately. I mean, he must know Denise will want to see him again, and how galling it will be for her to find that he’s married now.’

  ‘I see what you mean.’

  There were a few moments’ silence when Rachel thought with bated breath that she had been discovered. But then two other doors opened and closed, and with fumbling ineptitude she let herself out of her self-imposed prison.

  She stood for a few moments in the kitchen before going in to join the party again, oblivious of the activity of the hired staff going on around her, trying to recover some sense of reality. But the things she had overheard were still ringing in her head, and alongside them came the thought that perhaps they were right. Perhaps Jake had married her to thwart any thoughts his first wife might have of taking up where she had left off. Perhaps his protestations of protecting her were merely intended to protect himself, and the reason their marriage had not been consummated might well be because he might want to annul it at some later date. He might even want Denise back again, but he intended that she should suffer first.

  It was all so unreal somehow; not least her own relationship to the man she had married, and yet who was not her husband in the true sense of the word.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ON unwilling feet she made her way back to the noisy crowd thronging the living rooms of the house, and the first person she encountered as she stepped through the door was her husband. Jake’s face was taut with anger, and he caught her arm roughly when he saw her, wrenching her towards him. At any other time she would have welcomed the contact, but right now she was too disturbed.

  ‘Where the devil have you been?’ he demanded, his whisky-scented breath fanning her cheeks, dark eyes narrowed between long sooty lashes. ‘I’ve been looking for you for over half an hour!’

  Rachel’s head swung back dazedly, her hair gold-tipped strands of bright relief against the sombre velvet of her waistcoat. ‘I—I went to the toilet,’ she answered automatically, and then, as the shock of his appearance began to fade, she added stiffly: ‘How much longer are we staying?’

  His grip on her arm eased slightly. ‘Aren’t you enjoying yourself?’

  Rachel straightened her spine. ‘Not particularly. Are you?’

  His lips curled. ‘I thought you might have welcomed the opportunity to sample a taste of the high life. Jon and Petra’s parties are usually very popular.’

  Rachel shrugged her slim shoulders, looking down pointedly at his hand on her arm, and with a similar gesture he let her go, pushing his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers. He glanced over his shoulder at the exuberant crowd behind them, and then drew his dark brows together.

  ‘Do you want to go home?’

  Rachel sighed, realising her unwillingness to join in the festivities could be construed in several ways. Did she want Jake to think that she couldn’t handle it? In spite of what she had learned she wanted to please him, whatever his motives for marrying her might have been.

  ‘I—well, do you?’ she asked lamely, and his nostrils flared with impatience.

  ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ he exclaimed. ‘Did I do something wrong? I know I haven’t seen much of you this evening, but that hasn’t altogether been my fault.’ He paused, his look narrowing. ‘Or has someone been talking to you? Have my good friends been warning you what a selfish so-and-so I can be?’

  His words were so near to the truth that an embarrassing wave of colour swept up from her neck to envelop her face, and he scowled angrily.

  ‘Who’s been talking to you?’ he demanded. ‘Petra? One of the others? Or that weak-chinned cousin of hers I saw you dancing with a while back?’

  Rachel sought for composure. ‘Why should anyone have been talking to me?’ she protested, but the expellation of Jake’s breath revealed his irritation.

  ‘Petra was a close friend of Denise. It’s not unlikely that she might feel the need to spread a little malice.’

  Rachel stared at him mutely for a few seconds, wondering what it was about this man that aroused such strong emotions inside her. Just standing here looking at him, they might have been alone in the room, and she knew an aching wanton longing to be in his arms. If what those girls had said was true and his first wife did still care about him, what possible chance had she of holding him when he did not even permit her to share his bed? And she wanted to. She wanted to tear the clothes from him and press herself against him, and feel the rougher skin of his flesh against hers. And why shouldn’t she, she asked herself bitterly, if she was prepared to suffer the consequences?

  ‘Rachel!’

  His strangled use of her name brought her to the realisation that she was still staring at him, and the smouldering darkness of his eyes made her shake her head quickly, dropping her gaze.


  ‘Petra—Petra said nothing,’ she denied awkwardly. ‘I—well, I’m just not used to—to gatherings of this kind.’

  ‘Nor am I, believe it or not,’ he retorted grimly, and she noticed a faint slurring of his speech. ‘All right. Let’s get out of here.’

  The Forrests seemed genuinely sorry that they were leaving. ‘You must come again soon, when there aren’t so many people,’ Jon exclaimed gaily, patting Jake’s shoulder. ‘But I don’t blame you, taking yor wife away while you still can. You’re a lucky man.’

  Jake’s smile was polite. ‘I know. And thanks again.’

  It was a frosty evening, and Rachel breathed deeply of the fresh night air. It was so good to be out of the smoky atmosphere in the house, and away from the all-pervading noise of human voices raised above the music from the record-player.

  But the sudden chill had a different effect on Jake. He lurched slightly as they made their way towards where he had left the Lamborghini, and with a sense of dismay she realised the unaccustomed amount of alcohol he had consumed had reacted on him. He swore angrily when he could not get his key into the lock of the passenger side door, and with a determination she had scarcely known she possessed, she took the keys from him and opened the door herself.

  ‘You’d better get in,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ll drive—if you’ll direct me.’

  Jake stared at her with difficulty through the shadowy light cast from the house. ‘Are you sure I am capable of doing that?’ he inquired with sarcasm, but she ignored him and walked round to open the other door.

  With a sound of self-disgust, he subsided into the passenger seat, and Rachel levered herself behind the wheel, adjusting the safety harness with hands that were not quite steady.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly, as she endeavoured to make herself familiar with the controls. ‘This has never happened to me before. I guess I thought I could take it. I used to be able to.’

  ‘That’s all right.’ Rachel wished she felt as confident as she sounded. ‘Which way do we go?’

 

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