by Anne Weale
NEVER TO LOVE
Anne Weale
She had decided to marry for money.
Andrea had grown up in poverty and fear, and had worked hard to escape. Now a successful model, she coolly decided that the next step to security would be marriage— marriage to a rich man.
Justin Templar had asked her to marry him—and he was not only rich, but young and handsome.
It seemed an ideal situation for Andrea, but one question haunted her. Why did Justin Templar want to marry her?
CHAPTER ONE
Hoping it would not squeak, she turned the knob and opened the door an inch or two. The room was dimly lighted and she could smell the fragrance and hear the crackle of apple logs, but there was no other sound. Still cautious, she pushed the door a little wider and looked in. There was a decanter of whiskey and a box of cigars on a low table, but the deep leather chairs beside the fire were empty. With a sigh of relief she slipped inside and closed the door, hoping Mr. Everard would not mind her using his study as a temporary retreat.
After the babel of chatter and jazz records in the studio, the silence of this room with its book-lined walls and shaded lamps was very peaceful. She wished she could spend the rest of the evening sitting on the hearthrug browsing through the pile of Country Life magazines in the rack at the side, of the fireplace. But Jill would be sure to come looking for her, and how could she explain without seeming ungracious that she was not in the mood for a party, or not the kind of uproariously youthful party that was going on upstairs?
“Good evening.”
Andrea spun around guiltily.
A tall man whom she had not seen before was standing by the heavy velvet curtains that screened a wide bay at the far end of the room.
“I’m afraid I startled you. Are you looking for Mr. Everard? He was called to the telephone, but he’ll be back in a minute or two.”
As he came into the circle of lamplight she saw that he was much older than the other guests, probably thirty-two or three. The whiteness of his dress shirt emphasized his swarthy coloring, and but for his voice he might have been an Italian or a Spaniard.
“How is the party going?” he asked as she stood staring at him.
“At the moment they’re playing an elaborate version of murder,” she said, recovering her composure.
“And are you the murderer?” he asked gravely.
“No. I ... I’ve lost my partner.”
“I see.”
There was a glint of amusement in his dark eyes and she wondered if he guessed that the loss was deliberate. Her partner had been an amorous young man emboldened by too much rum punch. Presumably he was still searching for her in the darkness of the upper hallway.
“Won’t you sit down?” the man said.
Before she could reply the door opened and Mr. Everard came in.
“Not a light in the place and people creeping about like burglars,” he announced, chuckling. “Hello, Andrea. Are you looking for me or are you a refugee from the terrors outside?”
“I think she is seeking sanctuary, sir,” the tall man said.
“I’m afraid I lost my way in the dark. I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Andrea said hastily.
“Nonsense, my dear. Come and sit down. I’ll get you a glass of sherry,” her host said kindly. Waving away her protests, he drew up a third chair and insisted that she join them.
“If you go outside now you’ll be captured by the lad who seized me around the waist under the impression that I was a person called Bobo,” he warned her with a twinkle. “In case you think this is a madhouse, Templar, I should explain that my children are having a Christmas party, and apparently plunging the house into darkness is a necessary part of the festivities.”
The tall man laughed. “So I gathered.”
“By the way, have you introduced yourselves?” Mr. Everard asked. “Mr. Templar is a neighbor of ours, my dear. Of course in London you don’t think of people living three or four miles apart as neighbors, but in this part of the world one’s neighborhood can extend half across the country. Miss Fleming shares an apartment with my daughter in Kensington, Templar. She is spending Christmas with us.”
They shook hands. His clasp was almost painfully strong, and although she was tall herself she found that at close quarters she had to look up to meet his eyes.
“Is this your first visit to Cornwall, Miss Fleming?” he asked as they sat down.
“Yes. I lived in Liverpool before going to London. The country is quite new to me.”
“There’s no place like the country at Christmas,” Mr. Everard said, handing her a glass of sherry and pouring whiskeys and sodas for himself and Templar. “Maybe I’m what Jill calls a stick-in-the-mud, but it seems to me you can’t tell what time of year it is in a city, though I realize that young people prefer the bright lights and the bustle. You have the best of both worlds, Templar. What do you say?”
“I agree with you that country life is more satisfying, but I think I prefer my London house during the winter, although, as you say, Christmas is an exception.”
“Surely Christmas is an atmosphere that one can have anywhere,” Andrea said thoughtfully. “Or nowhere,” she added softly, watching the flames licking the apple logs. Templar gave her a swift, intent glance.
“You’re right; one can have the trappings of Christmas and still lack the atmosphere,” he said. “What is your job, Miss Fleming?”
“I’m a model—a fashion model.”
“Do you enjoy it?” he asked.
“Yes, very much. Although it’s not always the glamorous life that people seem to think.”
“I imagine it’s extremely hard work. What made you choose it as a career?”
“I didn’t exactly choose it,” she said reflectively, sipping her sherry. “I used to work in a big department store where they had occasional fashion shows, using the assistants as models. It takes a long time to work up to a good position and a good income in a store, so I saved up enough money for a model-training course and took a chance. You can make a lot of money as a top-flight model or you can be out of work for weeks at a time. I thought it was worth the gamble. So far, I’ve been very lucky.”
“I wouldn’t say that, my dear. You’re a very pretty girl,” Mr. Everard said gallantly.
“There are hundreds of pretty girls who want to be models,” Andrea told him. “Prettiness isn’t enough. Modeling is like the theater. Very few people get to the top, and it takes more luck than looks.”
“Or that peculiar star quality that no one can ever define,” Templar said. “What would you have done if you had not been successful, Miss Fleming?”
“I would have had to go to shop work.”
“I expect you’ll be getting married before long, my dear,” her host said. “My girl’s just got herself engaged to a journalist, Templar. A nice boy. Works on one of the London papers.”
“Yes, Nick is a dear. I’m sure they’ll be very happy,” Andrea said warmly.
“Are you contemplating marriage, Miss Fleming?”
She shook her head. “I’m too busy to think of anything but my job at the moment.”
At that point Jill burst into the room, stopping short when she saw Templar. She was a fair-headed, slenderly built girl with a flawless complexion and very large blue eyes. Tonight she was wearing a short party dress of white organza with rhinestone shoulder straps that sparkled against the milky skin of her shoulders. At one time she had wanted to try modeling, but Andrea had advised her to stick to her secretarial job, as she was not very strong.
“Sorry to butt in, daddy. I was looking for Andrea. Good evening, Mr. Templar.”
Templar stood up. “Good evening. Your father has just told me about your engagement. May I offer my good wishes
?”
“Thank you.” She smiled, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “Paul said he’d lost you in the dark, Andrea. We’re just starting to dance again. Are you coming up?”
“Yes, of course. Thank you for the sherry, Mr. Everard. Goodbye, Mr. Templar.”
This time when she held out her hand he bowed and lifted it to his lips.
“Perhaps we will meet again while you are in Cornwall,” he said, and there was something in his glance that was oddly disturbing.
“You seem to have made a hit with our local celebrity,” Jill said with an interested look as they went upstairs. “Did daddy drag you in to entertain him?”
“No, as a matter of fact I went in by mistake. Paul was being a bit of a nuisance and I had to give him the slip.”
“Oh, he really is the limit. I’m awfully sorry, Andrea.”
“Don’t worry, poppet. I can look after myself.”
“I know, but it’s such a bore having to fend off silly young men who think that just because a girl is a model she must be fair game. Come and dance with Philip Ferguson. He’s frightfully smitten with you and much nicer than Paul.”
It was after two o’clock when the last guests roared away in a ramshackle sports car and Davy Everard, Jill’s youngest brother, suggested that they have an early breakfast of bacon and eggs in the kitchen. When the two girls finally went upstairs the grandfather clock in the hall was striking three.
“I’m past the sleepy stage now, but I expect we’ll feel like death tomorrow morning,” Jill said as they undressed in the spacious bedroom that Andrea was sharing with her.
“Don’t forget Nick is arriving tomorrow. You don’t want to greet him with bags under your eyes,” Andrea reminded her, smiling.
“Forget? I’m counting the hours. I do wish he could have been here tonight.”
Andrea peeled off her nylons. “You are lucky having a big family and a home like this to come back to,” she said in a low voice.
“Mmm, they are darlings, aren’t they? By the way, what did you think of the great Justin Templar?”
“Why ‘the great’?”
“Didn’t you recognize him? He’s always appearing in the snob magazines, squiring his ladyloves to Ascot and Henley and all those swanky places.”
Andrea began to smooth cold cream over her face. “He doesn’t look like a man about town,” she said.
“Well, he is. What’s more, he’s fabulously rich. Matchmaking mothers have been trying to catch him for years, but apparently he’s a confirmed bachelor.”
“He looks rather foreign.”
“His mother was Spanish. She was killed in the Civil War and then his father fell off a mountain in Switzerland and Justin inherited the Templar millions when he was still a schoolboy.”
“Millions?” Andrea inquired dryly.
“Perhaps not millions exactly, but pots and pots. Lingard Abbey—that’s his Cornish house just over the moor—is a vast place and he has another house in Mayfair and a villa on the Mediterranean.”
Andrea finished removing her makeup and began brushing the dark brown hair that curled in a silky cap around her shapely head.
“He didn’t seem like a rich man,” she said thoughtfully.
“Has he dazzled you with his big black eyes? You’d better watch out. He’s a dangerous man where beautiful girls are concerned,” Jill said warningly.
Andrea laughed. “I wasn’t dazzled and I’m sure he wasn’t, either,” she assured her.
“He looked as if he might be when he was kissing your hand. It’s silly, I suppose, but he rather gives me the creeps. He always has a mocking look in his eyes, as if he knew exactly what one was thinking. And then he’s so dark. Like ... like a brigand. I should think he has a terrible temper when he’s roused.”
“So have most people,” Andrea pointed out.
“Perhaps, but there’s still something about him that scares me,” Jill said with a dramatic shiver. “He took me out to dinner once when I first went to London. We met in Regent Street, and I went more out of curiosity than anything. All the way back to the hotel in his car I was terrified he was going to kiss me. Though actually I’m not his type.”
Crossing the room to fetch her dressing gown, she paused behind Andrea and studied their reflections in the dressing-table mirror.
“You looked gorgeous in that green dress,” she said affectionately. “All the boys were goggling like mad.”
“So did you. It’s a good thing Nick’s arriving tomorrow to protect his interests.”
“I wish I had green eyes,” Jill said with an envious sigh. “Oh, I know my face is quite pretty in what books call an English-rose way, but you’re more than that. You’re really beautiful, Andrea.”
“You’ve had too many cocktails, my girl,” Andrea said. “Hurry up and get into bed.”
“Mother said this morning that she was very glad we were sharing an apartment. She thinks you’re a steadying influence on me,” Jill said with a giggle.
“You certainly need one. Still, Nick seems to know how to keep you in order,” Andrea retorted.
Although the two girls were very different in both looks and character, there was a genuine affection between them. At twenty-two, Andrea was far older in manner and outlook than the feckless Jill, who was a year younger. Jill was high-spirited, impulsive, incurably untidy and cheerfully spendthrift. Andrea was quiet and reserved with a passion for order. But in spite of the contrasts between them, they had shared a small apartment very happily for more than a year, and knowing that she had no relatives to go to, Jill had insisted that Andrea come down to Moorhaven for the Christmas holiday. Secretly she hoped that Michael, her eldest brother, would fall in love with her friend, but although he was obviously attracted, there was no way of knowing what Andrea felt. In fact, although she had confided all her own family history, Jill knew very little about Andrea’s background except for the bald details that her parents were dead and she had started work as a salesgirl at fifteen. Once or twice she had tried to find out more, but Andrea had answered evasively and Jill did not like to probe too bluntly.
“Tomorrow morning we must get the holly for the decorations,” she said as they climbed into the chintz-covered twin beds. “I’ll set the alarm for half-past nine. We don’t want to oversleep too long. Sweet dreams. ’Night!”
“ ’Night.”
Andrea switched out the light and they lay down.
Long after Jill was asleep, Andrea lay staring into the darkness. She wondered what it would be like to grow up in a rambling country house with a view of the moors on every side and fresh, heather-scented air blowing in the windows. Although the four young Everards had all left home, they were obviously a closely knit family, and the house held something that she had never known before, a warmth that went deeper than the possession of comfort and security. Mr. and Mrs. Everard had welcomed her with such kindliness that her fear of being an intruder at an essentially family festival had been quickly dissipated, but in spite of their obviously sincere pleasure at having her to stay with them, she could not wholly dispel the feeling of being an alien, an outsider.
Listening to the ivy rustling against the window ledge, she wondered what they would feel if they knew the truth about her. How could they possibly understand?
With a sigh, she turned her thoughts to the holly-gathering expedition that Jill had mentioned. Whatever the future held, at least she could spend these few days like an ordinary person.
On Christmas Day the whole family attended morning service in the little village church, which had been decorated with garlands of holly and mistletoe.
“Look at the grandees,” Jill whispered to Andrea as they stood up for the first hymn.
On the opposite side of the church was a private pew enclosed by oak walls. In it stood Justin Templar and some other people, and the heads of three children were just visible.
Mr. Everard read the first lesson and Justin Templar the second, his deep, clear voice emphasizing
the beauty of the Nativity story. During the sermon Andrea looked at his companions. The woman sitting beside him was obviously his sister, although her complexion was fairer and her beautifully dressed hair was dyed a silvery blond. She was wearing a magnificent sable coat, and when she put up her hand to touch one of her pearl earrings, Andrea saw the flash of diamonds on her fingers. But in spite of her furs and jewels she had a hard, discontented expression and looked very bored by the service. Beside her was a stout, florid-faced man of about fifty who kept clearing his throat, and Andrea thought that if he was her husband, perhaps this irritating mannerism accounted for her petulant look.
The other occupants of the pew, apart from the children, were a very lovely girl with red hair who kept glancing at Mr. Templar and a matronly woman with a hat made of purple birds’ feathers.
“The redhead is probably the latest bait. I expect her mamma hopes that the Christmas spirit will do the trick,” Jill muttered, following Andrea’s glance. “She looks a bit dim to me.”
After the service the congregation streamed out into the pale December sunlight, and the Everards were busy exchanging greetings with their neighbors, so Andrea drew aside and looked at the epitaphs on the lichen-stained gravestones. Some of them were in memory of people who had died as long ago as 1710, and she thought how different this sheltered little churchyard was from the vast Liverpool cemetery where her parents were buried.
“Good morning, Miss Fleming.”
Turning, she found Justin Templar standing beside her.
“Good morning.”
“You look like the spirit of Christmas,” he said with a smile, indicating her red jacket and the white fur beret on her head. She was carrying an enormous white muff to match the beret, and on the way to the church Michael Everard had teased her about looking like a female Santa Claus.
“It’s ridiculous, isn’t it?” she said, brandishing the muff and laughing. The villagers had stared at it in astonishment, for they were not used to the eccentricities of high fashion.