The Wedding Game

by Jane Feather

  “I've told you everything,” she stressed. “We're just trying to make our father happier. He's been so lonely and depressed in the last few months. We wanted to take him out of himself.”

  He shook his head, gazing down at her. How could he possibly quibble with a motive as pure as filial affection?

  “Come on, Douglas, play fair,” Chastity said. “I answered your question.”

  He shook his head again. “I wish I could believe that you did.” Then he laughed. “But I'm not enjoying this deprivation either—so, where was I?”

  “Here,” she said, putting his hand in the right spot. “Just here.”

  That had been a very close call, Chastity thought, when she could think again, but he didn't seem to have made any connection with his introduction to Laura through the medium of the Go-Between and his invitation to Christmas at Romsey Manor. At least, he hadn't yet.

  She stifled a sigh, turning her head into the pillow. Everything was getting out of hand. She had thought she could indulge herself with impunity in a passionate fling and then just pick up the strands of her life once this interlude was over. But now she wasn't so sure. The deception she was practicing on Douglas stuck in her craw, and she could no longer ignore it. Her fear when she had thought he might discover the truth had been all too real. She could only imagine how he would react if knew the truth, and her skin crawled at the prospect. It all seemed so grubby, no longer a light and harmless subterfuge, and she felt dishonorable, besmirched somehow. And she knew in her heart of hearts that the interlude had to come to an end. She couldn't go on deceiving him, and she couldn't bear to tell him the truth.

  She burrowed deeper into the pillow, aware that she was instinctively trying to bury her thoughts as if the man breathing rhythmically beside her would be able to read them. It would be all right if she didn't care for him, but she did. There was no point continuing to fool herself into thinking that this was just a passionate romp, a whirlwind affair with no strings. She hadn't fallen into bed with Douglas on a whim. She loved him. She loved him, not just his body. And that she loved to distraction. She inched backwards, fitting herself against his side; at least her body didn't lie to him.

  Douglas left her bed just as the first faint pink of dawn showed low on the horizon. Chastity murmured a faint protest in her sleep as his skin left hers, then she rolled into the warm indentation left by his body and slept on. Douglas slipped into his dressing gown and crept out to the corridor. He felt uneasy, unsettled in some way, and he didn't know why. Their lovemaking had been as glorious as ever, but he'd sensed a slight discordance, and he couldn't lose the feeling that Chastity had not been completely open with him about the sisters' plans for their father. Not that it was really any business of his, he told himself, but without conviction.

  He took a leisurely bath, dressed, and went outside. The snow had stopped overnight and the air was crisp and cold, the sky a clear, sunny blue. He tramped through the snow for an hour, trying to clear his mind. He felt as if he had arrived at some kind of watershed where his carefully drawn plans no longer seemed to have any relevance. He thought of the plan to acquire a rich wife and found it an absurd idea. Soulless and mercenary. He now couldn't imagine how he had ever believed that a marriage of mutual respect and convenience would satisfy him. But that said, money was essential for his plans, and emotional entanglements did get in the way of single-minded commitment. Chastity, it appeared, had no money, and no one could call the feeling he had for her anything but an emotional entanglement.

  He stopped in front of a frozen ornamental lake and stared frowning fiercely across to the far side, his hands resting unconsciously on his hips. Why not put a name to the feeling? Not to put too fine a point upon it, he was in love. And it was a vastly different emotion to what he had felt for Marianne. He had adored Marianne with a thoughtless, almost doglike devotion. Utterly superficial when compared to this deep-rooted sense of belonging he felt when he was with Chastity. She had somehow crept up on him, ambushed him, and he was caught, hopelessly ensnared. He saw her faults as clearly as he believed she saw his. He had seen no flaws in Marianne until she had shown him her feet of clay. The shock and disillusion had been all the greater for his blindness. He didn't see how Chastity could spring any unpleasant surprises on him.

  He turned back to the house, aware that he was hungry. The household would be up and about by now and so too would Chastity. The memory of her warm body against his stirred him anew and his step quickened, crunching through snowdrifts along the driveway towards the front door. It was a good feeling, this longing to see someone, this need to be with them. For the moment he was content to savor the feeling, to live in the moment. He would have to make some decisions soon, but not immediately.

  Chastity was coming down the stairs as he entered the deserted hall, stamping the snow off his boots. “Good morning,” he said, his eyes crinkling in a smile. “Did you sleep well?”

  “As if you didn't know,” she said, trying to sound lighthearted as she reached the bottom of the stairs. “Have you had breakfast?”

  He shook his head. “Not yet. I went for a walk, but I'm hungry as a hunter now.”

  “Don't bring up hunting this morning,” she said, turning towards the breakfast room door. “It'll set Father off on one of his lamenting tirades. He seemed resigned last night, but the sunshine this morning is bound to produce regrets.”

  “Well, at least you can do a little more matchmaking,” Douglas said, looking at her closely. “Encourage him to spend the morning with the contessa.”

  Chastity felt her cheeks warm but she attempted to laugh off the remark, saying, “Oh, I don't think he needs too much encouragement. Let's go in to breakfast.”

  Douglas had seen the quick flush and he sensed a tension in her that he hadn't been aware of before. Her laugh was a little too brittle and her cheerful greeting to the assembled company around the breakfast table seemed almost false. He helped himself liberally to kidneys, bacon, and mushrooms and sat at the table.

  As the day progressed he realized with mingled fascination and somewhat shocked amusement that whatever plans the Duncan sisters had for their father and the contessa, they had others for Laura Della Luca. With varying degrees of subtlety they managed to engineer the continued presence of George Berenger throughout the day, ensuring that he and Laura were neighbors at table, partners at cards, and singers of Italian duets. Lord Duncan, he noticed, seemed able to take care of himself when it came to the contessa, requiring no encouragement to be her escort or companion at the fireside, and the lady herself appeared more than content with the arrangements.

  Douglas had to admit that he wouldn't have been aware of any of this clandestine activity if he hadn't been alerted to it. It was an unsettling recognition. He could well understand why they would promote Laura's burgeoning romance with George Berenger. If their father did indeed marry the contessa, they would be gaining more than a stepmother if they couldn't get Laura established under some other roof. And they had all made little attempt to hide their opinion of the signorina. Perhaps, he thought, it was only that aspect of their plans that Chastity had been keeping to herself last night, nothing more than that. But he still had the sense that something was not quite right. She seemed distracted and once or twice he caught her looking at him covertly but when he tried to acknowledge her gaze she looked away or became absorbed in something else.

  He strolled into the library after luncheon to find Gideon and Max ensconced before the fire in a haze of cigar smoke, brandy snifters at their elbows. “Come and join us, Farrell,” Max invited, gesturing to the decanters. “We're trying to escape being co-opted for something called murder in the dark.”

  “Cigar?” Gideon proffered the humidor.

  Douglas shook his head, “Thank you, but no. Never took to it myself. I'll join you in a glass, though.” He helped himself and sank into a deep leather armchair. “What happens with this murder game?”

  “We are not entirely sure,”
Gideon said. “But knowing our wives, something totally unsuited to men of substance. They are no respecter of persons in certain situations.”

  Douglas drew in a deep breath, inhaling the cognac in his glass. He sipped, then asked curiously, “Do you know what else they're up to, those three?”

  “That rather depends, my dear chap, on what exact aspect of their various nefarious activities you're referring to,” Max said lazily.

  “I rather got the impression they were trying to throw Laura into Berenger's arms.”

  “Ah.” Gideon took his feet off the fender and reached for his glass. “Yes, that seems highly likely.”

  “I daresay Chastity doesn't fancy sharing a roof with her if the contessa marries Lord Duncan,” Douglas observed, swirling the brandy in his goblet.

  “That would be our guess,” Max agreed.

  “Do they do much of this matchmaking?” Douglas inquired.

  His two companions drank deeply and didn't immediately answer him. Then Max said carefully, “They will assure you that they only turn people's lives upside down in the interests of the greater good.”

  “And you believe that?”

  Both men shrugged. “They managed us,” Max said.

  “Yes,” agreed Gideon with a chuckle. “And on the whole we're agreed that the greater good is served.” He reached for the brandy decanter. “Relax into it, dear fellow. It doesn't hurt too much.”

  Douglas smiled a little ruefully. “You mean Chastity, of course.”

  “Of course,” Max said. “They're quite unstoppable, the Honorable Duncan sisters, once they decide upon something.”

  “Mmm,” Douglas murmured thoughtfully. “I'm beginning to think it's time I took the initiative.”

  “I rather thought you already had,” Gideon said, blowing a perfect smoke ring. “Or was that Chastity's initiative?”

  “Don't be embarrassed if it was,” Max said. “Constance shamelessly seduced me in this same house.”

  Douglas considered this question, then shook his head. “No,” he said definitely. The passionate impulse that had felled them both simultaneously had come out of the blue. “As far as I can remember, there was no initiative.”

  His companions nodded as if they understood this perfectly well. “Something in the nature of Zeus's thunderbolt, I daresay,” Gideon observed. “Well, as long as you have no aspirations towards a quiet life . . . ?”

  “I can't remember now,” Max said consideringly, “but I may have had such aspirations once.”

  The library door opened and the three men turned warily towards it. Sarah stood there holding a handful of playing cards. “We're going to play murder in the dark,” she said. “Prue says you have to come, Daddy, and you, Uncle Max, and Dr. Farrell.”

  “But it's not dark,” her father protested, trying to buy time.

  “It is in the attics, and that's where we're going to play.” Sarah came over to her father and seized his hand, tugging on it. “Come on, Daddy. It'll be such fun. Even Miss Della Luca and Lord Berenger are going to play.”

  Gideon groaned and got to his feet. “All right, I'm coming. And I'm not going alone,” he declared to his companions, who rose with as much reluctance and followed them to the drawing room.

  “It's all very simple,” Prudence said. “Whoever picks the ace of spades is the murderer.” She tapped the rules off against her palm. “The king of hearts is the detective. Everyone else is a potential victim. The first person to feel a hand on his neck screams as loudly as possible and the lights go on. Then the detective has to try to find the murderer. Hand out the cards, Sarah.”

  “How the hell did you get the signorina to agree to this farce?” Douglas demanded of Chastity in an undertone as he took his card.

  “I didn't,” she said. “George Berenger did. He said he'd played as a child every Christmas, and would love to play again. He's so lonely, poor man.”

  “So, you're going to match him up with Laura?” He sounded a little caustic.

  Chastity shrugged, said carelessly, “No one can match someone up with someone else. They have to decide that for themselves. We're just putting opportunities in their way.”

  “Yes, so I'd noticed,” he said dryly. “For their own good, of course.”

  “It doesn't do any harm,” Chastity said, hearing how defensive she sounded. The whole topic touched her on the raw and it was not a conversation she wanted to have. Deliberately, she turned her attention to her playing card, examining it behind her hand.

  “Everyone ready?” Prudence, who seemed to be mistress of ceremonies, called. “We're going up to the attics.” She led the way, the rest of the party trooping behind her.

  In the dark attics there was much scuffling and giggling, as shadowy figures moved around, trying to avoid each other. Douglas, who, since he hadn't drawn a significant card, decided he could opt out without spoiling anyone's fun, found himself an ancient armchair smelling of dog's hair in a dark and deserted corner where he was sure he wouldn't be discovered and settled down to wait it out. The postprandial brandy had made him sleepy and he allowed his eyes to close.

  A squeal very close to him shattered his doze. A light and laughing voice declared in the most ridiculous accent, “Oo-la-la, take ze 'ands off me, m'sieur. You take ze liberties.”

  Douglas squinted into the darkness. He had heard that fake accent before. His blood pounded in his ears.

  “I'm not taking liberties, madam wife,” Gideon said indignantly. “I am merely trying to strangle you.”

  “Oh, murder . . . murder most foul!” Prudence shrieked, abandoning the French maid persona and collapsing backwards into her husband's arms. After a few minutes of shuffling, shifting chaos, oil lamps were lit and the participants looked expectantly around at each other. Prudence lay on the floor. Gideon, looking both guilty and bewildered, stood over her, holding the ace of spades.

  “Well, that wasn't very good, Daddy,” Sarah declared. “Now we all know it was you who murdered Prue, because you said so.”

  “I'm sorry,” Gideon said, bending down to give his wife a hand to pull her to her feet. “I don't think I've fully grasped the concept of this game.”

  “Well, we'll try again,” Prudence said, seeing how disappointed Sarah looked. “One more round. Everyone give me your cards.”

  Chastity handed in her card and wondered what could have happened to Douglas. She was sure he had come up with them, but he certainly wasn't there now. Maybe he'd gone to take a nap. It wasn't as if there was an obligation to join in these parlor games.

  She found him in the drawing room when the party finally went down for tea. He was ensconced in a deep armchair, reading an old copy of the Times. Chastity brought a cup of tea to him, together with a thick slab of Christmas cake. “You didn't care for the game,” she said, smiling as she set down cup and plate on a little side table. “I don't really blame you. But Sarah enjoyed it.”

  “I found myself falling asleep,” he said. She thought he seemed rather grave, his eyes so dark as to be almost black, and curiously expressionless. He broke off a piece of icing from the cake. “I've just had a telephone call from a patient. I'm afraid I must go back to London on the first train tomorrow.”

  “Oh,” she said. “So soon.”

  “Yes, I'm sorry. An emergency.” He crumbled marzipan between his fingers.

  She forced a smile, said quietly, “We have tonight, though. One last night.”

  He looked up at her, his expression unreadable. “Yes, one last night,” he agreed.

  Chastity nodded and moved back to the tea table. She had known it had to happen. There was always going to be one last night. When they were once more in London, this interlude would be over. But she had hoped . . . No, she hadn't hoped, but she wasn't ready for it. She hadn't had time to prepare herself.

  And there was something desperate about their passion that night. A hunger that somehow could not be sated. It was like some kind of drug, Chastity thought as she moved over Douglas's
body, licking every available inch of him, nuzzling him like a puppy at its mother's teat. She was drugged with lovemaking, and she wouldn't allow herself even to think that after tonight she wouldn't have this anymore.

  She straddled him, running her hands over his torso, playing on his ribs with her fingertips. She lowered her mouth to his, driving her tongue deep between his lips. He slid his hands beneath her belly and lifted her hips so that he could move upwards and within.

  Chastity held her breath as she felt him inside her, for the moment quite still, just an inhabiting presence that slowly filled her. She let out her breath in slow measure and leaned back, resting her hands on his thighs, using only her body to keep them both hovering on the edge. He held her hips lightly, allowing his own body to follow her initiative. She smiled down at him, her hands now at her waist as she sat upright, driving herself down upon him. Sensation grew, spread from her loins to her belly. She tightened her thighs. His fingers dug into her hips, his eyes closing as he drove upwards, lost in her body, and she held him tight inside her and gloried in the possession.

  And when it was over, she fell forward, her mouth pressed into the hollow of his shoulder, her hair spread in a red cloud across his chest, her sweat-slick skin glued to his. “How could that be possible?” she murmured weakly.

  He didn't answer immediately, then he said, “I don't know,” and there was a strange resonance to the simple statement, a mingled anger and sorrow and confusion. Chastity heard it, and heard it as an echo of her own feelings of loss and frustration that something this good had to be given up. Holding her waist, he rolled sideways with her in a slow disengagement that even so left her feeling bereft. She curled tightly against him, fitting her curves to his hollows.

  They lay in silence. Douglas listened to her breathing, hearing it deepen. Once it had settled into the rhythms of sleep, he slid out of bed and pulled the thick quilted coverlet over her. He stood looking down at her in the dim glow of the fire. He had intended to say nothing. This lovemaking would be their last, a bittersweet farewell, and then he would leave, and say nothing. But now he realized he couldn't. He needed her to feel the sharp sting of his hurt and his anger and his disappointment. He had suffered Marianne's rejection in silence, as if he had somehow deserved it, but now it felt as if he had to exorcise that hurt too with this other woman who had so deceived him.