by Sara Craven
She got up, late and listless, and searched for distraction. With Daisy’s assistance she finally removed the fragile bed and window hangings from the State Bedroom, folded them carefully into plastic sacks, and took them down to the village to deliver to Mrs Stevens at the post office.
The post mistress accepted them with a workmanlike glint in her eye. ‘Now, this will be a real pleasure,’ she said. ‘We’ll start on the cutting-out at once, while you decide on the new fabric.’ She gave Helen a kind smile. ‘So you’re courting, then, Miss Frayne—that French gentleman who stayed at the Arms a while back, I hear. Met him then, did you?’
The village grapevine, Helen realised, was in full operation already.
‘Oh, no,’ she said with perfect truth, aware at the same time that she was blushing. ‘It was before that—at a meeting in London.’ Just don’t ask how long before, that’s all.
Mrs Stevens nodded with satisfaction. ‘I knew it must be so,’ she said.
And I wish it had been. The thought came to Helen, unbidden and shocking in its implication, as she made the short trip to the Vicarage.
‘Oh, my dear girl.’ Marion Lowell hugged her ebulliently. ‘How amazing—a whirlwind romance. And such a gorgeous man.’ She turned to her husband. ‘Jeff, darling, now we have an excuse to drink that champagne we won in the Christmas tombola. I’m so glad we didn’t give it back.’
‘I hope none of the parishioners call,’ Jeff Lowell said, grinning as he passed round the fizzing glasses. ‘They’ll probably have me defrocked.’
‘Will you be getting married here in the church?’ Mrs Lowell asked, after they’d drunk to her happiness, and Helen shook her head, flushing.
‘I’m afraid not. It will be at the registry office in Aldenford.’
The Vicar looked at her quietly. ‘I’d be delighted to hold a short service of blessing afterwards, if you’d like that. Perhaps you’d mention it to your fiancé.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Helen, hating herself for lying.
She felt sombre as she walked home. They were so kind, so pleased for her, as if she and Marc had really fallen headlong in love.
Thank goodness they had no idea of the soulless—and temporary—bargain she’d struck with him. His words still echoed in her mind. You do not profess undying love… I find that—refreshing.
And that, she thought wearily, seemed to say it all.
As she rounded the bend in the road a lorry carrying scaffolding poles went past her, and carefully negotiated its way between Monteagle’s tall wrought-iron gates.
She watched it bewilderedly, then began to run after it up the drive.
In front of the main entrance chaos confronted her. There seemed to be vans and trucks everywhere, with ladders and building supplies being briskly unloaded.
As she paused, staring round uncertainly, a man came striding towards her. He was of medium height, with brown hair and rimless glasses, and his face was unsmiling.
He said, ‘I’m sorry, but the house is no longer open for visitors.’
‘Where did you get that idea?’ Helen demanded coldly.
‘From Monsieur Marc Delaroche,’ he said. ‘The owner of the property.’
‘Not yet,’ Helen said with a snap. ‘I’m Helen Frayne, and the house still belongs to me.’ She paused. ‘I presume you’re the architect?’
‘Yes,’ he acknowledged slowly. Behind the glasses his eyes had narrowed, as if he was puzzled about something. ‘I’m Alan Graham. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Frayne,’ he added, with no particular conviction.
‘Marc mentioned you’d be coming—but not all this.’ She gestured almost wildly around her. ‘What’s going on?’
He shrugged. ‘He wants work to start as soon as possible.’
She said, ‘I can see that. But how? You can’t have arranged all this in twenty-four hours—it simply isn’t feasible.’ She stopped, dry-mouthed. ‘Unless this was all planned some time ago, of course,’ she added slowly. ‘And you were just waiting for his word to—swing into action. Is that it?’
Alan Graham fidgeted slightly. ‘Is it important? The house needs restoring, and we’re here to do it. And time is of the essence,’ he added with emphasis.
His tone implied that there was no more to be said. ‘Is there a room I could use as an office, Miss Frayne?’ He paused. ‘Marc suggested that your late grandfather’s study might be suitable, but any decision must be yours, naturally.’
Helen bit back the angry words seething inside her. Marc must have made his decision and given his orders almost as soon as they’d met, she realised with incredulity. As if he’d never had any doubt that she would ultimately accede to his demands.
How dare he take her for granted like this? she thought stormily, grinding her foot into the gravel in sheer humiliation. Oh, God, how dare he?
But it was done now, and she could see no way to undo it.
She took a deep breath. ‘My grandfather’s study has been unoccupied and unfurnished for some time,’ she said expressionlessly. ‘But you may use it if you wish.’ She hesitated, still faintly stunned by all the activity around her. ‘May I ask where all these people are going to stay?’
‘That’s not a problem. Accommodation has been arranged for them in Aldenford, and I’ve got a room at the Monteagle Arms.’
‘Oh.’ Helen digested this. She gave the architect a small cold smile. ‘I’m afraid you won’t be very comfortable there.’
‘So Marc has told me.’ For the first time Alan Graham’s face relaxed a little. ‘But it won’t be for long. My wife is joining me today to look for a cottage to rent for the duration.’
‘I see,’ Helen said woodenly. ‘And meals?’ She had a horrified vision of cauldrons of soup and platters of sandwiches to be prepared daily.
‘Packed lunches will be delivered.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps you’d direct me to the study, so that I can unpack my papers and drawings?’
‘Of course,’ Helen said, turning and leading the way to the house.
It seemed that Mr Graham shared Lottie’s disapproval of this lightning marriage, she brooded over a mug of coffee a little later, having left the architect sorting out his workspace with chilling efficiency.
‘Well!’ Daisy exclaimed, bustling into the kitchen. ‘You could have knocked me down with a feather when all those men started arriving. Mr Marc certainly doesn’t waste any time.’
‘No,’ Helen agreed through gritted teeth. ‘None at all.’
‘They’re starting on the State Bedroom,’ Daisy informed her with excitement. ‘The Helen Frayne portrait is being sent to London to be cleaned, and they’re turning the little dressing room and the room next door as well into a lovely bathroom, with a wardrobe area.’ She gave Helen a knowing look. ‘Seems as if Mr Marc intends to use the room when you’re married.’
‘Does he, indeed?’ was all Helen could find to say.
The master bedroom, she thought, her stomach twisting into nervous knots, being lavishly created for the master—and his bought bride.
When Marc telephoned that night, she was ready for him.
‘You had this planned all along,’ she stormed across his polite enquiries about her welfare. ‘Even before you came here and saw the place you knew you were going to take on Monteagle’s restoration. Why?’
‘I found your application for help—intriguing. Then I saw you, ma belle, and my fascination was complete.’ He had the gall to sound amused. ‘But it seemed I had a rival, so I decided to offer you an interest-free loan in the hope that my generosity might ultimately be rewarded.’
‘Then why didn’t you?’ Her voice was ragged.
‘Because I realised that Nigel was betraying you and soon there would be nothing to prevent me claiming you for myself. It seemed unlikely that you would become my mistress, so I offered the money as a wedding gift to you instead. Do you blame me?’
‘Blame you? Damned right I do,’ she flung at him. ‘I asked you to loan me that money—you kno
‘But we are both getting what we want, mon coeur,’ he said softly. ‘And that is all that matters. Why question the means?’
‘Because you’ve deceived me,’ Helen said hotly. ‘You’ve behaved with a total lack of scruples. Doesn’t that trouble you at all?’
‘It is not of major concern to me, I confess,’ he drawled. ‘Particularly when it involves something—or someone—I desire. But if you wish it I will practise feeling ashamed for five minutes each day.’
Helen struggled to speak, failed utterly, and slammed down the phone.
He did not call her the following night, or the one after it. Gradually a week passed, and there was still silence.
And, Helen realised, she had no idea how to contact him. How ridiculous was that?
She presumed he was still in New York, and found herself wondering how he was spending his time, once work was over for the day. But that was a forbidden area, she reminded herself stonily. How Marc passed his evenings, or his nights, was none of her business. Or not until he spent them with her, of course.
Her only concern was, and always would be, Monteagle—not this ludicrously small, lost feeling that had lodged within her over the past days. There was no place for that.
All around her was a welter of dust, woodchips and falling plaster, as damp was eradicated and diseased timber ripped out amid the thud of hammers and the screech of saws and drills. Her dream was coming true at last, and Monteagle was coming slowly and gloriously back to life.
Alan Graham might still be aloof, but he knew his job, and his labour force were craftsmen who loved their work. No expense was being spared, either. Marc was clearly pouring a fortune into the project.
And that, as she kept reminding herself, was all that really mattered. She would deal with everything else when she had to.
She watched almost with disbelief as the State Bedroom was beautifully restored to its seventeenth-century origins, and, discreetly hidden behind a door, a dressing room and a glamorous twenty-first-century bathroom were created out of the adjoining room, all white and silver tiles, with a state-of-the-art shower stall and a deep sunken bathtub. Big enough for two, she noted, swallowing.
Members of the village embroidery group were already stitching the designs from the original hangings on to the pale gold fabric she’d chosen for the bed and windows, and had also promised a fitted bedcover to match.
Without the dark and tatty wallpaper, and with the lovely ceiling mouldings repaired and cleaned, and the walls painted, the huge bedroom looked incredibly light and airy, she thought. Under other circumstances it could even have been a room for happiness…
She stopped, biting her lip. Don’t even go there, she told herself tersely. Happiness is a non-word.
Particularly when there had still been no contact from Marc. Clearly he was enjoying himself too much in America to bother about a reluctant bride-to-be in England.
But on the following Wednesday, while she was standing outside watching, fascinated, as the new roof went on, she heard the sound of an approaching vehicle.
She didn’t look round because there always seemed to be cars and vans coming and going, until she suddenly heard Marc’s voice behind her, quietly calling her name.
She turned sharply, incredulously, and saw him a few feet away, casual in pale grey pants and a dark shirt. He held out his arms in silent command and she went to him, slowly and uncertainly, her eyes searching the enigmatic dark face, joltingly aware of the scorch of hunger in his gaze.
As she reached him he lifted her clear off the ground, and held her tightly against him in his embrace. She felt her body tremble at the pressure of his—at the pang of unwilling yearning that pierced her. Her throat was tightening too, in swift, uncontrollable excitement.
All those lonely nights, she thought suddenly, shakily, when she’d been able to think of nothing else but his touch—and, dear God, his kisses… All those restless, disturbing dreams that she was ashamed to remember.
Suddenly she wanted to wind herself around him, her arms twined about his neck, her slim legs gripping his lean hips. And realised, swiftly and starkly, the danger she was in.
As Marc’s mouth sought hers she turned her head swiftly, so that his lips grazed only her cheek.
‘Marc.’ She tried to free herself, forcing a laugh. ‘People are watching.’
He looked down into her face, his mouth hardening. ‘Then that is easily remedied,’ he told her softly. He lifted her effortlessly into his arms and began to carry her towards the house.
Colour stormed her face as she heard faint whistles and laughing applause from the workmen, but common sense warned her that to struggle would only make her look even more ridiculous.
Once inside, she expected to be put on her feet, but Marc carried her straight up the main staircase and along to the State Bedroom.
She said breathlessly, ‘What the hell are you doing? Let me down at once.’
À votre service, mademoiselle.’ His voice was cold, almost grim, as he strode across the room to the bed. Gasping, Helen found herself carelessly dropped in the middle of the wide bare mattress.
She fought herself into a sitting position, glaring at him as he stood over her, hands on hips. ‘How dare you treat me like this? If you imagine I’m impressed by these—caveman tactics—then think again.’
‘I should not say too much,’ he told her with ominous quietness. ‘It is nothing to what I would like to do to you. And will,’ he added harshly, ‘if you refuse my kisses again, in public or in private, no matter what grudge you may be harbouring.’
She bit her lip, avoiding the starkness of his dark gaze. ‘You—you took me by surprise. I wasn’t expecting to see you.’
‘E
´ videmment,’ he said caustically. ‘Is that why you are not wearing my ring?’
Of course he would have to notice that!
‘I’m living on a building site,’ Helen returned a touch defensively. ‘I didn’t want it to get lost or damaged.’
He gave her a sceptical glance. ‘Or did it remind you too much of how soon you will be my wife?’
She bit her lip. ‘What do you expect—eager anticipation?’
‘No,’ he said softly. ‘But if not a welcome—a little cooperation, perhaps?’
Before she could move she felt his hands on her shoulders, pushing her back on to the mattress again. Then, lifting himself lithely on to the bed beside her, he pulled her close, and his lips began to explore her mouth with cool, almost languorous pleasure.
Taking, she realised, all the time in the world.
Her hands came up against his chest, trying to maintain at least some distance between them, but that was all the resistance she dared attempt. His warning still rang in her mind, and she knew she could not afford to provoke him again. She would have been wiser to offer him her lips in front of everyone just now rather than risk this.
She was too vulnerable, she thought, shut away with him here in this room they’d soon be sharing. And, because they were known to be together, no one would be tactless enough to come looking for them. No one…
The midday sun was pouring in through the high windows, lapping them in heated gold.
She seemed to be sinking helplessly, endlessly, down into the softness of the bed, her lips parting in spite of herself to answer the sensuous pressure of his mouth, to yield to the silken invasion of his tongue.
Inside her thin shirt, her breasts were suddenly blossoming in greedy delight as his kiss deepened in intensity. Her hardening nipples seemed tormented by the graze of the lacy fabric that enclosed them, aching to be free of its constriction.
As if she’d moaned her yearning aloud, she felt his hand begin gently to unfasten the buttons on her shirt.
She lay still, scarcely breathing, the sunlight beating on her closed eyelids, her pulses frantic, waiting—waiting…
Marc was kissing her forehead, brushing the soft hair away from her temples with his lips, discovering the delicate cavity of her ear with his tongue, then feathering caresses down her arched throat to the scented hollow at its base, where he lingered.
His fingers slid inside the open neck of her shirt, pushing it and the thin strap beneath away from her shoulder.
Then he bent his head, and she experienced for the first time the delicious shock of a man’s lips brushing the naked swell of her breast above the concealing lace of her bra, and knew that she wanted more—so much more that it scared her.
She made a small sound, half-gasp, half-sob. For a moment he was very still, then suddenly, unbelievably, she felt him lift himself away from her.
When she had the power to open her dazed eyes she saw that he was standing beside the bed, almost briskly tucking his own shirt back into the waistband of his pants.
‘Je suis désolé,’ he said. ‘But I have arranged to see Alain for his progress report, and I am already late.’
Helen felt as if she’d been hit by a jet of freezing water. She scrambled up on to her knees, feverishly cramming her shirt buttons back into their loops. Restoring herself to decency with a belated attempt at dignity.
Her voice shook a little. ‘I apologise if I’ve caused you any inconvenience.’
‘Au contraire,’ he said, his smile glinting at her. ‘Tu es toute ravissante.’
Anger began to mingle with shock inside her as she met his gaze. The victor, she thought stormily, with his spoils. And she’d nearly—nearly—let him…
She should have been the one to draw back, not him, she realised with shame. Oh, God, how could she have been such a fool?
He paused, glancing at his watch. ‘But the report should not take long,’ he went on softly, outrageously. ‘Perhaps you would like to wait here for my return?’
‘No,’ Helen said between her teeth. ‘I would not.’
One of her shoes had fallen off, and she began to search for it with her bare foot.
‘Quel dommage,’ he commented. ‘I hoped you would show me round the rest of the house. Let me know what you think of the work that has been done so far and of any changes you would like to make.’
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