His Reluctant Bride

by Sara Craven

  In spite of herself, Helen found she was crossing the worn carpet and standing at his side. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘She is trying hard to be the virtuous lady, but her lips are parted and the lower one is full, as if swollen from the kiss she longs for.’

  ‘I think you have a vivid imagination, monsieur,’ Helen retorted, her voice slightly strained.

  ‘And I think that you also, mademoiselle, are trying much too hard.’ His voice sank almost to a whisper.

  Before she could guess his intention and move away, out of range, Marc Delaroche lifted a hand and put his finger to her own mouth, tracing its curve in one swift breathless movement, then allowing his fingertip delicately to penetrate her lips and touch the moist inner heat.

  In some strange way it would have been less intimate—less shocking—if he’d actually kissed her.

  She gasped and stepped backwards, the blaze in her eyes meeting the mockery in his. Her words became chips of ice. ‘How dare you—touch me?’

  ‘A conventional response,’ he said. ‘I am disappointed.’

  ‘You’re going to have more than disappointment to deal with, Monsieur Delaroche. You’ll live to regret this, believe me.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘Because I, too, shall be making a report to your committee, informing them how you’ve abused their trust while you’ve been here, conducting enquiries on their behalf. And I hope they fire you—no matter how much money you have,’ she added vindictively.

  ‘I am desolate to tell you this, but you are in error, ma belle,’ he drawled. ‘The committee is not concerned with my visit. It was my decision alone to come here.’

  She looked at him, stunned. ‘But—you’ve asked all these questions …’

  He shrugged. ‘I was curious. I wished to see this house that means so much to you.’

  The breath caught suddenly, painfully in her throat. She turned and marched to the door, and held it open. ‘And now the tour is over. So please leave. Now.’

  ‘But that was not all.’ He made no attempt to move. ‘I came most of all because I wanted to see you again. And ask you something.’

  ‘Ask it,’ Helen said curtly. ‘Then get out.’

  He said softly, ‘Will you sleep with me tonight?’

  Helen was rigid, staring at him with widening eyes. When she could speak, she said hoarsely, ‘I think you must have taken leave of your senses.’

  ‘Not yet,’ he drawled. His eyes went over her body in lingering, sensuous assessment. ‘For that I shall have to wait a little, I think.’

  She pressed her hands to the sudden flare of hot blood in her face.

  ‘How dare you speak to me like this?’ she whispered jerkily. ‘Insult me in this way?’

  ‘Where is the insult? I am telling you that I desire you, and have done since the first moment I saw you. And please do not insult me by pretending you did not know,’ he added silkily, ‘because I did not hide it.’

  It seemed altogether wiser to ignore that. Helen struggled to control her breathing. ‘You—you seem to have forgotten that I’m about to marry another man.’

  ‘He is the one who has forgotten, ma belle,’ he said, a touch of grimness in his voice.

  ‘And you imagined that because he’s not here I would turn to you for—consolation?’ Her voice rose. ‘Oh, God—how dare you? What do you take me for? I love Nigel, and I intend to belong to him and no one else. And I’ll wait for him for ever if necessary. Not that someone like you could ever understand that,’ she added, her voice ringing with contempt.

  There was an odd silence as he studied her, eyes narrowed. Then, ‘You are wrong, ma mie,’ he said softly. ‘Parce que, enfin, je comprends tout.’ He gave a brief, harsh sigh. ‘I see I shall have to be patient with you, Hélène, but my ultimate reward will make it worthwhile.’

  ‘Damn you,’ she said violently. ‘Can’t you see I’d die rather than let you touch me again?’

  He reached her almost before she had finished speaking, and pulled her against him, crushing the breath from her as his lips descended on hers.

  Nothing in her life had prepared her for the heated relentlessness of his kiss, and he took all the time he needed, exploring deeply, draining every drop of sweetness from her startled mouth.

  Tiny fires were dancing in the dark eyes when, at last, he released her.

  ‘You see,’ he told her ironically, ‘you still live. So learn from this, and do not issue ridiculous challenges that you cannot hope to win.’ He took her hand and raised it to his mouth, palm uppermost, and she cried out in shock as his teeth grazed the soft mound beneath her thumb.

  ‘Au revoir, ma belle,’ he said softly. ‘And remember this—on my next visit I shall expect to spend the night.’

  And he left her standing there, mute and shaken as she stared after him, her tingling hand pressed to her startled, throbbing mouth.

  A lot of those weeds you’re pulling out are plants, Miss Helen,’ George told her reproachfully.

  Helen jumped guiltily, looking at the wilted greenery in her trug. ‘Oh, Lord,’ she said dismally. ‘I’m sorry.’

  She’d hoped that some intensive gardening would calm her down and restore her equilibrium, but it wasn’t working out like that.

  The thought of Marc Delaroche was interfering with her concentration at every level, and this infuriated her.

  She had tried to call Nigel and beg him to come down, even if it was only for a couple of hours, so she could talk to him. But his mobile phone was permanently switched off, it seemed.

  And even if she had managed to contact him, what could she have said? That she needed him to hold her and kiss her and take away the taste of another man’s mouth?

  The only other man, in fact, who had ever kissed her in passion.

  Her mouth still seemed swollen and faintly tingling from the encounter, but maybe she was just being paranoid. Someone had made a pass at her, that was all. The sort of thing that she should have been able to take in her stride if she’d possessed an ounce of sophistication. She could even have laughed about it, telling Nigel, You’d better stake your claim, darling, because I’m being seriously fancied by someone else.

  And he would have laughed too, because he knew she’d never looked at anyone but him since she was thirteen, and that they belonged together.

  Anyway, her best plan would be to put the whole thing out of her mind. Marc Delaroche had simply been amusing himself, she thought, and he probably had his next target already lined up. Quite apart from his admittedly diabolical attraction, he was rich enough to ensure that he didn’t get many refusals. And he wouldn’t waste time repining over any of the few women who resisted him. Or risk another rejection by returning.

  He’d called her ‘ma belle’, but that had to be just a seduction ploy, because she wasn’t beautiful at all. Moderately attractive was the best she could honestly claim, and he knew it. He’d probably thought she would fall into his arms through sheer gratitude, she told herself, viciously slicing her trowel through a dandelion root.

  All the same, she wished desperately that he hadn’t sought her out and forced this confrontation on her.

  She might not like him, and she certainly didn’t trust him, but she could have done with him on her side when the committee came to make their decision.

  No chance of that now, of course. And she still couldn’t understand what had possessed him. Yes, she’d been aware of him too, she admitted defensively, but only because she’d had no choice. During the interview he’d hardly taken his eyes off her. But she certainly hadn’t offered him any encouragement to—pursue her like this. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  At the same time she felt oddly depressed. She absolutely didn’t want him as a lover. She probably wouldn’t choose him as a friend, but she surely didn’t need him as an enemy either, she thought, and sighed without quite knowing why.

  The sun went down that evening behind a bank of cloud, and the following day brought grey skies and drizzle and the te
mperature dropping like a stone.

  Outside work had to be halted, and if the miserable conditions persisted to the weekend, the tourists would stay away too, Helen fretted.

  She caught up on the household accounts—a depressing task at the best of times—helped Daisy bake for the freezer, and waited feverishly for the mail van to call each day. The committee chairman had said she would hear before the end of the month, and that was fast approaching. All she could hope was that no news might be good news.

  Thankfully, Marc Delaroche had made no attempt to contact her again. Maybe he’d decided to cut his losses and retire from the fray after all. But the thought of him still made her uneasy, and her attempts to blot him from her memory did not appear to be working too well.

  It would have made things so much easier if she’d been able to talk to Nigel, she acknowledged unhappily. But there’d been no reply from his flat after the weekend, so she’d gritted her teeth and made the unpopular move of phoning him at work—only to be told that he was working in Luxembourg all week. And when she’d asked for the name of his hotel, she’d been told briskly that the bank did not give out that sort of information.

  Back to square one, she realised without pleasure. Unless he called her instead, of course, and how likely was that?

  She stopped herself right there. She was being critical, which was only one step removed from disloyal. Especially when she knew from past experience that these trips were often landed on him at ridiculously short notice. And he was bound to be home at the weekend, she told herself, because this time it was his mother’s birthday.

  Helen didn’t know what kind of celebration was being planned, but she’d managed to find a card with a Persian cat on it that was the double of the bad-tempered specimen occupying its own special chair in Mrs Hartley’s drawing room. She’d signed it ‘Best wishes’ rather than ‘Love from’, in tacit acknowledgement that her relationship with Nigel’s mother had always been tricky. That was one of the reasons they’d delayed making their engagement official.

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ Nigel had said. ‘She just needs a bit of time to get used to the idea. And to you.’

  But she’s known me since I was thirteen, Helen had thought, troubled. And even then I don’t think I was ever on her A-list.

  Thought it—but hadn’t said it.

  Still, Mrs Hartley’s sensibilities couldn’t be allowed to intrude any longer—or any further. Helen suspected she was the kind of mother, anyway, who believed no girl would ever be good enough for her only son. Nothing useful would be achieved by putting off the announcement any longer.

  Because, whether the committee’s decision was for or against the restoration of Monteagle, she was going to need Nigel’s love and support as never before. And surely, in spite of the demands of his career, he would understand that and be there for her—wouldn’t he?

  It irked her to realise that Marc Delaroche, however despicable his motives, had actually taken more interest in the house than Nigel had ever shown. And he was right about the State Bedroom, too. Her grandfather wouldn’t have wanted it left untouched, like some empty shrine.

  Instead, it should be top of her refurbishment list and opened to the public. She might find the Charles the Second legend distasteful, but a lot of people would think it a romantic story, and let their imaginations free on the use that giant four-poster had been put to during the King’s visit.

  She went up there with a notebook and pen and took a clear-eyed look round. The ornamental plaster on the ceiling was in urgent need of restoration in places, and there were timbered walls waiting to be exposed underneath layers of peeling wallpaper. The ancient Turkish carpet was past praying for, but it was concealing wooden floorboards that the original surveyor’s report had declared free of woodworm or dry rot, and she could only hope that was still the case.

  The silk bed hangings and window curtains were frankly disintegrating, and couldn’t be saved, but their heavy embroidery was intact, and still beautiful.

  Helen recalled that Mrs Stevens at the village post office, who was a skilled needlewoman, had told her months ago that if the elaborate patterns were cut out carefully they could be transferred to new fabric. She’d suggested, too, that the embroidery group at the Women’s Institute, which she chaired, might take it on as a project.

  First catch your fabric, Helen thought, doing some rueful calculations. But at least she knew now what her first priority should be, even though it was galling that she’d been alerted to it by Marc Delaroche.

  But if I get the money from the committee I might even feel marginally grateful to him, she thought. Maybe.

  She was sitting at the kitchen table on Friday evening, going over some of the estimates her grandfather had obtained and trying to work out the inevitable percentage increases for the intervening period, when Lottie arrived with the new batch of guidebooks.

  ‘Hey, there.’ She gave Helen a quizzical glance. ‘Got any good news for me?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Helen gave a sigh. ‘And I was so sure I’d hear this week.’

  ‘Actually,’ Lottie said, ‘I was thinking of something more personal than the grant application.’ She looked around. ‘All on your own?’ she enquired, with clear disappointment.

  ‘Not any more.’ Helen pushed her papers aside and got up to fill the kettle. ‘Who were you expecting?’

  ‘I thought Nigel might be here and had my speedy exit all planned,’ Lottie explained. ‘So—where is he?’

  Helen shrugged as she got down the coffee jar. ‘Arriving tomorrow, I guess. I haven’t heard yet.’

  Lottie frowned. ‘But his car was in the drive at his parents’ place earlier. That’s when I put two and two together about the party.’

  Helen stared at her. ‘Lottie—what on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘Oh, hell,’ her friend groaned. ‘Don’t tell me I’ve put my foot in it. I was so sure …’ She took a deep breath. ‘It’s just that Ma Hartley rang me this afternoon, all sweetness and light, wanting me to quote for catering a ‘very special buffet’ next month. She was so pleased and coy about it that I jumped to the obvious conclusion. I’m so sorry, love.’

  Helen spooned coffee into two beakers with more than usual care. ‘Nigel’s probably planning it as a big surprise for me,’ she said calmly, ignoring the sudden churning in her stomach. ‘Although I can’t really imagine his mother turning cartwheels over it. She must like me better than I thought,’ she added, without any real conviction.

  ‘I shouldn’t have said anything,’ Lottie said ruefully as she stirred her coffee.

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ Helen assured her. ‘And when I do see him I swear I’ll be the world’s most astonished person.’

  That would be an easy promise to keep, she thought, when Lottie had gone. She was already bewildered and disturbed by his failure to contact her when he must know how she was longing to see him.

  Well, she could do something about that at least, she thought, and she dialled the number of his parents’ home.

  She’d hoped Nigel himself would answer, but inevitably it was his mother.

  ‘Oh, Helen,’ she said, without pleasure. ‘I’m afraid this isn’t a terribly convenient moment. You see, we have guests, and we’re in the middle of dinner.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Helen said. ‘But I do need to speak to him.’

  ‘But not this evening.’ There was a steely note in Mrs Hartley’s voice. She sighed impatiently. ‘Oh, well. Perhaps if there’s something particular, he could call you tomorrow?’

  Oh, nothing special, thought Helen. Only the rest of my life.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly. ‘I look forward to hearing from him.’

  But it wasn’t true, she realised as she put down the phone. She had a feeling of dread, not anticipation. And once again Nigel’s mother had succeeded in making her feel excluded—as if she had no place in their lives.

  When she and Nigel finally managed to talk, Mrs Hartley’s attitude was go
ing to be one of the topics of conversation, she thought grimly.

  When she awoke next morning, it was to intermittent sunshine and scudding clouds driven by a sharp breeze.

  Unpredictable, she thought as she dressed. Rather like my life. But a good day for touring historic houses rather than going to the beach, so let’s hope the queues start forming like they did last week.

  Well, not quite, she amended hastily. At least this time Marc Delaroche would not be part of them.

  She was on her way to the kitchen when she saw the post van disappearing down the drive. At the door she paused, and drew a deep, calming breath before entering.

  ‘Any phone calls for me?’ she enquired, making her tone deliberately casual.

  ‘Nothing so far,’ Daisy told her, putting a fresh pot of tea on the table.

  ‘What about mail?’

  ‘A couple of bills,’ Daisy said. She paused. ‘And this.’ She held out an imposing cream envelope embossed with the committee’s logo.

  Helen’s stomach lurched frantically. She wiped her hand on her jeans and took the envelope, staring down at it. Reluctant, now that the moment had come, to learn its contents, slowly she pushed the blade of a table knife under the flap and slit it open.

  The words ‘We regret’ danced in front of her eyes, making it almost unnecessary to read on. But she scanned them anyway—the brief polite lines that signified failure.

  George had come into the kitchen and was standing beside his wife, both of them watching Helen anxiously.

  She tried to smile—to shrug. ‘No luck, I’m afraid. They try to help places that have suffered some kind of terrible devastation, like earthquake sites. It seems that rising damp, leaky roofs and dry rot aren’t quite devastating enough.’

  ‘Oh, Miss Helen, love.’

  She sank her teeth into her lower lip at the compassion in Daisy’s voice, forbidding herself to cry.

  ‘Does this mean you’ll have to sell to that Mr Newson?’ George asked, troubled.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to do that. I’m never going to do that.’ There was something else in the envelope, too. A note in the chairman’s own hand, she discovered, wishing her well. ‘Mr VanStratten and Monsieur Delaroche argued very persuasively on your behalf,’ the note added, ‘but eventually it had to be a majority decision.’