His Reluctant Bride

by Sara Craven

  There was silence in the room, broken only by the crackle of the burning wood and the swift flurry of her own ragged breathing.

  She felt like a small animal, caught in the headlights of an approaching juggernaut. Only she’d been trapped, instead, by her own words, she realised bitterly.

  She said thickly, ‘What—kind of help?’

  ‘We will not discuss that now. Your mood is hardly—receptive. Also,’ he added silkily, ‘you have work to do. We will speak again later.’

  He walked past her and she shrank backwards, flattening herself against the thick wooden door as she remembered, only too well, his last leavetaking. The hardness of his body against hers. The touch—the taste of his mouth.

  He favoured her with a brief, sardonic smile. À tout à l’heure!’ he told her quietly, and then he was gone.

  Did you take an order from the people in the far corner, Miss Helen?’ asked Daisy, entering the kitchen with a stacked tray of dirty dishes. ‘Because they’re playing up at having to wait.’

  Helen, lost in thought at the sink, started guiltily. ‘Oh, Lord,’ she muttered. ‘I forgot all about them. I’ll serve them next,’ she added hurriedly, collecting one of the larger teapots from the shelf.

  ‘Your mind’s not on it today, and no wonder. You should have gone for a nice lie-down in your room,’ Daisy said severely. ‘I’d have got George to do the waiting on.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Helen said untruthfully. ‘And I really prefer to be busy,’ she added placatingly.

  Daisy sniffed. ‘There’s busy and busy,’ she said. ‘You’ve just put cream in the sugar basin.’

  Swearing under her breath, Helen relaid the tray and carried it out into the sunshine.

  Once again she’d been astonished at the number of visitors, but they hadn’t been as easy to handle as last week’s selection.

  ‘You don’t see much for your money,’ one man had complained.

  ‘We’re hoping to extend the tour to other rooms in the house quite soon,’ Helen had explained, but he’d glared at her.

  ‘Well, that’s no good to me,’ he’d said. ‘I’ve already paid.’

  And a large family party had demanded why there were no games machines for kiddies, or even a playground, and why they couldn’t play football in an adjoining field.

  ‘Because my tenant wouldn’t like it,’ Helen had said, in a tone that brooked no further argument.

  It had been an afternoon of moans and niggles, she thought wearily, and from the look of strained tolerance she’d glimpsed on Marion Lowell’s face at one point, she wasn’t the only sufferer.

  Altogether, this was the day from hell, she thought. And she still couldn’t decide what to do about Marc Delaroche and his dinner invitation.

  Instinct told her to refuse. Reason suggested that if Monteagle’s welfare was involved she should at least give him a hearing. But not over dinner, she thought. That was too much like a date rather than a business meeting.

  ‘And about time.’ Helen was greeted truculently by a red-haired woman as she reached the corner table and set down the heavy tray. She and her glum-looking husband peered suspiciously at the plates of scones and cakes. ‘Is this all we get? Aren’t there are any sandwiches? Ham would do. We’ve got a growing lad here.’

  Growing outwards as well as upwards, Helen noticed with disfavour, as the child in question dug a podgy finger into the bowl of cream.

  She said quietly, ‘I’m sorry, it’s a standard tea. But everything is home-made.’

  The little boy glared at her. ‘Aren’t there any crisps? And where’s my drink?’

  ‘He doesn’t like tea,’ his mother explained in a tone that invited congratulation. ‘He wants orange squash.’

  Helen repressed a sigh. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  Back in the kitchen, she halved oranges from the fruit bowl, squeezed out their juice, and put it in a glass with a pinch of sugar and some ice cubes.

  Improvisation, she told herself with mild triumph as she took the drink outside.

  ‘What’s that?’ The boy stabbed an accusing finger at it. ‘I want a real drink. That’s got bits in it.’

  ‘They’re bits of orange—’ Helen began.

  ‘Yuck.’ The child’s face twisted into a grimace. ‘I’m not drinking that.’ And he picked up the glass and threw the contents at Helen, spattering her with the sticky juice.

  She gasped and fell back, wiping her face with her hand, then felt hands grip her shoulders, putting her to one side.

  ‘Go and get clean,’ Marc directed quietly. ‘I will deal with this.’

  She hadn’t even been aware of his approach. She wanted to tell him she could manage, but she wasn’t sure it was true.

  She turned away, walking quickly back to the house, stripping off her ruined apron as she went, her colour rising as she became aware of sympathetic smiles and murmurs from other customers.

  She looked back over her shoulder and saw Marc talking to the husband. Noticed the other man rise uncomfortably to his feet, his face sullen, gesturing to his family to follow.

  When she reached the kitchen she found Lottie waiting, her face grave and troubled. ‘Honey,’ she said, ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Helen bit her lip. ‘I see you’ve heard the news.’ She ran cold water into a bowl and put her stained apron to soak.

  Lottie nodded unhappily. ‘It’s all round the village. I still can’t quite believe it.’

  ‘It’s perfectly true.’ Helen lifted her chin. ‘Nigel is being splendidly conventional and marrying his boss’s daughter. I haven’t worked out yet whether he ever meant to tell me to my face, or if he hoped I’d simply—fade away and save him the trouble.’

  ‘Bastard,’ said Lottie, with some force. ‘But it certainly explains the special buffet episode.’ She snorted. ‘Well, I’ve rung his poisonous mother and told her to find another caterer.’

  Helen smiled wanly. ‘It’s a lovely thought,’ she said. ‘But it’s also the kind of gesture you can’t afford any more than I could.’ She glanced round her. ‘Where’s Daisy?’

  ‘She said she had something to do upstairs and that she’d ask Mrs Lowell to collect the tea money. She probably thought we’d want to talk in private.’

  ‘I don’t think I have much privacy left,’ Helen said ruefully. ‘Not if the whole village knows.’ She paused. ‘I also found out this morning that I’d been turned down for that grant.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Lottie groaned. ‘That’s really evil timing.’ She gave Helen a compassionate look. ‘Well—they say bad luck comes in threes, so let’s hope your final misfortune is a minor one.’

  Helen bit her lip as she refilled the kettle and set it to boil. ‘No such luck, I’m afraid. It’s happened—and it’s another disaster.’

  Lottie whistled. ‘Tell me something—is there some gruesome family curse hanging over the Fraynes that you’ve never thought to mention?’

  ‘If only.’ Helen grinned faintly. ‘Good business, a family curse. I’d have given it a whole page in the guidebook.’

  Lottie started to laugh, and then, as if some switch had been operated, the amusement was wiped from her face, to be replaced by astonishment bordering on awe.

  Helen turned quickly and saw Marc in the doorway, completely at his ease, arms folded across his chest and one shoulder propped nonchalantly against the frame.

  He said, ‘Je suis désolè. I am intruding.’

  ‘No,’ Lottie denied with something of a gulp, getting quickly to her feet. ‘No, of course not. I’m Charlotte Davis—Lottie—a friend of Helen’s from the village.’

  He sent her a pleasant smile. ‘Enchanté, mademoiselle. And I am Marc Delaroche—à votre service.’

  To her eternal credit, Lottie didn’t allow herself even a flicker of recognition.

  Helen swallowed. ‘What—what did you say to those people just now?’ she asked a little breathlessly.

  ‘I suggested only that they might prefer the Monteagle Arms. They
accepted my advice.’ He walked across to the table and put down some money. ‘They also paid,’ he added laconically. He paused. ‘Tell me, ma mie, are many of your customers like that?’

  ‘Not usually.’ She went over to the stove and busied herself with the kettle. ‘I’m just having a generally bad day, I think.’ She hesitated. ‘Would you like some coffee?’ she offered unwillingly—as he instantly detected.

  ‘Merci.’ He slanted a faint grin at her. ‘But I will leave you to talk in peace to your friend.’ He added softly, ‘I came only to say that I have reserved a table for eight o’clock at the Oxbow. I hope you will feel able to join me.’

  He gave them both a slight bow and walked back into the sunshine, leaving a tingling silence behind him.

  It was broken at last by Lottie. ‘Wow,’ she said reverently. ‘Don’t pretend even for a moment that he’s your third disaster.’

  ‘Oh, you’re as bad as Mrs Lowell,’ Helen said crossly, aware that her face had warmed. ‘She was rhapsodising about him last week.’

  ‘You mean this is his second visit?’ Lottie’s brows shot skywards. ‘Better and better.’ She eyed Helen. ‘So, what are you going to wear tonight?’

  ‘Nothing!’

  Lottie grinned wickedly. ‘Well, it would certainly save him time and effort,’ she said. ‘But a little obvious for a first date, don’t you think?’

  Helen’s colour deepened hectically. ‘I didn’t mean that—as you well know,’ she said, carrying the coffee back to the table. ‘And it’s not a date. In fact, I have no intention of having dinner with Monsieur Delaroche—tonight or any other time.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Lottie said briskly. ‘Of course you’re going. Why not?’

  Helen sank limply on to the nearest chair. ‘You seem to have forgotten about Nigel.’

  ‘Unfortunately, no,’ said Lottie. ‘But I’m working on it, and so should you.’ She gave Helen’s arm a quick squeeze. ‘And what more could you ask than for a seriously attractive man to wine and dine you?’

  ‘You really think that a meal at the Oxbow could console me in any way for Nigel?’ Helen shook her head. ‘Lottie—I’m really hurting. He’s always been part of my life—and now he’s gone.’

  ‘Helen—be honest. You had a crush on him when you were thirteen and decided he was the man of your dreams. He went along with it for a while, but he’s spent less and less time here for over a year now. Some love affair.’

  ‘No,’ Helen said, biting her lip. ‘It never was. That’s the trouble. I—I wanted to wait. So it wasn’t an affair at all, in the real meaning of the word.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Lottie slowly. ‘Well—that’s one less thing to regret.’

  ‘But I do regret it,’ Helen told her miserably. She sighed. ‘Oh, God, what a fool I’ve been. And I’ve lost him. So do you see now why I can’t go out tonight? It would be unbearable.’

  ‘Then stay here and brood,’ Lottie told her robustly. ‘And why not have “victim” tattooed across your forehead while you’re about it?’

  Helen gave her a bitter look. ‘I didn’t know you could be so heartless. How would you like to face people if you’d been dumped?’

  ‘Darling, I’m trying to be practical.’ Lottie drank some coffee. ‘And I’d infinitely prefer to be out, apparently having a good time with another man, than nursing a broken heart on my own. Who knows? People might even think you dumped Nigel rather than the other way round. Think about it.’ She paused. ‘Anyway, why did you say it wasn’t a date with Marc Delaroche?’

  ‘Because it’s more of a business meeting.’ Helen still looked morose. ‘He’s got some plan for helping Monteagle now the grant’s fallen through. Or he says he has.’

  ‘All the more reason to go, then.’

  ‘But I don’t want to feel beholden to him,’ Helen said passionately. ‘I—I don’t like him. And I don’t know what you all see in him,’ she added defiantly.

  ‘Helen—’ Lottie’s tone was patient ‘—he’s incredibly rich and fabulously sexy. You don’t think that you’re being a mite picky?’

  Helen said in a low voice, ‘It’s not just that. I—I think I’m frightened of him.’ Her laugh cracked in the middle. ‘Isn’t that ridiculous?’

  Lottie’s expression was very gentle. ‘A little, maybe. But there’s not much he can do in a crowded restaurant.’ She frowned. ‘I wonder how the hell he managed to get a table at the Oxbow, it being Saturday and all.’

  Helen shrugged listlessly. ‘He’s someone who likes to have his own way. I don’t suppose he gets many refusals.’

  Lottie gave her a wry grin. ‘Then meeting you might be good for his soul.’ She paused, then added thoughtfully, ‘Or he might even be good for yours.’

  She picked up her beaker and rose. ‘Now, let’s have a quick scan through your wardrobe and see what might be suitable for the best restaurant in miles.’

  This is still such a bad idea, Helen thought a few hours later as she looked at herself in the mirror.

  The dress she was wearing was in a silky fabric the dark green of a rose leaf, and made in a wraparound style, with a sash that passed twice round her slender waist and fastened at the side in a bow.

  It made her skin look exotically pale, and her newly washed hair glint with gold and bronze lights.

  Lottie had spotted it at once, of course. ‘So, what’s this?’ she’d asked, taking it from the rail. ‘Clearly never worn, because it’s still got the price tag. How long have you had it?’

  ‘Not that long.’ Helen moved a shoulder restively, her voice slightly husky. ‘I—I bought it for my engagement party.’ She forced a smile. ‘Counting my chickens again. Stupid of me, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Lottie’s tone was comforting. ‘And you can put it to good use tonight instead,’ she added, spreading it across Helen’s bed.

  ‘No,’ Helen said sharply. ‘I got it for Nigel. I won’t wear it for anyone else. I can’t.’

  ‘What will you do with it, then? Wrap it in lavender and shed tears over it, like a latter-day Miss Havisham?’ Lottie gave her a swift hug. ‘Babe, you can’t waste the only decent thing you’ve got—especially when you need to make a good impression.’

  ‘And why should I want to do that?’ Helen lifted her chin.

  ‘Monteagle, of course,’ Lottie told her with a catlike smile. ‘Did you get shoes as well?’

  ‘Green sandals.’ Helen pointed reluctantly. ‘They’re in that box.’

  ‘You’ll have to paint your toenails too,’ Lottie mused. ‘I’d better pop home and get my manicure stuff, because I bet you haven’t any. And you’ll need a wrap. I’ll lend you the pashmina Simon sent me. But don’t spill vintage champagne all over it.’

  The promised wrap was now waiting on the bed, together with the small kid bag that matched the sandals.

  I was so sure, Helen thought, her throat muscles tightening. So secure in my dreams of the future. And so blind …

  And now she had to work towards a totally different kind of future.

  She’d had plenty of time to think after Lottie had completed her ministrations and departed.

  Lying back in a scented bath, she’d reviewed her situation and come up with a plan. She could not afford to pay for the restoration of the entire house, of course, but perhaps Marc Delaroche might help her raise sufficient capital to refurbish the bedrooms at least, so that she and Daisy could offer bed and breakfast accommodation. Possibly with a few extra refinements.

  Spend the night in the haunted bedroom! she’d thought, with self-derision. See the ghost of the first Helen Frayne, if not the second.

  I could even rattle a few chains outside the door.

  Joking apart, the scheme had a lot to recommend it, she told herself. It could supply her with just the regular income she needed.

  And if she could prove herself, even in a small way, the conventional banking system might be more ready to back her.

  But first she had to persuade Marc that it was a worka
ble plan, and an alternative to whatever assistance he was prepared to give.

  And therefore it was—just—worth making an effort with her appearance.

  Only now the moment had come. Daisy had tapped on her door to say that he was waiting downstairs, causing all her concerns and doubts to come rushing back.

  Because she was taking a hell of a risk. She’d said it herself—Marc Delaroche was a man who liked his own way—so what on earth made her think she could manipulate him into doing what she wanted?

  Besides, she already knew he had his own agenda. On my next visit I shall expect to spend the night.

  She’d tried to block that out of her mind—as with so much else that had passed between them.

  But now the words were ringing loud and clear in her head, especially as she’d spent some considerable time getting herself dressed and beautified for him—like some harem girl being prepared for the Sultan’s bed, she thought, and grimaced at the analogy.

  Her skin was smooth and scented. Her eyes looked twice their normal size, shaded, with darkened lashes, and the colour of her dress had turned them from hazel to green. Her mouth glowed with soft coral, as did the tips of her hands and feet.

  She picked up her wrap and bag, and went along the Gallery to the broad wooden staircase.

  Marc was below her, in the entrance hall, pacing restlessly, but as he looked up at her he checked suddenly, his entire attention arrested and fixed on her, his eyes widening and his mouth suddenly taut.

  She felt a strange shiver of awareness rake her body, and for a moment she wanted to turn and run—back to her room, to safety. Back to the girl she really was.

  Because for the first time it occurred to her that she was not simply scared of Marc Delaroche.

  I’m frightened of myself, she whispered silently. And of the stranger I’ve just become—for him.

  She drew a deep shaking breath, then very slowly she walked down the stairs to meet him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE restaurant was just as crowded as Lottie had predicted. Apart from their own, Helen could see only one vacant table, and that was reserved too.

  She was conscious of a surprised stir as they entered, and knew that she’d been recognised by at least half the people in the room, and that the rumour mill had been functioning well. She tried to ignore the speculative looks and whispered comments as, with Marc’s hand cupped under her elbow, she followed the head waiter across the room.