His Reluctant Bride

by Sara Craven

  After all, she thought, swallowing, Marc still had the house, which was and always had been his main concern in all this. She’d only ever been intended as a bonus in the transaction. His personal perquisite. He would simply be forced to write her off as a loss. Well—he was a businessman. He would understand that, and shrug.

  And although she would be freed from any kind of sexual partnership with him, and ultimate and inevitable heartbreak, she would make sure she was nothing less than the perfect chatelaine for Monteagle. He would have no complaints about the way his home was run, or her behaviour as his hostess.

  She sighed, and trailed across to the dressing room. In the meantime she’d have to pretend that this was the first day of a normal marriage and find something appropriate to wear.

  Much as she might wish it, she could hardly go for the full covered-up blouse and skirt look when the temperature was clearly in the high eighties. Besides, Marc might even regard that as some kind of challenge, and that was the last thing she wanted.

  It was probably better to attempt the role of radiant bride, she thought. And her pride demanded that she should behave as if the previous night had never happened, even if she was still weeping inside.

  Eventually, as a concession to the climate, she picked out a black bikini that wasn’t too indecently brief, topping it with its own filmy mid-thigh shirt.

  But, in spite of her fears, it was only Elise who was waiting for her as she apprehensively descended the stairs half an hour later.

  ‘Bonjour, madame.’ Her eyes were twinkling. ‘You ‘ave sleep well, I think? Your ‘usband say to let you rest as long as you desire. But now you like un petit dejeuner?’

  ‘Just coffee, please,’ Helen said, self-consciously aware that her watch was saying it was long past breakfast-time. She glanced around her. ‘Er—where is monsieur?’ she ventured.

  ‘‘E ‘as go for drive into the ‘ills,’ Elise informed her. ‘But ‘e will come back soon. For the lunch. It is my fish soup, which ‘e does not miss.’ She nodded with satisfaction, then bustled off to get the coffee.

  Well, she was being allowed a brief respite at least, Helen thought. Given a breathing space to decide how she should behave and what she should actually say when she encountered him at last.

  Elise’s coffee was a dark and vibrant brew, and it managed to rid Helen’s head of the last unhappy wisps of mental fog and enable her to think clearly.

  It was vitally important not to give Marc the idea that she cared too much about the bleak conclusion to their wedding night.

  Perhaps she should give the impression that it was no more than she’d expected. Or maybe she should wait, she thought. Judge his mood when he returned. Leave it to him to dictate the scenario.

  In the meantime, this was a wonderful house, with beautiful grounds and the luxury of a swimming pool. At least she could allow herself a little enjoyment.

  She finished her coffee, then set off. The pool was sited in a sunken area of the garden, surrounded by flower-filled shallow terraces. At the deep end of the azure water was a diving board, while a small hexagonal pavilion had been built at the opposite end for changing purposes, and to house a comprehensively equipped refrigerator.

  Cushioned loungers, each with its own parasol, had been set round the surrounding tiled area.

  Helen applied some high-factor sun lotion and lay down, sighing gratefully. There was a paperback book in her canvas bag, but, for a while anyway, she preferred to close her eyes and drift, blocking out the dark fears and uncertainties that plagued her, her head full, instead, of the distant wash of the sea and the busy hum of insects among the flowers.

  She almost slept.

  The sudden instinctive awareness that she was no longer alone brought her back to full consciousness, her eyes flying open to see Marc standing at the foot of the flight of shallow steps. He was wearing black swimming briefs, and, apart from the thin cotton shirt flung over one shoulder, the rest of him was tanned skin.

  For one shocked, unguarded moment, she was pierced by a shaft of yearning so strong it seemed to penetrate her bones.

  And he was looking at her too, his mouth unsmiling, his eyes masked by his sunglasses.

  He said laconically, ‘Ça va?’

  ‘Fine,’ she said, jack-knifing herself into a sitting position too swiftly and defensively. It had suddenly occurred to her that apart from last night, this was the nearest to naked Marc had ever seen her, and the realisation made her feel disquieted and uncomfortable.

  ‘I regret this intrusion,’ he went on. ‘But Elise was insistent that I needed a swim before lunch.’ He tossed the shirt on to another lounger. ‘She feels, I think, that I am neglecting my bride,’ he added, his mouth twisting. ‘I could hardly tell her that I am merely obeying your wishes.’ He paused. ‘Unless, of course, you would like to join me in the pool?’

  Helen swallowed. ‘Another time—perhaps.’

  ‘Why pretend?’ Marc asked derisively. ‘Why not say no?’

  She turned away. She said in a stifled voice, ‘Isn’t it a little late for that?’

  ‘Perhaps that is something we should discuss.’ He walked across and sat down on the end of her lounger. He’d discarded his sunglasses and his expression was searching—sombre. She watched him, her own eyes wary, her body tensing instinctively at his proximity.

  She said, ‘You mean to apologise—for last night?’

  ‘Apologise?’ His brows lifted. ‘No. Let us say instead, ma mie, that neither of us was very kind—or very wise—in our treatment of each other, and put last night far behind us.’

  ‘How can we do that?’ Helen asked stiffly.

  ‘By agreeing that it is the present—and our future together—that should concern us more.’

  Her small workmanlike hands were gripped tightly together. ‘What future is that?’

  He sighed, his mouth tightening. ‘I have taken you as my wife, Hélène. How can we live as strangers?’

  She lifted her chin. ‘Because that’s what we are—as last night proved.’

  ‘It proved nothing,’ Marc said shortly. ‘Except that you had decided for some reason that you no longer wanted me.’

  ‘No longer?’ Helen echoed indignantly. ‘When did I ever?’

  His brows rose sardonically. ‘You wish me to list the times, perhaps?’ There was a pause then he added, ‘I regret that I did not seduce you when I had the chance, ma belle, instead of waiting to offer you the security of marriage first.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Helen said stonily, hating the colour that had flared in her face at the unforgivable truth of his words, ‘perhaps even then you wouldn’t have found me as easy as you seem to believe.’

  ‘I never expected to find you easy, Hélène,’ he returned softly. ‘Merely—infinitely rewarding.’ He smiled faintly. ‘As your beautiful mouth promises, mon coeur. The mouth you would not allow me to kiss last night in case you melted for me as your ancestress once did for the King,’ he added quietly.

  The breath seemed to catch in her throat. ‘You—flatter yourself, monsieur,’ she said. ‘And you’re quite wrong, too. They were different people in a different age. No comparison.’

  He shrugged, his mouth wry, ‘Bien sûr, I am not a king, but a good republican—and I am your husband as well as your lover. But are we really so far apart? She fled him and he followed, just as I am here with you now, in spite of all that has happened.’

  ‘We’re a world away.’ Her voice sounded thick and strained. ‘And you are not my lover.’

  For a moment his head went back as if she’d struck him, and he was silent.

  ‘Then may we not begin again?’ he asked at last, his voice deepening huskily. ‘You are my wife, Hélène, and I want you—I long to show you how it should be between us. How it can be. If only …’

  He reached for her hand, but she snatched it away.

  ‘Ah, Dieu.’ Marc shook his head. He was silent for a long moment, then said gently, ‘Don’t fight me any more,
cherie. Let me come to you tonight and make love to you, as I wish to do. If you would only allow it, I know I could make you happy.’

  ‘I think you’re more concerned with your own satisfaction,’ Helen flung at him. ‘And the fact that your masculine pride’s been damaged. In spite of your fantasies, last night can’t have been particularly rewarding for you.’

  ‘Or for you,’ he said with sudden harshness.

  It was her turn to shrug. ‘Nevertheless,’ she said, ‘that’s as good as it gets. Come to me—stay away—it makes no difference.’

  She saw the dark eyes flare and his mouth harden.

  He got to his feet in one lithe movement and stood over her, reminding her suddenly of the previous night, his body poised above hers. Forcing her to remember that piercing instant of need …

  She went rigid, her eyes almost blank with fright, and saw his mouth move in a faint smile that was almost a sneer.

  ‘Sois tranquille,’ he said coldly. ‘I shall not ask again.’

  He turned away and walked to the edge of the pool. His body cut the water in a clean dive.

  Heart hammering, she scrambled off the lounger, cramming on her shirt and picking up her pretty embroidered beach bag.

  She went hurriedly up the steps, not looking behind her. Back to the house, she thought shakily. Out of harm’s way.

  Yet she knew at the same time that it was not that simple. She fled him and he followed. That was what Marc had said. And, in spite of that icy parting assurance from him, Helen knew she would never feel completely safe again while they were under the same roof.

  She made herself go down to lunch when Elise came, clearly puzzled, to call her. For one thing she needed to repair the damage done by that moment of recoil at the pool. She’d shown Marc too clearly that he had the power to disturb her, and then, even more stupidly, she’d run away.

  Also, more prosaically, she was hungry.

  He was already waiting at the table that had been set for them in the shade of the terrace, and rose formally as she approached, his eyes skimming over the pale green sundress with its halter strap that she’d changed into, although he refrained from the comment she’d expected as she seated herself opposite him and unfolded her napkin.

  He had changed too, she realised, into dark blue linen trousers and a matching polo shirt, and his still-damp hair was combed back from his face. As Elise arrived with the tureen he smiled up at her, said something teasing in his own language, and the force of his attraction made Helen catch her breath.

  Concentrate on the food, she adjured herself silently. It’s safer that way.

  The fish soup was delicious, aromatic and filling, forcing her to eat sparingly of the platter of cold meats and salad that followed, and choose just a peach from the bowl of fresh fruit that ended the meal.

  She declined any coffee, and was rising to her feet when he said crisply, ‘Un moment, madame.’

  Helen halted, startled and reluctant.

  ‘We need to reach a certain level of agreement.’ Marc did not look at her as he filled his own cup. ‘Whatever our private arrangements, we should try to behave in front of others as if we were truly les nouveaux mariés. Par chance, we do not have to stay here for very long, but we need to spend some time together each day—and in public.’

  Helen bit her lip. ‘Is that really necessary?’

  ‘By now the news of our marriage will have reached the newspapers, and the gossip columnists will know we are here.’ He shrugged. ‘They will wish to take photographs of us together—being happy. We should indulge them. What happens at night is the business of no one but ourselves,’ he added coldly.

  Helen bit her lip. She said, ‘I suppose—if we must. What—what do you suggest?’

  ‘You overwhelm me.’ His tone was barbed. ‘To begin with, I propose we go down to St Benoit. The car and driver have been placed at our service, so I have ordered him to come round in half an hour. With Louis at the wheel, you do not even have to be alone with me.’ He paused, allowing that to strike home. ‘Also I intend to work for part of each day,’ he went on. ‘There are matters that require my attention even on honeymoon, so I recommend you use the pool area during those times, in case the sight of you in a bikini arouses me beyond bearing.’

  Unhappy colour rose in her face. ‘Please—don’t talk like that.’

  ‘Tes conditions sont trop rigoureuses, ma mie,’ he told her mockingly. ‘I cannot sleep with you—I may not even swim with you—and it is obvious you would prefer to eat alone. These I accept. But I refuse to censor my words—or my thoughts. D’accord?’

  There was a silence, then Helen nodded jerkily. ‘As you wish.’

  ‘I recommend you treat your time with me like medicine, cherie.’ Marc swallowed the remainder of his coffee and replaced the cup on its saucer. His eyes were hard. ‘To be taken quickly and as soon forgotten.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Half an hour, then. And try, if you can, to smile for the cameras as if you were happy. This week will soon pass.’

  By the time they came back to the villa that evening Helen had already reached at least one conclusion.

  In the sunlit hours, she thought, she could—just—play the role assigned to her. But it would be an entirely different matter when the velvety darkness descended. That was altogether too intimate an ambience, and if she was to survive, as she must, her evenings had to be her own.

  So when Marc turned to her after dinner and invited her to go with him to the Yacht Club, for coffee and brandies, she refused, saying mendaciously she had a headache.

  ‘Pauvre petite.’ His mouth curled with faint irony. ‘Do you wish me to remain here and cherish you?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ she returned coolly. ‘I’m not chained to your wrist. You’re free to go out alone whenever you want.’

  ‘How sweet you are,’ he drawled mockingly. ‘And how understanding.’ He paused. ‘I shall try not to disturb you on my return.’

  Elise, who was clearing the table, sent them a look that said louder than words that such a new wife should expect to be disturbed by her husband, and should, en effet, actively welcome it, headache or not.

  Marc walked over to Helen, dark and devastating in his tuxedo, and bent, his lips swiftly brushing her hair.

  He said quietly, ‘Sleep well,’ and went.

  There was a silence, then Elise said dourly, ‘I will fetch you a powder, madame, for ze ‘eadache.’

  She not only fetched it, she stood over Helen while she swallowed the foul-tasting thing. ‘Now you will be restored for the return of monsieur,’ she said with a firm nod.

  But Helen wasn’t so sure. The tension of walking round St Benoit Plage all afternoon, hand in hand with Marc, was threatening her with a genuine headache. It had been quite an ordeal for her, however impersonal his touch.

  The villa was equipped with a state-of-the-art audio system and an eclectic mix of music. Helen curled up on one of the giant hide sofas in the salon and put on some slow sweet jazz. But the music alone couldn’t stop her thinking, her mind replaying all the events of the past twenty-four hours. Above all she found herself wondering what Marc was doing—and who he might be with.

  She’d been aware all afternoon of the predatory glances being aimed at him by tanned and sexy women keen to get closer regardless of her presence. And now she’d turned him out on the town alone …

  But then what choice did she have? she argued defensively with herself. She certainly had no right to expect physical fidelity from him.

  Sighing, she picked up one of the glossy magazines arranged on the low table in front of her and began to flick over the pages. She paused to glance at a double-page spread showing people attending a charity performance at the opera. The name ‘Angeline Vallon’ seemed to leap out at her.

  She looked at the accompanying picture, her heart beating slowly and unevenly.

  She saw a tall, beautiful woman, with a mane of dark auburn hair tumbling down her back, standing beside a much smaller man with a
beard and a faintly peevish expression, described as ‘her industrialist husband Hercule’.

  Madame Vallon was wearing a very low-cut evening gown that set off her frankly voluptuous body, and a magnificent diamond necklace circled her throat.

  She didn’t look like someone who had to ask more than once for what she wanted, thought Helen, trying not to wince. Nor someone who would be easily persuaded to let go.

  And you’re quite right to opt for self-preservation, she told herself stoically. Because you’re no competition for her. No competition at all.

  She closed the magazine, replacing it with meticulous exactitude on the table, and made her solitary way up to bed.

  But not to sleep. Not until much later, when she eventually heard quiet footsteps passing her room, without breaking stride even for a moment, and then the sound of Marc’s door closing.

  Helen turned on to her stomach, pressing her burning face into the pillow.

  I shall not ask again. That, after all, was what he’d told her. And apparently he’d meant every word.

  Somehow she had to be grateful for this one mercy at least.

  But, dear God, how painfully, grindingly difficult that was going to be for her. And she found herself stifling a sob.

  CHAPTER TEN

  MARC had told her the time would pass quickly, but to Helen the days that followed seemed more like an eternity. Yet under other circumstances she knew they could have been wonderful.

  From that first afternoon in St Benoit Plage she seemed to have stepped through the looking glass into a different and totally unreal world, peopled only by the beautiful and the seriously affluent.

  To her astonishment, Marc had been right about the photographers, and Helen had been chagrined to find herself described in the local news sheet as ‘charming but shy’, under a picture of her with her mouth open, clinging to her husband’s hand as if he was her last hope of salvation.

  Not shy, she’d thought wryly. Just shocked witless at all this unwonted attention.

  ‘Relax, ma mie,’ Marc had advised, clearly amused. ‘They will soon focus on someone else.’