His Reluctant Bride

by Sara Craven

  And all this pain—this heartbreak—she had brought upon herself.

  I shall have to learn not to think, she told herself, as Marc’s soft, regular breathing informed her that he’d fallen asleep. Not to wonder what he’s doing when he’s away, or who he might be with. No scenes and no accusations.

  If I can manage to turn a perpetually blind eye, and he is reasonably discreet, then maybe our separate lives can be made to work.

  She leaned across and switched off the lamp.

  And now, she thought, she would try to sleep.

  She opened her eyes to sunshine and birdsong, and Marc bending over her, clearly about to kiss her—and not for the first time, she thought, blushing, assailed by a vivid memory of him kissing her awake in the early dawn, and making love to her with such tenderness and grace that afterwards she’d found herself weeping in his arms.

  ‘Bonjour.’ He propped himself on an elbow and smiled at her. ‘You awaken very beautifully.’

  Her blush deepened. At some point during the night he must have retrieved the sheet, she realised, and covered her with it, because she now had a shield against the over-bright light of day. And, more importantly, against his eyes.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said, a touch awkwardly. ‘Has—has the rain stopped?’

  ‘You are a true Englishwoman, cherie.’ He was laughing. ‘You wish to discuss the weather even when you are in bed with your lover.’

  But you’re not my lover, she thought with sudden pain, even as her body clenched once more in unwilling yearning. Last night had nothing to do with love. It was simply a vindication of your own prowess in bed, because I rejected you. You needed to prove that you could make me want you against my own will and judgement. And against all reason—because I’m not the only woman in your life, and we both know it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said stiffly.

  ‘No, you must not be. It is charming.’ He leaned down and kissed her mouth softly. ‘And I wish very much that we could stay here for ever, but we have a plane to catch. Besides,’ he added, stroking her cheek, ‘there will be tonight.’

  ‘Two planes,’ Helen corrected, remembering the resolution she’d made last night and how badly she needed to keep it. He only had to look at her, she thought. Or smile. Or touch her lightly with a fingertip, and she was dying to melt in his arms. But she could not allow him to do this to her. Could not—would not—live this lie with him. ‘We—we’re on different flights.’ She took a steadying breath. ‘And yours, if you remember, is the earliest.’

  ‘Different flights?’ Marc repeated slowly. ‘What are you talking about? We will be travelling together. You are coming with me to Paris, naturellement.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m going back to England and Monteagle, as we agreed.’

  Marc sat up abruptly, the sheet falling away from his body, and she looked away swiftly. Oh, God, she needed no reminders …

  He said, ‘But that was yesterday—before …’

  ‘Before we had sex, you mean? You feel that should make some difference?’ She kept her voice light. ‘I don’t see why.’

  ‘I had hoped,’ he said very quietly, ‘that perhaps you would want to be with me. Now that we have found each other at last.’

  But not in Paris, she wanted to scream at him. Never in Paris—at this famous apartment of yours, in the bed where you make love to your mistress. Don’t you see that I can’t go there? And that I won’t—ever?

  ‘But I shall be with you,’ she returned instead. ‘That is whenever you choose to come back to Monteagle.’

  ‘Which may not be for some time,’ he said. He looked at her steadily. ‘That does not concern you?’

  ‘You may come and go as you please. It’s not up to me to interfere in your life—your decisions.’ The rawness in her heart gave her voice an edge.

  ‘I believed,’ he said with sudden bleakness, ‘that I had given you that right. So why do you refuse me?’ He paused, and his voice hardened. ‘Is it because there is some other one involved in our relationship? Has that come between us? Answer me.’

  ‘You seem to know already.’ She felt her heart give a sudden jolt. She hadn’t intended this, she thought wretchedly. She hadn’t thought he’d want to discuss Angeline Vallon or any of his women with her. She’d assumed he’d prefer her to ignore the rumours which would no doubt reach her. That he’d expect gratitude for Monteagle to keep her silent.

  Why, she asked herself desperately, wasn’t he playing according to the rules? But then, when had Marc ever done so?

  ‘Ah, Mon Dieu.’ He almost groaned the words, then was silent for a moment. At last, he said unevenly, ‘Hélène—you are being a fool. Yet in spite of all this we can make our marriage work—I know it. This—other thing—it will not last. It cannot. And you cannot allow it to matter. To damage what we might have together.

  ‘Cherie.’ His voice deepened. ‘You must not do this to yourself—to us.’

  Us, Helen thought. There is no ‘us’ and never can be. Because even when Angeline Vallon is history, as you suggest, there’ll be someone else in her place. There’ll always be someone else—for a month or two …

  ‘But I can’t pretend it doesn’t exist either,’ she said raggedly. ‘That wasn’t part of the deal. So I shan’t be going with you to Paris.’ She took a deep breath. ‘But Monteagle is yours too, of course, and when you choose to be there I’m prepared to reach some—compromise with you.’

  ‘As you did last night?’ The words slammed at her.

  ‘Yes,’ she said defiantly. ‘Exactly like that.’

  He said something under his breath—something harsh and ugly—then threw himself off the bed, grabbing for his discarded clothing. But he made no attempt to dress himself.

  Instead, he reached into the pocket of his dinner jacket. ‘Then allow me to congratulate you on your performance, madame.’ His voice seared her like acid. ‘You learn quickly—and, as I explained, I would not wish you to go unrewarded for your efforts.’

  He tossed the roll of money into the air, and watched the banknotes flutter down on to the bed around her.

  ‘Consider yourself paid in full, ma femme,’ he added. ‘Until the next time—wherever and whenever that may be.’

  And he left her, white-faced and stricken, staring after him, as he strode to the door and vanished.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘YOU mean it?’ Lottie’s face lit up. ‘You’ll let me have my wedding reception in the Long Gallery? Oh, Helen, that’s wonderful.’

  Helen returned her hug. ‘Well, you can’t squeeze everyone into your cottage—not without appalling casualties and structural damage anyway,’ she added drily. ‘And the Gallery looks terrific now it’s finished. It really needs to be used for something special.’

  Lottie hesitated. ‘And you’re sure Marc won’t mind?’

  ‘Why should he?’ Helen asked with a light shrug. As he’s so rarely here … She thought it, but did not say it aloud.

  ‘I only wanted a tiny wedding,’ Lottie said mournfully. ‘A few close friends and family.’ She sighed. ‘But that was before our respective mothers presented us with their final guest lists, and a string of other instructions as well. I’ve had to rethink all my catering plans, for one thing, as well as dashing off to the wedding hire place in Aldenford for some ghastly meringue and veil.’

  Helen patted her consolingly. ‘You’ll look wonderful,’ she said. ‘And I guarantee Simon will be secretly thrilled.’ She paused. ‘Shall we get some music laid on for dancing? Really test the Gallery’s new floor?’

  ‘Why not?’ Her friend shrugged lavishly. ‘In for a penny, in for a pound. The whole nine yards.’ She gave Helen a speculative glance. ‘Does Marc like dancing? I mean, he will make it to the wedding, I hope? Or will he be in Bolivia or Uzbekistan?’

  ‘I—really don’t know,’ Helen admitted uncomfortably. ‘But, wherever he is, I’m sure he’ll do his best. I’ll ask Alan to remind him. After all, he seems to see much m
ore of him than I do,’ she added, with attempted nonchalance.

  There was another silence, then Lottie said fiercely, ‘Oh, this is all so wrong—such a mess. Simon and I are so happy—so crazy about each other—and you’re so damned miserable. And don’t argue with me,’ she warned, as Helen’s lips parted in protest. ‘Even a blind person could see it.’

  ‘I have what I asked for,’ Helen said quietly. ‘And so has Marc.’ She tried to smile. ‘He seems quite content—and you have to admit the house is looking terrific.’

  ‘I don’t have to admit anything.’ Lottie picked up her bag and prepared for departure. ‘In fact there are times when I wish you’d sold Monteagle lock, stock and barrel to bloody Trevor Newson. So there.’

  And there are times when I wish that too, Helen thought with sudden wry bitterness. The shocked breath caught in her throat as she realised what she had just admitted to herself.

  She managed to keep a smile in place as she waved her friend off, but her stomach was churning and her legs felt oddly weak.

  How can I suddenly feel like this? she asked herself as she made herself turn, walk back into the house she loved. The home she’d always considered worth any sacrifice.

  Monteagle’s been my life all this time. My lodestar. And so it should be still—because I have nothing else. Nothing …

  She found she was making her way up the stairs, breathing the smell of paint, plaster and wood as she’d done for so many weeks. But, as usual, she encountered no one. The restoration team were busy at the other end of the house, and she was able to enter the State Bedroom once again unnoticed. Where she paused, staring round her, drinking in the room’s completed beauty. And its strange emptiness.

  The embroidery from the old bed curtains had been transferred exquisitely to its rich new fabric, and it gleamed in the mellow sunlight that poured in through the mullioned windows. While above the fireplace the other Helen Frayne looked enigmatically down on her descendant.

  And, dominating the room, that enormous bed—made up each week with fresh linen, yet still unused.

  Helen had stood in this room grieving after her grandfather’s funeral, knowing that she was entirely alone. She’d tried with a kind of desperation to convince herself that it wasn’t true. That she would spend her future with Nigel and find happiness and fulfilment—but only if she could save her beloved home and live there. That had always been the proviso.

  No guy stands a chance against a no-win obsession like that. She found herself remembering Nigel’s petulant accusation.

  But it wasn’t an obsession, she cried inwardly. It was a dream—wasn’t it? Only now the dream was dead, and she didn’t know why.

  Except that she was lying to herself. Because it had begun to fade six weeks ago, when she came back from France.

  Without Marc. Without even saying goodbye to Marc. Because he’d already left for the airport when she arrived downstairs that last morning at the Villa Mirage.

  Later, on her own homeward journey, she’d asked Louis to stop at a little church she’d seen on the way out of St Benoit Plage, and she had filled the poor box to bursting with the euro notes that Marc had scattered so scornfully across her shocked body, hoping that by doing so she could somehow exorcise the stunned misery that was choking her.

  All the way back to Monteagle she’d told herself over and over again that it would all be worth it once she was home. That somehow she’d even be able to survive this agony of bewildered loneliness once she could see her beautiful house coming back to life.

  Only it hadn’t been like that. Not when she’d realised that she was actually expected to move into this room—that bed—alone, and had known that she couldn’t do it. That it was impossible. Unthinkable.

  An unbearable solitude—worse than any imagining.

  So she’d informed Daisy quietly that she’d prefer to sleep in her own bedroom for the time being, and the housekeeper, noting her pale face and tearless eyes, had tactfully not argued with her.

  And there the matter rested. In distance and estrangement.

  She’d explained, charmingly and ruefully, to anyone who asked that Marc was in serial business meetings and would join her as soon as he was free. But it was an excuse that sounded increasingly thin as a week had passed and edged into a fortnight without a word from him.

  She’d found this lack of communication unnerving, and eventually swallowed her pride and approached Alan Graham.

  ‘I was expecting Marc here this weekend,’ she had fibbed, fingers crossed in the pockets of her skirt. ‘But I’ve heard nothing—and I’ve stupidly mislaid his contact number in Paris. Do you know what’s happening?’

  ‘I certainly know that he’s not in Paris,’ Alan returned with a touch of dryness. ‘He left for Botswana several days ago, and is going on to Senegal. He’s unlikely to be back in Europe until next week, but even then I don’t think he has any immediate plans to visit the UK.’

  ‘I see.’ Another lie. She forced a smile, but the architect’s face remained impassive. ‘Well, perhaps his secretary could supply me with a copy of his itinerary—or let me know if there’s an opening in his schedule.’

  She expected him to offer an address, a telephone extension and a name, but he did none of those things.

  He hesitated perceptibly. ‘Marc is incredibly busy, Mrs Delaroche. It might be better to leave it to him to get in touch—don’t you think?’

  In other words, if Marc had wanted her to make the first contact he’d have supplied her with the means, she realised, mortified. And Alan Graham—not just her husband’s friend, but also his employee—had been instructed to block her, to keep her at a safe distance where she could not interfere with the way he lived his life.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, her voice stumbling over the word. ‘Of course.’

  As she turned to leave she saw an odd expression flicker in his eyes—something, she thought, which might have been pity. And her humiliation was complete.

  Even now she could remember how she’d gone out of the house and walked round the lake, struggling to come to terms with the fact that her marriage was already virtually over.

  Yes, she’d made him angry that last morning. But she’d been upset, and desperately hurt. So how could he behave as if he was the only injured party in all this? If he cared for her at all, wouldn’t he have been concerned more for her feelings and less for his own convenience?

  Suggesting she should accompany him to Paris had been an act of brutal cynicism. Surely he must have realised that admitting there was another woman in his life had robbed her of any chance of peace and happiness whenever he was away from her?

  Even now, when they were miles apart, she was still racked by jealousy and wretchedness. That last passionate, overwhelming night in France had done its work too well, creating a hunger that only he could assuage. But she was no longer a priority on his agenda.

  She’d turned and stared at the bulk of the house through eyes blurred with tears. Her kingdom, she’d thought, where she ruled alone, just as she’d wanted. Her kingdom and her prison.

  But even if Marc didn’t want her, his plans for the house were clearly still foremost in his mind.

  His team of craftsmen were still working flat out, over long hours, and she could only guess at the size of the wage bill being incurred. Also, the extra staff he’d insisted on were now in place—pleasant, efficient, and taking the pressure from George and Daisy. Far from feeling resentful, they were now talking cheerfully about the prospect of retirement on the pension that Marc had also set up for them.

  ‘But what would I do without you?’ Helen had asked, startled and distressed. ‘I rely on you both totally. You’re my family.’

  Daisy had patted her gently. ‘Everything changes, my dear. And you’ll be having a new family soon—a proper one, with Monsieur Marc.’

  Which, thought Helen, was almost a sick joke—under the circumstances.

  She’d tried to keep busy, to stop herself from thinking, bu
t apart from arranging the flowers and deciding what food to eat, there was little to occupy her at Monteagle, she had to admit. The place seemed to run like clockwork. Instead, she spent two days a week helping in a charity shop in Aldenford, and another afternoon pushing round the library trolley at the local cottage hospital.

  So she’d been out when the longed-for telephone call had come to say Marc would be arriving the next day.

  But her initial relief and elation had been dealt an immediate blow when Alan had informed her with faint awkwardness that this was simply a flying visit, to check on the progress of the house, and that Marc would be leaving again after lunch.

  She’d managed a word of quiet assent, then taken herself up to her room, where she’d collapsed across the bed, weeping uncontrollably.

  The next day she had departed early for a ceramics auction in a town twenty miles away. It had been purely a face-saving move. She had no particular interest in porcelain and pottery, and no intention of bidding on any of the lots.

  She’d arrived back at Monteagle just before lunch was served, and returned Marc’s cold greeting with equal reserve before eating her way through salmon mayonnaise and summer pudding as if she had an appetite, while Marc and Alan chatted together in French.

  The meal over, she had been about to excuse herself when Marc detained her with an imperative gesture. Alan quietly left them alone together, standing on opposite sides of the dining table.

  ‘The new staff? You find them acceptable?’ he’d asked abruptly.

  ‘Perfectly, thank you.’ She hesitated. ‘Of course it helps that they’re local people.’

  ‘And the house? The work continues to your satisfaction?’

  ‘It all looks wonderful,’ she said quietly. ‘But naturally I shall be glad when it’s over.’

  There was an odd silence before he said, ‘Then I hope for your sake, Hélène, that they continue to make the same progress and you are soon left in peace from all of this.’ His brief smile did not reach his eyes. ‘Au revoir,’ he added, and was gone.