Wedding Fever

by Lee Wilkinson

  Standing by her husband’s side, finishing her second glass of champagne, she decided that perhaps the secret of survival was to learn how to cope with the present and ignore the future. If she didn’t allow herself to think ahead or anticipate what the coming night would bring...

  Shivering, feeling her skin goose-flesh, she accepted another glass of champagne and gulped some down.

  She was starting to feel curiously lucid, light-headed, almost buoyant, when quite suddenly she saw that the real secret of survival was simple. All she needed to do was use her will-power.

  Nick had coerced her into marrying him, but it didn’t follow that she had to sleep with him. If she made it abundantly clear that she didn’t want him, he wasn’t the kind of man to force himself on an unwilling woman.

  Not even his wife.

  No doubt, after that testing time in his car, he was expecting an easy victory, a walk-over, but he’d soon get fed up and put an end to the farce if she resisted, fought him every step of the way and meant it... It might not be easy, but she could and would hold out against his magnetism...

  ‘You’re not eating.’ His voice, close to her ear, broke into her thoughts.

  ‘So?’

  Her militant tone made his fair, well-marked brows draw together in a frown. ‘So I’ll get you something.’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m not hungry.’

  He seemed about to remonstrate when Martha appeared and came over to them.

  ‘You make a lovely bride.’ The housekeeper smiled tremulously. ‘No wonder your dad’s proud of you.’

  As Raine gave the elderly woman a one-armed hug Nick queried, ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Right as ninepence,’ Martha confirmed. ‘And before I forget, here’s the key. I’d better give it to the one with pockets...’

  A moment later Ralph had put a glass in his housekeeper’s hand, and, an arm around her shoulders, was leading her across to the buffet to ply her with smoked salmon and caviare.

  ‘More champagne?’ The best man approached the bridal pair, wielding a bottle of Dom Perignon.

  ‘I think not.’ Nick answered for both of them, adding smoothly, ‘We haven’t much time.’

  ‘Why haven’t we much time?’ Raine asked as Finn turned away to refill the bridesmaid’s glass. Her words were very slightly slurred.

  ‘Because we have to get started soon... Our honeymoon, remember?’ His eyes challenged her.

  ‘But I thought... I haven’t packed...’

  ‘Martha’s done it for you. She slipped away straight after the service, and your case is now in the trunk of our waiting taxi.’

  Forestalling any argument, he added, ‘She also brought your going-away clothes, and there’s a room off to the left where you can change.’

  When Raine made no immediate move, he relieved her of the glass and, smiling wolfishly, offered, ‘I’ll come and give you a hand to get out of that dress.’

  ‘No!’ Her slightly tipsy confidence instantly fled. A desperate glance showed Margo with Finn, her auburn head and his dark one close together, deep in conversation. ‘I can manage.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Nick said. Disposing of their empty glasses, he collected his bride’s bouquet and propelled her towards a low door set in the panelling. ‘You’d have to be double-jointed to reach all those tiny buttons.’

  Having switched on the light, he ducked his head and followed her into a small, windowless room with a refectory table and chairs and polished oak floorboards. Closing the door behind him, he turned the large ornate key in the lock.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Even in her own ears her voice sounded high and frightened.

  ‘Making sure no one barges in while you’re getting changed. Did you think I was about to throw you on the floor and ravish you?’

  When she just stared at him, with huge scared eyes, he said with a touch of violence, ‘Don’t you know your very desperation tempts me to do just that?’

  With quiet, dangerous intent he moved towards her.

  Oh, no. She couldn’t be put to the test this soon. Not when she was unprepared. Unable to help herself, she backed away until she was brought up short by the panelled wall.

  He put a hand each side of her head, palms flat against the wood, trapping her there.

  Midnight-blue eyes caught and held green. ‘Well, my sweet, reluctant bride?’

  His lean, attractive face was too close, his beautiful mouth only inches from hers. Her heart began to beat with suffocating speed and heat engulfed her, her will wanting to deny but her body craving what he threatened.

  Seeing his eyes darken with conscious and dangerous comprehension, she was beset by fright. If he once made love to her she would go up like ignited straw, all hope of resistance at an end. Then he would own her body and soul, and she’d be lost.

  Somehow she found her voice and remarked carefully, deliberately, ‘I thought as a rule you weren’t in favour of “a quick bang”.’

  His almost imperceptible blink told her that she’d startled him, but his voice was smooth as velvet when he said, ‘I could make an exception.’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’ She tried to sound blasé. ‘You promised me a comfortable bed and...’ Recalling exactly what he’d said, she faltered to a halt.

  What could have been a gleam of amused admiration appeared in his eyes, before he finished for her, ‘A long, slow seduction... Very well. If that’s how you want it.’

  The next second he had stepped back and was ordering briskly, ‘Turn around.’

  Removing the circlet of flowers with its cobwebby veil, he tossed it onto the table and, brushing her hair aside, with deft fingers unfastened the long row of tiny covered buttons. Then, sliding the heavy, rustling material from her shoulders, he allowed the lined dress to fall in stiff swirls around her silk-clad ankles.

  As she stood in her dainty bra and briefs, his hands still resting on her upper arms, he bent and touched his mouth to her spine, his tongue-tip registering every slight bump and hollow between her shoulderblades and nape.

  The sensation was almost unbearably erotic, and she shivered.

  Drawing her back against him, he cupped her small, beautifully shaped breasts in his palms and, running his thumbs lightly over the lace, nuzzled his face against the side of her neck.

  She made a small choked sound of protest.

  While one hand held her prisoner the other slid up her slender throat to grip her chin and turn her face towards his. It was a lean, strong hand, long and elegant, beautifully modelled—a hand that knew how to be incredibly tender and passionate as well as ruthless.

  Feeling a surge of desire, she closed her eyes, afraid of what he might read in them, while she waited helplessly for his kiss.

  He looked down at her intently, studying the winged brows and long sweep of black lashes, the pale curve of her cheek against his dark-suited shoulder.

  ‘My poor sacrificial lamb,’ he murmured mockingly.

  And then she was free, staggering a little with the suddenness of it, until he put out a steadying hand and helped her step out of the crisp folds of ivory silk.

  The small case containing her going-away things had been placed on a chair. While Nick picked up her dress and wedding shoes Raine hastily pulled on a slip and a mint-green suit in fine wool with a cream blouse. Brown leather court shoes and her shoulder-bag completed the ensemble.

  Having discarded his buttonhole, he asked briskly, ‘Ready?’

  At home she might have been able to cope, but now, faced with a honeymoon trip she dreaded... ‘Where...?’ Her voice cracked, and, moistening dry lips, she tried again. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To the airport.’

  ‘And then where?’

  ‘Boston.’

  After the meeting with Tina had opened her eyes and made her realise what an abject fool she’d been, the place had come to hold such bitter memories that she’d hoped never to see it again.

  With his almost uncanny insight
as far as she was concerned Nick must have been aware of that, yet he still planned to take her there.

  Anger boiling up, guessing that he’d chosen Boston deliberately to pay her back for her previous lack of co-operation, she rode the blow—perhaps she’d half expected it—and, gritting her teeth, informed him, ‘I haven’t got my passport.’ Then, with a kind of desperate hope, she added, ‘I’m not even sure where it is.’

  Imperturbably, he informed her, ‘I have it.’

  Unlocking the door, he took her hand and taunted her. ‘All you need to do is pick up your bouquet and present a picture of a radiantly happy bride.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  TO HER eternal credit, she did just that.

  As soon as she had kissed her father, and Nick had shaken his hand, they made their farewells, and, amidst a shower of rice and rose petals, crossed the cobbles to the waiting taxi.

  Raine paused briefly to toss her bouquet for Margo to catch, then Nick helped her into the back of the cab and they drove off, smiling and waving to the little group standing in the October sunshine until they were out of sight.

  As soon as the need for pretence was gone, the cloak of happiness dropped away, and she sat stiff and silent, looking straight ahead, knowing what she had to face.

  What made it so much worse was her unwilling attraction—she would no longer call it love, even to herself—to a man who neither liked nor respected her.

  Realising that he’d felt nothing for her but lust, she had emerged from their first encounter feeling shamed and degraded. So how was she to survive a marriage founded on such a basis? It would be torture.

  But if you walked into a torture chamber and agreed to be tortured, you could hardly complain about the pain.

  Reaching across, Nick took her hand. When she tried to pull it away he merely tightened his grip. ‘Listen to me, Raine. We’re man and wife now, for better or for worse, so why not try to make it better?’

  ‘You must be joking!’ she cried fiercely. ‘It’s like asking an innocent person who’s been put on the rack to make the best of it, not to mind what torment it is...’

  Almost wearily, he said, ‘It doesn’t have to be like that. You know as well as I do that we could be happy together. We enjoy each other’s company, we share many of the same tastes and sexually we’re compatible, to say the very least...’

  Going hot and cold by turns, she scarcely even listened; only his last few words penetrated her misery and pricked her. If he thought he could turn her into some kind of sexual puppet where her will-power counted for nothing, he was mistaken...

  ‘As for the rest, all we need is some kind of compromise—a willingness on both sides to live together amicably.’ He squeezed the hand he was holding and coaxed, ‘Why don’t we call a truce? We can’t go on making each other’s lives a misery...’

  When he looked at her with that almost irresistible appeal in his midnight-blue eyes she felt her angry resolve crumbling. She wanted to agree, wanted to banish the misery and find some kind of happiness.

  But what happiness could she possibly find with a man who was arrogant and callous and quite determined to use her?

  And why should she make it easy for him?

  ‘Can’t we?’ Snatching her hand free, she spurned the olive branch.

  He sighed. ‘If you’d only stop fighting and look at things sensibly—’

  ‘By “sensibly” you mean become a willing plaything until you decide you’ve had enough? No, thanks, I’d prefer to fight!’

  His face hardened into stone. ‘Then I’ll just have to make sure that I win.’

  The battle lines were drawn.

  Their plane to Boston took off on time, and Raine, headachy from too much champagne and the accumulated tensions of the day, was thankful to leave the hubbub of the airport behind.

  After the confrontation in the taxi, Nick had gone back to treating her with a polite aloofness, which, while oddly chilling, now left her free to pretend an avid interest in the paperback he’d bought her at Gatwick.

  The flight proved to be smooth and uneventful. But, though Raine had been sleeping badly of late, with so much on her mind she was unable to rest—nor, despite Nick’s frown, was she able to eat the meal she was served with.

  The international airport stood on a peninsula facing the city, and as they circled to land she could see the bridges spanning the Charles River and the lights of Boston spread out below them like a bejewelled carpet.

  When all the necessary formalities had been completed, Nick secured a taxi for their half-hour journey and helped Raine in.

  As he took his seat beside her his thigh brushed hers, and involuntarily she moved further away. In the glow of the courtesy light she saw his jaw tighten, but he said nothing as he closed the door.

  On her original visit to history-steeped, leafy Boston Raine had fallen head over heels in love with the place. Now, seeing it again, she felt she could recapture her earlier feeling of delight if only she could divorce it from the unhappy memories.

  But that seemed to be impossible.

  As the taxi drew up in Mecklenburg Place the door of number eight opened and yellow light spilled down the steps. It was like a re-run of the previous time, and just for an eerie instant Raine expected her uncle to appear.

  But it was Mrs Epsling—a neatly dressed middle-aged woman with a pleasant face and soft brown hair—who came out to meet them.

  The housekeeper greeted Raine with a friendly smile and, while Nick paid the taxi driver and dealt with the luggage, ushered her up the steps and into the hall.

  ‘It’s nice to see you again, Miss Marlowe... I’m sorry—Mrs Marlowe...’

  ‘It’s nice to be back,’ Raine lied.

  ‘We were all delighted to hear the news of the wedding, and on behalf of the staff I’d like to give you our best wishes for the future.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Did you have a good flight?’ she asked, then added with concern, ‘You look absolutely worn out.’

  Head splitting, limbs aching, Raine admitted, ‘I am a bit tired.’

  ‘If you’d like to go straight upstairs...?’

  ‘Yes, I would.’

  ‘Then I’ll bring you a bite to eat on a tray.’

  ‘Please don’t bother. I’m not a bit hungry. I just want to get to bed.’

  ‘I expect it’s the time difference after the excitement of the day,’ Mrs Espling said practically as she led the way up the graceful staircase.

  Momentarily caught in a time-warp, Raine turned towards the room she’d used previously, but the housekeeper touched her arm and, opening a door to the left, showed her into the master bedroom. ‘If there’s anything you want, just ring.’

  ‘Thank you, you’re very kind.’ But all Raine wanted was to lie down and sleep until she felt more able to cope.

  As she glanced around the cream and gold elegantly furnished room, with its Regency striped wallpaper and elaborate cornices, a thin, fair-haired young man she recognised as Mrs Espling’s son carried in her suitcase and placed it on a carved chest at the foot of the bed.

  ‘Mr Marlowe said to give you this.’ He handed her the key to the case.

  ‘Thank you.’ She summoned up a smile.

  A quiet, efficient youth of few words, he gave her a respectful nod and departed.

  When the door had clicked to she stood staring at the king-sized bed she would soon be expected to share with Nick.

  A bed he must have shared with Tina.

  Now that it was too late she wished with all her heart that she had chosen a honeymoon destination—as far from Boston as it was possible to get.

  A shudder running through her, she unfastened her case. Ignoring the ivory satin nightgown and negligee that Martha had thoughtfully placed on top, alongside her toilet bag, Raine rummaged until she found a cotton nightdress and her old fleecy dressing-gown.

  Off to the left was a cream-tiled luxuriously fitted en suite bathroom. Having showered and cleaned her
teeth there with a kind of fierce concentration, she returned to the bedroom, switched off the light, climbed into bed and, closing her eyes, lay shivering, trying not to think of what lay ahead.

  Perhaps if she was asleep when he came... Though it was a forlorn hope, she clung to it.

  But, tired as she was, sleep stubbornly refused to come, and tense, on edge, she waited, listening anxiously for the sound of Nick’s footsteps.

  When he came, it was quietly—only the slight click of the latch warning her of his approach. Then she heard the door close softly and the brush of his light tread across the carpet.

  Though she kept her eyes closed tightly and tried to breathe with the shallow evenness of sleep, she was aware that he had switched on the bedside lamp and was standing looking down at her.

  Stooping until his lips almost brushed her ear, he whispered, ‘I know you’re not asleep, so you may as well stop pretending... Unless you’re waiting for me to treat you like Sleeping Beauty?’

  Her eyelids flew open, and he laughed softly.

  He had discarded his jacket and tie and was in his shirtsleeves. His thick fair hair slightly rumpled, his jaw roughened by the beginnings of a golden stubble, he looked devastatingly attractive and charismatic.

  ‘Head aching?’ he queried, studying her pain-shadowed eyes, her look of white-faced exhaustion.

  ‘Yes,’ she admitted hesitantly, wondering if he was going to jeer, to tell her tauntingly that it was too soon for the classic excuse.

  Instead, he ordered briskly, ‘Then sit up.’

  When, hitching up the pillows, she obeyed, he settled himself on the edge of the bed and handed her a mug of hot milk well laced with brandy.

  ‘I hate hot milk,’ she objected.

  Ignoring her surliness, he gave her a couple of round white tablets. ‘Take these. They’ll cure your headache and help you to get to sleep quickly.’

  Seeing the surprise she was unable to hide, he queried sardonically, ‘Unless you want to consummate our marriage tonight?’

  She shook her head.

  Watching her hastily swallow the tablets and begin to gulp the milk, he smiled derisively. ‘No, I rather thought not. And as you obviously aren’t in any condition to fight...’