A Secure Marriage

by Diana Hamilton

  She should never have dreamed up the idea, and clearly she was getting nowhere. The slow burn of anger started inside her, making her hate herself for the foolishness that had brought her to this totally humiliating position, hate Robert Fenton for the slimy, blackmailing creep he was, hate Jude Mescal for taking her vulnerability and examining it like something curious on the end of a pin.

  She started to scramble to her feet, wanting nothing more than to get away from those coolly analytical eyes, but his voice stopped her.

  'I can gather, roughly, what you would stand to gain from marriage. But it involves two. So can you tell me what I would get out of a situation I've spent my adult life steering well clear of?'

  The slightly sardonic lift of heavy black brows, the look of superiority and distance the gesture imparted to his unforgettably strong features boosted the slow fuse of her anger, creating an explosion that erupted in scalding words.

  'Rumour has it that you've never committed yourself to a woman because you're afraid of tying yourself to a gold-digger,' she snapped insultingly. 'If you married me you'd know I hadn't married you for your money. I've more than enough of my own—or will have! And I inherit a sizeable block of Slade Securities shares, which I could be persuaded to turn over to you—and I'd have thought that might interest you more than somewhat! And if that isn't enough--'

  Enough to be going along with,' he interrupted, and she was glad of that, because she'd run out of reasons, and all she had left was hot air and bluster.

  The shares had been her best card; if he married her and she gave him her voting rights he would have the majority shareholding, and that, surely, would be tempting to a man such as he.

  She held her breath, her heart pumping, sensing she had his interest now, and he commented, rising to his feet, almost smiling, 'May I have time to give your-- he hesitated, but only fractionally '—your delightful offer the consideration it merits?' And, taking the carefully blank expression on her face for acquiescence, he glanced at his watch and returned his attention to the papers strewn on his desk.

  'I shall be away over the weekend and in Brussels on Monday. So shall we have dinner on Monday evening?' His eyes drifted over her slender height as she pushed herself to her feet, making her feel uncharacteristically gauche, dry-mouthed and tongue-tied. 'I'll send Thornwood to pick you up at seven-thirty.'

  Cleo left her car on the sweep of gravel at the front of Slade House and carried her overnight grip towards the impressive Edwardian building. She rarely visited now, but she needed to see her uncle and aunt, to reassure herself that she was doing the right thing in not allowing herself to follow her instincts and tell Fenton to go ahead and do his worst because she wouldn't give him one of her nail parings!

  She hadn't phoned to let them know to expect her; her mind had been edgy, jumpily occupied with trying to work out how Jude's 'considerations' would take him, which way he would jump. She had learned to anticipate the way his mind worked when it came to complicated dealings in his capacity of chief executive of one of the most successful merchant banks in the City.

  But this was different, very different. And the more she had tried to extend her own mind, to tune it in to his, the more confused and uncertain she had become. She couldn't get him out of her mind.

  When the butler opened the door she wiped the frown from her brow, her voice level and cool, 'Good afternoon, Simmons. Is my aunt in?' then walked past him into the huge hall. 'They're not expecting me, I'm afraid.' She surrendered her camel trenchcoat, her cream kid gloves, the overnight grip, and the butler's expressionless mask gave nothing away; not ' surprise, certainly not pleasure. No one, not even the servants in this huge luxurious house, was spendthrift when it came to displaying emotions, or in having emotions, quite probably.

  'Mrs Slade is in the drawing-room, miss. I'll see your things are taken to your room.'

  'Thank you, Simmons.' She turned away, her graceful stride taking her over the polished parquet to find her aunt.

  Ten years ago she had been fourteen years old, and she had come to this house because her parents had been drowned when their yacht had capsized in a freak storm off the Cornish coast. She had looked, then, for affection, warmth—for mere interest, even—but had found nothing save a cool concern for her material well-being. She had been luxuriously housed, fed the right food, sent to the right schools, but that was as far as the caring had gone. She had never found the warmth of affection she had so desperately craved in those first terrible years of bereavement. And as she had grown older she had learned to do without it.

  Only her uncle had ever taken any interest in her. He had seen her as a person, with needs of her own, fears and hopes of her own, rather than just another responsibility. He was fond of her, she knew, in his own abstracted way. But he had been more often in his office than at home and she had seen little of him. And when he had gone into semi-retirement, due to illness, she, of course, had been living and studying in London, visiting rarely.

  Grace Slade was in the drawing-room, a tea-tray on a low table beside her.

  She was a spare, formidably handsome woman and it was a beautiful room, perfect. But then the Slades demanded perfection in everything, even in people. It was hard to live up to such standards.

  'This is a surprise.' Her aunt's voice was coloured with asperity, just a tinge of it, and Cleo sighed. She should have phoned, would have done, but her mind had been in a tangle.

  She sank down on a Regency sofa which was upholstered in oyster brocade and said, Td like to stay overnight, drive back tomorrow after lunch.' She was stating her right to be here, using cool dignity. This house was her home, her aunt one of her guardians, for another year. Inhibiting, but a fact.

  And Grace had taught her by example how to stand on her dignity. Yes, her aunt had taught her well. But sometimes Cleo wondered if the sterility of dignity, of the austere self-command she had learned to wear like a cloak, made her lacking as a human being. Wondered if the suppression of deep emotion was a loss, turning her into a machine, programmed to display good manners, breeding and dedication to the duty which was the good standing of the family.

  But now, looking at her aunt—poised, elegant, in perfect control—Cleo decided that she had probably chosen the right path when she had sought to please by emulation, all those years ago, when gaining the approval of her aunt, and possibly her affection, had been something she had striven for.

  And her single foray into the realm of emotion had been a disaster, landing her in her present sordid predicament. It would never happen again.

  'Shall I ring for fresh tea?' Grace wanted to know, her eyes dispassionate.

  'You look tired after your drive.'

  As well she might, Cleo thought drily, but it had nothing to do with the drive. Two sleepless nights in a row, the image of Jude Mescal tormenting her mind, would hardly make her look sparkling. But she said, 'No tea for me, thank you, Aunt. How is Uncle?'

  'As well as can be expected. He frets about the business, which doesn't help.

  As I've repeatedly told him, it's in Luke's hands now.'

  They talked for a while, their conversation polite but wary, until Cleo excused herself and went to find her uncle. He was in the library, the most comfortable room in the house in Cleo's opinion, sitting on the leather chesterfield, a photograph album open on his knees.

  'The older I get the more I tend to peer into the past,' was his greeting. Cleo wasn't surprised; Uncle John often came out with such statements, seemingly apropos of nothing, it was one of the humanising things about him that had made her fonder of him than she was of either her aunt or her cousin Luke. 'No one told me you were coming.' His mild eyes questioned her and she sat down beside him, sinking into the squashy leather.

  'No one knew. I just arrived—it was a spur of the moment decision.'

  'Ah.' He looked vaguely puzzled, as if he couldn't comprehend a decision being taken, just like that. Years of living with Aunt Grace had made him very careful, ver
y precise, leaving nothing to. chance.

  'And how are you?' Her smoky eyes searched his face. He looked older, much more frail than when she'd seen him last a couple of months ago.

  'I'm as well as can be expected, so they tell me.' A fleeting look of terror, so brief it almost wasn't there— because the occupants of Slade House didn't betray emotion, even fear of dying—flickered over his gaunt features, and Cleo, understanding, changed the subject.

  'Is Luke expected home this weekend?' She hoped not. Her cousin was pompous and stiff, he always had been, even when he'd been seventeen to her fourteen and she'd tried to make friends with the only young person in a household that had seemed to consist of elderly, rigid machines. But he had been pompous even then, standoffish, making it clear he didn't like her, considered her addition to the household an invasion of privacy. Luke's attitude had been primarily responsible for her decision to seek work elsewhere, rather than join the family firm of Slade Securities.

  'No, he's tied up with some meetings. Look--' a finger stabbed at the open album on his knee, as if he found the subject of Luke too difficult to talk about, and Cleo wondered if she'd touched a sore spot, reminding John Slade of the spiteful piece in that gossip column that had pointed out the other side of his son's character—the reckless, belligerent, hidden side. 'That's your father and me. A village cricket match well over fifty years ago. I was sixteen, your father almost eighteen.'

  Cleo peered at the faded print; two youths in white flannels, holding bats, looking impossibly solemn. She grinned, recognising the jut of her father's jaw, an early indication of the stubborn, determined character he would develop in later life. And John Slade, mistaking the reason for her amusement, shook his head, 'It's probably impossible for you to imagine us as ever being young men, or children. But we were, my goodness we were!

  We were both high-spirited, a little arrogant, and we knew where we were going—or thought we did.' His shoulders slumped a little, his eyes looking into the distant past. 'I'm afraid we both left it late to marry, to get a family, your father even later than I—so you young things must think we were born old! But I can assure you, that wasn't the case!'

  'You must still miss him,' Cleo probed gently. At times she still keenly felt the loss of both her parents, and perhaps that was something that might draw her closer to her uncle. For the first time in her adult life she felt she needed to be close to someone, and her uncle touched her hand, just briefly, as if such a demonstration of affection embarrassed him. But it was enough, and his fingers still touched the surface of the photograph, as if he could recapture lost days, lost youth, through the sense of touch—as if he were holding on to a past that was precious because it had held promises, promises which had never been truly fulfilled, she now divined with sudden insight.

  And then, in that moment, sitting beside the man whose years were all behind him, she knew she couldn't bring the bitterness of family shame to darken his declining years or, maybe and quite possibly, deprive him of those few remaining years.

  Her decision to pay Fenton what he demanded had been the right one. And the only way she could gain access to her inheritance straight away was through marriage. So her proposal to Jude had been the only way out.

  And then, out of nowhere, the appalled thought came: What have I done?

  She had asked for the Frozen Asset's hand in marriage, that was what she had done! And, the right, the only thing to do, suddenly became terrifying.

  What his final decision would be, heaven only •;new. He'd probably fire her and suggest she spend the next six months in a rest home!

  She wanted to give way to the unprecedented feeling of hysteria she could feel building up inside her—to shriek and scream and hurl things around the room to relieve the pressure inside her head. Instead, she asked her uncle if he'd like her to go with him for a short walk in the garden—the weather was remarkably good for the time of year, wasn't it?

  She had been jittery all day, Jude on her mind making her unable to concentrate. She kept thinking of the enormity of what she had done in asking him to marry her, and she wanted to buy a plane ticket to the other side of the world.

  She had thought that marriage to such a suitable man would be the answer to her problems. Her intellect had assured her that she would not enter such a business arrangement—which was basically what the marriage would be—empty-handed, far from it, and she was presentable, she wouldn't be a wife he need be ashamed of. And as far as she knew there wasn't a lovely lady in the background—not one he had considered marrying, at least. He was reputedly wary where the state of matrimony was concerned.

  There would probably be women for him in the future; she didn't doubt that he possessed his full measure of male sexuality. But provided he was discreet she would be tolerant, understanding. And the hot little pain that made itself felt at the direction her thoughts were taking was solely due to her state of apprehension over the outcome of his 'considerations'—surely it was?

  However, what had seemed such a neatly feasible idea began to look like a crass, idiotic blunder. Crasser and more idiotic as the minutes ticked away, their growing total an insupportable weight as Monday morning turned into Monday afternoon...

  Unable to bear the suddenly stifling confines of her office a moment longer, she left early, taking the tube back to Bow and entering her own small terraced house, looking for the relief it always gave her.

  Her home was her sanctuary, inviolate, the furnishings, the decor, echoing her own cool yet gentle character. It had provided a haven during her years of study and, later, a place to unwind in, to potter around wearing old jeans and shirts after the concentrated mind- stretching that being at Jude Mescal's beck and call all day often entailed.

  But this afternoon tranquillity had been forced through the walls as her thoughts, despite all her best efforts, centred on the outcome of her dinner engagement with him later this evening.

  Catching sight of herself in the mirror in the hallway, she stopped in her tracks. It was like looking at a crazy woman! Her grey eyes looked haunted, half wild with worry, and far too large for her pale, pointed face.

  One look at such a distraught creature, she decided, would be enough to put any man off the idea of marriage—let alone Jude Mescal, who was definitely choosier than most.

  And if she were to arrive at his house looking even half-way normal then it was time to take herself firmly in hand, she decided grimly. Deliberately assuming the cloak of self-command, of dignity, that her years with the austere Grace Slade had taught her to wear with ease, she ran a bath, pouring in expensive essence, then relaxed in the perfumed water, planning what she would wear, wondering if she could make time to give herself a facial. She didn't look further ahead than that. She dared not—not if she was to remain in control of herself.

  At seven-thirty precisely she was stepping into the Rolls, her voice light and pleasant as she replied to a remark Thornwood had made about the mildness of the weather.

  Thornwood was a dear, one of a dying breed, Jude often said. Cleo had met him and his wife, Meg, on several occasions and had marvelled at how well they ran Jude's house between them. They made it a home.

  As the luxurious car whispered through the streets towards the quiet square in Belgravia where Jude lived, Cleo took stock. The discipline she had at last been able to bring to her preparations for this evening had transformed her from near nervous wreck into a composed, sophisticated young woman—the sort who would never get the jitters over anything—the sort of creature she had been until she had decided to propose to Jude Mescal, she admitted with a wry half-smile.

  He could only say no, and if he did she would have to think of some other way out of the mess she was in. And if he did say no, it wouldn't be because she looked like a crazy woman!

  Her black silk dress, falling in wide pleats from a high square yoke and supported by two narrow ribbon straps, was vaguely twenties in style, rather expensive, and the perfect foil for her slender height, fo
r the pale silver gilt of her hair which hung in a shimmering, newly washed curve to her jawline.

  No, her image wouldn't let her down tonight, and as long as she could control her nerves—and her temper if he should turn scathing or flippant—then she would be able to manage perfectly. That he might actually agree to marry her, and solve the problem of Fenton, was something she thought it wiser not to consider just now. It was, on the whole, rather too much to hope for, and if she didn't allow herself to hope then she wouldn't be too disappointed when he replied in the negative, as any right-minded man would do.

  Even thinking along those lines brought a sudden return of the hated stomach-churning apprehension—to come out of this evening's encounter with her job intact was the most she could hope for—but her inner disturbance wasn't allowed to show as Thornwood held the car door open for her.

  She slid the elegant length of her silk-clad legs to the pavement and walked with all her customary grace up the steps towards the panelled front door which Meg already held open in welcome.

  CHAPTER THREE

  JUDE turned as Meg ushered Cleo into the drawing-room. He held a glass in his hand and had been apparently lost in contemplation of a misty seascape which hung above the Adam fireplace. Strange—the thought brushed Cleo's mind fleetingly—why the intent scrutiny when he must know the painting brush-stroke by brush-stroke? And he had once told her that he didn't much like it but hadn't the heart to throw it out since he had inherited it from his uncle, along with this house.

  Her knees shook a little; he looked so improbably handsome in the formal elegance of his dinner-jacket, and now she was looking at him with different eyes. She was accustomed to reacting to him on a business level, regarding him as a much-liked, respected boss, and the way he looked just didn't come into it. But it was coming into it now, and it shouldn't because what she had suggested had, after all, been a business arrangement.