A Bride To Honor

by Arlene James

  “You heard us? You listened?”

  “It was painfully obvious what she intended, and perhaps I shouldn’t have gone to Betina with the information, but of course, I couldn’t know at the time that you were planning to turn her down. When she told me this morning...well, all I can say is that perhaps in future she’ll think twice before she throws herself at a man so obviously beyond her.”

  Rage such as he had never known seized Paul. To think that William had stood there in the darkness and listened to them plan to make love and then to know that Paul had walked out on her... That he had taken the news to Betina was incidental, though it explained her sudden change of mind concerning the role of Jane, but the thought that William—smarmy, unctuous, icy William—had witnessed both Cassidy’s bold generosity and her despair was enough to make Paul react with a violent urge he never knew he had.

  Paul reached up with one hand and clamped it around William’s throat. Ignoring the harsh cry that gurgled out of William’s mouth, Paul lifted him off the ground. “You stupid, insensitive son of a bitch. I ought to rip your throat out. Don’t you dare talk about your sister as if she was some pathetic spinster desperately misreading the interest of every man she meets! If I ever hear you speak of her in such a manner again I’ll break you into so many pieces they’ll never find them all! Do you understand me?”

  William managed a nod, his eyes bulging for lack of air. Only after he’d dropped him, choking and coughing, to the floor did Paul realize that he was surrounded by babbling voices and shocked faces. He looked around at the wary group watching him with wide eyes and found that he possessed neither the energy nor the emotion to give a flip what they thought of him or his actions. He sent one cold look at Betina, announced flatly that rehearsal was canceled, calmly stepped over William and headed for the door.

  To hell with them all. Let them think whatever they liked, Betina included. No, Betina especially. He was through rolling over and playing dead for her. That was odd, for now that he felt dead inside, he found he couldn’t pretend even minimally to care what she thought, said or did. He would do what he had to, including marry her if she insisted, and he had no doubt that she would, but never would he let her or anyone else believe for a moment that he could feel for her even a fraction of what he felt for Cassidy Penno. If a forced marriage was what she wanted, a forced marriage was what she’d get and not a damned iota more. She could have her wedding, and then they’d both live in hell. He had already moved in, and for once he didn’t care if she moved in with him.

  Chapter Eight

  Paul’s mood did not lighten. After the fiasco at practice it was decided—he didn’t ask by whom—that the schedule would be revised to just one night a week. After all, as Betina put it, there were precious few lines to learn and William had talked her through the part already. She made it sound as if it were a walk in the park beginning to end, as if research hadn’t been done, a script written, scenes designed, stages built, props found, parts assigned, blocking established, costumes created, lighting and sound provided and a good deal of direction already received. Cassidy had done all the hard, creative work; now Betina walked in, snagged the spotlight and derided all that had gone before. If he’d had more energy and if speaking Cassidy’s name to Betina hadn’t felt like desecration, he’d have set the witch straight on a few things, but lately it was all he could do just to get through the days. The nights... The nights were an agony he could only endure.

  The night of his uncle John’s sixty-third birthday was no exception. Paul would have forgotten it completely if Carl, John’s brother and Betina’s stepfather, had not reminded Paul that he’d offered his home for the family celebration. Reluctantly, Paul went through the motions of organizing a dinner party, which consisted of informing his housekeeper and cook that they would be eight for dinner and calling down to the specialty bakery to have a cake decorated in honor of the occasion. He picked up the cake on his way home from work, then stopped by the liquor store and bought four bottles of champagne. Luckily the housekeeper had ordered a flower arrangement for the dinner table. Paul started upstairs intending to shower and change, but he passed the liquor cabinet on his way and decided it wouldn’t hurt to begin bracing himself for an evening spent in company with Betina and the family. He was fairly well “braced” by the time his cousin Joyce Spencer Thomas and her husband, Cal, arrived, beaming like a pair of thousand-watt bulbs.

  Joyce couldn’t keep her exultation to herself. She refused the drink that Paul offered her, sent a gleefully conspiratorial look at her husband and blurted that she was, at last, pregnant. Uncle Carl and Aunt Jewel Barclay arrived right on the heels of the announcement, bringing with them Betina’s regrets, and Paul found himself in the mood for a real celebration. He broke out the champagne immediately, brushing aside suggestions that perhaps they ought to wait for the honoree and Joyce’s mother Mary to arrive. If anyone noticed Paul had already imbibed twice as much alcohol as was characteristic, no one said so. By the time dinner was actually served, he was feeling rather mellow. Unfortunately mellow became maudlin as talk centered on Joyce and Cal’s impending new arrival.

  “Just think,” Mary Spencer gushed, still basking in the joy of the announcement, “I’m actually going to be a grandmother!”

  Jewel sent a hopeful glance in Paul’s direction and said meaningfully; “Perhaps next year we’ll both be grandparrents!”

  Paul snorted into his glass. “As if Betina would sacrifice her figure for a child! No, no, face it, Aunt Jewel. You’ll never be a grandmother. I’ll never be a father. We are sacrifices at the shrine of Betina’s obsession, you and I, sacrifices. Yes, that about sums it up, sacrifices.”

  He didn’t notice the appalled silence that fell over the assembly as he drained his glass and reached for the champagne bottle again. He had not touched his dinner. The scampi and medallions of beef looked appetizing enough, but he simply hadn’t managed to get to it yet. Perhaps if he could slake his thirst...

  John took it upon himself to change the subject. “How is the business? Things going well? I only ask because you seem, well, troubled.”

  Paul waved a hand dismissively. “We’ll know better after the first of the year. I’d be hopeful except for all the interference I’m getting. It’s damned irritating to have someone work against your every decision.” Everyone knew who that someone was. He didn’t have to identify her. Looks were traded.

  Jewel focused on her plate. Carl cleared his throat and said heartily, “Well, I’m sure things will come right once you and Betina are married. She’ll forget about dabbling in the business and focus on you.” He smiled almost apologetically at his wife and received a hand squeeze for it. That seemed to give him the incentive to go on. “Love does that to a woman,” he said.

  Paul set his glass down with a thunk. “Love! Love? Are you insane?” The very idea of him and Betina being in love was absurd to the point of hilarity. So he laughed. And laughed. Until he saw the look on Aunt Jewel’s face. Poor Aunt Jewel, with a daughter like Betina, she was bound to live a life full of disappointment. God knew she’d tried to be a good mother, but serpents made lousy daughters—and wives—which was nothing to laugh about. He sighed and reached for his glass again, tossing back the contents in a single gulp. His head buzzed for several moments, the sound seeming to come from behind his eyes. He rubbed them with the heels of his palms, wanting nothing so much as a moment’s peace. When he looked up again, the sound receding, it was to find his aunt and uncle both staring at him in near horror.

  Jewel placed her hands on either side of her plate, intently forming her words. “Paul, are you saying... That is, you’re sincere when you say...when you imply that you and...that you aren’t in love?”

  He closed his eyes and pressed his fingertips to his temples, which were aching vaguely. He really didn’t have the time or the energy for this. “Aunt Jewel,” he said, striving for the right note, “you can’t honestly believe that Betina and I are a love match.�
�

  “But you were...uh, last year you were...”

  “Having an affair?” he finished for her impatiently. “Yes, well, she managed that beautifully. In fact, she parlayed it into marriage by blackmail.” His temples were throbbing now, and gall burned the back of his throat. He began to wonder if he wasn’t going to embarrass himself in front of his dinner guests. Better wrap this up. He got to his feet, swaying slightly, and proclaimed, “Don’t worry, I’ll marry her.” He looked around the table, vaguely aware that the expressions that greeted him were troubled. He sighed and moved away from the table, muttering. “For your sakes, I’ll marry her, and for your sakes I’ll keep her greedy, interfering little paws out of the business. A sacrifice,” he said to himself. “I’m your damned sacrifice.” He left them sitting there and climbed the stairs, intent upon nothing more than making it to his bedroom before he passed out—or worse.

  He looked at the glass of fizzing, hissing bromide on his desk and remembered again why he usually confined his alcohol consumption to a single drink per occasion. Had his head been smaller or his gut made of something other than cold rubber, he’d have worried about the family’s reaction, but even on his best days lately he couldn’t quite seem to care as much as he should about the things he should. The intercom on his speaker phone buzzed and Gladys’s frantic voice split his skull.

  “Miss Lincoln is here, and she won’t—” the door crashed open; Betina strode through it and slammed it again “—listen. I tried to tell her you couldn’t be disturbed, but—”

  Ignoring Betina, Paul depressed the send button on the intercom, cutting off Gladys and saying cryptically, “My fault. I should’ve bought you a gun.”

  Gladys’s voice buzzed right back at him. “Sir?”

  “It was a joke, Gladys. Unfortunately I’m not in a joking mood. Never mind.”

  He lifted the glass hissing at him from his blotter and leaned back in his chair, allowing his gaze to drift to Betina. He lifted both brows. Or was it Betina hissing at him? He wondered what he’d done to provoke such venom, never doubting that she would soon inform him. He saluted her with the glass, held his breath and glugged back the contents. “Ack!” Horrid stuff.

  She threw herself at the desk, both hands smacking its surface. “How dare you?”

  He waved a hand negligently and plunked down the empty glass. “Just lucky I guess.”

  She swung out and slapped the glass to the floor. It bounced harmlessly off the thick carpet and landed on its side, rolling in a lazy circle. For some reason he enjoyed that. He turned his gaze casually back to Betina, completely unmoved by her seething anger. She spun away, arms folding dramatically.

  “You humiliated me in front of the whole family last night!”

  “Really? I don’t recall that you were even in the room.”

  She rounded on him. “How dare you tell my parents that you don’t love me!”

  He almost laughed. Apparently she wasn’t upset that he didn’t love her, merely embarrassed that the family should know. He shook his head. “I’m afraid you’re in for a terrible disappointment if you expect me to play the lovesick hubby. I’m through with games of pretend. Get used to it.”

  “And I’m through being reasonable!”

  “You were being reasonable? When? I missed it. Must’ve blinked.”

  In a grand gesture, she swept papers and picture frames from his desk, artfully furious. Paul leaned back in his chair and linked his hands behind his head, feeling a little better now that the bromide was taking effect.

  “We could’ve done this civilly!” she hissed. “But you’re determined to provoke me, first with your buy-out offers, then with little Miss Penno, and now this!”

  He rocked forward, forearms hitting the desktop. All the humor had fled at the mention of Cassidy’s name. “You leave her out of this.”

  Betina grinned ferally. “That’s exactly what I intend to do, darling, and I intend to get it in writing!”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about a detailed, iron-clad prenuptial agreement.”

  He smirked. Two could play at this game. “Excellent idea.”

  “Just remember, you brought this on yourself!” she exclaimed, sweeping toward the door. “Clause number one will state that, as far as you’re concerned, from the day, the hour, we marry, Cassidy Penno ceases to exist!” With that she flung open the door and swept through it, leaving it open in her wake.

  Paul stared at the empty door, uncertain whether to laugh or cry. As if there had ever been any question of his subjecting Cassidy to the sewer that would be his life after he married Betina. Cassidy was made for better things, and God willing, she would get them—so long as he stayed away from her, and he would just as soon as the ball was over. They were never alone anymore; he saw to that. Soon he would be nothing but a memory to Cassidy, and one day probably not even that. She would find another man, someone who hadn’t screwed up his life to the point that it was completely out of his control, someone who could give her everything she deserved, someone who could love her and stand by her always. But it could not be him. Betina needed no prenuptial agreement to see to that. He’d already taken care of it. Betina was right about one thing, though: he’d brought it all on himself.

  Paul sat on the edge of the stage, following Cassidy with his eyes as she directed Hoot in the placement of the tables. Thanks to that brilliant mind of hers, Hoot had agreed not only to provide them with tables, chairs, dishes and flatware but to cater the meal, as well, and he was being paid handsomely for it. Paul even suspected that his friend had had a hand in picking out the band, too, for they were a large, rowdy orchestra who could swing effortlessly from waltzes to obscure turn-of-the-century tunes to jazz and everything in between with a distinctly bluesy big band sound. They were costing him a fortune, but they were worth it. This party was going to be a grand success, thanks almost entirely to Cassidy. His heart contracted at just the sight of her. God, what he wouldn’t give to make Betina Lincoln a figment of his imagination.

  The nonfigment entered the building just then with her usual door-slamming style. Her mid-calf, white fur, swing coat swirled around her legs as she stalked on absurdly high heels toward him. She carried a sheaf of papers in one hand, a look of sheer rage on her carefully made-up face. He knew exactly what this was about. So she had finally been to see the lawyer. Good. He was almost eager for the fight.

  “How dare you!” she hissed, throwing the papers at his face. Paul blocked them with a casually lifted hand and let them fall where they would.

  “Gee, Betina, you seem a little out of sorts. Something I’ve done? I hope.”

  The entire room had stopped to stare, Hoot quite blatantly. It was Cassidy who cleared her throat and muttered something about giving Mr. Spencer and Miss Lincoln some privacy. Paul shook his head. “Oh, no. People are working here. Besides, I wouldn’t dream of depriving Miss Lincoln of her public scene.”

  “You son of a—”

  “Such a dignified response,” Paul chided, grinning like the cat who ate the canary. Betina immediately curbed her temper, aware that she was not making any points or influencing anyone, which had clearly been her intent. With some effort, she turned anger to victimization.

  “How could you make such a blatant grab for the company shares that Grandfather left me?”

  “He was my grandfather,” Paul pointed out wryly, “and how dare you blackmail me with the shares he left you, hmm?”

  Betina had the grace to look uncomfortable. “I will not agree to give you my shares when we marry.”

  “No? Well, I refuse to let you hang on to them and hold them over my head every time we disagree. Evidence to the contrary, I’m not a complete idiot.”

  Her hands tightened into fists. “All right,” she said, knowing some concession was in order. “You get to vote them—as long as we’re married. In the event of a divorce, they revert back to me.”

  He’d expected tha
t, but it galled him nonetheless. She couldn’t resist turning the screw. She wanted the power to punish him if everything didn’t go her way. He ground his teeth together, fighting to maintain his composure. “Let’s try this another way. Let’s say that when we marry, your shares will be divided between the family members, myself excluded, and that is where they will remain, whatever the state of our marriage. Can we agree to that, at least?”

  Betina narrowed her eyes, and he had the chilling suspicion that he’d walked straight into a trap. “Agreed,” she said, “provided you guarantee me an income for life.”

  Paul slid off the edge of the stage. Landing lithely on the floor, he stepped close and spoke hotly. “For pity’s sake, if all it’s about is money, then why not just let me buy your shares and forget this ridiculous marriage notion? I’ll even guarantee you income for life as part of the deal!”

  Betina smiled sweetly. “And let you off the hook?” Her gaze slid to Cassidy, who, apparently urged by Hoot, had moved closer. “Not on your life, lover boy.”

  Paul wanted to choke her. He went so far as to lay hands on her, grasping her by the shoulders. “Damn you!” he swore, pitching his voice low. “She has nothing to do with this!”

  Betina twisted out of his grasp, sneering, “You’re so right. You’ll marry me, damn you, because I say you will!”

  “Why? What could you possibly want with a husband who doesn’t love you?”

  She drew herself up. “I have my pride, you know. I couldn’t hold up my head in public, if you didn’t marry me!”

  “That’s what this is all about? You’ve told your friends that we will marry and so we must?”

  “Of course I have, you idiot!” she hissed. “Paul Barclay Spencer, heir apparent to the Barclay empire, most eligible bachelor in Dallas! Who else would make a more suitable wife to you than me? Not that insipid little nobody who spends her time playing dress-up—”