The Accidental Bride (Black Lace)

by Portia Da Costa

  ‘You’ve been leaving messages for me. What can I do for you, Clara?’ He schooled his own voice to easy friendliness. He wouldn’t let her get to him. With his free hand, he scrolled through images on his computer, double-clicked one, and brought up a picture of Lizzie on the terrace at their Provençal villa. She was wearing a polka dot bikini and cats-eye sunglasses, the very image of a 1950s film goddess with her glossy black hair tied back with a vintage Pucci scarf she’d treated herself to from New Again.

  ‘Can’t an old friend ring you up for a chat, darling? Just to touch base? There’s no need to sound so suspicious, Jonathan.’ His faux friendly tone clearly hadn’t fooled Clara. He could almost see the pout that he’d once thought so adorable, and it irked him. As did her calling him ‘Jonathan’, as she’d done in the old days. In New York, he’d specifically told her, more than once, that he always went by ‘John’ now.

  ‘Forgive me, Clara … It’s late here …’ Of course, she’d know the precise time. ‘And I’m just back from a trip and I’m slightly jet-lagged.’ He grimaced at the little lie. ‘I’m sorry if I sounded a bit curt.’

  There was a pause. Clara was the mistress of keeping a man on tenterhooks. ‘Business, darling? You work far too hard, Jonathan. It was wonderful to see you in New York, but you did look weary. Surely you have people you can delegate to?’

  ‘No, it was a holiday, actually. A week or so in the south of France, staying at a villa belonging to some friends. It was a welcome break … I have been working hard.’ He flipped through to another photo. This one a selfie, on timer, of Lizzie and himself together, in the evening. Not always comfortable in front of the camera, he looked a bit tense, but Lizzie was doing rabbit ears above his head, and despite the situation he now found himself in, he smiled. Happy days … they’d done at least as much laughing as fucking.

  ‘Ah … France … Sounds divine. I wish I’d known. I could have flown over to keep you company. We could have caught up … had some fun.’

  So blatant! Her breath-taking gall sideswiped him. Did she not remember that she’d dumped him? Not once, but twice? It was his turn to pause, flailing around for his biofeedback … but then abandoning it, and focusing hard on Lizzie’s happy grin in the image.

  ‘I wasn’t alone, Clara. I’m with someone now. I told you in New York, don’t you remember?’

  Yes, someone who won’t dump me just when I need her most. Someone decent, who’ll stand by me, unless I behave like a total shit and end up driving her away.

  ‘Oh … I see … I rather thought that was just one of your casual things, John. I didn’t realise it was slightly more long-lived.’ She still sounded silky, but he could hear the edge, the sound of vexation.

  ‘She isn’t a thing. Her name is Lizzie, and I care a great deal for her, Clara. If you must know, we’re living together, here at Dalethwaite. And as far as I’m concerned, it’s going to be very long-lived, if she’ll put up with me.’

  Another pause. ‘Well, that’s wonderful for you, darling. I’m so glad for you. I’m sure she’s utterly charming. Is she someone I know? Who are her people?’

  John ground his teeth. He could almost imagine Clara knew all about Lizzie, and was deliberately being dismissive.

  ‘She’s perfect, Clara … and she doesn’t have “people”. She has a family, like a normal person does.’ Anger surged like molten metal. The urge to fight and defend. ‘She’s a beautiful, intelligent, funny, accomplished young woman. And she has a job.’ He paused himself now. Two could play at those tactics. He smiled, preparing the killer blow, knowing it would be cruel … but unable to stop himself. ‘She’s twenty-four … and I love her.’

  The resulting pause wasn’t calculated. He knew he’d hurt the woman at the end of the line, and there was no pleasure in the fact that it was only a small fraction of the pain she’d inflicted on him. It just felt mean.

  ‘She sounds lovely, Jonathan. I’m so happy you’ve found someone again. You always did have the best taste in women.’ She laughed softly. It sounded sincere. Had he misjudged her? ‘Have you introduced her to Mother?’ Ah, perhaps not. The delicate jibe was there, albeit understated. Clara would never forgive him for marrying her own mother, and never forgive her mother for marrying him. He suspected that was why she’d taken such relish in dumping him the second time, and why perhaps, now, Clara might take some perverse kind of comfort from the notion that him having a much younger girlfriend might be painful to Caroline.

  ‘No, but I hope to soon. Caroline is in London again, something to do with her art foundation. Perhaps I’ll invite her and Ralph to dinner.’

  For a moment, he thought about the prospect of introducing Lizzie to his ex-wife. Whatever Clara believed, he knew Caroline would adore Lizzie, although the meeting might still be a bit of an ordeal for his beloved. But Lizzie would rise to it, as she always did. Be charming and inimitable, even if she was shaking inside.

  ‘Oh … I miss London so much! Perhaps I’ll fly over soon. Maybe for that dinner party? I’d love to meet your Lizzie.’ John snapped back to the moment, frowning. What was she up to? ‘I envy women who make careers for themselves, and have skills. I … I always wish I’d done more with my education. Made different choices …’

  What was she hinting now? The Clara he’d known had always been delightfully archaic, making no bones of the fact that she was anticipating having a husband to provide for her, the richer and more exalted the better. Even when they’d first been together, she’d teased him over that. Playfully threatening to discard him because he was only the second son of a family whose finances were far from rich-list, despite their blue blood. Twenty-twenty hindsight was a wonderful thing, he thought bitterly. She hadn’t been teasing. She’d meant it.

  And now, he didn’t know what to say to her. He tried to imagine the love he’d once felt for her, and it was thin and pale, like mist. On the screen of his laptop was the image of what love could be, what love should be: a vibrant, sassy, warm-hearted sexy princess of a girl. A woman who had a life, not ‘people’, and who thrived by her own devices and made the best of things in all situations.

  Lost in Lizzie’s smile, he didn’t hate Clara any more. He felt sorry for her, and just hoped that somehow she could find what he had. In New York, the hints had been as loud as the billboards of Times Square that Clara and her latest husband Ernesto weren’t happy, and hadn’t been for a long time.

  ‘Yes, perhaps it would be nice to meet up some time. I’m sure you’ll love Lizzie.’ He didn’t know how to end the conversation without being unkind, but he sensed he had to do it. He could almost feel Clara scenting for openings, preparing gambits. That was another thing that might as well have been on a billboard. She was interested. After all the bloody nonsense she’d put him through all those years ago, she wanted him back.

  ‘Well, I mustn’t keep you from her. It must be late where you are.’ Just as she’d always proved herself a mistress of surprises, Clara sounded brisk, bright, no-nonsense. ‘It’s been wonderful to speak to you again, Jonathan. And I hope we’ll meet again soon. And that we can be friends again, after all these years.’

  ‘Perhaps so,’ he said cautiously, not wanting to give false hope. ‘Now … as you say, it’s late. Goodnight, Clara. Take care of yourself.’ His finger hovered, ready to close the connection, but somehow, idiotically, it seemed too harsh to do it.

  ‘You too, darling. Goodnight. I’ll see you soon.’

  Then, crisp and decisive, she’d gone; and John’s anger surged. He wasn’t sure who he was angry with, probably himself mostly. Even after all these years, even now he’d found Lizzie, somehow Clara still had the power to wrong-foot him. But whether it was with the seductive skills she’d kept sharply honed since they were last together, he didn’t know; or perhaps with the vulnerability and fear he’d heard in her voice, that he could swear was genuine, and not a guise.

  Putting down the phone, he turned to his laptop, loving the sweet image there, and his spirits l
ifted, anticipating the even sweeter reality.

  Oh, Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie …

  He stood up. Determined. The living shade of Clara was fast fading.

  Tonight … Tonight he was really going to go for it. He was going to do his best to sleep, really sleep with Lizzie.

  4

  To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

  Lizzie snapped awake. She’d been aware of voices in the room, the television droning on, and the sudden silence shocked her out of her puzzled doze. The light from the bedside lamp made her blink, but she smiled. John was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking down at her.

  ‘Wake up, slumbering princess, your handsome young prince is here.’ He reached out and smoothed her hair back from where it had fallen across her face. ‘Or, should I say, the ugly old woodcutter, or maybe even the big, bad bear.’

  Pushing with her elbows, she sat up. ‘Nah … the big, bad, handsome prince, I think. Slightly wicked, but in the prime of his life.’

  He leaned forward and kissed her, a hand on her shoulder. His grip was quite hard, not painful, but with an intense, almost desperate quality to it, much like the kiss itself.

  What is it, John? What is it? She slid her arms around him, feeling the tension in his muscles, so taut beneath his satin skin. He wore just his favourite blue cotton pyjama bottoms, but even though the northern night was far chillier than the Provençal ones, his skin was hot. Hugging him, she lay back, drawing him down with her.

  ‘So, Prince Charming, are you staying a while?’ she asked, when they broke apart, gasping.

  ‘Yes, I think I am,’ he said, kissing the corner of her mouth, ‘And not just because I can’t resist your gorgeous body.’ The intensity was in his eyes now, dark and vaguely troubled. She wanted to ask again, this time out loud, what it was, what it was … ‘I want to sleep with you, Lizzie, and there’s no way to know if that’s possible without trying properly, is there?’ He kissed her again, his hand sliding down her flank.

  She wanted to say, but we tried at the villa and it didn’t really happen, but she just accepted the kiss. Something had happened in the last half hour, something that bothered him, and now wasn’t the time to start raising issues. Now was the time just to be here for him, and inwardly shout ‘Yippee!’ at the thought of having him beside her.

  ‘Makes sense, Princey Boy, and there’s plenty of room.’ She slid over a bit in the wide bed, making a larger and more enticing space for him. He followed her over, right over, closing the gap up tight until he was lying hard up against her – with the emphasis on hard. Through the cotton of his pyjama bottoms and of hers, his cock was even hotter than the rest of him, and she moved her hips against it as he kissed her again, probing with his tongue. Sliding her hands down his back, she cupped his buttocks, pressing herself closer.

  ‘We don’t have to make love, you know,’ he purred against her ear as they came up for air again. ‘I mean, it’s been a long day, and you were tired, and I’ve already had more than my quota.’

  Lizzie chuckled. ‘Well, you might be working on the quota system, but I’m not. And neither is this beast.’ She darted a hand to his cock and cradled her fingers around it.

  John made an appreciative sound, a sort of growl. ‘Well, the beast in question is a greedy sod, and pretty much disconnected from the niceties of considerate behaviour … but he doesn’t always have to have his own way, you know.’

  ‘I like the beast. His ways are my ways. And it might help you sleep, you know.’

  ‘Well, I thought that too.’ John rocked his hips against her. ‘That, and a nip of gin. I thought a shag and a little nightcap might help us both nod off.’

  Sure enough, there on the bedside table was the familiar green bottle and two cut-crystal glasses. ‘Let’s try the most natural means first, shall we? And keep the demon drink for our fallback position,’ said Lizzie. Gosh, he really was determined. Whatever the something was that had happened, it had shaken him up and steeled his resolve to normalise their sleeping arrangements.

  Pushing her speculations aside, and hiding them right at the back of her mind, in the part normally inaccessible when she was having gorgeous sex with John, she redoubled her efforts, with hands and lips, to encourage him.

  Not that the beast needed any encouragement at all. He seemed bigger and harder than ever, against her.

  ‘So, what’s it to be? Straight sex or “fancy”? Which do you think will help you sleep the best? I’m easy …’

  John laughed. ‘You, my dear Lizzie, are both easy and complicated.’ He paused to kiss her, fierce and hard. ‘A complex and sophisticated conundrum … and easy, oh so easy to adore.’

  ‘But which do you want?’

  ‘Straight sex will do very nicely, beautiful girl. I don’t want to get hyped up into some weird mental place with role-play. Not tonight.’

  A dark shadow taunted her again. Something was bothering him. But she brushed it aside and took another kiss from him, sliding her hands up and down his back and buttocks and savouring the feel of his warm skin and hard muscles.

  ‘Works for me,’ she said, wriggling against him, while at the same time trying to escape from her pyjama bottoms.

  ‘Here, let me.’ John flung back the covers, and rolling onto his hip, started stripping off her garment. A second later it went flying across the room, then, with no further ado, he slid a hand between her thighs.

  Lizzie arched. She was ready. She was always ready.

  ‘Good grief, woman, you’re so wet. So ready …’

  ‘John, you look like an angel, you’re as fit as a butcher’s dog, and you’ve got a million squillion quid, what’s not to get wet about?’ She growled and gasped when he rubbed her.

  ‘And here I was thinking I’d have to coax and seduce you, and you seem to be ready for me to climb on top straight away!’

  ‘I thought you’d never ask!’

  His eyes were like blue fire in the lamplight, and his smile provocative. She’d thought he was going to twist around and get a condom out of the beside drawer, but instead, he went on stroking her, redoubling his efforts, sliding his fingers around in her moisture and bringing it to her clit like a gift, making it silky.

  ‘John, I want you,’ she groaned, squirming her bottom around against the mattress, unable to keep still. He didn’t miss a beat, even though she was all over the place.

  ‘And I want you to come first.’ He stifled further protest with his mouth on hers, his tongue swirling around her tongue as his fingers swirled around her clitoris.

  Pleasure gathered, swift and sweet. She grabbed at him, gripping his shoulders, her body stiffening and arching as he worked her. Whimpering against his mouth, she dug her nails in hard as the crisis enveloped her, her sex pulsing and fluttering even while he still caressed her.

  She rose to him. One orgasm became two, morphing into each other. As she lay gasping, still all a-spasm, he turned from her in a quick decisive move, pushed open the drawer and brought out the familiar packet. He shook them all over the bed, grabbed one, and in a couple of moments, he was wrapped in latex, ready.

  ‘Lizzie,’ he whispered, kissing her face, lips printing tenderness across her cheeks, her brow, even while he was positioning himself and pushing into her.

  Oh God, yes, she started coming again, harder than ever even as he worked his way in and began to thrust, his body wild, hungry, almost desperate. Again she clung to him, vaguely aware of the fact that she was tattooing him with more nail marks. Good job she kept them short, for sewing, or he’d have been scarred for life!

  Mind whirling with ecstasy, she surrendered to pleasure and his body, making no effort, just receiving, enjoying, loving. With John, she never had to try or struggle. She came easily, repeatedly, copiously. He was her match, her perfect match, just right for her.

  And in the midst of her bliss, she felt his climax too. The pounding of his hips, his hoarse cries, the discrete pulse of his semen inside her, and the condom. She moaned, coming again,
lost in him completely.

  ‘So, are you going to have a gin, or what?’

  ‘I think I’ll give it a miss. Hopefully the “what” we just had will suffice.’

  Lizzie grinned at John as she rearranged the covers over them, after she’d retrieved her pyjama bottoms and they’d sorted themselves out in the usual little post-sex dance of nipping to the bathroom, disposing of condoms, and what have you.

  ‘Well, it’s made me sleepy … in the nicest possible way.’ She turned on her side, looking at him as he lay on his back, hands settled across his middle, staring at the ceiling. ‘How are we going to do this? Do you want to snuggle or something? I’ve never really done the sleeping in one another’s arms thing. I don’t think it works, really. It’s just a load of romantic BS from books and films.’

  John turned to her, eyes amused. ‘Really? I thought all girls wanted to sleep in the arms of their lovers. Accepted practice and all that.’

  ‘Great in theory, but not at all practical,’ Lizzie announced, wanting to be firm on the point. She had a feeling that not crowding John would give him a better chance of sleeping. ‘One party or the other always ends up with a crick in their neck or a dead arm, or both. It’s not really comfortable. Especially if the man has magnificent, rock-hard pecs like you. A properly designed pillow is much better for the spine.’

  ‘What an incredibly sensible woman you are, Lizzie.’

  ‘Sorry I’m not reacting like love’s young dream, but whenever I’ve tried it in the past I’ve ended up with a nadgered neck.’ She reached out to touch him. ‘And I’d rather stay sound in wind and limb, and be fit for sex, as and when.’

  ‘Don’t worry, love, you’re preaching to the choir here. I totally agree.’ He reached for her hand. ‘Just lying next to you is sweetness in itself. Far better than tangling up with each other like a pair of octopi with separation anxiety.’