by Kay Thorpe
‘Manipulated?’
‘First Westbury Hall, and now our marriage…’
‘Westbury Hall?’ Kahlil said, watching her carefully.
‘Yes,’ Lucy said, unable to subdue her suspicions any longer. ‘You were up to something, weren’t you?’ She stopped, seeing his face, and knew she had hit a nerve. ‘So I am right,’ she said, wishing at once it wasn’t true. ‘What did you really come for that day? What were you up to? Did you have a property developer in your pocket? Or did you tip off the consortium that bought it? Or did you simply want to steal my ideas for the renovation?’
‘Your ideas were always in the public domain.’
‘Westbury Hall means nothing to you,’ Lucy said bitterly. ‘It was just a game as far as you were concerned—one you had to win.’ He couldn’t deny it, she gathered, when he remained silent. ‘You’ll never know what Westbury Hall means to me. I loved the old lady who lived there—my parents worked for her all their lives. We loved her, and Lady Grace loved us—’ Lucy stopped, hearing her voice break. ‘But why do I expect you to understand? You don’t know what love is, do you, Kahlil? You don’t have the slightest idea. You just take charge of people’s lives—that’s what you’re good at. You have no respect for anyone. I was just a little bonus on top of whatever deal you were making.’
‘I’ll go now.’ Kahlil’s voice was as steady as if they were two strangers parting on the best of terms. ‘I’m sure you must have preparations to make for our marriage tomorrow.’
Marriage! She didn’t know how he could bring himself to mention it so casually.
‘I trust any business meetings you may have arranged can be postponed?’ he said, pausing on his way to the door.
‘Yes, of course,’ Lucy managed distractedly, still in turmoil.
‘Excellent,’ Kahlil said, striding out without a backward glance.
She felt faint, light-headed, and quite suddenly nothing seemed real. She felt as if she had just been swept up in a whirlwind and had landed somewhere she couldn’t recognise, where she didn’t have the skills to survive.
Lucy steeled herself as she prepared to leave the horse-drawn carriage. Kahlil had insisted upon a carriage, even though her cottage was only a few steps from the Hall. He said she must be driven around the village so that people could see her, and so that photographs of the occasion could be taken for Edward’s sake. And she had agreed. She didn’t want Edward thinking his parents’ marriage had been loveless when he grew older. It was far better for him to believe it had been a fairytale that had lost its way.
As one of Kahlil’s men stepped forward to help her negotiate the steps Lucy lifted her head to acknowledge him. He was another of the silent men she was becoming used to—interchangeable, like chess pieces, but a lot more deadly. She already felt the subtle change in her position as he stood at her side. It wasn’t human kindness that made the man reach out to steady her as she lifted her skirts and picked her way carefully—it was his bounden duty now to protect her from harm.
The harness clinked behind her as the horses stamped their feet and blew down their noses, impatient to be gone. But there was no escape for her, Lucy thought, shivering in the biting wind.
Straightening the folds of her dress, she looked up as the doors of the Hall swung open to admit her. A rush of warmth and light and sound spilled out as she started up the steps. She was glad to have the posy in her hands to cling to. She had insisted on choosing the flowers for her wedding bouquet—simple blooms from the local greenhouse: jonquil, freesia and some early tulips. She had bound them herself with some supple young strands of curving purple willow. It trailed below ribbons she had laced around her fingers.
Her hands were pale and shaking, Lucy noticed, keeping her head down to concentrate on the jewelled satin slippers on her feet. The slippers belonged in a fairytale, as did the ivory satin cape lined with soft fur she was wearing over her intricately beaded wedding dress. But this was not her fairytale. She was an impostor.
She would not turn back. She would not allow anything to stand in the way of Edward’s future happiness.
Kahlil’s evasion the previous day still rankled, but Lucy had found a way to cope with the farce that was her wedding day. She would enjoy the luxurious feel of cool silks and satin against her naked skin as an actress might. She would relish the scent of French perfume as the couture clothes brushed her legs just as if she had donned some lovely new costume to play a part.
And that was all she was doing, Lucy reassured herself as she stepped over the threshold of Westbury Hall. She was playing a role for Edward’s sake. And she would play it well.
Raising her head proudly, she saw Kahlil, waiting for her with Edward beside him in Leila’s arms. And then she became aware of many more people, most of whom she didn’t know.
Some she did—friends from the village, from her school-days, from her college, and both close and extended family. Kahlil had gone to endless trouble, Lucy registered with surprise, wondering how on earth everyone had been assembled in time.
And then there were others—dignitaries from a host of foreign countries, with ribbons, and medals, and sashes, and jewels—all waiting for her arrival! It seemed quite incredible—impossible.
Swallowing hard, Lucy tried to move forward, but her earlier confidence had deserted her and her feet seemed rooted to the spot. Then Kahlil was beside her and her frozen hand was enveloped in his. He felt so warm and steady. She allowed him to lead her forward, slowly and carefully, as if she was a precious item that might crumble if he handled her too firmly.
But as soon as he felt her strength return he released her again, and Lucy knew it would have been better if he had left her to blunder around until some dutiful member of staff brought her to him. His consideration only made her more aware that, with good cause to hate him, she was in love with him. Sheikh Kahlil of Abadan was more than just the father of her son: he was the only man she would ever love. Her world, Lucy realised with a great burst of emotion. But as far as Kahlil was concerned she was merely a convenient wife, the woman who had supplied him with a son.
Lucy kept her head throughout the ceremony, behaving impeccably, responding when required, and even smiling up at Kahlil as if she didn’t have a care in the world later, when they danced together. She would have forgiven his indifference towards her in an instant, forgotten every one of her suspicions about him for just one word of tenderness—one look, or one smile, something intimate and private passing between them. But he behaved towards her like a very courteous and considerate stranger.
When he finally escorted her back to her seat at the high table, Lucy gazed around. Seeing who had assembled for their wedding drove home the fact that Kahlil was an immensely powerful figure in the world at large. And she was—
‘The mother of my son,’ Kahlil said, introducing Lucy to the Ambassador of Abadan.
Lucy reddened as the older man bowed low over her hand.
‘It is an honour to meet you at last, Princess,’ he said.
Lucy’s shocked eyes flickered up to meet Kahlil’s steady gaze. ‘It is my pleasure to meet you, Ambassador,’ she said, recovering fast. Both the fact that Kahlil had taken the trouble to introduce them and the use of her new title had taken her completely by surprise.
‘I hope you will excuse me for a few moments,’ Kahlil said.
Gladly, Lucy thought, as he led the Ambassador away. She needed time to collect her thoughts, to accept that, however short their marriage would be, her life had changed for ever. She watched as people gave way at Kahlil’s approach, bowing low as he walked amongst them, and felt sure she would never get used to the fact that Sheikh Kahlil of Abadan was her husband.
Left to her own devices, Lucy began to relax and enjoy the celebrations. There were interesting new people to talk to, as well as many of her close friends and family. Skirting the subject of her new husband was something she was becoming rather good at, and after a while she began to believe that she would sai
l through the rest of the reception. It was a chance conversation that brought the idyll to an end.
‘To think the Hall is to be a private home again. And after all these years.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Lucy said, collecting her thoughts. The Lady Mayor of Westbury had come to sit with her, and had been chattering non-stop for almost twenty minutes. ‘I beg your pardon,’ Lucy said, mending her manners. ‘You were trying to tell me something about the Hall?’
‘You must be so proud of your husband,’ the Lady Mayor said, staring across the newly renovated ballroom at Kahlil, who was chatting easily as he moved around their guests.
‘I am proud,’ Lucy said automatically.
‘He cuts a splendid figure in his tail-coat—and I imagine he would in Arabian garb. Still, I mustn’t carp, or show my disappointment—his mother was English, after all.’
‘I don’t mean to interrupt,’ Lucy said, desperate to halt the irrepressible flow of words from the older woman as concern brought questions leaping into her mind, ‘but I thought the Hall was to be a hotel?’
‘So did we all, my dear—until this morning. But now we hear different. And in my case,’ she added proudly, ‘from your husband himself. There are so many servants,’ she breathed, turning around, oblivious to Lucy’s shocked reaction. ‘Still, what do you expect when a sheikh chooses to make his home in our village? To think,’ she added, folding her hands as if in a prayer as she closed her eyes, ‘that we are to have royalty living amongst us.’
Lucy felt as if all the life had just drained out of her. She fixed a smile to her lips, nodding politely. Kahlil had bought the Hall for his own use! Surely the Lady Mayor was mistaken?
Lucy burned with shame as she remembered her surprise and relief when she had managed to sell the Hall for well over its market price—to a consortium of businessmen, the agent had said. Now she realised it had been Kahlil’s way of paying her off. He had been behind the purchase all along, paying well over the odds—to appease his conscience? she wondered, remembering how abruptly he had left her after their one-night stand. She could just imagine his shock when he discovered she had given birth to Edward!
This marriage had been forced on him, Lucy thought, going cold as she surveyed the glittering scene. It put the gloss of respectability on his unfortunate mistake. But Sheikh Kahlil could afford it. For a man as rich as the Crown Prince of Abadan this was a bargain. For the price of a wedding he got the heir he longed for, with a wife to use while it pleased him thrown in.
‘Well, I’ve kept you from your gorgeous husband long enough,’ the Lady Mayor said, oblivious to Lucy’s pain as she fluttered her chiffon handkerchief at a friend across the dance floor. ‘I must let you go to him—I wish you every happiness, my dear,’ she gushed, leaning over Lucy to plant a damp kiss on her cheek.
‘Thank you,’ Lucy said, her gaze hardening as she stared at Kahlil. Taking up her challenge, he came striding back to her, taking the direct route across the crowded dance floor. Once again Lucy noticed how a path cleared automatically in front of him.
‘Lucy?’
His voice was sharp—with concern or irritation? She couldn’t tell.
‘Lucy, what is it? What’s wrong?’
‘I must speak to you,’ she said, collecting the folds of her gown as she made to get up.
‘Of course,’ Kahlil said easily, suspecting nothing as he reached for a chair.
‘Somewhere private,’ Lucy stressed tensely, standing up.
‘Very well,’ he agreed, glancing round. ‘I doubt anyone will notice that we’ve gone. Let me help you.’
She had no option but to take his arm—and Kahlil was probably right about no one noticing their departure, Lucy thought as they walked towards the doors. Their guests could not have been happier, or more content. It was ironic that only the bride and groom were so violently at odds with each other.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE double height hall, with its sweeping staircase and minstrels’ gallery, was quiet after the noise of the band and champagne-fuelled chatter.
But not quiet enough, not private enough, Lucy thought, leading the way, confident that she knew Westbury Hall better than anyone else. She drew to a halt outside one of the many doors leading off the hallway. But she didn’t know which to go through now, she realised. Resting the palm of one hand against the cool, flat surface, she forced herself to accept that Westbury Hall now belonged to a stranger—and that stranger was her husband.
‘Here,’ Kahlil said, cupping her elbow and leading Lucy towards another door. ‘We can be private in here.’
Lucy allowed him to steer her into the brightest room in the house—the room the previous owner, Lady Grace, had called her morning room. ‘The room where all the problems are solved,’ Lucy remembered Aunt Grace saying now. She blinked back tears, almost imagining she could hear the kindly old voice again, encouraging her to look round.
‘You’ve kept everything the same,’ she said with surprise, touching a blue silk cushion reverently.
‘Those are new covers,’ Kahlil admitted, ‘but they are faithful copies of the originals. I thought it would be what you wanted.’ He stayed by the door, watching her. ‘Even before you mentioned Lady Grace Frobisher I’d heard you were very fond of her.’
But Lucy wasn’t listening. ‘It’s all the same,’ she exclaimed softly. ‘Even down to the china dogs in the fireplace.’ Dipping down, she stroked one smooth head.
‘I was having them restored—there was a chip—but then I stopped.’
‘You stopped?’ she said, turning her face up to look at Kahlil.
‘Some things can be spoiled by restoration,’ he said. ‘Sometimes their charm lies in the fact that many people have handled them, have enjoyed them over the years.’
As their eyes met and locked Lucy’s were troubled. Kahlil understood so many things instinctively. And yet there were so many other matters that seemed to bypass him completely. Did he have no conscience at all? He could be sensitive, and about important things, like the keepsakes she treasured, but he withheld so much—too much. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about all this?’ she said, straightening up to face him.
‘We could hardly get married at your cottage, with a bodyguard in the spare room. I had Westbury Hall restored. I thought it a suitable venue for our wedding.’
‘A suitable venue?’ Lucy repeated, feeling the chance she had given him had just been wasted. ‘So—’ she gestured around ‘—all this is just for prestige? For the sake of how other people see you?’
‘Not at all—’
‘Tell me one thing. Were you behind the bank calling in my loan? Did you make them do that?’
Kahlil looked at her, his expression unreadable. ‘It was a matter of business.’
‘You deceived me, Kahlil,’ she told him bitterly. ‘You lied to me. You stole my dreams. And then you paid over the odds for Westbury Hall and allowed me to believe I had done a good deal—when in fact I was being paid for my services like a—’
‘Don’t speak that way!’ Kahlil’s voice cut across Lucy like a whip-crack. In an instant he had grabbed her arm in one powerful fist, and, cupping her chin with the other hand, he tilted Lucy’s face until she couldn’t avoid looking at him. ‘Don’t you even think like that,’ he warned. ‘You are the mother of my son. You are my wife. You have just become Princess of Abadan. Don’t forget it.’
‘I doubt I shall ever be allowed to forget it.’ Lucy averted her face from Kahlil’s blazing stare. ‘Let me go, Kahlil,’ she said faintly. ‘Let me go now. We’ve got nothing more to say to each other.’
‘Very well,’ he agreed. ‘Go to your room. I will make whatever excuses are necessary to our guests.’
With an angry sound, Lucy dragged her arm out of his clasp. But then she stopped on her flight to the door. ‘I don’t know which is to be my room.’
‘All of them,’ Kahlil said steadily.
‘All of them?’ Lucy said, turning to face him. ‘What are y
ou talking about?’
‘I bought the Hall for my own reasons, but when I came to know you better I wanted you to have it. I did all this for you, Lucy,’ Kahlil said in a bitter whisper. ‘I thought it would make you happy. Don’t worry,’ he added, backing away when she reached towards him. ‘I will have one of the servants show you to a suitable bedroom. You need have no fear. I won’t trouble you tonight.’
The flight to Abadan was tense and lonely for Lucy. She was sitting in the main body of the aircraft, whilst Leila had taken Edward to sleep in a private suite at the rear
Putting down the glossy magazine she had been pretending interest in for the past hour, Lucy gazed across at Kahlil and his ministers, clustered around a meeting table at the other side of the cabin. Things had gone from bad to worse since their wedding. She couldn’t believe Kahlil had cheated her out of Westbury Hall, or that he’d meant to give the Hall back to her as a wedding present. Never in her wildest dreams could she have conceived of a gift on such a scale. In her world wedding presents were toasters, or crystal glasses.
And now he was oblivious to her presence. Perhaps it was better that way. She would go and see if Edward was awake—
‘Edward is sleeping; let him rest,’ Kahlil said, without troubling to look at her. ‘I will have lunch served here for us in a few moments.’
His uncanny knack of anticipating her intentions sent a frisson of alarm through Lucy. ‘How do you know?’
‘How do I know?’ Kahlil repeated, turning a stare on her face.
‘How do you know that Edward is still sleeping?’
Now she saw the monitor on the table in front of him. When he turned it towards her she realised the camera was trained on Edward’s sleeping form. Next to Edward she could see Leila, sitting on an easy-chair, sewing a button onto a romper suit.
Security even on the royal jet, Lucy thought tensely, taking her seat again. And then she reddened, remembering the furious row she’d had with Kahlil that morning about security. She hadn’t slept for one moment during her wedding night, and the last thing she had been expecting was that Kahlil would join her in the breakfast room.