by Penny Jordan
‘I…’ Her voice sounded rusty and unfamiliar even to herself, and she was steeling herself to make some response when the sudden strident blare of a car horn caused Simon to swear and push her gently back into her own seat.
‘Perhaps here is neither the time nor the place.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We ought to be leaving anyway. There’s something I want to show you.’
They drove for several miles through gentle rolling countryside, with Simon pointing out various landmarks to India. He was extremely knowledgeable about the countryside, and India would never have believed that she could be so relaxed in his company.
‘Here we are,’ he exclaimed at last, turning off the main road and in through tall wrought iron gates, set either side of a gravel drive, lawns and shrubs stretching away at either side, the rhododendrons a vivid splash of colour with their pinks, lilacs and mauve flowers. ‘Before the Boer War a fine avenue of elms marched either side of this drive,’ he told her. ‘They were planted by the first Herries to own Meadow’s End. He bought it in the 1800s with the money he made from sugar plantations and slavery. There’s a painting of the avenue in the library. The trees were cut down during the Boer War for ships.’
‘You mean this is Meadow’s End—your home?’ India demanded, almost breathless with awe. ‘I never dreamed… Alison told me…’
‘Oh, it isn’t nearly so impressive as it seems. Part of the house was bombed during the last war—the Victorian wing, fortunately, a hideous monstrosity, and then the people who bought it from my father went bankrupt, just about the time when large old houses were at a low premium and everyone wanted a modern split-level with all mod cons, so it fell into complete disrepair. It hasn’t been easy getting it restored. The shell that was left was Queen Anne and I’ve had a devil of a job finding men to restore it as it was. It’s been easier these last few years since there’s been a revival of interest in older houses.’
They turned a corner in the drive, and Simon stopped the car. India didn’t need to ask why. Although they hadn’t quite reached it, before them lay the house, graceful and perfectly symmetrical two large sash windows either side of the main door on the ground floor, two more above those and then smaller, dormer replicas let into the roof.
The late afternoon sun caught the house in its dying glow, deepening the mellow red brick to russet, and picking out the stone above the front door with the date carved deeply into it.
A country gentleman, Alison had said, but she had never dreamed she had meant something like this!
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said simply to Simon, and as though no other words were necessary, he started the car and drove, not to the front of the house, but round the back into what had obviously been a stable yard, but what was now garaging with what looked like a mews flat above.
‘The house is empty,’ Simon warned India as he opened her door for her. ‘It’s only just been finished—it isn’t even decorated yet.’
‘It’s lovely,’ India repeated, thinking wistfully of how much she would enjoy transforming the bare, echoing rooms Simon was showing her into what they could be.
‘Drawing room,’ he told her briefly, opening the door on to a large rectangular room with windows overlooking the front and the side of the house.
They had come in via the back door, into a large but empty room which he told her had been a small parlour, but which was now intended to be the kitchen. There was also a large dining room; a library complete with shelved walls, as yet empty of books, and a generously proportioned but not intimidating room which India immediately visualised as a comfortable family room.
The hall was square, with a black and white tiled floor, and an intricately carved staircase curving upwards to a galleried landing.
India ran her fingers lightly over the carving, delighting in the smooth rich feel of the wood beneath her fingers.
‘At one time most of the downstairs rooms were panelled in linenfold,’ Simon told her, ‘but a modern-thinking Regency Herries had it all ripped out and replaced it with the Adams-style décor you can see now. Fortunately, however, money ran out before he got to the staircase, which was carved by Grinling Gibbons. Do you think you could settle happily here?’
India was astounded.
‘Happily?’ She blinked and looked up uncertainly, not sure she had heard him correctly. ‘Who couldn’t?’ she managed to say when she had got her breath back.
‘Plenty of women,’ Simon assured her. ‘You’d be surprised. Ursula, for instance, hated this place. She prefers my London flat. Of course, there’s a tremendous amount of work to be done yet. I’m thinking of getting in a firm of interior designers. I have a few pieces of good furniture—things that my aunt and uncle managed to salvage from here for me, and which Alison has kindly given house room to…’
‘I could do it,’ India offered impulsively. ‘That is… I would love to do it, if you trust me.’
‘I trust you. With my home and my cheque book!’
For some reason the dry words brought a lump to India’s throat. She was getting far too emotional, she told herself; letting all manner of foolish romantic notions take hold of her.
‘I thought we’d spend tonight at the cottage,’ Simon told her. ‘It’s only three miles away. I have to go to London tomorrow. You know that I have extensive business interests—some in television; one being the series Melisande is to appear in. Well, it just so happens that the Americans are considering buying the series. If the deal goes through it will assure South-Mid’s success, so tomorrow’s meeting is quite important.’
On the drive back to the cottage, Simon was silent, and rather than intrude upon his thoughts India kept quiet too.
The cottage was warm when they stepped inside. In the living room someone had laid a fire, and while Simon bent to set a match to it India wandered into the kitchen. There was a note propped up against the kettle, which said simply ‘Wine and food in fridge, if you need them—God bless, Alison.’
‘Are you hungry?’ she asked Simon, who was kneeling in front of the fire coaxing it into life. ‘Alison had left us steak and plenty of fresh salad.’
‘Umm. I seem to remember you’re quite a good cook.’ He laughed as she blushed, but it wasn’t unkind laughter.
It was a curiously domestic scene; Simon lighting the fire and then coming in the the kitchen to take cutlery from the drawer while India busied herself with the steak and the preparation of a mixed salad. She was just finishing the dressing when Simon wandered back from the living room and came over to watch her, leaning against the table, his arms folded.
‘I thought we’d eat in the living room, and then have an early night.’
Mingled excitement and alarm coiled through India’s stomach.
‘If that’s what you want. Could you take the salad through?’ She was trying to sound calm. ‘The steak’s nearly ready.’
‘You can certainly cook,’ Simon pronounced fifteen minutes later, cutting into his steak. ‘Clever girl!’
He poured them both a second glass of wine. India, who had barely touched any food at the reception, could feel it going to her head. Her appetite was almost non-existent, her body so tense that she jumped visibly when Simon knocked a spoon to the floor. Aware of his eyes upon her, India kept hers on her plate, wishing that her heart wouldn’t race so nervously. She was aware of Simon as she had never been aware of any man before; the way his mouth quirked downwards before he smiled; the hard chis-elled lines of lips she felt an insane longing to touch with her fingers; the strong column of his throat rising from the cream silk shirt, which he had opened at the neck when he lit the fire; the lean tapering fingers which, if she closed her eyes, she could almost feel against her breast, cupping and moulding…
‘India?’ She jumped guiltily. ‘You were miles away—where?’
‘Nowhere.’
‘Mmm, hardly flattering for a newly married woman. Come here,’ he commanded softly, rising from his chair and coming towards her.
&n
bsp; Like someone in a dream India rose slowly from her seat, her eyes fixed blindly on Simon’s. His fingers circled her wrists, stroking the soft inner flesh gently, and sending her pulses racing.
‘I haven’t forgotten the little matter of a kiss you owe me,’ Simon whispered, his mouth teasing feather-light kisses against her throat, where he had pushed back the weight of her hair to reveal the pale creamy skin, and allow his warm lips access to the vulnerable curve of her neck.
‘Well?’ he murmured, nuzzling the soft skin behind her ear, his teeth nipping the lobe sharply when she didn’t reply. His hands, which had been on her waist, moved upwards, one arm curving her towards him while the other pushed aside the flimsy silk blouse she was wearing to reveal the silk camisole top beneath, finding the tender point of her breast with unerring ease, and teasing it into peaking pleasure beneath the frail fabric.
‘Beautiful,’ he murmured throatily, as he slid aside her blouse and camisole to reveal the pale flesh with its pink aureole.
As his dark head bent towards her breast India felt her heart beat slow to thudding, painful strokes, her breath locked tightly in her throat.
When Simon swung her up in his arms and carried her to the rug in front of the fire, she made no demur as he slowly undressed her, studying the tender curves of her breasts in the firelight before anointing each one with kisses that sent desire spiralling dizzily inside her, making her arch instinctively and lock her hands behind his neck.
‘India…’
The sharp ring of the telephone shattered across the intimacy of their surroundings, making India stiffen and Simon groan.
‘I suppose I’d better answer it, but if it’s one of my nephews playing a practical joke I’ll give them both such sore backsides that they won’t sit down for a week! Don’t go away, will you?’ he asked softly with a smile, dropping a soft light kiss on her half opened mouth before disappearing into the hall.
He was gone quite a long time. Long enough for India to start to feel foolish and cold without her clothes, and she was pulling on her camisole top when he walked back in.
‘Bad news, I’m afraid,’ he told her briefly. ‘That American deal I was telling you about has suddenly developed a problem, and I’m going to have to leave for London right away.’
‘At this time of night?’ India protested, flushing as she realised that she sounded like a nagging wife.
‘To us it’s night,’ Simon said dryly. ‘To our transatlantic cousins it’s the middle of the day. I don’t know when I’ll be back. Will you be okay? I would ring Alison.’
‘No, I’ll be fine on my own,’ India told him hastily. ‘I’ll sleep in the room I had before. I…’
‘The bed isn’t made up,’ Simon told her tersely. ‘India, I’m sorry about this, but it can’t be avoided. Don’t forget our vow while I’m gone, will you?’
‘I won’t,’ India told him in a low voice.
‘Good girl! I’m not going to kiss you goodbye—I daren’t. If I did I’d never be able to walk out of here.’
Very flattering of him, but scarcely true, India reflected several minutes later when the Ferrari’s throaty roar had died away and she was alone. She couldn’t deceive herself that she was anywhere as near as desirable as the other women Simon had known. And yet he had desired her. Her heart warmed as she remembered the way he had looked at her before the phone rang. He had as good as said that he wanted their marriage to be normal; that he wanted her in his bed as well as in his home. Her depression started to lift. When he returned they would be able to make a fresh start, she promised herself; she would concentrate on all that was promising in their relationship and ignore its flaws. Every relationship possessed some flaws.
It was in a mood of optimism that she prepared for bed, discarding the fine crêpe-de-chiné nightdress she had put in her case in favour of the warmth of the pyjama jacket she had found on the bed, washed and ironed.
There was a certain amount of sensual pleasure to be found in lying in Simon’s bed, in imagining his body next to hers, but no amount of imagining was any substitute for the real thing, she thought ruefully as her tense muscles refused to relax, and her body ached for the appeasement Simon’s possession would have brought.
But there was always tomorrow, she told herself; a whole host of tomorrows—and on that infinitely pleasurable thought she fell asleep.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE telephone ringing woke her. At first she couldn’t remember where she was, and then when she did, she dashed downstairs, thinking the caller would be Simon.
The intensity of her disappointment when she realised it wasn’t was a barometer of her love for him, had she needed one, and it was several seconds before she realised that Alison, far from sounding her usual calm self, sounded distinctly worried.
‘You say Simon isn’t there?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said India. ‘He had to dash off to London. A meeting with some important Americans. Is there anything I can do?’
‘Do you really mean that, or are you just being polite?’
‘I really mean it,’ India assured her firmly. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘I’m probably being silly—after all, I’ve had two children already—but this morning when I woke up I felt a bit off, and with Mel being away… Well, to be honest with you I was going to ask if you and Simon would care to come over for lunch. Dreadful of me, I know, when you’re supposed to be on your honeymoon, but…’
‘Well, Simon isn’t here, but if I will do I’d love to come over,’ India assured her. ‘In fact I’d be glad of the company.’ She had intended to spend the morning on some initial outline plans for the house, but the faint shakiness in Alison’s voice alarmed her. ‘I’ll ring for a taxi and be with you just as soon as I can be.’
Giving her the address and apologising again for imposing on her, Alison rang off, leaving India distinctly alarmed. She rang the number of a taxi firm she found in the yellow pages and within an hour of Alison’s call she was on her way to the house.
Quite what she had expected to find she wasn’t sure, but it certainly wasn’t Alison, perched on a small stepladder while she cleaned the kitchen windows.
‘Oh, I’m feeling fine now,’ Alison exclaimed gaily in reply to India’s anxious query. ‘In fact I haven’t felt quite so well in weeks, so I decided to give these a clean while I was in the mood. I hope you don’t mind quiche and salad for lunch?’
‘I’d love it,’ India assured her. ‘Look, why don’t you let me finish those while you have a rest?’
‘They’re nearly done, but if you really want to make yourself useful you could make us both a cup of coffee. What a shame Simon had to rush off to London like that. When did he go?’
When India told her she pulled a face. ‘Oh, poor you—and poor Simon!’ She grinned mischievously, suddenly looking much younger. ‘I bet he wasn’t in the least bit pleased. I detected unmistakable signs of a man impatient to have his bride to himself about my cousin yesterday—most out of character. I’m glad to see that cool calm ruffled for once,’ she told India with satisfaction. ‘You’re a pretty cool one yourself. I’ve never seen a less emotional bride. Ursula Blanchard was furious, and so was I—with her! Fancy crashing the reception like that! How on earth she could be so brazen I’ll never know, but then of course she always was pretty thick-skinned. She has an aunt living down here and when she got her hooks into Simon, every time he came down here so did she—and on the most flimsy of excuses. Poor darling, I think he was getting pretty fed up with her persistence, although he never said anything.’
‘Oh, I don’t think any man really minds being pursued by a beautiful woman,’ India said lightly, hoping that she didn’t betray herself, or her jealousy of Ursula Blanchard, whom Simon had after all at one time cared very deeply about.
‘Beautiful and deadly,’ Alison replied flippantly, giving the window a final wipe before stepping heavily down from the ladder while India steadied it for her. ‘But Simon’s fa
r too wise a man to be caught in a man-trap. I remember once when I asked him about her he said that as a mistress she was ideal, but as a wife unthinkable.’
She said this with so much relish that India had to smile, but inwardly her heart ached and she had no difficulty whatsoever in envisaging in which category Simon placed her; good wife material, but inadequate as far as anything else went! She wasn’t being fair to him or their marriage, she chided herself. Such negative thinking would get her nowhere. Simon himself had been the one to suggest that they wipe the slate clean; start off afresh and build a marriage which would endure as Alison’s parents’ had endured; but had she the courage to do that, knowing that she must always carry alone the burden of her love for him in the knowledge that on his side there would never be anything but acceptance and possibly affection?
Time alone would tell, she told herself, as she helped Alison to prepare their simple lunch.
‘I hate the house when the boys have gone back to school,’ Alison told her. They had both been allowed a day off school to attend the wedding and India knew that Mel had driven them back before flying up to Scotland on business.
‘I’m glad you’ve married Simon,’ Alison continued, deftly making French dressing. ‘And not just for Simon’s sake—for purely selfish reasons as well.’ She turned to India, her brown eyes creased with pain. ‘You see, with you married to Simon…’ India’s hand clenched on the knife she was holding poised above the quiche. Surely Alison didn’t know about her and Mel? Of course really there was nothing to know, but India knew how she would feel were she to discover that her husband had been making overtures to another woman whether they were reciprocated or not, and she could not bear for Alison to be hurt unnecessarily. ‘… and Simon no longer the eligible bachelor he was, I hope that Mel will get over the envy he’s always had of Simon.’ Her mouth twisted a little. ‘Mel thinks I don’t know this, but I’m not totally blind. For the past year or so he’s been wallowing in what’s commonly known as early male menopause; yearning for his youth and freedom, in other words. Oh, he’s tried to hide it from me, but I’ve seen the look on his face every time he picks up a newspaper and sees Simon’s photograph there, and the ridiculous thing is that really Mel isn’t cut out to be a playboy. Still, I’m hoping that Simon’s marriage to you will make him see that being a bachelor isn’t all he thinks it is. They say, don’t they, that a baby never cements a broken marriage. That’s why I decided on this,’ she told India, patting her stomach. ‘But it backfired. Mel feels we’re both too old to be starting another baby, and the boys aren’t too keen on the idea either.’ Her hands started to shake suddenly, tears welling and rolling down her cheeks.