by Anne Weale
As she glanced at him, his eyes swept over her outfit and she wondered what he thought of it.
A housekeeper had taken her up to a comfortable bedroom where she had hung up her coat and unpacked her case. Then she had found her way to the drawing room where Reid had introduced her to these two women, both wearing pearls and clothes of excellent quality but totally lacking in style.
‘How unusual,’ said Lady Kennard. ‘Most of the girls one knows have filled in the time between leaving school and marriage with some occupation...working at Sotheby’s, or cooking directors’ lunches. My daughters’ daughters have all worked for a few years.’
‘Most people do,’ Fran agreed. ‘But I didn’t need to or want to. I found other things to do. Did you have a career, Lady Kennard?’
Looking surprised at having a question lobbed back at her, Reid’s grandmother said, ‘No, I didn’t. But when I was young few girls did. Tell me...’
Her inquisition continued until Reid, looking bored, cut it short by saying, ‘Before it’s time for drinks, I want to give Francesca a quick tour of my part of the house.’
She was glad to escape. She wasn’t sure what Mrs Onslow thought of her, but it didn’t take much intuition to divine Lady Kennard’s opinion. They were never going to be buddies.
Outside the room, Reid took her by the hand and swept her up the staircase to a floor where the ceilings weren’t as high or the architectural details as grand as those on the first floor.
He said, ‘I’m sorry about the third degree. My grandmother hasn’t learnt to take people as she finds them. She’s not at ease with glamour.’
‘Glamour?’ Fran queried. It was a word she associated with long-dead film stars, platinum blondes in bias-cut, backless satin evening dresses, brunettes with Cupid’s-bow lips looking seductively over white fox-furred shoulders.
They had reached the next highest landing which was still not the top of the house. There was another above it and above that a large glazed cupola shedding light right down to the hall.
‘Glamour,’ Reid repeated. ‘You look a knock-out and you know it.’
‘I don’t think your grandmother thinks so.’
‘Possibly not, but I do.’ His eyes had narrowed. They glittered with the same light she had seen in the taxi after kissing him. ‘Take off the jacket.’
Her outfit consisted of three parts; a loose hip-length coat of diaphanous printed silk georgette bound at the edges with velvet ribbon, a silk-lined chemise with ribbon shoulder straps, and a skirt made of several layers, with rolled hems that rose and fell to show the layer beneath and to float around her when she moved.
But it wasn’t her clothes Reid was studying as she slipped off the jacket but the contours revealed or suggested by the sheer, fluid fabric. ‘I’ll show you my book room later. Right now...’
He propelled her through a door, closed it and took her in his arms.
It was like being caught by a whirlwind, or some other force of nature which couldn’t be escaped or resisted so the only thing to do was nothing. She could feel her heart starting to pound and excitement tinged with panic flooding her body. He was holding the small of her back, his fingers splayed to support her as he swayed her backwards, his mouth demanding a response.
She knew this was a reprisal for the kiss in the taxi which perhaps he had seen as a come-on, although that was not her intention.
Her eyes closed, every nerve in her body quivering, Fran surrendered to a kiss far beyond her experience although not beyond her imagination. This was how she had dreamed of being kissed... by Julian.
But the strong arm now locked round her waist, the hand stroking her back, the aftershave, the slightly abrasive male chin she could feel nudging hers, the lips commanding her lips, none of these were Julian’s.
Simultaneously, as her body was telling her, Yes! This is what you were made for, the sharp voice of conscience was saying, No! This is wrong. You aren’t in love with this man. You shouldn’t be doing this with him.
When at last Reid let her go, she was still torn between desire and doubt.
Reid was smiling, his colour high, the message in his eyes unmistakable. He wanted her and knew that she wanted him.
She was still holding the gauzy coat. He took it from her and tossed it onto a chair. Then, as she was catching her breath, trying to recover herself, he stepped behind her and she felt his fingers brushing the skin between her shoulder blades.
But, her head in a whirl of confusion, she didn’t immediately grasp what he was doing: unfastening the three silk-looped buttons at the back of the chemise. It was only when he moved the velvet straps over the ends of her shoulders that she realised he was undressing her.
At the same time she realised the room they were in was a bedroom...his bedroom.
Underneath the chemise she was wearing a strapless bra. Before he could undo that, she clutched the chemise to her front and whirled round to face him.
‘No...please...not now...not yet...’
‘There’s plenty of time before we need reappear.’ He closed the gap, his hands caressing her shoulders. ‘Your skin feels as smooth as marble, but softer...warmer.’ His voice was husky, persuasive.
Fran jerked away, out of reach. She could see she would have to speak plainly. ‘I don’t want to make love yet. I’d rather wait till we’re married.’
CHAPTER FOUR
SHE thought he would scowl and say something coldly sarcastic.
But although he stopped smiling, his tone was mild as he said, ‘Sweetheart, a moment ago, you were—’
‘You surprised me. I hadn’t realised this was your bedroom. I didn’t mean to...lead you on.’
He lifted an eyebrow. ‘Francesca—’ the soft way he said her name made her insides turn over—‘you turn me on every time you look at me. I want you and you want me. Let’s do something about it? There’s a tedious evening ahead of us. My grandmother doesn’t go to bed that early. She may not turn in till eleven or later.’
‘I’m sure she wouldn’t like it if she thought we were making love under her roof.’
‘She’s going to assume that anyway. As long as we don’t advertise it, I don’t think she’ll give a fig. She’s accepted that nice girls do. Possibly not her own daughters, but their daughters...yes, no question. Even if she and my aunt knew we were here instead of in the book room, it wouldn’t damn you in their eyes. Stop worrying about it.’
His hands were on her shoulders, his thumbs caressing her collarbones.
‘It’s not only that. I don’t want to go to bed with you now.’
‘Why? Wrong time of the month?’
Julian, the nearest she had come to having a brother although she had never seen him in that light, would never have asked such a personal question.
Tempted to take the easy way out of this situation by letting Reid think that was her reason, she hesitated. But she didn’t want to lie to him and anyway this was an issue better confronted now. If it wasn’t settled, it might crop up again between now and their wedding.
‘No, it’s not that. I’ve never had sex with people I hardly know. It’s just not my style.’
He seemed more amused than annoyed. ‘It’s not mine either,’ he said dryly. ‘But we are engaged to be married and I can’t see any good reason to postpone a pleasure we both want.’
He would have kissed her again but she fended him off and, although he could easily have overcome her resistance, he didn’t.
‘You’re not on the pill. Is that it?’ he suggested.
‘No, I’m not. That’s one of the reasons.’
‘Then stop worrying. I’ll take care of it. I agree that it might be better to postpone having babies for a while...although not for too long. My father was in his sixties when I was a teenager. I’d like to be younger than that when our sons are growing up.’
Fran took a deep breath. ‘Reid, you’re missing the point. I don’t want to make love today...or tomorrow... or any time before we’re married
. That might seem very old-fashioned but it’s the way I feel. If...if you don’t have enough confidence to take that side of our relationship on trust, then you shouldn’t be marrying me. I’m prepared to believe that you’ll be a considerate lover.’
He was still holding her shoulders but his fingers were motionless on her bare skin. He looked at her for a long time. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. If he guessed the truth, would he see it as a pro or a con?
At last he said, ‘Very well, if that’s the way you want it, that’s the way it will be. Turn round and I’ll button you up.’
She turned round, replacing the straps where they had been before he pushed them aside.
Suddenly, when she thought he was still busy with the buttons, he put his lips to her back, a few inches down from her nape.
‘But let’s just get one thing straight,’ he said, speaking close to her ear. ‘If by “considerate lover” you mean one of those twin-bed marriages with a mistress in the background, forget it. I don’t want a sexy mistress. I want a passionate wife. There’s more to marriage than good sex...a lot more. But sex is a key ingredient. I hope we’re agreed on that.’
‘Of course.’
She refrained from adding that she didn’t see how making love could ever be sublime unless both partners truly loved each other with all their hearts, which was never going to be true in their case.
They might, as time went on, develop a strong affection for each other. But love was something else, an extra dimension only a lucky few experienced. Presumably Julian felt that way about Alice, although it was hard to see why.
Fran had been baffled by what he could see in her that wasn’t apparent to the rest of the world. Alice’s giggle would have driven her mad. She seemed a most unlikely person for a brilliantly clever man to choose as his life’s companion.
As they left the bedroom Fran slipped on the georgette jacket. Not that the chemise was particularly décolleté but she felt that the less bare skin she had on show the better. If her senses were still vibrating, Reid’s must be too.
His book room was a delight. Every inch of the walls was covered with packed shelves or pictures. The only furniture was two comfortable sofas—both large enough for someone his size to stretch out on—an antique library table stacked with brand-new books and a print stand for looking at drawings.
Wandering around, reading the titles of his books and studying the pictures while he lounged on the arm of a sofa, watching her, she was struck by the diversity of his interests. There were whole shelves of books on subjects ranging from history and philosophy to martial arts, jazz and photography.
That the evening wasn’t as dull as Reid had forecast was entirely due to him. At dinner he dominated the conversation, often being very funny. He was an unexpectedly good mimic with an international repertoire of accents.
Fran was beginning to wonder if she was up to his weight. But maybe a clever, witty wife wasn’t what he wanted. He might prefer to hold the stage on his own with his wife a member of the audience.
She wasn’t sure she was comfortable with that concept. She saw an ideal marriage as an alliance between two people who, although their contributions to the match might be different, were on a more or less equal footing.
She wanted a husband she could admire and respect, but not one who made her feel the inferior partner. She knew she had many shortcomings, but most of her life she had felt good about herself and even the trauma of losing her one true love hadn’t changed her innate sense of self-worth.
After dinner Mrs. Onslow said there was something she wanted to watch on TV. Reid also wanted to see it. But Lady Kennard said, ‘Francesca and I will stay here and talk.’
Without being ungracious, it was difficult for Fran to get out of this tête-à-tête. Reid, had he wished, could have rescued her, but he chose not to.
When the others had gone to wherever the television lived, Lady Kennard beckoned Fran to a chair nearer to her and subjected her to another grilling.
‘My grandson can be very charming, but he won’t be an easy man to live with,’ she remarked.
‘Do you find him difficult to live with?’ Fran asked.
Lady Kennard’s gesture dismissed the question as irrelevant, even impertinent. ‘We expected him to marry someone outstandingly gifted either in his own field or perhaps in the arts. All his previous young women have had successful careers. I’m very surprised that you haven’t.’
‘Perhaps he thinks my home-making skills are superior,’ Fran suggested.
It was all too apparent that, without actually saying so point-blank, this stuck-up old harridan disapproved of Reid’s choice.
The one question she hadn’t asked, and the only really important one, was, ‘Do you love my grandson?’
The evening concluded with a cup of hot chocolate for Lady Kennard, a tisane for her daughter who had lived in France since her husband’s retirement, and a glass of cognac for Reid. Fran, who had asked for a glass of spring water, looked enviously at Reid’s brandy. She could have done with a stiff nightcap.
They all went upstairs together, his aunt’s and his grandmother’s rooms being closer to the staircase than Fran’s. When they had disappeared, Reid walked with her to her door.
‘Did you manage to hold your own with Granny K?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. She made it clear she doesn’t think much of me...but I’m not mad about her,’ she added frankly.
‘One doesn’t choose one’s relations,’ he said dryly. ‘You won’t have to see much of her. Goodnight. Sleep well. There’s no need to lock your door. I accept your embargo. This isn’t going to be a long engagement. I can wait.’
His goodnight kiss was a chaste salute on her forehead.
After an early breakfast on their own, as both Mrs Onslow and her mother preferred to breakfast in bed, Reid and Fran set out to visit his other grandmother.
Once out of London, on the motorway, he was able to let the car out. Fran had expected it to be ultra-comfortable but had wondered what sort of driver he was. She had done well in an Advanced Driver’s test and was happier being at the wheel than in the passenger seat.
Reid’s performance on the motorway quickly reassured her that he was neither a speed freak nor a road hog. He drove fast, but never beyond the legal limit and his courtesy to other drivers was exemplary.
Mrs Heatherley lived in an old manor house near Oxford. Fran’s first sight of her was of an ample behind up-ended over a flower bed near the manor’s stone porch.
In an upright position, Reid’s other grandmother had a friendly weather-beaten face, grey hair crammed into the crown of a panama hat and a bosom to match her comfortable hips.
‘Reid, darling...lovely to see you.’ As he bent down to hug her, she gave him a smacking kiss. ‘And this is Francesca.’ Without waiting to be introduced, she gripped Fran’s upper arms and planted a slightly more restrained kiss on her cheek. ‘I’ve been dying to meet you since Reid rang up and told me he had finally met his fate. About time too. I was beginning to think he would never find someone to take him on.’
Beaming, she shepherded them indoors where, in a cosy untidy room with several large dogs lying about and lots of flowers, she had a bottle of champagne on ice.
‘So when and where is the wedding to be?’ she asked, having drunk to their health and happiness.
On the drive down, Reid had revealed that, subject to Fran’s agreement, he had made a tentative booking for their marriage to take place at his local register office in a fortnight’s time.
Now he looked at her and raised his eyebrows. She’d had a little over an hour to consider it. He expected her to have made up her mind.
Actually she had done that almost immediately. If she were going to take this extraordinary gamble with her future, there was no point in delaying it.
When she nodded, he told Mrs Heatherley, adding, ‘With only our closest relations present.’
His grandmother nodded approvingl
y. ‘Very sensible of you, Francesca. I’ve always thought big fancy weddings an outrageous waste of money. My mother bullied me into having one and by the time it was over I was far too exhausted to enjoy the beginning of our honeymoon. I was a virgin, of course, as many girls were in those days, so that was an added stress. Luckily my darling Robert couldn’t have been more understanding so it didn’t end in tears as so many wedding nights did.’
She moved to a table and picked up a framed photograph of a man in an open-necked shirt with wind-ruffled hair. ‘This is Robert when he was Reid’s age. They’re rather alike, don’t you think?’
Reid had already told Fran that his maternal grandfather, a dedicated climber, had been killed in the Himalaya when he was in his forties. She could see some resemblance between them. They both had dark hair, large bony noses and strong chins. But Robert Heatherley’s face looked more easygoing and open.
‘Yes, they are,’ she agreed, wondering how, if theirs had been a love match, the smiling woman beside her had survived the years of anxiety and, finally, the fatal accident.
‘It’s a shame they never knew each other. They would have got on so well. Now you must be hungry. Let’s go and have lunch. As it’s a mild day, we’ll eat outside in my sun-trap. I’d better lend you a shady hat, Francesca. With that gorgeous hair and fair skin, I expect you have to be careful not to burn.’
They said goodbye at four. As they drove away, en route to see Shelley and John, Fran felt much more relaxed than she had the night before. Like Lady Kennard, Mrs Heatherley had asked her a lot of questions but in a friendlier way. The rapport had been mutual. Fran felt it would be a pleasure to spend more time at the manor with someone who, like her mother, had found solace in her garden.
Reid’s thoughts were running on similar lines. ‘You seemed to hit it off well.’
‘Who wouldn’t? She’s such a dear.’
Suddenly it struck Fran that one person who hadn’t been mentioned during four hours’ conversation was Mrs Heatherley’s daughter...Reid’s mother. She wondered why not but hesitated to ask. The fact that neither of them had made any reference to her suggested that something had happened to Mrs Kennard which had been even more painful than the premature death of Miranda Heatherley’s husband.