Bride by Contract

by Margaret Rome

  'Good!' Troy quickly retaliated. 'I'm delighted to learn that we have a master chef employed on the premises. As that is the case, Morva,' he instructed, keeping his eyes trained upon Percy's haughty features, 'I suggest you sweeten Cook's sour reaction with the news that we have decided to double her salary. I've found there's no limit to the things people will do for an extra couple of shekels, haven't you, Eden?' he taunted. 'Even cupid, the naked cherub, has had to be provided at times with a money pouch!'

  Morva stared, shocked by the antagonism existing between her deposed brother and the tough Canadian who seemed to delight in cracking the whip of authority over his head. She shuddered with self-revulsion, ashamed of the traitorous responses aroused by the husband who had demanded her betrayal of life-held principles; the denouncement of ancient, honourable tradition in exchange for the favour of becoming his true wife!

  A wave of tribal loyalty overwhelmed her when the usurper dared to dismiss her patrician brother with an abrupt threat.

  'Get moving, Eden, you know what you have to do! And in case your gentlemanly upbringing should rule that practising the art of commerce is beneath your dignity, I want to make one thing very clear—if you mess up this deal, I'll nail you!'

  Tight-lipped with indignation, Morva submitted to being hustled through the East Entrance and into a kitchen in the process of being gutted of ancient black-leaded ranges; past larders lined with meat safes and dark recesses choked with lumber, then through the Painted Hall towards a staircase flanked by a larger-than-life statue of a winged and naked Mercury.

  She ought not to have been confounded by his lack of delicacy and good taste when he stopped to study the statue of the winged messenger, his frozen flight unimpeded by even a vestige of clothing.

  'Did you know that at the beginning of each fig harvest it is customary for the first fig picked from a tree to be devoted to Mercury?' he grinned, cocking a wicked eyebrow. 'A sense of fellow-feeling assures me that he could make much better use of the fig leaves!'

  Colour rioted in her cheeks at this indelicate reference to the night she had surprised him naked, yet rendered immune to embarrassment by his ultra-thick hide.

  'Mercury, the god of science and commerce!' He leant across the banister to pat a bare marble rump. 'His presence here in Ravenscrag could be considered a good omen, don't you think?'

  'A very apt symbol,' she agreed on a tremor of indignation, 'considering that he is also the patron of rogues, vagabonds and thieves!'

  He tossed back his head and laughed aloud, then surprised her by revealing a knowledge of literature that struck her as entirely contradictory to the twin roles of hard-headed businessman and earthy cowboy which he played so convincingly.

  'So you think me a "snapper-up of unconsidered trifles", eh, Morva?' He bent his dark head to tease. 'But surely, by implication, you are undervaluing your own worth?'

  They had reached the head of a polished oak staircase lined with a profusion of barley sugar bannisters by the time she had gathered sufficient composure to take up the thread of his teasing words. She stopped dead in her tracks, then bolstered by the presence of ancestral portraits ranged with lofty superiority around oak panelled walls, she spun round to condemn quietly.

  'Must you be so hard on my brother? After all, his loss was your gain—you now own everything he was brought up to regard as his inheritance!'

  'Then he should thank me for doing him a favour.' The even tenor of his reply sounded dangerously akin to the low rumbling of a geyser building up pressure to spout. 'Suddenly he has been forced to join the human race, given an opportunity to earn his own medals on the corporate battlefield, to rise to the top through his own initiative by devoting all his energies to whichever line of business he considers most suited to his particular talents.'

  'You know my brother is no business shark!' she flared, aggravated by the certainty that he was contemptuous of Percy. 'Because of you, he has lost his title, his fiancée, his home, most of his friends, and all of his social life! You promised him a directorship, implied that it would be sufficiently well paid to enable him to continue with his social activities, but as things now stand he cannot afford the upkeep of his London flat, much less the cost of feeding and stabling his polo ponies!'

  In spite of a glowering presentiment of danger she was caught completely off guard by his painful grip upon her shoulders and by the shaking he administered while condemning through gritted teeth.

  'And what about yourself, Morva? What about the sacrifice you were forced to make to further your brother's interests? Or are you still too cowed by family, too brainwashed by tradition, to count the cost of having been tied for the rest of your life to a husband you clearly despise…?'

  And who despises you?

  He had not said that the antipathy was mutual, but the silent implication hung in the air between them causing her to wince, to blink back tears that would have given him the satisfaction of knowing how vulnerable she felt, how easily she fell victim to his caustic tongue. With a choke of despair she turned away from the knight of commerce whose wit stabbed deeply as a lance, whose self-assurance seemed impenetrable as a suit of armour.

  Because she was prevented by the presence of workmen from seeking the sanctuary of her old room, she started towards the exotic Oriental suite she had begun to hate as night by solitary night the passion-red interior grew more oppressive. While tossing and turning in the lonely silence the garnet glint of feline eyes seemed to intensify; the sabre-toothed grins of painted dragons seemed gradually to widen as they leered down from the canopy above her bed as if waiting to pounce upon the bride no one wanted— even at a bargain price…

  'Oh, no you don't,' Troy's hand descended roughly, halting her in mid flight, 'we have a job to do, remember! If grievances must be nursed they'll have to wait until after working hours.'

  The ground floor rooms of the castle were to remain untouched, cleaned and polished, but otherwise left as they had been for centuries. But the first- and second-floor bedrooms were in a state of siege while closets were being converted into bathrooms with ceilings lowered and coved to create a sense of comfort between towering walls, the remaining stretches being tiled and fitted with luxurious bathroom suites, carefully chosen to complement the colour schemes existing in adjacent bedrooms. For the following couple of hours Troy kept her busy scribbling his terse instructions into a notebook as they wandered from room to room accompanied by the architect in charge of alterations.

  'The cleaners can begin working in the Mary Stuart Suite first thing tomorrow morning,' Troy ordered her to transcribe once they had completed a tour of rooms decorated with tartan wallcoverings, a peat brown carpet, sheepskin rugs, and drapes and covers of heather-blue velvet.

  'The Grey Satin Bedroom should be ready for their attention the following day, then the Chintz, the White Satin, the Blue Satin, the Crystal and Tabberet bedrooms ought to be ready for completion in that order.'

  Still desperately scribbling, she followed the two men along a passageway as they continued their inspection, catching them up just as the architect was opening a door leading into the Rose Boudoir.

  'I'm not at all certain of the colour scheme proposed for this room, Lord Howgill.' He rifled through a sheaf of notes then quoted from instructions. 'Ceiling white; walls and paintwork washed and painted one coat only to blend with background of covers and curtains. But which colour?' he appealed to Morva. 'Could you offer some guidance, Lady Howgill?'

  Troy's tight smile, his attitude of mocking deference when he stood aside to allow her to enter seemed to indicate that he had interpreted her startled reaction to her new title as revulsion, and was annoyed by it.

  She strove hard to appear as calm and knowledgeable as her position demanded when she stepped inside the large room dominated by a bed with an enormous pink satin dome suspended overhead, ribbed and frilled and extravagantly ruched, its underside clustered with pink satin bows, rosettes, and tasselled ropes draped low as the hem
of rose-patterned bed-curtains.

  'Such frivolous folly cries out for a calming influence,' she grimaced apologetically, 'a colour that is light without being frothy. A deep shade of cream might look nice,' she glanced at Troy for confirmation then quickly looked away when his expression warned that he was defying her to. reach ah independent decision. 'Yes, make it deep cream,' she instructed recklessly, 'on walls, pilasters, cornice, the lot!'

  Just as she finished speaking a noise filled the room, a sound that was alien yet vaguely familiar. Its gradually increasing volume drew them towards a window overlooking the grounds.

  'A helicopter!' Morva gasped, amazed by the frenzied threshing of bushes and trees fringing the large area of lawn beneath the slowly lowering aircraft. 'Who on earth…!'

  'Only one person that I can think of!' Troy's features were creased by a wide grin of pleasure. Grabbing her by the wrist he began propelling her out of the room and towards the staircase, giving her no chance to resist, no time to gasp questions as she was raced out of the castle and through the grounds, arriving at the edge of the clearing just as the helicopter landed.

  'Aunt Cassie!' he yelled, waving an enthusiastic welcome to a white-haired figure stepping sprightly to the ground, then ducking half double in a effort to combat the draught being caused by still-whirling rotor blades.

  'Troy, you young devil!' Morva heard him addressed before he left her standing to sprint across the grass to envelope his unexpected visitor in a crushing bear hug.

  She hung back, amused by the bubbling effervescence of Troy's aunt, looking at least twenty years younger than he had intimated, in a bright red cotton safari suit, her silver hair expertly cut and styled, and wearing sandals with slender heels that added at least two inches to her diminutive height.

  'Troy, my darling boy, I could hardly believe it when I heard the news!'

  'How did you hear the news, Aunt Cassie?' He grinned down at her excited face.

  'I sent a cablegram to your office in Toronto-thinking that was where you'd most likely be—and thought some joker was sending me up when I received a reply stating: Nephew now tenth Earl of Howgill. Present location ancestral home. Ravenscrag Castle. County of Cumbria. U.K.'

  She squeezed him delightedly. 'Naturally, I hopped on to the first available flight leaving Paris for London, then chartered a chopper to fetch me the rest of the way. Oh, and just guess who I've brought with me!' She stood on tip-toe to plant a smacking kiss on his cheek, then turned to wave with a triumphant flourish in the direction of the now silent helicopter.

  Morva's glance followed then froze, mesmerised by the vision of beauty picking an elegant course towards Troy, Dimly, her mind registered his aunt's jocular scolding.

  'Now, are you prepared to admit what a clever old aunt you have! When I bumped into your girl in Paris I insisted that she should come with me!'

  'Troy, darling…!' Confidently, the girl slid into his embrace as if she had been there many times before, then tilted her golden head, inviting his kiss.

  Willingly, he obliged, then, wearing an expression Morva could only define as bashful, he slid an arm around each of his visitors' waists to turn them around until all three were facing in her direction.

  'Just to prove that you're not the only experts at springing surprises,' he teased in an affectionate drawl, 'I'd like to introduce both of you to my wife.

  'Aunt Cassie. Miss Lynda Lewis. Meet Lady Morva Belvoir, Countess of Howgill!'

  CHAPTER SIX

  For no particular reason that she could think of, Morva was prepared to dislike Lynda Lewis intensely. Not because she was envious of her beauty, she assured herself, nor because she was a rich heiress, the only child of one of Troy's multi-millionaire business colleagues, but because she felt certain that she could not possibly find anything in common with a girl who had allowed herself to become so foolishly besotted with Troy Belvoir that she had been unable to dredge up sufficient pride or strength of composure to disguise the shattering blow she had been dealt when informed of his marriage.

  Yet strangely, once introductions had. been concluded, questions had been rapidly fired and just as rapidly answered, and the initial surge of excitement had gradually begun to wane, Morva had reluctantly sensed how difficult, almost impossible, it would be to dislike the gentle-voiced girl whose wealthy background appeared to have made little or no impression upon her kind, unspoiled nature. Deep affection for Troy was apparent in every word and glance she directed his way, yet her generosity of spirit was underlined when, after Morva had shown her to her room and was about to take her leave, Lynda halted her in her tracks with the impulsive admission.

  'I decided upon a tour of Europe in an effort to get Troy out of my system! I've been in love with him for years,' she confessed simply, 'ever since the day Poppa elected to act as guide through the commercial jungle for the benefit of a young man faced with the responsibility of heading a huge corporation after the premature death of his father, who was Poppa's closest friend. Our friendship never developed into anything deeper—on Troy's part, at least,' she qualified wryly. 'When first we met I was just a schoolgirl, and in spite of all the effort I put into making him see me as an attractive, sophisticated lady I'm afraid that to him I'll always be seen as an unwordly child in need of brotherly protection.'

  Her lovely eyes had been deep with feeling when she had assured Morva. 'But in spite of my disappointment, I'm delighted that Troy has fallen in love at last. In common with most individuals who have been blessed, some would say cursed, with a great deal of wealth, he needs the assurance that he is loved as a person and not merely as a provider. I feel certain,' she had concluded with a sincerity that had moved Morva to shame, 'that unlike many of my previous rivals for Troy's affection you are a giver rather than a taker. From you, he will gain all the love and happiness that he deserves…'

  Morva was sitting on a balcony overlooking the gardens, mulling over the puzzling new aspect of Troy with a legion of females competing for his attention, when Percy ran her to earth.

  'I thought I'd find you in your favourite bolt hole!'

  He dropped down beside her on a marble bench, looking more cheerful than she had seen him for weeks.

  'You look as if you've just come into a fortune,' she smiled, then immediately regretted the oblique reference to his lack of funds.

  'How clever of you to guess the direction in which my thoughts have been leading,' he grinned widely, stooping to adjust the immaculate crease in his trousers. 'But then, haven't you already proved that the quickest way to a fortune is to marry one! People in our position cannot afford to have scruples. If a choice piece of prey should cross our path we feel duty bound to go after it.'

  She spread suddenly damp palms over a surface of cold stone, hoping she was wrong in assuming that the prey he had centred in his sights was the recently hurt and consequently very vulnerable Lynda Lewis. But proof that her instinct was correct came as soon as he had settled into a comfortable position, heaving a sigh of satisfaction.

  'I have no intention of living like a serf at the beck and call of your husband for twenty-four hours of every day! Not when I can take a short cut to Poppa Lewis's boardroom by catching Troy's lovesick young friend on the rebound. She's a rich young pigeon blown right off course,' he chuckled, 'grieving for a lost mate, and just right for plucking.'

  'You're despicable!' Morva accused in a flat monotone that disguised a vortex of outraged emotions. 'In certain circumstances an arranged marriage can be sociably acceptable, but what you are proposing is downright dishonest,' she condemned her complacent brother, 'the act of an unscrupulous gigolo!'

  'Come off it, Morva!' he ground between lips twisted into a sneer. 'We've both been raised to believe that hunting is good sport, whether the prey be two-legged or four. You've trapped your fox, why try to deny me the privilege of cornering a vixen?'

  'Please don't talk that way, Percy.' She turned aside to hide an expression of disgust, sickened by sudden insight int
o the way traditions she had been brought up to regard as acceptable might be viewed as contemptuous by visitors from the other side of the Atlantic. 'Why not try putting all your efforts into the career Troy has mapped out for you—you might get to like it, might even become successful enough to allow you to propose marriage to the girl you love.'

  'Love!' he scoffed with a smile of derision. 'Love can bestow a very pleasant sense of well-being, I agree, nevertheless, it would be the last reason I would put forward as an argument in favour of matrimony!'

  He began sauntering away then hesitated, turning to eye her with a look of uncertainty she found puzzling.

  'Oh, by the way, I've been meaning to ask you…' His glance fell away to direct rapt attention upon the toecaps of his elegant shoes. 'How are things between yourself and Belvoir?' He reddened, then soldiered on in the manner of one who had set himself a task and was determined to finish it. 'I'm not such a swine that I can clear my mind of worry about whether Belvoir is gentleman enough to take youth and innocence into consideration when he imposes the physical demands of marriage.'

  Morva jumped to her feet, her cheeks flaring as red as her newly discovered temper. She felt stripped of all dignity, betrayed by family and by one member in particular whose conscience had been belatedly aroused by the slamming of her bedroom door.

  'Forgive me if I sound cynical, Percy,' she snubbed the childhood idol whose glitter she had mistaken for gold, 'but for you to question Troy's ability to act as a gentleman seems to me as incongruous as a wolf questioning the motives of a tiger!'

  She left him looking stunned by a broadside delivered from the very last quarter he had expected, and hurried up to the suite she shared with a husband who, during the short duration of their marriage, had somehow managed to avoid intruding upon her privacy. Frequently, she had spotted signs of his earlier occupation of the bathroom they were forced to share—a razor left upon a shelf; the lingering, astringent scent of the soap he favoured; a damp patch spreading on the mat where he had stood before, with typical male thoughtlessness, dumping the towels he had used in a wet untidy heap upon the floor.