Bride by Contract

by Margaret Rome

  But immediately she entered the sitting room she became aware of sounds of movement behind the dressing-room door. She hurried towards the main bedroom and sidled inside, then stood with her back against the door wondering why her heart should be thumping, why nerves had been stampeded into a state of panic by the close proximity of a man who saw her as no more than a business partner whose services had been secured for the bargain price of a wedding ring.

  Unaccountably saddened by the thought, she began slowly undressing, conscious of her duty to be ready to receive guests when they appeared for dinner. She had just slid into her dressing gown and was standing poised, listening to ensure that the connecting bathroom was vacant, when a tap upon the bedroom door sent a startled jolt through her tense frame.

  'Come in…' she quavered, knowing that it had to be Troy seeking admittance.

  He entered with the hesitancy of a freedom-loving mustang wary of unfamiliar territory, scanning his surroundings in the manner of a stallion anxious to establish all possible escape routes. A strange feeling came over her as she watched him draw nearer. An electric tremor shot along her spine, her pulse began racing as she wondered, madly and wickedly whether she dare act upon a theory that had been advanced in the magazine article she had just finished reading, an article devoted to the findings of scientists who had researched the phenomenon of flirting, studied the meaning behind the wink; the long, tender look; the vital need for physical contact, and the indefinable enchantment that drew together men and women who found one another mutually and sexually attractive.

  When it comes to flirting, it is the female who makes the first advances… Men are not leaders, but lemmings in the mating game, a game so ritualised its moves can even be tabulated. Firstly, the female moves her body to attract the male's attention. Secondly, she closes in. This move is repeated several times until she is certain the male is attracted… The first kiss is a prelude to a dramatic synchronised burst of pre-mating love play. . . .

  Her knees were shaking, her palms damp, as she forced herself to turn her back, striving to look cool as she sauntered across to the dressing table.

  'What can I do for you?' she almost choked the polite enquiry, averting her eyes from a mirror reflecting white-faced panic—lips childishly trembling, wide eyes running scared.

  His tone when he explained his intrusion was quiet, unadorned, and sober as his suit.

  'I have to beg a favour, Morva.'

  'Oh, yes…?' she encouraged, fastening a tight grip on the handle of her hairbrush. She saw his image looming behind her own in the mirror and quickly sheered her glance away from a cobalt blue gaze gleaming bright with anxiety.

  'Would you mind very much if I were to act out a public show of affection?' Her body seemed to melt beneath the warmth of his breath stroking across the nape of her neck as he bent to seek encouragement from her expression. 'Just an odd kiss or two and an occasional endearment,' he pleaded roughly, 'to soothe Aunt Cassie's suspicious nature. She's all the family I have. Her peace of mind means a great deal to me. Am I asking too much of you, Morva?'

  Why beg favours that have already been stolen? she wanted to scream, but instead called upon reserves of dignity and pride to help her pretend that his kisses had not seared, that her treacherous body had not been ignited by his flame, melted by the heat of passion he seemed to be able to manipulate at will, controlled as if by a thermostat set to achieve maximum heat with a minimum amount of effort.

  'Of course not,' she lied bravely. 'In fact, one might argue that keeping guests happy is part of our arrangement. Your aunt must already be wondering,' she murmured wistfully, 'why, when the world is filled with birds of brilliant plumage, you should have elected to mate with a plain English sparrow.'

  She sensed his outrage and looked up just in time to catch a glimpse of cloud-darkened eyes split by a lightning flash of anger. Then with a tormented growl he clamped his hands upon her shoulders, pulling her into the loose circle of his arms.

  'If you are plain,' he spelled out steadily, razing brilliant eyes over a tumble of richly tinted hair, 'then autumn leaves are plain!' His gaze travelled slowly downward, encompassing startled brown eyes, pale unblemished skin, and soft lips trembling around a gasp of sheer surprise, before continuing softly. 'Also creamy camellia petals; berries, sweet ripe and red, and the pride, grace, and intangible esprit of the noble thoroughbred which is often copied but seldom successfully, by less genteel mortals. Appreciate your own valuable virtues, Morva, instead of envying the bluebird a colour that is purely illusionary.'

  His stormy look faded as he responded gently to her look of puzzlement. 'According to Indian legend, there was a time, before birds were created, when the Great Spirit became depressed each autumn as the trees began shedding their foliage. Then after many colour-starved winters he was inspired by the notion of turning leaves into birds—red leaves into robins, pochards and ruffs; yellow leaves into chiffchaff, titmouse and wagtails, and all remaining leaves into a multitude of birds with mainly black and brown plumage. But as there were no blue leaves the bluebird was left colourless. Squeaking with rage, it flew up to heaven where the Great Spirit lived in order to register a protest. But when he arrived his plumage had turned a deep celestial blue. The fact that the colour was merely a reflection did not matter,' he smiled gravely, 'because the effect upon the bluebird was the same as it would have been had its feathers absorbed blue pigment. He was happy because he felt fulfilled.'

  His hands dropped to his sides as he stepped away, putting a width of carpet between them. 'And that is exactly how it will be with you, Morva. Once you have nerved yourself to fly, to reach for your own particular piece of heaven, the sparrow you scorn will be transformed into a bluebird of happiness.'

  She stood motionless with hands tightly clasped, struggling to decipher the message contained in his clipped words, but too conscious of electricity crackling in the air between them and of a revival of the inner tumult that had been sparked into life by the first sexual kisses she had ever experienced in her cloistered, female-orientated existence. She had no way of recognising strange emotions as the first stirrings of sexual arousal in a nubile body, slender yet curvaceous, unblemished, untouched, yet ripe for love. Her mind, conditioned from childhood to put pride and modesty first, was dulled by impulses demanding gratification—a divine repetition of her first rapturous physical encounter…

  Acting purely upon instinct inherited by all females from their earth mother, Eve, she glided slowly towards him then arched her body against his, lifting soft, inviting lips to be kissed. She felt a quiver run through his tense frame, heard the rasp of a sharply indrawn breath, then melted beneath the warmth of hands exploring the cool velvet slopes of her shoulders.

  Then, shockingly, the lapels of her thin silk dressing gown were jerked tightly together, clasped against her throat by a bunched fist. Heavy lashes opened over desire-drugged eyes. She stared, confounded by the message of rejection being transmitted by his hard, angry mouth, by a jawline clenched as if to withstand intolerable strain, and by the choking grip of fingers tightening the silken noose around her neck until the pressure became almost murderous.

  'Get dressed, Morva…!' The command rasped from stern lips as he pushed her away so violently she stumbled against the dressing table, sending a small crystal perfume flagon crashing to the floor.

  Ever afterwards the scent of rosemary, the emblem of remembrance and fidelity in love, was to signify to her the shame of rejection, the shattering of naive ideals that had led her to follow the instinct of a fawning puppy hungry for affection.

  Yet an ingrained sense of dignity helped her to pull herself erect, to draw the gaping edges of her dressing gown around her cold, shivering body as she suffered his gritted condemnation, white faced, but with head unbowed.

  'Before a fledgling can fly it must first learn to stand and walk and run and climb. The down of innocence cannot be cast off in one day, Morva,' he reminded dully, 'maturity is a slow, len
gthy process, a day-by-day growth of flesh, mind, and spirit that makes waiting seem tedious until the time of the maiden flight, the day of lift-off when patience is rewarded by a glorious flight on soaring wings.'

  It called for a great deal of courage on her part to wash and change into her best brown dress before joining Troy downstairs to greet their guests as if the shattering scene had not taken place, to have to pretend a composure she did not feel—outwardly smiling, inwardly bleeding, scarred by the shame of having made plain her willingness to discard old loyalties as he had once demanded; humiliated by his rejection of her timid, exploratory advances.

  Her pain did not lessen when Lynda's dazzling appearance seemed to provide ample clues to Troy's indifference. She was last to appear on the threshold of the ante room where he was dispensing pre-dinner drinks to the rest of their guests, and stood poised, unselfconsciously anticipating the admiring gasps that followed immediately all eyes became focused upon creamy shoulders left bare by the strapless black velvet bodice of a dress with a taffeta skirt falling into gathers that added a sophisticated rustle to her poised, slightly swaying walk.

  Morva's heart contracted with an envy she found impossible to control when, with visible relief, Troy abandoned his role of referee between his aunt and the Dowager Lady Howgill who had generated antagonism upon their first moment of meeting. He hurried across the room with arms outstretched to clasp a hand around each of her wrists, gazing deeply into her eyes as he drew her slowly forward.

  'You look stunning!' His voice held a note of startled admiration. 'At this moment, I find it hard to believe that you were once the child who used to search my pockets for candy whenever I visited your home.'

  'Girls grow up quicker than most men will acknowledge,' Lynda responded wistfully. 'Chivalrous types, such as yourself, Troy, are apt to be overcautious, over-protective in their attitude towards members of what you fondly refer to as the "weaker sex".'

  Morva watched in silence, unhappily aware of the chemistry that appeared to have been generated by a spark of recognition that had come—so far as Lynda was concerned—just a few short weeks too late.

  Then with an unladylike snort of derision, Aunt Cassie intruded into their absorption.

  'It is not chivalry, but chauvinism that motivates, men's possessive attitude towards their womenfolk!' she asserted with a belligerence that caused Lady Howgill a pained wince. 'Whether Oriental potentates or mustang stallions, males like to bolster their egos by surrounding themselves with harems of docile females who allow themselves to be herded, bullied and dominated by men anxious to advertise their boss-man status. Even you, Troy, much as I admire your qualities of strength and leadership, have annoyed me in the past by betraying an unfortunate tendency to treat most members of my sex like helpless dolls with little between their ears but plastic padding!

  'I do hope, Morva,' she turned to insist, 'that if ever you should find your husband's chauvinist mentality becoming particularly unbearable, you will be quick to remind him, as I often have, that over a century ago pioneering wives earned themselves the right to be treated as equal partners by tramping alongside covered wagons, through prairies and plains and mountain passes, enduring raids by Indians; hunger, thirst, and deadly fatigue without a murmur of complaint about uncombed hair, ragged clothes, or the utter dearth of civilised amenities! Take my advice, dear, and stake your claim now on the top of his list of priorities, otherwise you could find yourself relegated to the status of squaw who has been conditioned to accept that heaven to an Indian brave consists of horses, buffalo and woman—in that order!'

  Morva was saved the embarrassment of having to try to disguise the fact that her status in Troy's eyes was already lower than a squaw, who at least enjoyed the privilege of physical communion with her husband, when Troy rebuked his aunt a trifle dryly.

  'Don't you ever tire of mounting your favourite soapbox, Aunt Cassie? You're entitled to state your opinions, of course, but when you do I wish you would try to remember that not every female possesses the talents to make her own way in the world.' Morva stiffened, conscious of the glance he had flicked in her direction. 'Some women need to be supported, just like trees whose survival is dependent upon the bondage of the soil.'

  Carefully, Morva set down her untouched glass of wine, hoping to forestall his aunt's counter-attack by requesting that they should all go into dinner. But Percy, who had been keeping score of the number of smiles exchanged between Troy and his beautiful young guest made a determined play for Lynda's attention.

  'Personally,' he drawled, looking perfectly at home and extremely handsome as he strolled across a room whose intimidating splendour formed part of his natural setting. 'I consider any young lady who insists upon being regarded as man's equal is missing out.' Gallantly he bowed when he reached Lynda's side and brought a blush to her cheeks by flattering shamelessly. 'Why should any member of your fair sex have to step down from her pedestal in order to redress the balance of prestige between the sexes?'

  Either because she found his charm irresistible, or because her badly bruised feelings were soothed by the obvious admiration of a suave, polished member of the aristocracy, Lynda fell immediate victim to Percy's barrage of charm that kept her enthralled all during dinner.

  Morva picked at her food, fretting over her brother's motives, very conscious of Troy's clamped-down anger as he played the role of polite host, lightly catching and tossing the conversational ball which, for most of the time, seemed to soar over the heads of the engrossed couple. Not even his aunt's brash handling of her acutely displeased grandmother—whom she insisted upon addressing as Lucy—seemed to amuse him, Morva thought miserably, wishing the meal were over so that she might escape to her room.

  'No doubt, Troy, you intend taking Morva home to Canada when you embark upon a belated honeymoon?' His aunt's tone was sharp, as if she too had become aware of and was questioning the reason behind the oppressive atmosphere.

  Immediately, he made an effort to allay her curiosity by putting into action the plan that had been formulated for just such an occasion.

  'Naturally,' he nodded, directing Morva a smile that rendered her breathless, as if her heart had been suddenly squeezed, 'but as I've already explained, Aunt Cassie,' he continued smoothly, 'we can't spare the time for a honeymoon just yet. There is so much work still to be done here, so many problems requiring personal attention.'

  'Fiddlesticks!' The keen-eyed old lady looked stubborn. 'Nothing is more important than a honeymoon, don't you agree, Lucy?' she appealed, ignoring her contemporary's expression of high hauteur. 'Once the hotel project gets off the ground there's no reason why you, I, and your grandson Percy should not all pitch in to give the newly-weds a break!'

  Seemingly oblivious to the glare of outrage being directed by the Dowager Countess, she trained a determined look upon Morva.

  'You'll love Canada, honey, especially our ranch at the foot of the Rockies which is Troy's permanent base, the place where he chooses to relax whenever he finds an opportunity to jump off the commercial bandwagon. But I've no doubt he'll be eager to show you the places he loves best, to take you right into the heart of the Rockies where he used to camp as a boy and where, during his wild, roistering adolescence, he worked all the wildness out of his system—learning how to fell trees from tough lumberjacks; how to stalk game from cunning trappers; how to bait a tempting line from wily fishermen and most important of all, how to "play possum" from Indians whose infinite patience and wisdom enables them to wait, sometimes for a small eternity, until the tide of fortune turns in their favour.'

  She chuckled softly, not one whit disturbed by her nephew's growing discomfiture.

  'I'm always amused whenever I think of the day my sister—Lord rest her gentle soul—rounded on Troy's father for the first time in twenty years of marriage, accusing him of turning their only son into a hobo by granting him three years of unrestricted freedom. But my brother-in-law, as well as being an astute businessman, was also a st
udent of human nature, and his assertion that lessons learned in the wild could apply equally as well to the jungle-world of business has been amply justified.'

  'So your mother is dead?' Morva consoled Troy, her soft heart aching with pity for the woman who had not lived to enjoy the pride she would have felt for her only son.

  'Yes, little sparrow,' he brought a smile of pleasure to his aunt's face by reaching for Morva's hand to feather a kiss over trembling fingertips, 'that is yet another thing we have in common.'

  Her grandmother jerked to attention. Unused to being a listener instead of a dictator, she snapped.

  'Morva's mother is not dead, she's simply not welcome in this house!'

  Morva felt Troy's clasp tighten, but his drawl was bland to the point of boredom when he apologised.

  'Forgive me, I must have misunderstood. Morva and I have spent so little time in private, it's hardly surprising that gaps should occur in our knowledge of each other's personal history. If you would excuse us,' he rose from the table, retaining his clasp upon her wrist so that she was forced to rise with him, 'I'll take my wife for a stroll around the grounds where we can perhaps remedy a few omissions.'

  Only she recognised the thread of threat running through his words, a thread that seemed stretched taut as elastic by the time he had guided her through French windows opening out into the garden, then along a stretch of pathway leading away from the house towards a sunken, secluded rose garden.

  He wasted no time on preliminaries, but charged her with deceit the moment they were hidden from sight, surrounded by shrubs laden with heady, heavily scented roses.

  'You implied that you were an orphan!'