Сара Крейвен – His Rags-to-Riches Bride: Innocent on Her Wedding Night / Housekeeper at His Beck and Call / The Australian's Housekeeper Bride (страница 22)

When she could move, Laine stood up and went across to her case. She opened it, slipped the folded letter into one of the side pockets, and zipped it away.

As if by hiding it she could somehow erase the memory of it too—of the stinging phrases that had brought her life crashing around her.

‘Hellish burden,’ she said aloud, trying the words on her tongue as she looked at herself in the mirror. Saw the ghost in the half-buttoned dress, with eyes like bottomless pits.

And thought, Oh God, what am I going to do? What can I do?

She had still found no answers to those questions some two hours later, when she arrived with Daniel at their honeymoon destination.

It was as if she’d become two people, she thought as she sat beside him in the car, looking at the flying countryside with unseeing eyes. One who smiled with the expected radiance of a new bride, who chatted and kissed people goodbye, then tossed her bouquet so that Celia caught it. And another secret person who waited numbly in some inner darkness and prayed for the pain to cease.

She could not remain in the marriage. That was one certainty to emerge from her silent soul searching. The other, more importantly, was that Daniel must never find out that she knew why he’d married her—must never realise that she’d seen that wretched letter, and the agonising truth it contained. That, at eighteen years old, her marriage was a myth and she herself simply an unwanted wife. An obligation and a responsibility that he’d been forced to acquire.

But, although she might know his secret, he could not be allowed to know hers, or she would die of humiliation.

Oh, why did I let him see that I dreaded going to Spain? she asked herself desperately. I should have pretended that it was an adventure—an ideal opportunity for me—and by doing so released him from the coercion of his promise to Simon.

‘You’re very quiet,’ Daniel observed suddenly, startling her from her confused and unhappy thoughts. ‘You’ve hardly said two words since we set off. Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine.’ When had she learned to be such an accomplished liar? ‘A little tired, maybe, after all the rushing about of the past few weeks, that’s all.’

‘I should have been around more.’ He was frowning slightly, his swift sideways glance at her concerned. ‘I let that damned takeover occupy too much of my time. But all that stops right here,’ he added softly. ‘From now on, I intend to concentrate solely on you, my sweet.’

Don’t call me that, she thought. Don’t look at me as if I matter. Above all—don’t be kind—because I can’t bear it. Not when I know that’s all there is …

‘I hope you like the cottage,’ he went on. ‘A couple called Jackson run the place for the owners—do all the cooking and cleaning, and look after the garden.

‘It sounds wonderful.’ A mechanical response, as if she’d been programmed.

And of course it was wonderful—’cottage’ being a total misnomer for the charming redbrick house rambling round three sides of a courtyard. The Jacksons, large, placid and clearly discreet, were waiting to welcome them, and to take their bags up to a large bedroom overlooking the rear garden.

The window was open, and Laine went straight to it, trying not to look as if she was deliberately ignoring the wide bed with its pretty patchwork coverlet and snowy linen. She knelt on the cushioned window seat, inhaling the scent of the flowers drifting up from below and touching with her fingertips the petals of the Gloire de Dijon rose that covered the adjacent wall.

‘Happy?’ Daniel spoke from behind her, his voice gentle.

‘Of course,’ she returned. ‘It’s beautiful.’ She turned, glancing round her. ‘Although there doesn’t seem to be a lot of cupboard space.’

‘My God,’ he said. ‘How much stuff have you brought?’ He waited a moment for her to respond to his teasing smile, but in vain. He added more slowly, ‘There’s another room across the passage. I can put my things in there, if you want. Give you more space.’

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Then perhaps we could have some tea?’

‘A delightful idea,’ Daniel said cordially. ‘And when, if ever, am I going to be allowed to kiss you? Let alone undo the buttons on that intriguing dress?’

She remembered Jamie’s casual comment. Thought how, only a few hours before. she would have gone with shy eagerness into his arms, yielding her mouth and her body to his possession. Now, she managed a nervous laugh. ‘Daniel—it’s broad daylight—the middle of the afternoon.’

‘As you wish,’ he said, after a pause. ‘After all, I’ve waited so long already that a few more hours won’t kill me.’ He moved away towards the door. ‘I’ll speak to Mrs Jackson about your tea, then go and unpack.’

Alone, Laine found she was staring at the bed as if hypnotised. The bed where Daniel would later perform his duties as her husband, with probable skill and enjoyment. Because he was a man, and she was new and available. And, as she’d learned from Celia and other more worldly-wise friends, where men were concerned sex and love were not necessarily part of the same equation.

For Daniel, she thought, it would be little more than a conditioned reflex, and she shivered.

I can’t let him touch me, and I can’t touch him … Otherwise I’ll be lost for ever—his creature, existing on whatever kindness he chooses to show me. Having to make believe that we have a real marriage, a union of minds as well as bodies.

She unpacked and put away her things, leaving the letter in its hiding place. She didn’t need to look at it again. Every bit of it was seared into her memory.

Downstairs, she drank her tea in the drawing room, and pretended to eat a scone, while Daniel, not pretending at all, read the financial pages of the daily paper with narrow-eyed attention.

Afterwards she went for a walk in the garden, Daniel having declined her stilted invitation to accompany her with equal politeness, and realised she was deliberately prolonging her stroll, lingering over every plant as if she was memorising it for an examination.

She also discovered the swimming pool, totally secluded in a high-walled garden, where espaliered fruit trees spread their branches over the elderly red brick. It was a warm and sheltered place, the sun still high enough to make a swim seem enticing, and for a moment she wistfully considered going back to the house and changing into her bikini.

It occurred to her, too, that if this was a real honeymoon, and Dan and she had found the pool together, he would have dealt swiftly with the buttons on her dress, laughing away her protests, and swimming costumes would have become entirely superfluous for them both. She turned away, stifling a sigh.

‘Mrs Jackson suggests dinner at eight,’ Daniel said when she got back to the house. ‘Does that fit in with your plans?’

She looked at him, startled. ‘I—I have no plans.’

‘No?’ There was faint irony in his voice. ‘My mistake.’

She hesitated. ‘Do we—dress for dinner?’

His brows lifted. ‘Isn’t that a little formal—for just the two of us?’

‘Yes, of course. I—I wasn’t thinking.’

He sent her an enigmatic look. ‘How I wish that were true,’ he said, and returned to the newspaper, and the crossword he was completing.

Laine was hungry, but she had to force herself to eat the delicious food Mrs Jackson provided—smoked trout, followed by lamb cutlets with new potatoes and tiny broad beans, with a creamy mousse made from fresh strawberries for dessert.

The meal was conducted mainly in silence, although Laine made an effort to speak whenever the Jacksons were in the room. But it was making conversation, she realised, rather than talking, and to judge by his sardonic expression Dan knew it too.

Coffee was served in the drawing room, but Laine declined the brandy they were offered.

‘Would you like to listen to some music?’ Dan asked when they were alone again. He nodded towards the shelves that flanked the fireplace. ‘There seems to be a fair selection.’

‘Thank you.’ She put down her empty cup. ‘But I’m tired. I think I’ll—go up. That is, if you don’t mind?’

‘Why should I?’ He smiled at her. ‘The idea has much to recommend it. But I think I’ll stay down here for a while. Finish my drink. Listen to a CD, perhaps.’ He paused. ‘What shall I pick, Laine? A sonata—or a whole symphony?’

She hesitated by the door. ‘I don’t know. It’s your choice.’

‘Is it?’ He sent her a reflective glance. ‘I wonder.’

As she went up the stairs she heard the first sombre chords of Elgar’s cello concerto following her. It was a favourite of hers, and she should have been listening to it with him, curled into the curve of his arm, sharing brandy from the same glass. Not going to her room alone.

She went quietly through the rituals of preparation, as if she was a real bride. Took a bath that was warm but not too hot. Rubbed her favourite lotion into her skin and applied a more intense version of its scent to her pulses, her throat and between her breasts. Brushed her hair until it hung to her shoulders like tawny silk. Put on the filmy high-waisted nightgown with its satin ribbon straps.

Then sat on the edge of the bed in the lamplight and waited to end her marriage.