Loves Me, Loves Me Not

‘And then what? On whose authority will you send them home?’ Hugo looked highly entertained. ‘You are not dealing with a recalcitrant schoolroom chit, Amanda!’

Amanda, thoroughly annoyed, made to stalk away. By now she was miserably aware of the state of her hem and the soaked material of her slippers. The wind had teased her hair to a haystack and she was cold.

But Hugo caught her hand. It felt warm and comforting but also intimate and exciting. Hugo never normally held her hand.

‘Wait,’ he said. ‘I cannot permit my wife to travel to Gretna unprotected. I will come with you. If we are fortunate we may even reach Oxford by tonight.’

Amanda was so surprised that she stepped into a puddle. Hugo swung her up in his arms. ‘Hugo!’ Amanda gasped, clutching his forearms, which felt remarkably hard and lean. ‘What on earth are you doing?’

‘Merely helping you over this muddy ground, my dear.’ His breath tickled her ear, sending goose bumps along her neck. Amanda could smell his scent—fresh air and sweat and the faint hint of sandalwood cologne. What could be the matter with her? She had thought that an unwashed male body would repel her rather than making her head spin. It was perhaps fortunate that Hugo’s shoulder was so close. She leaned her head against it and lay quiet all the way back to the house.

Once Amanda had recovered from being carried home she banished her husband to wash and change his clothes and hurried to do the same. There really was no time to waste, no matter how indulgent Hugo felt of his grandmama’s misdemeanours. Hugo was famously—infuriatingly—easy-going, but Amanda knew that Lady Pevensey’s elopement would be the talk of the county. Everyone would whisper and gossip and titter and commiserate and it would be intolerable. Lady Pevensey’s lack of decorum would reflect on her. Her position in Marston Priors might well be under threat. It was not to be borne.

It therefore took her a mere hour and a half to don her travelling gown, instruct Crockett on the packing of her portmanteaux and descend the stairs to find her husband waiting, immaculately dressed in jacket, pantaloons and Hessians. On seeing her, he checked his pocket watch.

‘Less than two hours. And only three cases! You are to be congratulated, my dear.’ His gaze fell on Crockett, attired in a plain cloak and grasping a small bag. ‘Alas, I fear we cannot accommodate your maid, my love. I have had the small carriage prepared for the sake of speed and there is room only for us—and your luggage, of course.’

Amanda halted. ‘But I cannot travel without Crockett! Hugo, it simply isn’t done. She must come!’

‘Nonsense,’ her husband said bracingly, steering her out of the door. ‘What could be more decorous than that you be escorted by your husband? I may act as lady’s maid.’ He gave her a look that Amanda could only think was provocative. ‘I am not inexperienced.’

‘Indeed?’ Amanda’s travelling gown suddenly felt a trifle too hot.

She was still wrestling with her unfamiliar and rather disconcerting awareness of Hugo as the carriage clattered through Marston Priors and onto the toll road as the Wiltshire Downs unrolled around them. She had been in a closed carriage with Hugo many times and had never suffered this affliction. Indeed, she realised, she had taken him for granted.

Brought up from an early age to see the acquisition of a husband as a desirable sign of standing, she had gained her married status at the age of one-and-twenty, a little late because she was particular. Hugo had been easy to reel in and she had thought they were well suited. He was handsome, titled, well connected and wealthy without being extravagantly rich. More importantly, he had an equable humour, he was generous and did not interfere in her running of the household. She had thought, until that moment in the hall ten minutes before, that he would always permit her to have her own way. As for intimate matters—Amanda blushed inwardly but forced herself to think about it—she had been pleased that after their honeymoon Hugo seemed not to want to trouble her with his attentions more than twice a month and latterly not at all. Her mama had explained that a lady must be decorous at all times, particularly in the marriage bed, and Amanda had tried to follow that advice. She had been aware of a disappointing result but had put it from her mind.

Now, though, regarding her husband as he lounged with elegant grace against the cushions, she felt a stab of anger. It seemed quite wrong that he should thwart her in the matter of the maid and, more importantly, that he should be so relaxed when she was in a state of advanced fluster. She had not been herself since seeing him in his shirt and breeches but that could not account for this uncomfortable awareness. After all, she had even seen him with no clothes on at all. But she had looked away, as a lady should. Heat and agitation made her shift on the seat and Hugo looked politely concerned.

‘Are you quite well?’

‘I feel a little strange,’ Amanda admitted. ‘I think I am anxious because we set off in such a rush.’

‘Of course,’ Hugo murmured, his bright blue gaze fixed on her in a manner that made the breath catch in her throat.

‘Tell me about your sheep.’ Amanda searched desperately for a distraction from her curious feelings. ‘Last night at dinner you said that you wished to buy a flock of a different breed.’

Hugo looked surprised. ‘I thought you were not attending. I was not aware that you had an interest.’

Amanda had, in fact, very little curiosity about sheep but she was prepared to express an interest in just about anything if it helped lessen the strangely intense atmosphere between them. And, after a while, she forgot she was indifferent to her husband’s interests. They chatted about everything from Hugo’s improvements to the estate to the literature preferred by Amanda as first Wantage and then Abingdon were passed, with a change of horses and some refreshment in both towns. There was no sign of Lady Pevensey and her beau, although an elderly lady eloping with a curate would surely seem noteworthy, and although they asked at every post house they reached Oxford with no news. Between Oxford and Banbury Amanda fell asleep and woke to discover that she was resting her head on Hugo’s shoulder and his arm was about her. She raised her face to see him smiling down at her as he smoothed the tumbled hair away from her face.

‘I do not recall you ever venturing out without your hair in some sort of complicated arrangement,’ he commented, toying with the end of the ribbon that held her curls. ‘This is vastly more becoming and I am less likely to be stabbed by some ornament when I am close.’

The carriage lurched to a stop and he kissed her lightly before releasing her and moving to open the door.

‘Where are we?’ Amanda stammered, disconcerted to feel her lips tingle from the imprint of his.

‘At the King’s Head in Banbury. I will bespeak a room for the night.’

It was only when the groom was helping her down that Amanda realised he had said one room rather than two and prickles of excitement and apprehension raced through her. But when the landlady had shown them up the stairs to the spotlessly clean bedchamber, she found her husband as adamant on the subject of the room as he had been on the subject of the maid.

‘Two rooms?’ A dangerous light lurked in his eyes. ‘Out of the question, my love. Although this is a most respectable inn, I could not endanger either your life or your virtue by leaving you alone. You must sleep with me and then you will be quite safe.’

‘You must sleep in the chair,’ Amanda argued, panic building in her throat as Hugo slipped off his coat and loosened his neck cloth. He seemed so at ease, so confident, so thoroughly in control. It was making her nervous.

He laughed. ‘Have a heart, my sweet! I have lurched over bad roads all day on a wild goose chase. The least you can do is let me share your bed. I am your husband and it is perfectly respectable.’

It felt quite improper to Amanda, unaccustomed to such close proximity with her husband, but he pressed a glass into her hands and she did not argue. The wine had been warmed and it tasted strong and sweet. Amanda felt the colour bloom in her cheeks and delicious warmth spread through her. The knot of tension inside her started slowly to unravel.

The landlady brought a rich beef stew into their private parlour. Amanda was surprised to discover it tasty. She was yawning, which was unforgivably rude, but when she tried to apologise Hugo only laughed and filled her glass again. By the time the meal was over she was almost asleep and her elbow kept sliding off the table. Eventually Hugo scooped her up and carried her through to the bedchamber.

‘You seem to have been sweeping me off my feet all day,’ Amanda whispered, aware that she was now extremely cast away and that the room was spinning slowly. She looked up into his face and could see the shadow of every individual eyelash cast against the hard line of his cheek. She raised a hand and ran her fingers over his cheek, fascinated by the roughness of his stubble. His eyes closed and she saw a muscle tighten beneath her caress, but then he set her down and started to unfasten her gown with brisk, impersonal movements. She felt his fingers against the nape of her neck, then lower, down her back. The gown eased and she stepped out of it, feeling abruptly and overwhelmingly shy. Gently, he sat her on the bed and knelt to remove her shoes and to roll down her stockings. The candlelight was in his blue eyes, his expression intent and serious and Amanda’s stomach dropped with longing and a feeling she identified, with absolute amazement, as lust.

She must have made a small sound, for he looked up and their eyes locked for a long moment. There was a hard, bright light in his that made her feel quite faint and then—she was never sure how it happened and afterwards she did not care—he rolled her on the bed and his hands were in her hair and she was reaching for him with a fever that equalled his own. He kissed her as though he was starving and she kissed him back and her ribbons and laces were wrenched apart and his clothes were thrown on the floor and they came together exultantly, desperately, with love and lust and no thought for propriety until they lay panting and astonished in each other’s arms.

Afterwards, when she had slept for a little and they had made love again more slowly, Amanda smiled to see her three portmanteaux, packed with respectable night clothes, sitting superfluously in the corner of the room.

‘You promised that it would be perfectly proper for you to share my bed,’ she said, ‘but that was decidedly improper.’

She felt Hugo’s chest move as he laughed. ‘I cannot dispute that. Did you like it?’

‘Yes!’ There was a great deal to be said for bursting out of the restraints of propriety. ‘I cannot think why I did not do that before. It was so much more fun when I join in.’

Hugo laughed again. ‘For me, too.’ He shifted so that he could look at her. ‘I am sorry, Manda.’ His affectionate use of her pet name made her smile. ‘I knew that you had been brought up to believe that physical intimacy was to be tolerated rather than enjoyed and I did not make sufficient effort to persuade you to a different point of view.’ He ran a hand over her bare shoulder and she shivered. ‘I was disappointed that you did not seem to want me and so I withdrew from you when I should have talked.’

Amanda snuggled closer. ‘I am sorry, too, Hugo. I was young and foolish and I thought that to catch a husband was the end of the process rather than the beginning.’

Hugo smiled. ‘We have wasted a lot of time.’

‘Yes, but we can make up for it.’ She kissed him. ‘How far is it to Gretna Green?’

‘Too far,’ Hugo said. ‘Rather than trying to prevent my grandmother from marrying again, I would rather return home and invest the time in getting to know my own wife properly.’

Amanda smiled. ‘I would like that extremely.’ She rubbed her fingers gently over his chest. ‘I love you, Hugo. In that respect I am happy to follow my mama’s advice that it is quite appropriate to have an affectionate regard for one’s husband.’

‘I love you, too.’ Hugo rolled over to kiss her properly.

‘Manda,’ Hugo said, as the carriage rolled back through the gates of Marston Hall next day, ‘I have something to confess.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Grandmama has not gone to Gretna. She is marrying Mr Sampson at Bath Abbey on the twenty-third of this month. She would very much like us to be there. She left me a note yesterday, too.’

Amanda stared. ‘But if you knew that, why on earth did you let us set out for Gretna…?’ She stopped.

‘I am sorry,’ Hugo said, smiling so charmingly that Amanda’s indignation started to melt like ice in the sun. ‘If you re-read the note that Grandmama left you, you will see that she never mentioned Gretna at all. When you made that assumption—and when you appeared not indifferent to me—I was determined to take the opportunity to try to mend matters between us.’ He smiled. ‘I would have gone all the way to Scotland if I needed to, Manda. You are that important to me.’

Amanda started to laugh until the tears rolled down her face and her stomach ached with great gales of mirth that her mother would surely have thought most unbecoming. When the coach drew up on the gravel she grabbed Hugo’s hand and dragged him into the hall.

‘You owe me something for that deception,’ she whispered, standing on tiptoe to kiss him. His arms went about her.

‘Anything, my love.’

Then both of them became aware, somewhat belatedly, of the presence of Mrs Duke and Mrs Davy, who had evidently called only a few moments before and were studying their amorous embrace with horrified expressions.

‘Mrs Davy, Mrs Duke!’ Hugo said. ‘I do apologise. Is it visiting time? Alas, Amanda is exhausted from our travels and needs to lie down immediately. As do I.’

And he carried his wife up the sweep of the stair and closed the bedroom door very firmly behind them.

Speed Limit

Judy Astley

Judy Astley started writing in 1990, following several years of working as a dressmaker, illustrator, painter and parent. Her sixteen novels, the most recent of which are Laying the Ghost and Other People’s Husbands, are all published by Transworld/Black Swan. Judy’s specialist areas, based on many years of hectic personal experience, are domestic disharmony and family chaos with a good mix of love-and-passion and plenty of humour thrown in.

Judy has been a regular columnist on magazines and enjoys writing journalism pieces on just about any subject, usually from a fun viewpoint. She lives in London and Cornwall, loves plants, books, hot sunshine and rock music—all at once, preferably—and would happily claim that listening in to other people’s conversations is both a top hobby and an absolute career-necessity. Visit Judy’s website at www.judyastley.com

Speed Limit

X. Ex. At risk of getting a frostbitten bum, I sit on the low wall outside the town hall and look up at the brilliant blue winter sky where the vapour trails from a pair of aircraft have left a big white cross. It looks like a huge celestial kiss—a pair of in-love angels, perhaps? No, too fanciful, get real, Claire, I tell myself. It’s just a couple of distant planes criss-crossing the globe above us. I think—briefly—of the bliss of a kissed X contrasted with the pain implicit in the term ‘Ex’. Sad that these two sound so alike and yet…and yet. But it’s all right. I’m now safely over my own Ex—cheating rat—though maybe not quite ready to hurtle fullon into another relationship. So silly, so hasty, I gave that one a go way too soon, pretty much straight after the break-up. Lovely Max, set up for me by well-meaning friends who embraced the ‘get back on the horse’ philosophy, was a delight—we got on so well and it was obvious there was real romance-potential there…but, oh, please, not yet, I thought at the time, running scared. That suddenness of being ‘with’ someone again so quickly after the drawn-out end to a five-year marriage gave me an out-of-control rushed feeling, a certainty that I’d whizzed from the hurt of loss directly to risking it all happening again without pausing for breath. Good grief, I’d barely got used to losing custody of the wedding present toaster.

Several dates in, I didn’t at all like turning down Max’s out-of-the-blue offer of a weekend in Barcelona but I heard my newly discovered cautious side suggesting to him that we slow down, take some time out and just be friends for a while. Trouble is, everyone assumes there is an underlying message in that particular line, and it’s not a positive one. I liked Max a lot and he liked me—so he gave me what I’d asked for: space, solitude and time to think. Under other circs Max-and-me could have been…well, who knows? I certainly won’t know, not now, not with him—the ‘space’ drifted into weeks, now months. I suppose it was too much to hope, after I’d effectively dumped him—and, oh, how teenage that sounds!—that he’d be OK with the occasional no-strings drink and a bag of nuts at the pub when we could have been strolling down Las Ramblas in the Catalan sunshine and getting cosy over tapas and Rioja.

It’s a shame you can’t put potential lovers in a cupboard for a few months, then get them out when the previous livid emotional scars have thoroughly healed. He must have thought I was a completely hopeless case, wittering on about wanting to try being alone, needing to Get To Know Myself. All rubbish really. A few months on from that moment of Being Sensible and I can tell you that existing determinedly on your own is highly overrated. What’s so great about being in sole charge of the TV remote? Who needs quite that much spreading-out space in bed? And, as the song doesn’t actually go: if I don’t know myself by now…

‘Hurtling’, by the way, is the reason why I’m here, a bit early, waiting to join a half-day Speed Awareness class and learn how Not To Drive Too Fast. As an alternative to points on my licence it’s likely to be a few hours well-spent. I had no excuse: being caught on a speed camera doing thirty-five m.p.h. in a thirty limit was bang-to-rights, even if it was a deserted dual carriageway, late at night, running my fox-bitten cat to the emergency vet. Sorry—did I say no excuses? We’ve all got our stories.

It’s time to go in and I check in with the jolly-looking organiser in an anteroom full of sheepish-looking fellow law-breakers. Slightly nervously, we smile at each other; someone makes a quip about us being in detention like naughty schoolchildren, and our ‘teacher’ grimaces and mutters, ‘There’s always one…’ I sense he’s got a running bet with himself about how many minutes into the proceedings some wag would come up with that one.

But it is like being in class, and we all sit in rows at desks with a computer each. Apart from a scurrying latecomer who whooshes unseen into a seat at the back, we’re all quiet and concentrating. The first part of the session is all mouse-clicking—on the computer screen there is a video in which we’re ‘driving’ a car; we have to click when we feel too close to the car in front. Appropriately enough, I’m pretty sure I’m being too cautious here—I want to keep a good safe distance. Same with the speed test: I want to slow the virtual car right down. I smile to myself, thinking how like my life this is, these days. Having raced into a young marriage, the first of my group of mates to go for the full-scale meringue frock and multi-layered cake event, now look at me: avoiding a new closeness the moment it comes my way. Oh, well, no point brooding—right here, if I’m not careful, I’ll score nul points for being easily distracted.

We do hazard perception next. The video has me driving in a variety of scenarios, inner city through to country lanes. I clock the cyclist, the horse-rider, the schoolchildren, the skateboarder, an ambulance, some elderly ladies. Click, click, click goes my mouse but there doesn’t seem to be an option for ‘possible love interest’ lurking in those on-screen streets. Perhaps they aren’t such a hazard after all. Too late now anyway, I tell myself. I mean, I could call Max, obviously, or send him a cheery email, but what’s he going to assume this time? That I’m fickle and flighty? That I’m ditsy and dithering? And of course he won’t be free anyway—you don’t get many delightful, attractive, entertaining, unattached men like him to the pound—it would be his turn to back right off. Who wants to line themselves up for a definite ouch? If we’re talking risks and hazards here today, I think I’ll pass on that particular one.

We’ve had our talk on speed limits and been reminded about Highway Code points that a lot of us had forgotten about since our driving test days. I pick up my bag and coat and say goodbye and thanks to the class tutor.

‘Claire—I thought it was you!’ And there he is—the class latecomer was, oh, heavens…Max, almost as if I’d ‘thought’ him into existence. ‘I’m surprised to see you here, Ms Careful!’ he teases as we walk together towards the street door.

‘Oh, well, you know, I just took it a bit fast on a vet run one night. Emergency, but no excuse, I know!’ I explain, heart pounding, words tumbling madly. ‘What about you?’

‘Ah, it was by the roadworks up near the airport. I was on my way back from…’

‘Barcelona?’ I interrupt, too fast. I can’t understand this heartsink feeling inside. Did he go there with someone else? I’m shocked at how much the very idea hurts. We only went out together for a few months—what proprietary rights do I have over one flippant weekend suggestion? None at all, I tell myself firmly, trying not to picture him with a stunning blonde and a guidebook, discussing the finer points of Gaudi’s architecture.

‘Dropping my sister off at Terminal Five, actually!’ He laughs. ‘And if you feel like risking it with a criminal driver, could I offer you a lift home?’

I feel embarrassed, flustered—he’s laughing at me now, for the Barcelona comment. What a giveaway, what an idiot I am! Which part of careful/slow/risk-free was that particular little gaffe?

We collect his scarlet Toyota from the car park and he pulls out onto the main road.

‘Bearing in mind the class we just did, I’ll take it very, very slowly,’ Max assures me.

‘Good,’ I say. ‘Well within the speed limit, then.’

Are we talking about driving? Something tells me we’re not, entirely. I sense it’s not just me who’s trying not to laugh.

‘Absolutely,’ he replies. ‘And, if you’ve got time, I don’t suppose you fancy a spot of lunch?’

‘That,’ I tell him, ‘would be lovely. Where do you suggest?’

‘I know a lovely little bodega.’ He’s teasing me, smiling wickedly. ‘Perfect tapas, a delicate little Rioja…’

‘Sounds perfect—where is it? Is it local? It’s not…’

He laughs properly now, reading my daft, crazy thoughts.

I glance up through the windscreen—the X hasn’t quite faded from the sky. Or maybe it’s a new one—hard to tell. I could say that all across the planet the sky must be full of kisses, or I could go with superstition and decide it’s a Sign.

‘No, Claire, it’s not Barcelona! Just off the High Street is a bit more down-to-earth, I’m afraid. But who knows? One day.’

‘Yes, who knows?’ I say as his hand brushes against mine. ‘Maybe some day…’

Save the Last Dance for Me

Benita Brown

Benita Brown trained as an actress but after marriage and four children she switched to a writing career. At first she wrote for radio, then girls’ and teenage story papers such as Mandy, Judy, Jackie and Blue Jeans. She wrote her first contemporary romantic novel as Clare Benedict when the youngest of her children was poised to go to university. There were six more Clare Benedict novels before she changed genre and began to write under her own name. The Benita Brown novels are regional sagas and the first nine are set in Tyneside in the Victorian and Edwardian eras. One of these, Fortune’s Daughter, was long listed for the RNA Major Award. Her latest novel, The Starlet, moves forward in time to 1946. It is the story of Carol Marshall, a small town girl who wins a talent competition and begins a career in films. For more information about Benita and her novels visit www.benitabrown.com