Marriage On Trial

It was a little while before it dawned on her that rather than actually getting down to discussing the diamond he was employing delaying tactics.

But why?

When they reached Park Lane, with a glance in the rear-view mirror at his back-seat passenger, he broke off what he was saying to enquire, ‘The Linchbeck, isn’t it?’

Without waiting for an answer, he turned into the fore-court and drew to a stop outside the entrance to the quiet, exclusive hotel.

Aware that just by knowing the exact address Quinn had gained a subtle advantage, Elizabeth bit her lip as he came round to open her door.

Richard climbed out, and, his face expressing his annoyance, asked shortly, ‘Perhaps we could make an appointment to talk about the Van Hamel? Would any particular time and place suit you?’

‘There’s no time like the present,’ Quinn suggested, his voice bland.

Elizabeth felt sure that in the circumstances, and after the evening’s debacle, Richard would choose to wait until he’d fully regained his cool.

But to her surprise he agreed. ‘Then perhaps you’ll join us in the bar for a drink?’

‘Your suite would be preferable,’ Quinn said smoothly. ‘Rather more private.’

So there was the answer to her question, Elizabeth thought uneasily. For some reason of his own, Quinn wanted to see the other man’s apartment.

Convinced now that Richard was being manipulated, she found herself praying that he would tell his tormentor to go to the devil.

But before he could speak the doorman said a cheerful, ‘Nasty evening,’ and held open the heavy glass door.

Richard nodded abruptly and, his jaw tight, led the way inside and across the luxuriously carpeted foyer to the lift.

Elizabeth was five foot seven, fairly tall for a woman, but sandwiched between two men who both easily topped six feet she felt dwarfed, loomed over.

When they left the lift at the top floor, she took care to keep Richard between herself and Quinn until they reached the apartment.

The sitting room, with its plum-coloured curtains and carpet, its leather suite and sporting prints, was handsome, comfortable, and undoubtedly masculine.

After slipping her coat from her shoulders and hanging it in a recessed cupboard, Richard moved towards a small but well-stocked bar. ‘What would you like to drink, darling?’

She half shook her head. ‘I’d prefer a coffee later, thank you.’

Motioning his unwelcome guest to take a seat, Richard picked up the whisky decanter and queried, ‘Durville?’

‘I’m driving, so I’ll stick with coffee.’

Clearly in need of a drink, Richard poured himself a stiff whisky and swallowed a mouthful.

As he turned towards the kitchen, Quinn asked casually, ‘Mind if I take a look around? At one time I had a service flat in the Brenton Building, but I gave it up…’

Recalling her own brief stay there, Elizabeth shuddered. What should have been the happiest night of her life had turned into a nightmare.

‘Now I’m considering having a pied-à-terre here, for the times I’m in London,’ Quinn was going on, ‘rather than staying at hotels.’

His interest open, undisguised, with cool effrontery he began to prowl, peering first into a small study and then into a good-sized bedroom and bathroom.

Tense and ill at ease, Elizabeth perched on the edge of a chair and watched him warily. Oh, why had he come back into her life just when she was about to make a new commitment?

She had found it impossible to forget him, but she had almost succeeded in leaving the past behind, in convincing herself he no longer mattered.

But the past had suddenly caught up with her, and he did matter. Even though she feared and resented his presence, just the sight of him took her breath away and left her full of the bitter-sweet longing he had always effortlessly aroused in her.

Glancing in her direction, Quinn met her eyes.

Terrified of what he might read in them, she looked hurriedly away. It seemed he had blotted out both her and the past, and the last thing she wanted to do was remind him.

He came and sat down opposite, his ease mocking her lack of it. After a thoughtful scrutiny, one dark brow raised, he observed, ‘I take it you don’t live here, Miss Cavendish?’

Wanting to consolidate her position as Richard’s fiancée, she was loath to admit it. ‘What makes you think that?’ She strove to sound dismissive, even slightly amused.

‘There are no signs of female occupancy, and if you had lived here I’m fairly sure you would have made the coffee.’

‘A male chauvinist, I see,’ she said sweetly.

‘Not at all.’

‘But you consider a woman’s place is in the kitchen?’

His smile mocking, he said, ‘I can think of a better place for a woman to be.’

Her colour rising, she looked anywhere but at him.

‘So where do you live, Miss Cavendish?’

Her impulse was to say sharply that it was none of his business. Common sense warning that overreacting might make him suspicious, she stayed purposely vague. ‘At the moment I’m living in a small cottage.’

‘A mews cottage?’ It was as though he could read her mind.

‘Yes.’

‘In the West End?’

Whatever his motives for wanting to know, it was clear that he wasn’t going to be put off.

‘Hawks Lane,’ she said, hoping against hope that he hadn’t the faintest idea where that was. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she added coldly, ‘I’ll see if Richard needs any help.’

At that precise moment their host reappeared, carrying a tray with two cups of coffee.

When they had each been handed a cup, a slightly belligerent look on his face, Richard swallowed the rest of his whisky and, still standing, turned to the other man. ‘I was hoping to have an early night, so if we can discuss the diamond without further delay?’

‘Of course,’ Quinn agreed, his tone equable.

A moment or two passed in silence.

When it became obvious that the ball was in his court, a touch of angry colour appearing along his cheekbones, Richard suggested shortly, ‘Perhaps you’ll be good enough to name your price?’

‘Before I do, I’d like to know why you’re so keen to have that particular stone.’

There was another taut silence before, clearly at the end of his patience, Richard admitted, ‘You were right earlier. I was hoping to have it set into an engagement ring. If that puts the price up—’

‘Just the opposite,’ Quinn broke in. ‘In fact I’ll let you have it for the exact amount I’m paying for it.’

Elizabeth was once again besieged by doubts and misgivings. Why was he willing to part with a diamond he’d taken so much trouble to acquire, without making a profit?

It simply didn’t make sense.

CHAPTER TWO

RICHARD said slowly, ‘That’s very decent of you.’ Then, proving he had the same kind of doubts as Elizabeth, he asked, ‘May I ask why?’

‘Call it a wedding present.’ Quinn’s smile was sardonic. ‘I’ll be in touch tomorrow to complete the transaction.’

‘I’m in Amsterdam for the weekend. I fly back Monday morning.’

‘Say Monday afternoon, then?’

‘Fine. I’ll be at Lombard Square.’

Quinn put down his untasted coffee and rose to his feet. ‘Now, you mentioned that you wanted an early night, so I’ll get moving.’

Elizabeth drew a deep breath. He was going, and with a bit of luck she’d never have to see him again.

The evening had been a great strain, but she should be thankful for two things at least: Quinn hadn’t recognized her and, for whatever reason, he’d made no attempt to hold Richard to ransom over the diamond.

‘Let me see you out.’ Failing to hide his relief, Richard turned to lead the way to the door.

Standing where he was, Quinn said, ‘I’ll be happy to see you home, Miss Cavendish.’

His quiet announcement shook her rigid.

‘N-no, really…’ she stammered. ‘I couldn’t put you to so much trouble…’

The very last thing she wanted was for Quinn to see her home. But neither, she suddenly realized, did she want to stay at the apartment.

Since she’d agreed to come back with Richard, the whole mood of the evening had altered. So much had happened that both her mind and her emotions were in a whirl. She needed time to think, to get over the shock of seeing Quinn again.

As it was, she knew it would be impossible to go to bed with Richard tonight without a dark, mocking face coming between them…

Shuddering at the very idea, she added jerkily, ‘I’ll get a taxi later.’

She must talk to Richard. Tell him she had a headache… Make some excuse…

‘I doubt if there’ll be any taxis willing to venture out.’ Quinn’s level tones penetrated her thoughts. ‘The fog’s getting thicker by the minute.’

He indicated the windows, where nothing was visible but opaque grey mist. ‘If you don’t leave with me now, you’ll almost certainly be stuck for the night.’

Suppose he was right? If she was stuck, with only one bedroom it could prove difficult…

‘And believe me it’s no trouble,’ he added briskly. ‘I pass the end of Hawks Lane.’

As though the matter was settled, he strode across to the cupboard, retrieved her coat and held it for her.

Seeing that a furious-looking Richard was about to intervene, Elizabeth made up her mind. Giving him a speaking glance, she said, ‘In the circumstances I think it would make sense to go.’

Just for a second he looked ready to protest, then, apparently thinking her decision was because she wanted to observe the proprieties, being a gentleman, he stayed silent.

Slipping into her coat, she went on a shade awkwardly, ‘It’s been a tiring evening, and I’m more than ready for some sleep.’

If they’d been alone, Richard would almost certainly have taken her in his arms and kissed her with pleasurable skill and expertise, but, clearly inhibited by the other man’s presence, he gave her a mere peck on the cheek.

‘You’re off on Monday, aren’t you?’ His voice was tightly controlled. ‘So I’ll see you Tuesday. Perhaps we can go to Swann Neilson and discuss a suitable setting for the diamond?’

‘Lovely.’ She managed to smile at him, while a strange presentiment made a chill run through her.

‘Was that shiver caused by cold or excitement?’ Quinn’s mocking voice asked, as they left the penthouse together.

Without thinking, she answered, ‘Neither. Just a goose walking over my grave.’

His heavy-lidded eyes gleaming green as a cat’s between thick dark lashes, he remarked softly, ‘I once knew a girl who used to say that.’

Elizabeth cursed her careless tongue as, a hand at her waist, Quinn escorted her across the small foyer and into the lift.

Like some jailer, he stood much too close for comfort, but, afraid to move away in case it was obvious, she made herself stay where she was.

They descended without speaking, while she tried to convince herself that his remark had just been an idle one.

But suppose he’d guessed? Her blood ran cold at the thought.

Oh, why on earth had she left with him? In retrospect it had been a stupid and dangerous thing to do. Like jumping out of the frying-pan into the fire.

At least she would have been safe with Richard. If she’d simply told him that she didn’t want to sleep with him, he wouldn’t have pressed her.

Or would he?

He didn’t take kindly to being disappointed, and nothing had gone as he’d planned.

Still, he wasn’t an insensitive man, and without knowing the truth about Quinn surely he would have appreciated that the evening’s events had affected her, and forgiven her change of heart?

But now it was too late.

Outside, the fog was dense and clammy, enveloping the hotel entrance, obscuring the ornamental façade and turning the wrought-iron lamps into hovering, luminous ghosts.

There were hardly any pedestrians about, and a lot fewer cars than usual, the normal Park Lane traffic noise muffled and muted.

‘Looks pretty bad, sir,’ the doorman remarked.

‘Conditions certainly aren’t improving,’ Quinn agreed, dropping a generous tip into his ready palm.

‘Perhaps it would be wiser to stay?’ Elizabeth suggested eagerly. ‘They’d almost certainly have a room, and it would save you having to drive in this.’

‘I don’t see it as a problem.’ Already the car door was open and, a hand beneath her elbow, Quinn was helping her in. ‘I’ve driven in worse.’

As they joined the slow-moving traffic and began to crawl through fog-shrouded streets, tense and nervous, she stared straight ahead, until the amorphous grey mass made her eyes ache.

Needing to break a silence that was lengthening and beginning to get intolerable, she said, ‘This is the kind of fog one reads about in Victorian melodramas.’

Her normally clear, well-modulated voice sounded somewhat hoarse and strained.

‘Don’t tell me you read Victorian melodramas?’ While pretending to be shocked, Quinn’s sidelong glance was tolerant, even a trifle amused.

Relaxing a little, she admitted a shade ruefully, ‘I’ve developed quite a passion for them.

He laughed. ‘Does Beaumont approve of your taste in literature?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘You don’t appear to know each other too well.’

‘We know each other very well.’ Even as she spoke she was aware that wasn’t the truth. Richard only knew the cool, collected, rather reserved woman she had become.

All her warmth and passion, her easy gaiety and generosity of spirit, her joie de vivre, were dead and gone, buried beneath the tombstone of the past.

‘When did you two meet?’ The question seemed to be an idle one.

‘When I started to work for Lady Beaumont.’

‘And when was that?’

Elizabeth wondered whether he was genuinely interested or just making polite conversation. But either way it seemed better to talk than sit in silence.

‘Last February,’ she answered. And, feeling on relatively safe ground, she went on, ‘The writer I had been working for was going abroad. I needed to find another job, so I joined an agency who sent me as a temp, after Miss Williams, Lady Beaumont’s secretary, went down with flu.

‘Then in April, when Miss Williams left to get married, I was offered the position permanently.’

‘So you spend your days dealing with a flood of social correspondence? That must be fascinating.’ The sarcasm was blatant.

There was a great deal more to it than that, but admitting that she was helping Lady Beaumont to research and write the Beaumont family history would be a dead giveaway.

Quinn slanted her a glance. ‘No comment?’

‘The salary’s good,’ she informed him tartly.

Saluting her spirit, he pursued, ‘So you and Beaumont have known each other since February… Have you been engaged long?’

‘You asked that before.’

‘As I recall, I didn’t get an answer.’

When she said nothing, he went on, ‘At a guess I should say not very long at all.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘You looked startled when Beaumont introduced you as his fiancée—as if you hadn’t had time to get used to the idea.’

Quinn had always been a formidable opponent, she thought bitterly. He missed nothing, and his keen brain drew fast and accurate conclusions.

‘In my opinion,’ he went on, ‘Beaumont’s the conservative type, the sort to go down on one knee with a background of soft lights and sweet music and a ring ready to slip onto his chosen one’s finger…’

Vexed by the open mockery, Elizabeth bit her lip.

‘Yet you had no ring. Which suggested a spur-of-the-moment proposal, with the Van Hamel as a carrot. Possibly because he was unsure of you…’

The summing-up was so precise that he could almost have been there.

‘Or maybe for some other reason.’

‘Some other reason?’

‘Either to persuade you into his bed, or to keep you there, if you were getting restive.’

If the past five years had taught Elizabeth anything, it was how to hide her feelings and exercise self-control. Slowly she began to count up to ten.

She had reached four when he invited, ‘Go ahead, say it.’

‘Say what?’ Her voice was husky with suppressed anger.

‘If you can’t think of anything better, try, “How dare you?”’

‘It sounds as though I’m not the only one who reads Victorian melodramas.’

He laughed as if genuinely amused. ‘Touché.’ Then, like a terrier worrying at a bone, he said, ‘I gather no wedding date has yet been set?’

‘No. But Richard has suggested spring.’ She made her answer as offhand as possible.

‘Will Lady Beaumont approve of her son’s choice of future wife, do you think?’ There was a bite to the question.

Elizabeth rather doubted it. Though pleasant and friendly up to a point, Lady Beaumont would almost certainly have preferred a society girl, rather than a secretary, for a daughter-in-law.

‘I’m afraid I don’t know,’ she answered shortly. ‘You’d have to ask her.’

‘Suppose she doesn’t?’

Wondering if he was trying to rattle her, Elizabeth said, ‘I’d rather suppose she does.’ Adding calmly, ‘But, whether she does or not, Richard isn’t a man to allow himself to be influenced.’

‘So you’re satisfied that he really does want to marry you?’

‘He said he did.’

‘And you want to marry him?’

‘Of course I want to marry him.’

Quinn lifted a dark brow, and instantly she wished that rather than being so emphatic she’d simply said yes.

‘Why?’ he asked softly. ‘Or is that a silly question?’

‘You mean am I marrying him for his money?’

‘Are you?’

‘No.’

‘Then why?’

Rattled by his persistence, she spoke the exact truth. ‘I want a real home and a family.’ Noting the wry twist to his lips, she added, ‘Isn’t that what the majority of women want?’

‘So you don’t love him?’

‘Of course I love him.’ Damn! There she was, doing it again.

‘In that case I would have expected you to mention love first. The majority of women would have done.’

He was a hard man to fool.

Trying not to sound defensive, she said, ‘I wouldn’t have agreed to marry Richard if I didn’t love him.’

Quinn laughed harshly. ‘If he really loves you, the poor devil has all my sympathy.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she denied sharply.

‘Oh, I think you do.’

‘You’re mistaken.’

He shrugged. ‘I thought I detected a distinct lack of passion on your part.’

The last thing she wanted to feel was passion. Like a fire that blazed out of control, it ended up destroying everything it touched.

She fought back. ‘What makes you think there’s any lack of passion? In any case there’s nothing wrong with a marriage that doesn’t send both partners up in flames.’

‘There’s not much right with it.’

Stung, she cried, ‘I suppose you consider you’re an expert?’

‘Hardly. However, if my wife—’

‘But you’re not married,’ she burst out. Then, beset by a veritable tumult of emotion, she asked, ‘Are you?’

‘Yes, I’m married. What made you so sure I wasn’t?’

‘I-I wasn’t sure… I just thought… I mean I presumed you…’ The words tailed off helplessly.

He was a virile, red-blooded man and she hadn’t expected him to stay celibate. Indeed she’d tortured herself with the thought of him taking a string of mistresses, and been bitterly jealous of all those unknown women. But somehow she hadn’t expected him to be married.

Yet why shouldn’t he be? Five years was a long time, and he’d once said he wanted children. He might even have a family by now… The thought was like a knife twisting in her heart.

But she ought to be thankful, she told herself firmly. As far as he was concerned the past was clearly over and done with. Even if he had recognized her, he would no longer pose any kind of threat…

‘Here we are.’ Quinn’s voice, holding a quiet satisfaction, broke into her thoughts.

Peering through the dense, smothering curtain of fog, Elizabeth could just make out that they were turning into Hawks Lane.

Unwilling to let Quinn know exactly where she lived, she had intended to get out of the car on the main road, and walk the hundred yards or so home. But now it was too late.

‘What number is it?’ he enquired casually.

‘Fifteen,’ she answered reluctantly. ‘It’s just past the second lamp.’

As the big car slipped down the mews like a grey ghost through the grey fog, she fumbled in her bag for her key.

When they drew up outside Cantle Cottage, she said hurriedly, ‘Thank you very much for bringing me home… You needn’t get out. If you drive straight on there’s a turning space in about fifty yards.’

Ignoring her words, he switched off the engine and slid from behind the wheel. A moment later he was holding open her door.

In her haste to escape she stumbled and dropped the key, and heard it tinkle on the cobbles.

A hand beneath her elbow, Quinn steadied her and stooped to retrieve it.

She wondered how on earth he’d see to find it. But a moment later he was opening the door and ushering her inside.

As she switched on the wall lights and, half blocking the doorway, opened her mouth to thank him again, he calmly walked past her.

Before she knew what was happening he had closed the door against the swirling fog and was helping her off with her coat.

Having hung it in the alcove, he turned and, seeing the panic in her grey eyes, asked innocently, ‘Something wrong?’

Enunciating carefully, she said, ‘I’m grateful to you for bringing me home, Mr Durville, but I wasn’t planing to invite you in… As I said earlier, it’s been a tiring evening and I’m in need of some sleep.’

She was moving to re-open the door when his fingers closed around her wrist, his grip light but somehow relentless.

As she froze, he suggested silkily, ‘Before you throw me out, I think the least you can do is offer me some coffee.’

That mocking ‘before you throw me out’ echoing in her ears, and knowing only too well there was no way she could make him leave until he was good and ready, she agreed stiffly, ‘Very well.’

When he released her wrist, Elizabeth made herself walk in a controlled manner towards the kitchen. But somehow it still felt like a rushed escape.

Deciding instant would be quicker, she part filled the kettle and, her hands unsteady, spooned dark roast granules into a cup.

He’d always liked his coffee black and fairly strong, with just one spoonful of sugar. As soon as it was ready, she picked it up and hurried back to the living room.

The chintz curtains had been drawn across the casement windows, the standard lamp was lit, and the living-flame gas fire, which stood in the inglenook fireplace, had been turned on.

Quinn had discarded his evening jacket and loosened his bow-tie, and looked alarmingly settled and at home in shirt-sleeves, sitting on the settee in front of the leaping flames.

‘Thank you.’ He accepted the cup, and queried, ‘Aren’t you having one?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m not thirsty.’

Giving her an upward glance from between thick dark lashes, he used his free hand to pat the settee beside him. ‘Then come and sit by me.’

She had been intending to sit well away from him, but after a moment’s hesitation, deciding it would be quicker and easier to take the line of least resistance, she obeyed, leaving as much space as possible between them.

If only he’d drink his coffee and go!

As though she’d faxed him the thought, he took a sip, and remarked, ‘You must have extrasensory perception.’

When she looked at him blankly, he explained, ‘You appear to know exactly how I like my coffee.’

Thrown into confusion, she lied, ‘I must have been thinking of Richard. That’s how he takes his… So it’s just as well your tastes coincide.’

‘It surprises me that a man who likes his coffee black would automatically put cream into other people’s.’