His Wedding-Night Heir

Everything in the case was new, in honour of her brand-new future, including the quilted apricot bag for toiletries with its pretty beaded embroidery. She took it, with the nightdress, into the bathroom.

The fittings were old-fashioned, and the shower was a trickle rather than a torrent, but she managed somehow, patting herself dry with one of the meagre towels. Then she slid the nightdress slowly over her head.

A year ago the chiffon would have enhanced slender, blossoming curves and made them seductive. Now it hung from her, she thought, giving herself a last disparaging glance in the mirror before turning away. Her shoulders and arms were thin, and her collarbones like pits. Her breasts were those of a child again.

But why should she repine? After all, the last thing in the world she wanted was for Nick to find her attractive. He liked beautiful women—he’d never made a secret of it. And for a while there, as she’d bloomed under his careful tutelage, she’d been—almost lovely.

But that girl no longer existed, and what was he left with instead? A rag, a bone, and a hank of hair. That was all.

And maybe the connoisseur in him, the sensualist, would not find that enough.

She trailed back into the other room, took clothes for the next day from the case—fresh underwear and a mid-calf dress in primrose linen, square-necked and cap-sleeved, which she hung up in one of the fitted wardrobes. After all, she’d bought it purposely to wear on the first day of the rest of her life, so it seemed an appropriate choice for tomorrow, if slightly sick.

And it was barely creased, indicating that her bag had not simply been left unopened and untouched over the past twelve months, as she’d thought likely.

Either that or she’d expected the entire contents of her luggage to have been removed to the nearest charity shop, erasing all physical reminders of her from his life. And yet it was all still there, wrapped in tissue and waiting for her.

He really had intended that she should go back to him, she thought shivering.

Her time was nearly up, so, with another apprehensive glance towards the sitting room, she reluctantly climbed into the wide bed, hugging its extreme edge as she reached up and turned off the pink-shaded befrilled lamp. Lying rigidly on her side, she closed her eyes tightly and kept them closed, trying to breathe deeply and evenly as if she was asleep.

It seemed an eternity before the door between them opened quietly and she knew she was no longer alone. She was aware of Nick moving about softly, then the click of the bathroom door, and beyond it the noise from the shower.

Cally tried to relax—to sink down into the mattress—giving the impression that she was dead to the world. But it wasn’t easy—not with tension building inside her all the while.

For the first time in her life she was about to spend a night in bed with a man, and in spite of his assurances she was petrified.

Eventually she heard him come back into the room and walk quietly across to the bed. There was a soft rustle like silk, as if he was removing a dressing gown, then she felt the mattress dip slightly as he joined her. The other equally awful pink lamp was extinguished, and the room was dark.

He was nowhere near Cally, maintaining his distance as promised, but she was intensely conscious of his presence just the same. His skin smelt cool and fresh with the fragrance of soap, and some unguessed-at female instinct told her, without a shadow of a doubt, that he was naked.

She froze. Her heart was thudding like a trapped animal beating against the bars of its cage as she waited tensely.

‘For God’s sake, relax.’ His voice in the heavy darkness was weary with exasperation. ‘I don’t go in for force.’

At least not tonight, Cally thought, but did not dare say it.

‘Can’t you understand how difficult this is for me?’ she demanded tautly.

‘I don’t find the situation easy either,’ Nick retorted sharply. ‘But we have to start our marriage somewhere, and tradition suggests that bed is the place.’

‘For lovers, perhaps.’ Her riposte was more acerbic than she’d intended. There was a silence.

Then he asked gently, ‘Is that intended as some kind of challenge?’

Cally found her eyes were so tightly closed that coloured spots danced behind her lids. ‘No,’ she mumbled.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Let’s keep it that way, shall we?’ He paused again. ‘And bed isn’t simply about sex, Cally. It’s also a quiet and private place to talk sometimes.’

‘You’re implying we have something to discuss? So far you’ve simply issued instructions.’

‘I thought you might wish to go into a little more detail about why you ran away from me.’

Cally’s eyes flew open. She hunched a shoulder. ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time. As it happens, it still does.’

‘And that’s your final word on the subject?’ He sounded more curious than angry.

‘At the moment,’ she said, ‘my most pressing concern is the future—not the past.’

‘Really?’ he said. ‘And I thought it was the here and now that had you clinging to the edge of the bed like an abseiler whose rope has been cut.’

‘If so, you can hardly blame me for that.’

‘You were the one who asked for a breathing space,’ Nick reminded her softly.

At this particular time it seemed difficult to breathe at all, Cally realised, her throat tightening.

She said huskily, ‘You can hardly expect to—walk back into my life and expect things to be as they were a year ago.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘And exactly how were things then, Cally? Refresh my memory.’

Oh, God, she’d walked bang into that one, she thought, biting her lip.

She steadied her voice. ‘Perhaps I believed—once—briefly—that a marriage between us could be made to work.’

‘And yet you walked out?’ he said slowly. ‘Without even a shot being fired in anger. Why? And I want a reason. Not some flippant throwaway excuse that tells me nothing.’

It was the direct question she’d dreaded, and it demanded the direct answer she could not give.

Because I discovered I’d been blind enough and crazy enough to give you the power to smash me into little pieces. To break my heart so cruelly and completely that I would never recover.

Because it was only when I saw you with another woman in your arms on our wedding day that I realised how deeply I’d fallen in love with you, and that it would kill me to live only half a life with you—knowing that I would have to share you. That it was her that you really wanted—not me—and ours was just a marriage of convenience.

Knowing, too, that any happiness I found would be a sham and a betrayal.

And that the only way I could retain my sanity—and my self-respect—would be to distance myself from you totally, utterly and for ever.

But to say the words aloud would be another fatal betrayal. She would be admitting that his pretence at wooing her had succeeded only too well, and that as she’d stood beside him and repeated her vows she’d been loving and longing for him with shy but passionate ardour.

And to let him know that she’d been such a pathetic, gullible fool was more than flesh and blood could stand. She could not bear such a stark humiliation.

Better, she thought, to endure Nick’s anger than his pity.

She had no idea, of course, if Vanessa Layton was still part of his life. If she was even now installed at Southwood Cottage, or whether she’d been supplanted by someone else.

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