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The Marriage Bed: An Ideal Marriage? / The Marriage Campaign / The Bridal Bed
The Marriage Bed
An Ideal Marriage?
The Marriage Campaign
The Bridal Bed
Helen Bianchin
HELEN BIANCHIN was born in New Zealand and travelled to Australia before marrying her Italian-born husband. After three years they moved, returned to New Zealand with their daughter, had two sons and then resettled in Australia.
Encouraged by friends to recount anecdotes of her years as a tobacco sharefarmer’s wife living in an Italian community, Helen began setting words on paper and her first novel was published in 1975.
Currently Helen resides in Queensland, the three children now married with children of their own. An animal lover, Helen says her two beautiful Birman cats regard her study as much theirs as hers, choosing to leap onto her desk every afternoon to sit upright between the computer monitor and keyboard as a reminder they need to be fed … like right now!
Contents
Cover
Title Page
About the Author
An Ideal Marriage?
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Marriage Campaign
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Bridal Bed
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
GABBI eased the car to a halt in the long line of traffic banked up behind the New South Head Road intersection adjacent to Sydney’s suburban Elizabeth Bay. A slight frown creased her forehead as she checked her watch, and her fingers tapped an impatient tattoo against the steering wheel.
She had precisely one hour in which to shower, wash her hair, dry and style it, apply make-up, dress, and greet invited dinner guests. The loss of ten minutes caught up in heavy traffic didn’t form part of her plan.
Her eyes slid to the manicured length of her nails, and she dwelt momentarily on the fact that time spent on their lacquered perfection had cost her her lunch. An apple at her desk mid-afternoon could hardly be termed an adequate substitute.
The car in front began to move, and she followed its path, picking up speed, only to depress the brake pedal as the lights changed.
Damn. At this rate it would take two, if not three attempts to clear the intersection.
She should, she admitted silently, have left her of fice earlier in order to miss the heavy early evening traffic. Yet stubborn single-mindedness had prevented her from doing so.
As James Stanton’s daughter, she had no need to work. Property, an extensive share portfolio and a handsome annuity placed her high on the list of Sydney’s independently wealthy young women.
As Benedict Nicols’ wife, her position as assistant management consultant with Stanton-Nicols Enterprises was viewed as nepotism at its very worst.
Gabbi thrust the gear-shift forward with unaccustomed force, attaining momentary satisfaction from the sound of the Mercedes’ refined engine as she eased the car forward and followed the traffic’s crawling pace, only to halt scant minutes later.
The cellphone rang, and she automatically reached for it.
‘Gabrielle.’
Only one person steadfastly refused to abbreviate her Christian name. ‘Monique.’
‘You’re driving?’
‘Stationary,’ she informed her, pondering the purpose of her stepmother’s call. Monique never rang to simply say ‘hello.’
‘Annaliese flew in this afternoon. Would it be an imposition if she came to dinner?’
Years spent attending an élite boarding-school had instilled requisite good manners. ‘Not at all. We’d be delighted.’
‘Thank you, darling.’
Monique’s voice sounded like liquid satin as she ended the call.
Wonderful, Gabbi accorded silently as she punched in the appropriate code and alerted Marie to set another place at the table.
‘Sorry to land this on you,’ she added apologetically before replacing the handset down onto the console. An extra guest posed no problem, and Gabbi wasn’t sufficiently superstitious to consider thirteen at the table a premise for an unsuccessful evening.
The traffic began to move, and the faint tension behind her eyes threatened to develop into a headache.
James Stanton’s remarriage ten years ago to a twenty-nine-year-old divorcee with one young daughter had gifted him with a contentment Gabbi could never begrudge him. Monique was his social equal, and an exemplary hostess. It was unfortunate that Monique’s affection didn’t extend to James’s daughter. As a vulnerable fifteen-year-old Gabbi had sensed her stepmother’s superficiality, and spent six months agonising over why, until a friend had spelled out the basic psychology of a dysfunctional relationship.
In retaliation, Gabbi had chosen to excel at everything she did—she’d striven to gain straight As in each subject, had won sporting championships, and graduated from university with an honours degree in business management. She’d studied languages and spent a year in Paris, followed by another in Tokyo, before returning to Sydney to work for a rival firm. Then she’d applied for and won, on the strength of her experience and credentials, a position with Stanton-Nicols.
There was a certain danger in allowing one’s thoughts to dwell on the past, Gabbi mused a trifle wryly as she swung the Mercedes into the exclusive Vaucluse street, where heavy, wide-branched trees added a certain ambience to the luxurious homes nestled out of sight behind high concrete walls.
A few hundred metres along she drew the car to a halt, depressed a remote modem and waited the necessary seconds as the double set of ornate black wrought-iron gates slid smoothly aside.
A wide curved driveway led to an elegant two-storeyed Mediterranean-style home set well back from the road in beautiful landscaped grounds. Encompassing four allotments originally acquired in the late 1970s by Conrad Nicols, the existing four houses had been removed to make way for a multi-million-dollar residence whose magnificent harbour views placed it high in Sydney’s real-estate stratosphere.
Ten years later extensive million-dollar refurbishment had added extensions providing additional bedroom accommodation, garages for seven cars, remodelled kitchen, undercover terraces, and balconies. The revamped gardens boasted fountains, courtyards, ornamental ponds and English-inspired lawns bordered by clipped hedges.
It was incredibly sad, Gabbi reflected as she released one set of automatic garage doors and drove beneath them, that Conrad and Diandra Nicols had been victims of a freak highway accident mere weeks after the final landscaping touches had been completed.
Yet Conrad had achieved in death what he hadn’t achieved in the last ten years of his life: His son and heir had returned from America and taken over Conrad’s partnership in Stanton-Nicols.
Gabbi slid the Mercedes to a halt between the sleek lines of Benedict’s XJ220 Jaguar and the more staid frame of a black Bentley. Missing was the top-of-the range four-wheel drive Benedict used to commute each day to the city.
The garage doors slid down with a refined click and Gabbi caught up her briefcase from the passenger seat, slipped out from behind the wheel, then crossed to a side door to punch in a series of digits, deactivating the security system guarding entry to the house.
Mansion, she corrected herself with a twisted smile as she lifted the in-house phone and rang through to the kitchen. ‘Hi, Marie. Everything under control?’
Twenty years’ service with the Nicols family enabled the housekeeper to respond with a warm chuckle. ‘No problems.’
‘Thanks,’ Gabbi acknowledged gratefully before hurrying through the wide hallway to a curved staircase leading to the upper floor.
Marie would be putting the final touches to the four-course meal she’d prepared; her husband, Serg, would be checking the temperature of the wines Benedict had chosen to be served, and Sophie, the casual help, would be running a final check of the dining-room..
All she had to do was appear downstairs, perfectly groomed, when Serg answered the ring of the doorbell and ushered the first of their guests into the lounge in around forty minutes.
Or less, Gabbi accorded as she ascended the stairs at a rapid pace.
Benedict’s mother had chosen lush-piled eau-de-nil carpet and pale textured walls to offset the classic lines of the mahogany furniture, employing a skilful blend of toning colour with matching drapes and bed-covers, ensuring each room was subtly different.
The master suite was situated in the eastern wing with glass doors opening onto two balconies and commanding impressive views of the harbour. Panoramic by day, those views became a magical vista at night, with a fairy-like tracery of distant electric and flashing neon light.
Gabbi kicked off her shoes, removed jewellery, then quickly shed her clothes en route to a marble-tiled en suite which almost rivalled the bedroom in size.
Elegantly decadent in pale gold-streaked ivory marble, there was a huge spa-bath and a double shower to complement the usual facilities.
Ten minutes later she entered the bedroom, a towel fastened sarong-style over her slim curves, with another wound into a turban on top of her head.
‘Cutting it fine, Gabbi?’ Benedict’s faintly accented drawl held a mocking edge as he shrugged off his suit jacket and loosened his tie.
In his late thirties, tall, with a broad, hard-muscled frame, his sculpted facial features gave a hint of his maternal Andalusian ancestry. Dark, almost black eyes held a powerful intensity that never softened for his fellow man, and rarely for a woman.
‘Whatever happened to “Hi, honey, I’m home”?’ she retaliated as she crossed the room and selected fresh underwear from a recessed drawer, hurriedly donned briefs and bra, then stepped into a silk slip.
‘Followed by a salutatory kiss?’ he mocked with a tinge of musing cynicism as he shed his shirt and attended to the zip of his trousers.
She felt the tempo of her heartbeat increase, and she was conscious of an elevated tension that began in the pit of her stomach and flared along every nerve-end, firing her body with an acute awareness that was entirely physical.
Dynamic masculinity at its most potent, she acknowledged silently as she snatched up a silk robe, thrust her arms through its sleeves, and retraced her steps to the en suite.
Removing the towelled turban, she caught up the hair-drier and began blow-drying her hair.
Her attention rapidly became unfocused as Benedict entered the en suite and crossed to the shower. Mirrored walls reflected his naked image, and she determinedly ignored the olive-toned skin sheathing hard muscle and sinew, the springy dark hair that covered his chest and arrowed down past his waist to reach his manhood, the firmly shaped buttocks, and the powerful length of his back.
Her eyes followed the powerful strength of his shoulders as he reached forward to activate the flow of water, then the glass doors slid closed behind him.
Gabbi tugged the brush through her hair with unnecessary force, and felt her eyes prick at the sudden pain.
It was one year, two months and three weeks since their marriage, and she still couldn’t handle the effect he had on her in bed or out of it.
Her scalp tingled in protest, and she relaxed the brushstrokes then switched off the drier. Her hair was still slightly damp, its natural ash-blonde colour appearing faintly darker, highlighting the creamy smoothness of her skin and accentuating the deep blue of her eyes.
With practised movements she caught the length of her hair and deftly swept it into a chignon at her nape, secured it with pins, then began applying make-up.
Minutes later she heard the water stop, and with conscious effort she focused on blending her eyeshadow, studiously ignoring him as he crossed to the long marbled pedestal and began dealing with a day’s growth of beard.
‘Bad day?’
Her fingers momentarily stilled, then she replaced the eyeshadow palette and selected mascara. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘You have expressive eyes,’ Benedict observed as he smoothed his fingers over his jaw.
Gabbi met his gaze in the mirror, and held it. ‘Annaliese is to be a last-minute guest at dinner.’
He switched off. the electric shaver and reached for the cut-glass bottle containing an exclusive brand of cologne. ‘That bothers you?’
She tried for levity. ‘I’m capable of slaying my own dragons.’
One eyebrow lifted with sardonic humour. ‘Verbal swords over dessert?’
Annaliese was known not to miss an opportunity, and Gabbi couldn’t imagine tonight would prove an exception. ‘I’ll do my best to parry any barbs with practised civility.’
His eyes swept over her slim curves then returned to study the faint, brooding quality evident on her finely etched features, and a slight smile tugged the edges of his mouth. ‘The objective being to win another battle in an ongoing war?’
‘Has anyone beaten you in battle, Benedict?’ she queried lightly as she capped the mascara wand, returned it to the drawer housing her cosmetics and concentrated on applying a soft pink colour to her lips.
He didn’t answer. He had no need to assert that he was a man equally feared and respected by his contemporaries and rarely, if ever, fooled by anyone.
Just watch my back. The words remained unuttered as she turned towards the door, and minutes later she selected a long black pencil-slim silk skirt and teamed it with a simple scoop-necked sleeveless black top. Stiletto-heeled evening shoes completed the outfit, and she added a pear-shaped diamond pendant and matching ear-studs, then slipped on a slim, diamond-encrusted bracelet before turning towards the mirror to cast her reflection a cursory glance. A few dabs of her favourite Le Must de Cartier perfume added the final touch.
‘Ready?’
Gabbi turned at the sound of his voice, and felt her breath catch at the image he presented.
There was something about his stance, a sense of animalistic strength, that fine tailoring did little to tame. The dramatic mesh of elemental ruthlessness and primitive power added a magnetism few women of any age could successfully ignore.
For a few. timeless seconds her eyes locked with his in an attempt to determine what lay behind the studied inscrutability he always managed to portray.
She envied him his superb control...and wondered what it would take to break it.
‘Yes.’ Her voice was steady, and she summoned a bright smile as she turned to precede him from the room.
The main staircase curved down to the ground floor in an elegant sweep of wide, partially carpeted marble stairs, with highly polished mahogany bannisters supported by ornately scrolled black wrought-iron balusters.
Set against floor-to-ceiling lead-panelled glass, the staircase created an elegant focus highlighted by a magnificent crystal chandelier.
Marble floors lent spaciousness and light to the large entry foyer, sustained by textured ivory-coloured walls whose uniformity was broken by a series of wide, heavily panelled doors, works of art, and a collection of elegant Mediterranean-style cabinets.
Gabbi had just placed a foot on the last stair when the doorbell pealed.
‘Show-time,’ she murmured as Serg emerged from the eastern hallway and moved quickly towards the impressively panelled double front doors.
Benedict’s eyes hardened fractionally. ‘Cynicism doesn’t suit you.’
Innate pride lent her eyes a fiery sparkle, and her chin tilted slightly in a gesture of mild defiance. ‘I can be guaranteed to behave,’ she assured him quietly, and felt her pulse quicken as he caught hold of her hand.
‘Indeed.’ The acknowledgement held a dry softness which was lethal, and an icy chill feathered across the surface of her skin.
‘Charles,’ Benedict greeted smoothly seconds later as Serg announced the first of their guests. ‘Andrea’ His smile was warm, and he appeared relaxed and totally at ease. ‘Come through to the lounge and let me get you a drink.’
Most of the remaining guests arrived within minutes, and Gabbi played her role as hostess to the hilt, circulating, smiling, all the time waiting for the moment Monique and Annaliese would precede her father into the lounge.
Monique believed in making an entrance, and her arrival was always carefully timed to provide maximum impact. While she was never unpardonably late, her timing nevertheless bordered on the edge of social acceptability.
Serg’s announcement coincided with Gabbi’s expectation and, excusing herself from conversation, she moved forward to greet her father.
‘James.’ She brushed his cheek with her lips and accepted the firm clasp on her shoulder in return before turning towards her stepmother to accept the salutatory air-kiss. ‘Monique.’ Her smile was without fault as she acknowledged the stunning young woman at Monique’s side. ‘Annaliese. How nice to see you.’
Benedict joined her, the light touch of his hand at the back of her waist a disturbing sensation that provided subtle reassurance and a hidden warning. That it also succeeded in sharpening her senses and made her incredibly aware of him was entirely a secondary consideration.
His greeting echoed her own, his voice assuming a subtle inflection that held genuine warmth with her father, utter charm with her stepmother, and an easy tolerance with Annaliese.
Monique’s sweet smile in response was faultless. Annaliese, however, was pure feline and adept in the art of flirtation. A skill she seemed to delight in practising on any male past the age of twenty, with scant respect for his marital status.
‘Benedict.’ With just one word Annaliese managed to convey a wealth of meaning that set Gabbi’s teeth on edge.
The pressure of Benedict’s fingers increased, and Gabbi gave him a stunning smile, totally ignoring the warning flare in the depths of those dark eyes.
Dinner was a success. It would have been difficult for even the most discerning gourmand’s palate to find fault with the serving of fine food beautifully cooked, superbly presented, and complemented by excellent wine.
Benedict was an exemplary host, and his inherent ability to absorb facts and figures combined with an almost photographic memory ensured conversation was varied and interesting. Men sought and valued his opinion on a business level, and envied him his appeal with women. Women, on the other hand, sought his attention and coveted Gabbi’s position as his wife.
A MATCH MADE IN HEAVEN, the tabloids had announced at the time. THE WEDDING OF THE DECADE, a number of women’s magazines had headlined, depicting a variety of photographs to endorse the projected image.
Only the romantically inclined accepted the media coverage as portrayed, while the city‘s—indeed, the entire country’s—upper social echelons recognised the facts beneath the fairy floss.
The marriage of Benedict Nicols and Gabrielle Stanton had occurred as a direct result of the manipulative strategy by James Stanton to cement the Stanton-Nicols financial empire and forge it into another generation.
The reason for Benedict’s participation was clear... he stood to gain total control of Stanton-Nicols. The bonus was a personable young woman eminently eligible to sire the necessary progeny.
Gabbi’s compliance had been motivated in part by a desire to please her father and the realistic recognition that, given his enormous wealth, there would be very few men, if any, who would discount the financial and social advantage of being James Stanton’s son-in-law.
‘Shall we adjourn to the lounge for coffee?’
The smooth words caught Gabbi’s attention, and she took Benedict’s cue by summoning a gracious smile and rising to her feet. ‘I’m sure Marie has it ready.’
‘Treasure of a chef’, ‘wonderful meal’, ‘delightful evening’. Words echoed in polite praise, and she inclined her head in acknowledgement. ‘Thank you. I’ll pass on your compliments to Marie. She’ll be pleased.’ Which was true. Marie valued the high salary and separate live-in accommodation that formed part of the employment package, and her gratitude was reflected in her culinary efforts.
‘You were rather quiet at dinner, darling.’
Gabbi heard Monique’s softly toned voice, and turned towards her. ‘Do you think so?’
‘Annaliese is a little hurt, I think.’ The reproach was accompanied by a wistful smile, and Gabbi allowed her eyes to widen slightly.
‘Oh, dear,’ she managed with credible regret. ‘She gave such a convincing display of enjoying herself.’
Monique’s eyes assumed a mistiness Gabbi knew to be contrived. How did she do that? Her stepmother had missed her vocation; as an actress she would have excelled.
‘Annaliese has always regarded you as an elder sister.’
There was nothing familial about Annaliese’s regard—for Gabbi. Benedict, however, fell into an entirely different category.
‘I’m deeply flattered,’ Gabbi acknowledged gently, and incurred Monique’s sharp glance. They had lingered slightly behind the guests exiting the dining-room and were temporarily out of their earshot.
‘She’s very fond of you.’
Doubtful. Gabbi had always been regarded as a rival, and Annaliese was her. mother’s daughter. Perfectly groomed, beautifully dressed, perfumed...and on a mission. To tease and tantalise, and enjoy the challenge of the chase until she caught the right man.
Gabbi was saved from making a response as they entered the lounge, and she accepted coffee from Marie, choosing to take it black, strong and sweet.
With a calm that was contrived she lifted her cup and took a sip of the strong, aromatic brew. ‘If you’ll excuse me? I really must have a word with James.’
It was almost midnight when the last guest departed, a time deemed neither too early nor too late for a mid-week dinner party to end.
Gabbi slid off her heeled sandals as she crossed the foyer to the lounge. Her head felt impossibly heavy, a knot of tension twisting a painful.path from her right temple down to the edge of her nape.
Sophie had cleared the remaining coffee cups and liqueur glasses, and in the morning Marie would ensure the lounge was restored to its usual immaculate state.
‘A successful evening, wouldn’t you agree?’
Benedict’s lazy drawl stirred the embers of resentment she’d kept carefully banked over the past few hours.
‘How could it not be?’ she countered as she turned to face him.
‘You want to orchestrate a post-mortem?’ he queried with deceptive mildness, and she glimpsed the tightly coiled strength beneath the indolent facade.
