Lucy Gordon: The Stand-In Bride

‘Except love.’

‘Love,’ he echoed scornfully. ‘What sentimentalists you English are. You think marriage has anything to do with romantic love? My wife will be protected and cared for. I will give her children to love.’

‘And she’ll have to be content with the small corner of your life that you spare her.’

He regarded her cynically. ‘I see how it is. You think a man only makes a good husband if he prostrates himself and worships the woman, like a weakling. But I tell you that a man who truly worships is without pride, and the man who only pretends is not to be trusted.’

‘You think a strong man patronises the woman?’ Maggie demanded sharply.

‘I think men and women each have their roles, and their duty is to fill them well. And since you ask, no, I don’t think that my role is to look up to any woman. I suppose you’ve been filling Catalina’s head with your pretty nonsense.’

‘Catalina is young. She knows what she wants out of life, and it isn’t you.’

‘I’m sure you’re right. She’d like some fast-talking boy who’ll sweep her off her feet, spend her money and turn on her when it’s gone. Is that the fate you want for her?’

‘No, of course not, I-’ Something was making it difficult for her to speak. His words had touched a nerve. She turned away and went to the window, so that she didn’t have to look at him. But the darkness outside reflected the room within, and she could still see him, watching her, frowning.

‘What is it?’ he asked at last.

‘Nothing,’ she said quickly. ‘You’re right, this is none of my business. Soon you’ll take Catalina away, and I won’t see her any more.’

‘What was your own husband like?’ he asked, with a flash of insight that alarmed her.

‘I’d rather not talk about him.’

‘I see,’ he said harshly. ‘You discuss my marriage, which-as you so rightly say-is not your concern, but if I wish to discuss yours, you feel entitled to snub me.’ He pulled her around to face him. ‘Tell me about your husband.’

‘No.’ She tried to get free but he held her firmly.

‘I said, tell me about him. What was he like to put that withdrawn look on your face when he’s mentioned?’

‘Very well, he was Spanish,’ she flashed. ‘Everything else I prefer to forget.’

‘Did you live in Spain?’

‘That’s enough. Let me go at once.’ But his long fingers clasped on her arm did not release her.

‘I’d rather stay like this. I don’t want to have to follow you about the room. I asked if you lived in Spain, and so far you haven’t answered me.’

‘No, and I’m not going to.’

‘But I intend that you shall. I’ve been very patient while you interrogated me and favoured me with your insulting opinions, but my patience has run out. Now we talk about you. Tell me about your husband. Was he a passionate man?’

‘How dare -? That’s none of your-’ His glintingly ironic eyes stopped her, reminding her of how frankly she had spoken about his private affairs. But that was different, she told herself wildly. It didn’t entitle him to invade the secrets of her bed, or to look at her with eyes that seemed to see the things she kept so carefully hidden.

‘So tell me,’ Sebastian persisted. ‘Was he passionate?’ Maggie pulled herself together. ‘I’m surprised you ask. You just told me that love has nothing to do with marriage.’

‘And so it hasn’t. But I’m talking about passion, which has nothing to do with love. What a man and a woman experience together in bed is a life apart. It matters little whether they love each other or not. In fact, a touch of antagonism can heighten their pleasure.’

She drew an uneven breath. ‘That is nonsense!’

He didn’t answer in words, but his fingers twitched, catching the silk chiffon scarf and slowly drawing it away, leaving her shoulders bare. A tremor went through her at the sudden rush of cool air on her skin.

‘I think not,’ he said softly.

His eyes held hers. His meaning was shockingly clear. The hostility that had flared between them in the first instant was, to him, an attraction. He was inviting her to imagine herself in bed with him, naked, turning their anger into physical pleasure. And he was doing it so forcefully that she couldn’t help responding. Against her will the pictures were there, shocking in their power and abandon: a man and a woman who’d thrown aside restraint and were driving each other on to ever greater ecstasy.

She was intensely aware of the sheer physical force of his presence. Once, before passion had played her false, she had responded to it fiercely: so fiercely that in disillusion she’d turned away from desire, fearing it as a traitor. She’d fought it, killed it. Or so she’d thought.

But now it was there again, not dead but only sleeping, waiting to be awoken by a certain note in a man’s voice. Not this man! she swore furiously to herself. But even as she made the vow she became conscious of his body, how lean and hard it was, how long his legs with their heavy thigh muscles just perceptible beneath the conservative suit. The touch of his fingers was light, but force seemed to stream through them so that she could think of nothing else but that, and what a man’s strength might mean to a woman in bed. Power in his hands, in his arms, in his loins…

She tried to blot out such thoughts but his will was stronger than hers. He seemed to have taken over her mind, giving her no choice but to see what he wanted her to see, and to reflect back that consciousness to him.

‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘Yes.’

As though in a trance, she murmured. ‘Never.’

‘Then he was not passionate?’

‘Who?’ she whispered.

‘Your husband.’

Her husband. Yes, of course, they had been discussing her husband. The world, which had vanished for a heated moment, seemed to settle back into place.

‘I won’t discuss him with you,’ she said, echoing words she’d spoken before because her mind was too confused to think of new ones.

‘I wonder why. Because in bed he was a god, who showed you desire that no other man could ever match? Or because he was ignorant about women, knowing nothing of their secrets and too selfish to learn, a weakling who left you unsatisfied? I think he failed you. What a fool! Didn’t he know what he had in his possession?’

‘I was never his possession.’

‘Then he wasn’t a man or he would have known how to make you want to be his. Why don’t you answer my question?’

‘What question?’

‘Yes, it was so long ago that I asked, wasn’t it? And such a little question. Did you live in Spain?’

‘For a few years.’

‘And yet you know nothing about the Spanish mind.’

‘I know that I don’t like it, and that’s all I need to know.’

‘Just like that,’ he said, ‘you condemn a whole race in a few words.’

‘No,’ she said defiantly, ‘I condemn all the men of your race. Now let me go, this instant .’

He laughed softly and released her. Something in that laugh sent shivers up her spine, and her sense that he was a man to avoid increased. It was unforgivable that he should have called up old memories that still tormented her. She backed away and turned from him, resisting the temptation to rub the place where his fingers had gripped. He hadn’t hurt her, but the warmth was still there, reminding her how he had felt.

‘All Spanish men!’ he said ironically. ‘But surely, some of us are “tolerable”?’

‘None of you,’ she said coldly.

‘How very tragic to have fallen under your displeasure!’

‘Don’t bother making fun of me. I don’t work for you any more.’