Lindsay Armstrong - He's My Husband!

“Going to tell me?” “Going to tell me?” Nicola chewed her lip. “No.” “So it’s something else I don’t need to worry about?” “No. I mean, no, you don’t have to worry.” He raised an amused eyebrow. “I’d still rather know.” “Brett, don’t be difficult,” she protested. “It... wasn’t anything much.” “All the more reason not to want to hide it from me,” he countered mildly. She clicked her tongue frustratedly. “You’re impossible. All right, but don’t blame me if you don’t like it. I was wondering-just as a natural impulse, what it would be like if we...made love. That’s all.” About the Author LINDSAY ARMSTRONG was born in South Africa but now lives in Australia with her New Zealand-born husband and their five children. They have lived in nearly every state of Australia and tried their hand at some unusual-for them—occupations, such as farming and horse training, all grist to the mill for a writer! Lindsay started writing romances when their youngest child began school and she was left feeling at a loose end. She is still doing it and loving it. Title Page He’s My Husband! Lindsay Armstrong www.millsandboon.co.uk CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT Copyright

“Going to tell me?”

Nicola chewed her lip. “No.”

“So it’s something else I don’t need to worry about?”

“No. I mean, no, you don’t have to worry.”

He raised an amused eyebrow. “I’d still rather know.”

“Brett, don’t be difficult,” she protested.

“It... wasn’t anything much.”

“All the more reason not to want to hide it from me,” he countered mildly.

She clicked her tongue frustratedly. “You’re impossible. All right, but don’t blame me if you don’t like it. I was wondering-just as a natural impulse, what it would be like if we...made love. That’s all.”

LINDSAY ARMSTRONG was born in South Africa but now lives in Australia with her New Zealand-born husband and their five children. They have lived in nearly every state of Australia and tried their hand at some unusual-for them—occupations, such as farming and horse training, all grist to the mill for a writer! Lindsay started writing romances when their youngest child began school and she was left feeling at a loose end. She is still doing it and loving it.

He’s My Husband!

Lindsay Armstrong

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

THE marriage counsellor was a man in his middle to late thirties.

Nicola Harcourt looked doubtful, and sat down reluctantly. She’d begun to regret this impulse almost as soon as she’d stepped over the doorstep, but now more than ever. A comfortable, middle-aged woman was whom she’d envisaged talking to, a mother figure, perhaps, definitely not a man, and a youngish one at that.

‘How may I help you?’ the man asked, and smiled ruefully at her obvious wariness. ‘I’m the Reverend Peter Callam.’ He looked at her enquiringly.

‘I think I’ll stick to first names, if you don’t mind. I’m Nicola.’

‘That’s fine with me, Nicola. Does it help to know that I’m a minister of religion and I’ve had specific training in helping troubled marriages?’

‘Oh.’ Nicola’s expression cleared a little. ‘Well, yes,’ she conceded, then shrugged. ‘The thing is, I’m not sure I should be doing this.’

‘When one is desperate it’s a very good idea to talk things over with a third party who can take an impartial view—’

‘I’m not desperate,’ Nicola broke in to say.

‘Then you’re concerned your husband would not appreciate your doing this?’

Nicola grinned. ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t But that doesn’t really bother me.’

Peter Callam took a moment to study her and to form the impression that this Nicola was unusually attractive. Twenty-one at the most, he guessed, with fair shining hair in a smooth straight fall to below her shoulders, she had deep blue eyes with an exotic fringe of lashes expertly darkened, a straight little nose and a chiselled mouth innocent of any lipstick.

There was also a patina not only of health in her smooth, glowing skin and bright eyes, but wealth in her beautifully cut clothes: a short grey and white checked A-line dress under a charcoal linen jacket with a grey stripe, black leather platform shoes with high chunky heels that emphasised a pair of long golden legs, a black leather tote bag and a pair of designer sunglasses resting on top of her head.

Her only jewellery was a narrow gold wedding band on her left hand.

He frowned slightly and decided to take the direct approach. ‘If you’re not desperate then why are you here?’

Nicola moved in her chair. ‘I am, in a way. The thing is...’ She paused, shook her head and sighed. ‘I want to leave my husband, who is not the slightest bit in love with me anyway.’

The marriage counsellor clasped his hands on the desk. ‘You mean he’s fallen out of love with you? He has other women—he abuses you?’

Nicola blinked, an expression of surprise chasing through her deep blue eyes. ‘He never lays a finger on me. He’s...rather nice—when, that is—’ she paused to chew her lip, a rather endearing trait Peter Callam found himself thinking, despite himself ‘—he’s not being perfectly horrible to me.’

‘Ah.’ He sat up. ‘Mental cruelty can be as bad as the physical kind, and certainly grounds for some kind of intervention.’

Nicola wrinkled her nose. ‘It’s not that kind of mental cruelty,’ she said with a spark of amusement. ‘He...we’re not really married. I mean, we are, but it was a marriage of convenience, so we live separate lives in the same house kind of thing.’ She stopped, then added prosaically, ‘We’ve never slept together.’

‘I see. Why did he marry you, then?’

‘I’m good with his kids.’

The marriage counsellor gazed at her bemusedly. ‘And that’s the only reason he married you?’

Nicola moved again, uncomfortably this time. ‘Oh, well,’ she murmured, ‘I might as well be hanged for a sheep. This is completely confidential, I presume?’ She eyed him with some hauteur.

‘Completely.’

‘Well, he’s also my trustee. He was my father’s partner, and when my father died-my mother died when I was two—he took over the reins, so to speak. And when I—er—got myself into a very awkward situation with a man two years ago he said—he suggested —a marriage of convenience. I inherited rather a lot of money, you see, which made me the target of—well, I won’t go into that, but...’ She gestured.

‘And now you want out?’

‘Would you care to be married for your child-handling abilities and only to keep you out of trouble?’ Nicola asked with a lift of an eyebrow.

‘Probably not, but it seems to me all you need is to get yourself a good lawyer and get your marriage annulled on the grounds of it never being consummated.’

Nicola eyed him. ‘It’s not that simple. For one thing, my husband is the best lawyer in town. For another, the provisions of my father’s will don’t allow me to touch my inheritance until I’m twenty-three. And, because my husband is also my trustee, he’s not only my husband but my—jailer, if you see what I mean.’

‘He holds the purse strings, in other words?’

‘Precisely. You’re fairly quick on the uptake, Reverend,’ she said, with that glimmer of humour in her eyes again.

And I can’t quite imagine the man who wouldn’t want a peach of a girl like you, Nicola, the Reverend Peter Callam thought, and flinched inwardly. He said, ‘I’m at a bit of a loss, however, Nicola. I generally try to patch marriages up, not break them down, but...are you saying he’d cast you out without a cent if you refused to stay married to him until you’re twenty-three?’