Lee Wilkinson - Marriage On Trial

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.