Lee Wilkinson - Marriage On Trial

“Still my wife? That’s exactly what I mean.”

“No, I can’t be,” Elizabeth cried desperately. “The marriage was going to be annulled.”

“That was your idea,” Quinn reminded her. “You didn’t wait to see if I was in agreement.”

“But when I swore I had no intention of living with you, the family lawyers drew up the necessary papers and I signed them.”

“Well, I didn’t….”

LEE WILKINSON lives with her husband in a three-hundred-year-old stone cottage in a village in Derbyshire, England. Most winters they get cut off by snow! Both enjoy traveling, and previously joined forces with their daughter and son-in-law, spending a year going round the world “on a shoestring” while their son looked after Kelly, their much-loved German shepherd dog. Lee’s hobbies are reading and gardening and holding impromptu barbecues for her long-suffering family and friends.

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CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

GUESSING that the occasion would be a glittering one, Elizabeth, unable to compete, had chosen simplicity: a midnight-blue cocktail dress, silk-clad legs, plain suede court shoes, and her long, sable-dark hair in an elegant chignon.

Her fingers were ringless, and she wore no jewellery apart from a watch on her left wrist and earrings in her neat lobes. Made of silver and mother-of-pearl, intricately curved in the shape of a mermaid, they were extremely old and very beautiful.

She was ready and waiting when the bell rang.

Slipping into her grey, fun-fur coat and picking up her squashy bag, she opened the door of her tiny mews cottage and smiled at the tall, well-built man wearing impeccable evening clothes.

Richard Beaumont bent his head and kissed her cheek. ‘You look delightful, as always.’ His voice was clear and cultured, his blond hair brushed smooth, his aristocratic face full of charm.

The November evening was dark and damp, with more than a hint of fog in the air. By the black-painted door of Cantle Cottage a yellow rose, still flowering bravely, was beaded with moisture, and in the light shed by the old-fashioned street lamps the wet cobbles gleamed like golden fish scales.

‘What time does the sale start?’ Elizabeth asked, as he helped her into the Beaumonts’ chauffeur-driven limousine.

‘Nine-thirty, after a champagne buffet. Because it’s a small, private collection of gems that are being sold, the auction itself should be over fairly quickly.’

Wealthy, and a lover of beautiful things, Richard collected precious stones as another man might collect postage stamps.

‘Will you be bidding for anything special?’ she asked, as the sleek car pulled out of the cul-de-sac hidden away in the heart of town, and turned towards Hyde Park.

His blue eyes shone with enthusiasm. ‘Very special. The Van Hamel diamond.’

‘Is there likely to be much competition?’

‘Though only a relatively small, select group of people have been invited, I’d be surprised if there wasn’t quite a lot.’

‘But you will get it?’

Smiling at the thought of being beaten, he answered with supreme confidence, ‘Oh, yes, I’ll get it. It’s not particularly large, but it’s flawless, and the cutting is exquisite. It would make a perfect engagement ring.’

This last was added so casually that she blinked.

‘You seem surprised.’

She had guessed that he was getting serious, but unsure of herself, of what she wanted, she hadn’t known whether to be pleased or anxious.

Neither an impetuous youth nor a man to mistime things, apparently reading her indecision, Richard had played a waiting game, asking for nothing more than her company, refusing to press her.

Until now.

They were held up by traffic signals, and in the light from the street lamps he studied her half-averted face, the sweep of dark lashes, the straight nose, the warm curve of her lips, the pure line of her jaw. ‘Surely you know I love you and want to marry you?’

Though aware that he was expecting some response to his declaration, thrown by the suddenness of it, she remained silent while her thoughts whirled.

The only son of a baronet, he was a handsome, charismatic man, polished and considerate. A brilliant brain and an unsurpassed knowledge of the world’s stock markets had made him wealthy in his own right, and well respected in business circles.

She was twenty-six. If she wasted this chance, there would be very few other men to come anywhere near him, and she wanted a real home and children while she was still young.

After a moment, his voice even, he added, ‘If the answer’s yes, I thought after the auction we might go back to my apartment?’

As well as the Beaumonts’ large Georgian house in Lombard Square, which Elizabeth knew well, Richard had a suite of rooms at a Park Lane hotel, which she didn’t know at all.

Conventional in many ways, he was making it abundantly clear that, though he’d accepted a more or less platonic relationship so far, he wasn’t prepared to keep on doing so.

It was make-your-mind-up time.

So what was she to do? It was more than five years since her life had fallen apart. She was genuinely fond of Richard, so surely it should be possible to put the past behind her and start living again? To give him the commitment he was asking for?

‘Well, my dear?’ he pressed.

She turned to look at him, her clear, dark grey eyes steady. ‘Yes, I’d like that.’

With a little smile of triumph, he took her hand and squeezed it. As they moved off once more, he said, ‘I don’t see any need for a long engagement, so will you give some thought to a spring wedding…?’

A moment later they were leaving the main road and turning into Belham Place. Belham House, where the sale was being held, was a blaze of lights.

Originally a small palace, the beautiful old building was set back behind a grey stone wall surmounted by black and gold spiked railings.

A uniformed policeman was standing by the tall, ornamental, wrought-iron gates. After a glance at Richard’s gilt-edged invitation card, he waved them through.

The chauffeur drove past an apron crowded with cars and set them down by an imposing, studded door guarded by a plain-clothes officer.

‘You needn’t wait, Smithers,’ Richard informed his driver crisply. ‘We’ll get a taxi back.’

Elizabeth gave him full marks for discretion.

Once inside the marble-floored and pillared foyer her coat was whisked away by a liveried attendant. A moment or two later they were being greeted by their silver-haired host—an impoverished earl, she learnt later—before being handed a glass of vintage champagne.

When they joined the other well-dressed guests in the chandelier-lit dining hall, Richard introduced her to several of his acquaintances, then, sotto voce, pointed out a couple of security men mingling inconspicuously with the crowd.