Barbara Bradford - The Cavendon Luck

There was a moment of silence before she said, ‘I’ve misled you … and I’m feeling guilty.’

Pushing himself up on one elbow, Harry brought her face around and looked down at her. ‘Guilty in what way?’

‘I let you think Sheldon was coming home tomorrow. He phoned at lunchtime today. He said he’d be here for dinner tonight. You’ve got to leave; you can’t linger as you generally do.’

Genuinely taken aback, Harry gaped at her for a moment, then got up and hurried across the room, making for the chair where his clothes were laid.

Pauline leapt off the bed and rushed after him, put her arms around him and pressed herself close to his body. ‘I can’t bear for you to leave like this. We always make love again before you leave. Always. Let’s do it now, here, standing up. Come on, I’ll lean against the door.’ She reached up, pulled his face down to hers and kissed him passionately. He responded; he never failed to do so with her. He felt himself growing hard but, just as he was about to succumb to her red-hot desire for him, his common sense kicked in.

‘No, no, we can’t. It’s too risky,’ he said firmly, glancing at his watch. ‘It’s almost six fifteen. Sheldon could be here any moment and we’d be caught red-handed.’

Pauline shook her head. ‘No, he won’t make it before seven, I’m certain of that.’ She leaned against the door, staring at him, her desire running high. She was hot with longing for him, had never wanted anyone like this, never loved any other man before him. And she knew she could not have him. Unexpected tears welled and she moved back and into his arms so he would not see them.

But he had. He held her tightly, stroked her long auburn hair. ‘Why are you crying?’

‘Because you’re angry with me … because I didn’t tell you he was coming home tonight,’ she lied. ‘Say you forgive me, Harry. Please .’

He looked down at her and smiled, touched her face with tenderness. ‘There’s nothing to forgive, my Pauline, my dearest love. I was startled, that’s all, not angry, never with you.’

Reaching for his clothes, Harry rushed over to her bathroom.

Pauline stood watching him moving across the bedroom, struck yet again by the beauty of his lithe body, and the tears came back, rolled down her cheeks. Slipping into her dressing room, she closed the door, stood for a moment wiping away her tears. Then she picked up a towel, placed it on the padded stool before sitting down.

They had made love several times this afternoon and she was full of him. He might have made her pregnant. She hoped so. But she was forty-eight. Too late, wasn’t it? She breathed deeply. The scent of his cologne, Jicky, and the smell of him was all over her.

She reached for a bottle of perfume, was about to spray herself, but changed her mind. She wanted his smell on her. There was a knock on the door and she went to open it.

Harry stood there, gazing at her. A slow smile slid across his face. ‘You look beautiful.’ He took hold of her arm, tightened his grip and brought her closer. ‘You’d better get dressed,’ he said, and asked, ‘Will you be alone next week?’

‘I suppose so.’ She touched his face gently. ‘I’ll phone you as soon as I can.’

Harry nodded and let go of her arm. And he was gone.

Pauline turned away from the door, dressed swiftly, attended to her hair and makeup. Usually she bathed after their love-making but not today. She wanted his seed in her, wanted his baby, yearned to have part of him for the rest of her life. A son or a daughter. It didn’t matter as long as it was his .

Pauline Mallard went downstairs to wait for Sheldon Faircross, her husband, knowing he would be arriving shortly. Crossing the floor of the library, she went to the drinks table and filled a glass with sherry. She stood for a moment, staring down into the pale liquid, her mind still on Harry Swann.

In some ways she regretted meeting him and having an affair with him, because he had, in a sense, ruined her life. She had fallen in love for the first time. That was verboten . And now she knew she would have to let him go. A divorce and remarriage was not in the cards. Harry could never be hers. She was in a trap.

When she had married Sheldon fifteen years ago, she had agreed to play by his rules. He would sort out the mess of her finances, created by her first two husbands. Both of them had spent a great deal of her inheritance from her father, the late Allan Mallard, one of America’s greatest tycoons.

With Sheldon’s help, her financial affairs were in better order, but she was not quite the great heiress she had once been. Nevertheless, she was by no means poor. And neither was Sheldon; he was a millionaire many times over.

Sheldon’s rules were very simple. A self-made man, he wanted the prestige of her name, her beauty and elegance, on his arm and at the head of his dinner table. He also demanded her total loyalty.

However, because he had no interest in her sexually, preferring young men, he had told her she could have her love affairs as long as she was discreet. Also, he had made her swear she would never reveal his own sexual predilection.

She had willingly agreed at the time. Not only did she have her own money intact again, she had the legitimacy of marriage to a well-known tycoon, a wonder on Wall Street, but also Sheldon’s great fortune to spend as she wished. And permission to have as many affairs as she wanted. Sheldon had made it clear that her dalliances with other men must be only sexual. No emotional entanglements, he had insisted. And until Harry, it had all worked. Now she wanted to marry Harry, be his wife, have his baby. And have Harry all to herself. He was the best lover she had ever had. And a lovely man.

Still staring into the sherry, she thought: I could walk away from Sheldon. He manages my money and has control of it. But money doesn’t matter to me. Harry will look after me.

Bringing the glass to her mouth, she swigged some of the sherry, and reminded herself that the money did matter to her. She had been born into it, enjoyed spending it, and she would miss it. If she were honest, she would also miss her life on the international scene. Harry would never enjoy that life; he might well be genuinely besotted with her, but he was devoted to Cavendon and the Inghams.

No way out, she thought, I’m stuck. And then she swung around as Sheldon said, ‘Good evening, Pauline. I see you’re alone.’

‘Hello, Sheldon, and naturally I’m alone.’

‘Harry’s just left though. I’m certain of that.’

Pauline merely nodded and walked over to the fireplace. Sheldon joined her, kissed her cheek. He went and poured himself a single malt and strolled across the room.

‘The affair must have run its course by now,’ Sheldon said, joining her on the sofa.

‘I suppose …’ was all she could say.

‘Harry has no doubt fallen in love with you. They all do, actually. But how do you feel about Harry?’

‘He’s been gentlemanly, caring. He’s a nice man.’

‘And great in the sack, I’ve no doubt. He wouldn’t have lasted this long with you if he hadn’t been hot to trot whenever you beckoned.’ Sheldon laughed.

Pauline was silent. She hated Sheldon’s weird outbursts of vulgarity and discussions about her affairs. She had frequently thought that he might get some sort of kick out of discussing them. In the way some men enjoy voyeurism.

When there was no response, Sheldon said, ‘I spoke to Tiger this morning. She’s invited us to stay with her at the château in Versailles. She’s giving a big summer party. We’re invited. And I accepted for us both.’

Pauline was momentarily startled, then said swiftly, ‘That’s great, Sheldon. She’s such a marvellous hostess.’