Diana Hamilton - Scandalous Bride

Oh, what had made her say that? she thought with anguish as the door closed behind him with a quiet control that told her he’d gone far beyond mere anger.

Tears welled up and ran down her cheeks, slow and fat and born of self-disgust. She hated herself! Of course she didn’t equate the magic of their lovemaking with a quick grope—surely he knew that? Couldn’t he understand that she’d been getting her own back for what he had said earlier?

Flicking on the bedside light, she reached for a handful of tissues, blew her nose and scrubbed her wet cheeks. She had to put things right. Make him understand that she hadn’t meant what she’d said, that she hadn’t been rejecting him but the accusations he’d made.

It was more than time to find out if he really, or even partially, believed the things Hugh had said. They couldn’t get on with their future while he kept a question mark in his mind.

The satin of her robe was cold against her heated skin. She shivered, tying the sash around her waist, sudden indecision making her frown.

He was making a couple of phone calls, he’d said, so right now wouldn’t be the best time to attempt a reconciliation, would it? And at this time of night that could only mean he was contacting somewhere halfway round the world.

But that didn’t mean he was so annoyed with her he was planning on taking the next available flight out to wherever, did it?

The attempted reassurance didn’t work. She chewed on the corner of her lip and her legs began to shake. She sank back on the edge of the bed. She knew enough about his business life to admire the way he’d made himself an enviable fortune, travelling the world looking for investment opportunities, playing the stock market, building stakes in groups to sell on at a profit.

It would be possible, he’d once told her, to conduct most of his business from a well-equipped office, but he preferred the hands-on approach. Was he planning one of his extended foreign business trips to punish her?

Speculation was getting her nowhere. And he wouldn’t be on the phone all night. She crawled back into bed and propped herself up against the pillows, waiting for him.

As soon as he showed his face she’d make everything right between them again, she promised herself. Yes, she most definitely would. And it wouldn’t be too long now, just long enough for him to make those calls. She’d give him that much space; she owed him that. He wouldn’t stay away for the rest of the night.

But he had. Still in her robe, propped against the pillows, disorientated because she wasn’t in her own, familiar surroundings, Olivia woke from fretful dreams, deeply annoyed with herself. She had gone and fallen asleep before he’d come back to bed, and nothing had been put right.

Turning to remedy the unthinkable situation, her body tensed up. His side of the bed was well and truly empty. Had her seeming rejection, her refusal to behave as if nothing had happened, angered him to the point of refusing to be anywhere near her? She felt physically sick.

They met on the sweeping staircase, that much admired feature of Rye House. But she wasn’t up to admiring the Grinling Gibbons carvings right now. She’d showered and dressed quickly, intent on routing him out, dreading the possibility of discovering that their beautiful relationship had been damaged, vowing that she wouldn’t let it be.

‘Where were you?’ she demanded, refusing to flinch beneath those cold grey eyes. He was fully dressed and looked as if he hadn’t slept at all.

‘Working.’ He stopped on his loping way up. ‘I came up to shower and dress at six. You were dead to the world. I’ve been sent to fetch you down for breakfast.’

She didn’t want any. Her stomach was in knots. He was looking at her with a stranger’s eyes. It frightened her. But she wasn’t going to let it show.

‘Punishing me for denting your ego, you mean,’ she retorted, resisting the impulse to shout because one or other of his parents could put in an appearance at any time. But she was sickened by the obvious lie. If their marriage was to grow and flourish they had to be hon-est with each other. She hated evasions of any kind; she’d had enough of those from Max to last her a dozen lifetimes. She stared straight back at him. ‘Admit it. How could you possibly work? Here, in the middle of the night? You were sulking!’

‘I could work on a clothes-line,’ he informed her coldly. ‘A telephone, paper, a pen—I don’t need much more. And sulking’s a woman’s game, one that cuts no ice with me. Coming?’

She looked at his merciless, sensual mouth and shuddered in primitive response. Fighting it, she made her lush lips as prim as they could be. She didn’t want to kiss him—no, she did not. She wanted to shake him!

Trying to smile for his parents’ sake, she got herself into the kitchen by will-power alone. The smell of bacon made her feel ill.

‘You mustn’t let him get away with it!’ Angela stated. ‘Working through the night—there’s no need for it! And he used most of my headed notepaper, too!’ She pointedly moved a bunch of papers out of the way and put a loaded toast rack down on the huge kitchen table.

‘It was all I could find; I’ll get it replaced,’ Nathan said with a tight smile. ‘And don’t nag, Ma; it makes you sound old.’

Olivia’s face ached with the effort of trying to look pleasant and unconcerned, as if she were totally in tune with her new husband’s odd working habits—sympathetic, even faintly amused.

Edward sauntered in, sniffing the air. ‘Is breakfast nearly ready? I’m starving! It’s a shame you two have to rush off this morning. You could have helped me with the Cobra—’ He broke off as he caught his wife’s withering look and amended, ‘Or gone to church with your mother. We’d planned on lunching at the golf club. They put on a passably good roast. No eggs for me, Angie.’ His youthful eyes smiled into Olivia’s. ‘When I remember, I try to watch my cholesterol intake. Pour the coffee, would you, Livvy? I’m gasping. Are you sure you won’t change your minds and stay?’

Pouring coffee into the wide-bowled cups, Olivia left Nathan to convince his parents that they had to make tracks.

‘There are several things I need to sort out,’ he answered tersely as his mother set a huge plate of bacon and eggs in the centre of the table.

‘Help yourselves,’ she invited. ‘Do you know how forbidding you sound, Nat? “Things to sort out”, indeed.’ She took her place and shook out her napkin. ‘You need never do another stroke. You could retire tomorrow, and you know it. Workaholics don’t make the best husbands, isn’t that right, Livvy?’

‘I’m working on it!’ Which probably hadn’t been the most tactful thing to say, she decided, feeling those cold grey eyes on her, boring right through her. But she did her best to look cheerful, eating hardly anything while trying to look as if she was enjoying every mouthful—just waiting for the time when she and Nathan could be alone to sort out the uncomfortable mess they’d somehow got themselves into.

But being alone didn’t necessarily mean being closer, she discovered as they drove away from Rye House not long after breakfast. The silence was gnm.

Her heart lurching, she broke it. ‘I’m sorry about last night. You must know I didn’t mean it.’ She flicked him a hopeful sideways look but his profile was stony. Swallowing a ragged sigh, trying not to plead, she offered, ‘Listen, we have to discuss it rationally—everything. Hugh, James, my job, even Angie’s bright idea about buying that house. Everything.’

They had left the tangle of narrow country lanes behind and Nathan put his foot down. The big car responded throatily and Olivia’s stomach jumped up into her mouth. She just hoped there weren’t any speed cameras about. She said thickly, ‘I hate this atmosphere. I don’t know about you, but I want things back the way they were. We love each other,’ she stated desperately. ‘It should be simple enough!’