Sara Craven - Desperate Measures

‘Oh, of course, everything’s going to be plain sailing,’ Philippa flung back at him scathingly. ‘I can see that.’

He was silent for a long moment, then he said levelly, ‘Philippa, marriage is never easy. Even if we had met and fallen madly in love, there would still have to be—adjustments. Our situation is unusual, perhaps, but who can say that a marriage which springs from mutual convenience and friendship cannot succeed eventually?’

‘Except that we’re not friends,’ she said in a stifled voice.

‘Not yet, perhaps, but is the prospect so impossible?’

‘Almost completely, I’d have said.’ She shook her head. ‘Oh, there must be someone else you can ask.’

He shrugged. ‘As I have said, I can always advertise. But to whom will you go for the money that you need with such desperation? Or did your stepmother exaggerate this?’

‘No.’ Philippa bent her head wretchedly. ‘She was quite right. Only—I just didn’t think it would—come to this.’ She glanced at him. ‘You—wouldn’t consider just—lending me the money.’

‘Only with a marriage certificate for security. I want to buy instant respectability from you, ma chérie . I spend a lot of my time in your country. I propose to tell my family and friends that we met on a previous visit, and I have been courting you ever since. We kept our marriage private because of your father’s ill health.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘ Voilà! All the rumours silenced at one blow.’

She sighed deeply. ‘It isn’t that simple. I can’t answer you now—tonight. You’ve got to let me have time to think—to decide …’

‘That is reasonable. I am staying at the Savoy Hotel. You may contact me there.’ He got to his feet, and she followed suit. ‘But don’t keep me waiting too long, mademoiselle . For both of us, time is of the essence.’ He paused. ‘Would it make any difference if I told you I possess one of your father’s pictures?’

‘Oh?’ Her lips parted in renewed astonishment. ‘Which one?’

‘The Bridge at Montascaux . It would be a pity to let such talent and vigour—waste away.’ He allowed his words to sink in for a few seconds, then smiled at her. ‘Now, may I drive you home?’

‘Oh, no, thank you.’ Philippa took an involuntary step backwards away from him. She felt as if she’d been inadvertently locked into a cage with a tiger, and lucky to escape with her life.

But if I marry him, she thought, panic closing her throat, there’ll be no escape. I shall have to live with him—share a roof. Eventually—a bed.

Her mind blanked off, refusing to accept such a possibility.

Yet there was the money for Gavin—available for her, as he’d promised. That was what she had to remember. She needed a miracle, and perhaps that was what she was being offered.

But it didn’t feel like any miracle. It felt like a two-edged sword—dangerous and unpredictable. I am no saint, he had said, and she could well believe it.

She realised he was watching her closely, the green eyes narrowed, and hurried into speech.

‘I’ll let you know tomorrow what I decide—I promise.’

‘Then I shall wait impatiently until then.’ He strolled across to her, and before she realised what he intended, lifted her hand briefly to his lips. The contact was fleeting, but she felt as if her flesh had been seared.

He looked down at her, smiling faintly into her eyes. He said softly, ‘I wish you a restful night, ma chère . And if you cannot sleep, think well.’

WHEN SHE AWOKE the following morning to pale sunlight filtering through the curtains, Philippa thought at first it had all been some wild, preposterous dream.

Things like that just didn’t happen, she told herself, huddling under the covers. Not in real life. A girl like herself, with no particular looks to recommend her, couldn’t possibly receive an offer of marriage from a French millionaire for any reason whatever, no matter how practical it had been made to sound. She tried to recall to mind exactly what he’d said, but her brain refused to co-operate, producing only a jumble of confused impressions.

It must have been a dream, she told herself foggily. My worries and the name of Monica’s dinner guest just got muddled in my subconscious, that’s all. There’s a logical explanation for everything.

She stretched her arms above her head, then brought them down slowly in front of her. She had small, workmanlike hands, which she was accustomed to seeing stained with paint. Latterly, though, she’d been using them mainly to help nurse Gavin, and they looked almost respectable for once.

Suddenly, as she looked at them, one of the images in her mind sharpened into a reality she couldn’t ignore. She sat bolt upright, stifling a startled yelp.

My God, she thought, he kissed my hand! She sat for a moment, staring at her fingers, as if she expected to see them marked with the brand of Cain—re-living with shock the swift brush of his mouth against her skin. Knowing helplessly there was no way in which she could have dreamed that particular sensation.

It happened, she thought. It all really happened. And, in that case, what the hell do I do now?

Well, first she could answer the phone, which rang at that moment as if obeying some cue.

‘Well?’ was Monica’s response to her guarded ‘Hello.’

Philippa swallowed. ‘Well what?’ she countered feebly.

Monica sighed irritably. ‘Please don’t behave as if you’re half-witted,’ she commanded crisply. ‘What have you decided? Are you going to accept Alain de Courcy’s offer?’

There were dust motes whirling in the broad beam of sunlight slanting between the thin curtains.

That’s what I feel like, Philippa thought, gripping the receiver as if it was her sole contact with reality. As if I’ve been caught up in something I don’t understand and can’t control, and now I’m helpless—going round and round forever.

‘Philippa?’ Monica’s impatient voice sounded in her ear. ‘Hello—are you still there? I asked what you were going to do.’

She said quietly, ‘I don’t think I really have a choice. I’m going to—to take his money.’

‘Not merely the money, my dear.’ Monica gave a short laugh. ‘You’ll also be getting an exquisite Paris apartment, a country house near Fountainebleau, and a villa in the hills above Nice, and that’s just to start with. And Alain is one of the most attractive and eligible bachelors in France. You’re doing extremely well for yourself.’

‘Am I?’ Philippa asked. Her heart felt like a stone.

‘You’d better be married from Lowden Square,’ Monica went on. ‘Will Gavin be well enough to attend the ceremony?’

Philippa sat up as if she’d been shot. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I’m afraid not. I hope by the time it takes place he’ll already be in America, starting his treatment.’

‘Well, just as you wish, of course. I’ll have a room prepared for you, and expect you some time later today. We’re going to have to do some serious shopping.’

‘Why?’

Monica’s sigh quivered with irritation. ‘My dear girl, although the ceremony will undoubtedly be very quiet, and extremely private, you still cannot be married in denim jeans. Lennox and I will supply your trousseau as our gift.’

‘It really isn’t necessary …’

‘Nonsense,’ Monica said crisply. ‘I’ll see you later.’ And rang off.

An hour later, Philippa found herself being shown into Alain de Courcy’s hotel suite. He was sitting at a table by the window, eating breakfast and reading a newspaper, as she entered, but he rose to his feet immediately, greeting her courteously.