Diana Hamilton - The Bride Wore Scarlet

And just as suddenly, just as she recovered from the stunned shock of engulfing excitement, her blood fizzing dizzily through her veins as she began a feverish response, he put her away, his hand sliding through her hair, right through the thick and crinkly golden length of it to where it tapered to a curling point in the small of her back.

‘Nothing you can do about it? How about carrying on where we left off? When I feel like it,’ he drawled. ‘For now, though, go on down to lunch. And remember, I’ll be watching you. There isn’t a corner you can hide in without my eyes finding you.’

Lunch? An impossibility. How could she swallow a thing? She pretended to, though, because to do otherwise would let him see he’d won, ruined her appetite, made her needle-sharp-aware of every inflection of his voice, every flicker of those enigmatically veiled eyes—those watching eyes.

The table in front of the birthday girl had been piled with gift-wrapped packages. Molly Redway indeed looked like an excited girl as she tore through paper and sent satin ribbon bows flying to cries of, ‘Just what I wanted! Oh, how lovely!’ and, ‘How did you know I yearned for new driving gloves?’ She laid the supple kid leather against her flushed cheek and Daniel said, affectionate amusement curling through his voice, ‘You hinted often enough, Ma! Glad you’re happy with them, though.’

And her husband reached across the table and squeezed her hand. ‘We made notes of all the hints, jotted them down, and then decided who should make you a gift of what!’

Annie slumped gratefully back in her seat, thankful for the distraction. At least Daniel Faber’s carefully guarded eyes had something else to focus on right now. And Enid Mayhew had been a revelation.

She was lovely. Slender, with cool, aristocratically beautiful features, her dark hair cut short, soft tendrils framing her face and curling against her long white neck.

Surely any man would be bowled over if such a gorgeous creature professed herself in love with him? So what was wrong with Mark?

Covering her untouched salmon mousse with her vast paper napkin, Annie thought she knew why Mark backed off and hid when most men would jump through hoops of fire to gain the interest of such a beauty. Enid made her adoration far too obvious—had been doing so, apparently, since she was at school.

Unlike his half-brother—who would greedily take whatever offer presented itself, as witness the way he had responded to her mistaken embrace on that dark December night, and then vilify the woman in question—Mark was a hunter. He would want to pursue, make the woman he wanted want him back, not hand him everything on a plate.

It was all there in her beautiful expressive eyes, in the way those same eyes had misted, the soft lips trembling, when they’d been first introduced, in the way the girl had avoided looking at her ever since.

Annie ached to tell her that she was going about everything in exactly the wrong way. That she, Annie, wasn’t what Mark wanted her to seem. But how? When? Since she’d joined the others for pre-lunch drinks on the terrace Mark hadn’t left her side, and Daniel had done what he’d said he would. Watched her. Watched her until her skin prickled and her nerve-ends screamed. There seemed little hope. of snatching a few private moments with the other girl.

‘You’ve done something to your hair,’ Mark commented, one brow quirked to where Enid sat at the far end of the table.

He was sitting far too close to her, and his voice made Annie jump. She’d be fainting at the sight of her shadow next, she thought weakly, wide eyes taking in the other girl’s pretty blush.

‘I—I had it cut.’ She flicked the end of her tongue over her lips. ‘I—it was too long and heavy. Hot.’

So she got practically speechless whenever the love of her life bothered to notice her, did she? Annie thought, then saw everyone—except Mark—looking at her own heavy, riotously curling mane and felt herself blush, too. Though not so prettily, she was sure.

‘Suits you.’ Mark sounded vaguely surprised, and Enid shot to her feet, her mouth quivering.

‘I’ll clear away.’

‘You’ll do no such thing!’ Molly Redway was adamant. ‘You spent all day yesterday and most of this morning in the kitchen. Father, why don’t you take everyone on a tour of the garden while I stack the dishwasher? Mrs Potts is due to arrive soon. She’s broken her rule of never working at weekends because of this evening’s party...’ Still chattering, she shooed everyone out of the cool, elegant dining room, through the French windows and into the late August heatwave.

The gardens drowsed in the sun, the trees, heavy and sleepy, casting islands of welcome dark green shade, the harsh light bleaching the rose blooms of colour. Conversation was desultory, movements slow in the summer heat.

A normal family taking mild exercise after lunch. Only this wasn’t normal. There were muddles and undercurrents swirling just beneath the surface—fore-runners of change. Annie had the feeling that she was some kind of catalyst, and hated it.

At her side, Mark took her hand and Annie, her miserable thoughts on another plane entirely, didn’t really notice until his fingers tightened, hurting her. Annoyed with him, she tugged away.

He’d promised there’d be no touching, no lying, that her presence alone would be enough to convince them all that there was no chance at all of him suddenly doing what everyone thought was right for him—settling down to married life with Enid.

Seeing his brother take Annie Kincaid’s hand, right in front of Enid’s distressed eyes, Daniel decided something had to be done.

He’d been a fool to think a warning would be enough. ‘Don’t mess with my family,’ he’d said, and meant it. But women like Annie Kincaid didn’t heed warnings. They used their sexuality to get what they wanted out of life.

She was here with Mark, and yet after only the slightest hesitation she’d responded to that kiss of punishment on the stairs. If he’d carried on, instead of putting her away, he could have taken her back to her bedroom, stripped off the tantalising wisps that were supposed to pass as clothing, stripped her down to her luscious, willing flesh and taken her, possessed her.

And she would have revelled in it.

Disturbed by the way his thoughts were beginning to affect his body, he fell in step beside Enid and began to talk horses, which was her other passion, his mind only half on the conversation.

The poor kid had been in and out of the house since her early teens, had become like one of the family. Mark was a fool if he couldn’t see that Enid was worth a thousand Annie Kincaids—cheap baggages with their big and beautiful eyes on the main chance brought nothing but trouble and grief. He wouldn’t want his brother hurt in that particular fire.

Normally he would have said that Mark was old enough, smart enough, to look out for himself. But instinct told him that once Annie Kincaid got a man in her clutches she would twist him around her pretty fingers until he bled. Then toss the besotted wretch aside if a better prospect appeared on the horizon.

He’d seen it happen with Rupert Glover. He was not going to stand around and wait for it to happen to Mark.

It was going to be up to him to do something about it.

The opportunity to have a heart-to-heart with Enid came far more easily than Annie could have hoped for.

After taking Mark on one side—hustling him out of sight after a strained afternoon tea on the terrace—she’d pointed out that getting physical hadn’t been part of their agreement—she didn’t like touching, not even something relatively innocuous like holding hands, if she wasn’t serious and committed.