by Celia Scott
The brutality of this helped her regain her composure, the injustice of it fired her own temper. 'You didn't mention anything about public engagement parties when we reached our understanding,' she reminded him hotly. 'Pretending to be your wife in Crete is one thing, being paraded before your friends and entire London staff is something else!'
Damon executed one of those characteristic changes of mood she was beginning to recognize. After a pause he grinned sheepishly, 'I'm sorry about the party, Pippa—my partners sprang it on me as a complete surprise. But I warn you, we'll get plenty of good wishes in Crete too, so you'd better get used to it. Now, our guests should be arriving any minute. We'd better get to our reception room.'
When the three of them entered the room named 'Pinafore' they found small tables to seat groups of eight dotted around a charming room, lit by cosy art-deco wall sconces, and a handsome central candelabrum. The long head table, decorated with garlands of spring flowers, and laid for fourteen. But at one of the places, perched high on a silk cushion, sat a sleek black wooden cat, a napkin tied under his chin, and a complete place setting, including wine glasses, laid before him.
'Allow me to introduce you to Kasper the cat,' said Damon.
Philippa was delighted. 'He's gorgeous! Is he yours, Damon?'
'No. He belongs to the hotel. Whenever there's a dinner party for thirteen in any part of the hotel, Kasper's invited to become the fourteenth guest. It's a long tradition.'
'How stupid,' Martha's voice was sullen, 'wasting good food on a dumb ornament!'
'He doesn't get any food,' Damon explained, 'but when each course is completed the appropriate items of cutlery are taken away from him. He lives over there,' he indicated the mantelpiece, 'so for this party he didn't have to travel too far.'
'I think it's a charming tradition,' Philippa said hastily, to prevent Martha making any more disparaging remarks. 'Thank you for arranging it, Damon.'
'My pleasure.' He inclined his glossy dark head ironically, but she was aware that Martha's ungraciousness had not gone unnoticed, and sent out a heartfelt prayer that her mood would improve.
In due course the guests started arriving—Damon's two partners, their wives, and the staff of his head office in London. There were about forty people in all, and Philippa attempted to spend the same amount of time with each, so no one would feel snubbed. Besides, she wanted to make up for her gaffe with Michael Wilson-Parkes.
She would have quite enjoyed herself if she hadn't been so anxious about Martha. She kept glancing in her direction, then saw to her relief, that one of the young unattached males in the party was devoting all his attention to her, and Martha was smiling again.
They sat down to a superb dinner—pate maison, flavoured with cognac, lobster bisque, and a main course of Charollais steak, accompanied by delicious wild mushrooms, black as jet, and tasting faintly of perfume. Each course was accompanied by the correct wine, which Philippa drank sparingly, knowing she needed her wits about her for this first test on her new 'job'.
After the fruit and cheese had been cleared away the waiters carried in a handsome cake with the names 'Philippa and Damon' iced on the top, and a positive riot of sugared violets wreathed around them. When it was cut the interior seemed to consist almost entirely of whipped cream, with pieces of almond and apricot scattered through it. Champagne was served now, and toasts to the engaged couple were given.
This stage of the proceedings filled Philippa with discomfort. A naturally honest person, she felt like a cheat. She found it humiliating to sit beside Damon, smiling at the friendly faces before them, knowing in her heart that it was all a sham. When one elderly gentleman, in a rather long-winded toast to the 'happy pair', made a laborious reference to the possible 'patter of little feet', she wanted to disappear into thin air with mortification. She caught Damon's eye, and he made a tiny signal, raising his dark brows slightly in comical despair. This made her feel better.
At the end of the evening they were presented with a magnificent cut glass bowl, and again Philippa's cheeks burned with shame. Damon made a speech of thanks, witty and brief, in which he managed to be as unsentimental as possible without drawing attention to the fact. He drew the dinner to a close by suggesting they all head for the ballroom and dance for the remainder of the evening.
'We'll have to go too, to start things off,' he said to Philippa, when everyone was collecting wraps and getting themselves organised. 'You do dance, I suppose?'
'Of course. Do you?' She led the way to the old-fashioned elevator, inwardly praying she wasn't too rusty. It had been ages since she'd danced.
Damon had reserved tables for the party, and had arranged for champagne. And Michael joined them for the promised glass.
'May I have this dance with your beautiful bride, Damon?' he asked.
'You may not. She's all mine for the rest of the evening,' and Damon swept her on to the floor without another word.
Like many big men, he was light on his feet. He led her firmly, and after a few moments' concern, wondering if she'd be clumsy, Philippa relaxed and enjoyed the dancing. They danced well together. She shut out all the nagging thoughts about this strange alliance she was entering the next day, and gave herself up to the sensuous pleasure of the feel of his hand, so warm and strong, on her back, the thrust of his thighs against hers.
The music stopped. He didn't let her go, but stood still, holding her close, until the orchestra started another number. This dance was slow, and she found her head drooping towards his shoulder, to rest there voluptuously. With an effort she jerked it upright and pushed her body from his. Damon peered into her face.
'What is it, Pippa?' he murmured.
'We seem to be dancing awfully close.'
'We're an engaged couple. We must give the right picture.' He pulled her back against him once more and continued dancing, but this time she did not relax. She was aware of every movement of his well-muscled body close to hers. She imagined she could feel his heart beat. Worse, she fancied he might feel the pounding of her own tumultuous heart.
The music came to a close again, but this time he stepped away from her.
'We've created enough of an illusion,' he said harshly. 'I'll drive you home now.'
Philippa felt as though he had dashed cold water in her face; she forced her expression to remain neutral and followed him off the floor.
'Do you want to stay, Martha?' Damon asked, taking charge. 'You don't have to leave on our account.'
Martha yawned loudly. 'I'll come home too,' she said. 'This place isn't exactly jumping.'
'Suit yourself,' he replied indifferently. 'I'm taking Pippa home. I don't want a hollow-eyed bride at the registry office tomorrow.'
Damon drove them home in his Jaguar. They arrived at their front door, but Martha made no move to leave the engaged couple alone, and ignored the stern look he gave her. He reached into the pocket of his overcoat and drew out a flat box, which he handed to Philippa.
'These pearls belonged to my mother,' he said, 'I'd like you to wear them tomorrow.'
Philippa opened the box. The single strand of perfectly matched pearls glowed creamily against the velvet interior of the box.
'They're lovely!' she breathed. 'Look, Martha!'
Her younger sister gave a cursory glance at the proffered jewels. 'They're O.K… if you like pearls.'
'You don't, I take it?' Damon asked.
'Pearls are for old ladies.'
'In that case I won't embarrass you with my wedding gift to you.' He smiled thinly, and holding up another box, lifted the lid to give them a brief glimpse of a delicate gold chain, from which hung a heart-shaped locket covered in seed-pearls. Snapping the box shut, he put it back in his pocket. Martha's face was a mask of fury.
Damon opened the door for the sisters, and made a point of seeing Martha disappear into the flat before he spoke.
'You managed splendidly tonight, Pippa.' He sounded like a boss at the end of a particularly difficult day at the office. 'I'm very satisfied
that you'll fulfil your part of our bargain admirably.'
Just what every bride longs to hear on the eve of her wedding, thought Philippa wryly, but she schooled herself to give him a cool nod. 'It wasn't as difficult as I thought. I found myself quite enjoying the evening.'
'Yes? Well, once we get the legal part behind us, and get settled in Crete with Athena, it should be plain sailing,' he purred.
'The legal part? You mean the wedding?'
'Yes. Once we've passed that hurdle, we can relax.' His eyes were as blank as glass.
'Hurdle? Yes, I suppose that describes it pretty well.' As if I were a pony going over jumps tomorrow, she thought bleakly. 'Well, goodnight, Damon,' she forced herself to sound brisk, 'I'd better go in now, if you don't want me to have bags under my eyes tomorrow.'
'Goodnight, Pippa.' Once more she felt his lips brush her cheek, and he was gone.
Martha was climbing into bed when Philippa went into the bedroom.
'Lover-boy gone?' she asked.
'Damon's left, yes,' Philippa said mildly.
'That was a pretty crummy thing to do, with the locket.' Martha lay back, her petulant face pinched with temper.
'You were pretty crummy yourself, Martha. Why can't you be polite to Damon?'
'Because I hate him, that's why—I hate him!'
'I'd appreciate it if you'd be polite, just the same,' Philippa persisted. 'It makes it so hard on me when you go out of your way to be rude.'
Martha's set face didn't change, and Philippa was filled with unease about the next day. She sat on the edge of her sister's bed.
'Martha, will you promise me something?' There was no reply. 'Please!'
'What?' said Martha grudgingly.
'Promise me you'll behave tomorrow. Don't shame me. Don't make a scene on my wedding day.'
Martha hunched her shoulders and scowled more than ever.
'If you won't promise I won't let you come tomorrow,' Philippa said firmly. 'I'll get another witness if I have to. I couldn't bear it if you made a scene.' The very thought of it made her blood run cold. 'For my sake, Martha? Please?'
'Oh, all right, Tusker,' Martha replied with bad grace, 'but I still think you're making a big mistake.'
Damon was right, Philippa thought, Martha will be delighted when we separate. She'll never let me forget that she warned me it wouldn't work. For a moment she wondered if her scheme to civilise her little sister was doomed for failure from the start. Well, it was too late to call it off now. And she had to admit that she didn't want to call it off. She wanted a summer with Damon. Even if one summer would have to last her for the rest of her life. She wanted it more than she'd ever wanted anything.
CHAPTER FIVE
Philippa Kenmore was married to Damon Everett the following afternoon. It was a simple civic ceremony. Outside an April wind blustered, chasing fat white clouds across an intense blue sky. It was a day buoyant with happiness, a day to make any bride's heart glad. Any bride but Philippa! She was filled with a sense of unreality. The plain gold band, so shiny and new, proclaiming to the world that she was indeed married, did nothing to banish this.
Things had gone well, though. Martha had behaved herself. She didn't murmur when she was given a plain chestnut-brown dress to wear for the wedding, chosen to complement Philippa's apricot wool suit.
Damon's uncle had turned out to be a darling. Colonel Richard Everett was a handsome gentleman of almost seventy-five. He had a straight-backed, military bearing, a shock of silver hair, clipped white moustache, and Damon's eyes, blue as sapphires.
He and Philippa had taken to each other immediately, but his enthusiasm about his nephew's marriage made Philippa feel more of a fraud than ever.
After she had signed the register—Philippa Kenmore, for the last time—they stood blinking in the wild spring sunshine. Colonel Everett turned to Philippa.
'Now, m'dear, you'll all come to my hotel for a glass of champagne.' He cocked a white eyebrow at his nephew. 'That agree with your plans, Damon?' When Damon accepted he went on, 'Good, good. Don't know what you can have been thinking of Damon. Marrying a fine gel like this in such a hole in the corner fashion. Fine gel like Philippa deserves a proper wedding!' He glared at Damon.
'We wanted a quiet wedding, Uncle Richard.'
'Quiet? It was practically inaudible!' He glared again, then catching sight of Philippa's face he relented. 'Never mind m'dear,' he said, 'you're married, and that's all that matters when you're in love. Right?' He bundled them into a hired car. 'Brown's Hotel,' he barked at the driver, and turning to Philippa continued, 'Nothing matters when you're in love, eh, m'dear? And Crete's a lovely place for a honeymoon. Makes up for a quiet wedding.'
'A working honeymoon, Uncle Richard,' Damon interjected.
'What's the matter with you, m'boy,' answered his irrepressible relative, 'taking a working honeymoon with a beautiful bride like Philippa? Tell you what, m'dear,' he turned to the discomfited Philippa, 'if you get bored on your honeymoon, with that dull nephew of mine, just leave him, and come and visit me in Cornwall. I won't work while you're around, I promise you!' He leaned back in the leather car seat and roared with laughter until he started to choke. 'Oh, you'll love my house at Polperro,' he said, when he had regained his breath, 'won't she, Damon? And you too, m'dear,' he turned to the hitherto ignored Martha, 'you must come and visit me too. We're relatives, after all. Do you like the country?'
'I hate it,' Martha said shortly.
This took the ebullient old gentleman back a bit, and before he had recovered himself they had arrived at Brown's Hotel. The Colonel took charge at once, and guided them into its discreet interior. It was apparent he was known here. Like many country people he regarded Brown's as a 'home away from home' on his visits to London. And the traditional atmosphere suited him. They went into an elegant drawing room overlooking a quiet inner court. Colonel Everett then went into a huddle with an elderly waiter, and joined them after a few minutes, obviously very pleased with the result of this conference. He fixed a gimlet eye on Damon.
'You are the most inept bridegroom I ever met,' he said, 'I trust you'll do a better job as a husband. Fortunately they've plenty of champagne on ice, so your poor lady won't be forced to leave on her honeymoon without at least one toast to the bride.'
'I'd no idea you were such an authority on weddings, Uncle Richard,' his nephew teased. 'I don't recall you ever taking the plunge.'
'Never met the right gel. Not like you, m'boy.' He took Philippa's hand and patted it fondly. 'Forgive an old man, m'dear. When I'm happy I tend to go on a bit. Bear with me.' He beamed at her, and at the disgruntled Martha, who, Philippa could tell, was becoming restless at not being the centre of attention.
Champagne arrived at this moment, with a platter of smoked salmon, prawns, cold sliced meats, and the result of Colonel Everett's conversation with the waiter, a large iced fruit cake, decorated with a bunch of orange blossom.
'Uncle Richard, you're a genius!' Damon was obviously moved. 'Where on earth did you find the orange blossom?'
'Not me, m'boy, you must thank Brown's.' He poured them all glasses of the sparkling wine and started to make a toast, when Martha interrupted him.
'I'd no idea of the time, Tusker!' turning her back on the Colonel. 'I'll be late for my date if I don't leave now.'
'Leave?' The Colonel was horrified. 'You can't leave! You haven't even tasted your champagne.'
'I don't like champagne, any better than I like the country,' Martha said rudely.
Damon took charge.
'Let her go, Uncle Richard.' He rose to his feet. 'Goodbye, Martha. Thank you for taking the time to attend your sister's wedding.'
Martha wilted under his look.
'I… th-think… perhaps I could stay, for a few minutes more,' she stuttered.
'Certainly not,' Damon replied, moving to her chair and practically tipping her out of it. 'You mustn't keep your date waiting. I understand, Martha. I understand perfectly.' He looked at her w
ith distaste.
'Well… er… goodbye, Tusker, and good luck.' Damon put his large hand under her elbow, and marched her to the door. 'Don't forget to write?' she managed to call before Damon hauled her away.
Philippa sat, white-faced and sick with shame. She couldn't look Damon's uncle in the eye. He'd gone to such trouble for them, and to have Martha behave so badly! She stared miserably at the champagne fizzing in her glass.
'I… I'm terribly sorry, Colonel Ever…'
'Now, m'dear, don't say another word. Young gels get upset at weddings sometimes,' he offered tactfully. 'You mustn't take it to heart.'
'But you've been so kind, Colonel…'
'Uncle Richard, m'dear.'
'… Uncle Richard, and…' The old man's gentleness brought tears to her eyes, which she hastily blinked away.
'Now, now, m'dear, no tears,' he said, 'not on your wedding day. I can't begin to tell you how happy you've made me today. I'm not a young man, and I didn't know if I'd still be around when Damon finally settled down… if he ever did. I'm glad he doesn't have to finish up a crusty old bachelor, like me. It's lonely, and I wouldn't wish it on him.'
Philippa sat, rigid with distress. If only he would stop! He could have no idea how guilty he was making her feel. He took her hand again, the left one, where the new wedding ring gleamed at her reproachfully.
'Be good to him, Philippa. He's been through a lot these past years. Love him. He needs you, and your love.'
Mercifully at this moment Damon returned, his face impassive. He picked up his glass. 'You were about to make a toast, Uncle Richard,' he said.
'Yes, I was, m'boy. A toast to your lovely bride. Make her happy, Damon. I suspect she hasn't always had plain sailing.' His eyes, faded, but still so blue, looked deep into hers. 'God bless you, m'dear. God bless you both.' They all took a sip of champagne, then the Colonel leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek. She smiled, in a private agony of humiliation. 'Well?' said the Colonel to Damon. 'Aren't you going to kiss the bride?'
'Of course I am, Uncle Richard.' He moved to her chair, and lifting her to her feet, put his arms firmly round her and kissed her full on the mouth. Philippa was taken completely by surprise. His kiss was angry, hard. His cruel mouth punished hers, bruising her lips. His arms crushed the breath from her body. She could sense his pent-up rage… at Martha? At himself perhaps, for putting them both in this ludicrous position.
