Marriage on the Agenda

by Lee Wilkinson

  When she was completely naked she stood and let him look his fill, feeling no embarrassment, only a sense of gladness that what he saw so obviously pleased him.

  ‘You’re beautiful,’ he murmured, almost reverently.

  ‘So are you,’ she said huskily.

  Taking her hands, he drew her to him, naked flesh to naked flesh, her head on his shoulder.

  All urgency gone, for a moment she closed her eyes, content to just let him hold her. The warmth and the clean male smell of him were precious and familiar. It was like coming home after a long time in the wilderness.

  Putting a hand beneath her chin, he turned her face up to his and kissed her softly.

  It was the barest brushing of lips, but it felt like a commitment, and she knew without a doubt that she loved this man. Had loved him since the moment she’d first set eyes on him.

  It was right, inevitable, ordained, even, that they should be lovers.

  Drawing back a little, she smiled at him and touched his cheek wonderingly. Then, with a single fingertip, she traced first the cleft in his chin, and then his mouth—a mouth that, with its combination of cool asceticism and warm sensuality, always sent little quivers of excitement running through her.

  He took her hand and kissed the finger, then, putting the tip in his mouth, sucked it.

  Her stomach clenched, and abruptly the urgency was back.

  Reading that urgency, he reached to switch off the standard lamp, then, in the firelight’s glow, drew her to him and kissed her again, this time with passion and an urgency of his own.

  Opening her mouth to him, she put her arms around his neck, and when he gently eased her down onto the thick sheepskin rug she pulled him down with her.

  Loris surfaced slowly, her whole being steeped in happiness and a deep contentment. Her mood was languorous, her body relaxed and well satisfied, sleek as a cat’s.

  For a while she lay, still half-asleep, savouring this feeling of bliss, remembering the previous night and Jonathan’s lovemaking. How he had ravished her—in the best meaning of the word—the heights he had carried her to, the way his promise of delight had been more than fulfilled.

  She recalled the feel of the thick sheepskin rug beneath her, the warmth of the fire on her bare flesh, the way the leaping flames had gilded his face and hair and turned the body poised above her into a golden-limbed Apollo.

  Afterwards they had lain contented in each other’s arms until the fire had dwindled into glowing ashes and the air had grown cool.

  Unwilling to destroy that perfect aftermath, Loris would have stayed there until morning if, feeling her slight shiver, Jonathan hadn’t gathered her up in his arms and carried her upstairs.

  There, desire stirring once more, lighting up the darkness, they had made love until, sated, they had fallen asleep, her head on his chest, her body half supported by his.

  Now she became aware that she was alone in the big bed, and watery sunlight was casting the shadows of the leaded windowpanes onto the white walls.

  It was a new day.

  With that realisation her brain kicked into action, and within seconds the icy wind of reality had shrivelled her happiness and blown it all away like so many dead leaves.

  She might love Jonathan—and despite his faults she did love him, with all her heart and soul—but he wasn’t hers to love. He belonged to another woman. He loved another woman.

  Last night’s determined seduction had meant nothing except that he’d wanted her. On his part it had been a purely physical thing, just a stolen night of passion that he should never have suggested. It had been utterly wrong of him.

  She, in her turn, had been stupidly weak and wicked to agree to it. She had behaved very badly, not only as far as Mark was concerned, but Jane Marchant too.

  What in heaven’s name had she been thinking of?

  In truth she hadn’t been thinking at all. Only feeling. And now it was too late. The damage was done.

  At least in her case.

  Jonathan might be able to go on as if nothing had happened, but she couldn’t. Last night had irrevocably altered things. How could she go ahead and marry Mark knowing full well she didn’t love him?

  The answer was, she couldn’t.

  But with all the wedding plans made how could she bring herself to tell him that she’d changed her mind? That it was all over? He was bound to take it badly, and she’d never wanted to hurt him.

  Feeling bitterly ashamed, and guilty at the way she’d treated him, she stifled a groan. She’d always thought of herself as having reasonable morals, but now her actions had lowered her in her own eyes.

  She had behaved like a wanton.

  All at once, as though leaving Fenny Manor would enable her to leave some of the guilt behind her, she couldn’t wait to get away.

  There was still no sign of Jonathan, and the house felt quiet and somehow empty. A glance at her watch showed it was after twelve.

  As she swung her feet to the floor she noticed two things: her clothes and shoes had been gathered up and placed neatly on a chair, and on the bedside table there was a cup of cold coffee with a folded piece of paper propped against it.

  Opening the note with hands that were suddenly unsteady, she read it.

  As time is getting on and we’ve a busy day ahead, I’ve decided to fetch the car. I wanted very much to kiss you before I left, but it seemed a shame to chance waking you. Love, J.

  Love, J…

  Her breath caught in her throat, and just for an instant a wild hope made her heart soar.

  Then common sense brought her down to earth with a bump. It was no doubt just a casual, meaningless end to a note or letter, rather than a declaration of his feelings.

  Of course he didn’t love her. He’d already said he loved Jane Marchant.

  As far as he was concerned last night had been simply an enjoyable episode, a last fling without any involvement.

  If he knew how she felt he’d no doubt be uncomfortable, embarrassed by the unforeseen and unwanted complication.

  It seemed she’d made a fool of herself all the way round. If he discovered the true state of affairs, what little was left of her self-respect would be trampled into the mud.

  The only way she could keep any pride at all was to let him believe that last night had been no more to her than it had been to him.

  If she could.

  He’d written, ‘we’ve a busy day ahead’, but if she spent the day with him she might be unable to hide how she felt… Which meant she must go now, at once, before he returned. Her secret would only be safe if she never had to see him again.

  She had no idea how he would get to Harefield, or how long it would take him, but, judging by the cold coffee, he’d already been gone for some time.

  He might be back at any minute.

  Struggling out of bed, she made her way across to the en suite bathroom, where the scent of shower gel still hung in the air and drops of water clung to the frosted glass of the shower stall.

  On a shelf, as though waiting for her, there was a Cellophane-wrapped toothbrush and a new tube of toothpaste.

  She brushed her teeth and showered as quickly as possible, then, grimacing at having to wear yesterday’s clothes, she ran a borrowed comb through her hair before hastening down the stairs.

  She had pulled on her mac, thrust her rain hat into one of the pockets and gathered up her bag, when she remembered the ring.

  It was on the mantelshelf where Jonathan had tossed it. Dropping it into her bag, she hurried to the door once more, and as she pulled the door open exclaimed, ‘Oh!’

  An elderly woman, her face mirroring Loris’s surprise, was standing on the doorstep, a key in her hand.

  ‘Sorry, did I startle you?’ she asked.

  ‘I didn’t know anyone else lived here,’ Loris said, feeling foolish.

  ‘I don’t actually live here,’ the woman explained. ‘I just come in on a daily basis to take care of things. It’s only five minutes’ walk fro
m my cottage, so it’s nice and handy.’

  Seeing her chance, Loris said, ‘Well, if you’re local, perhaps you can help me? I need to call a taxi, so can you tell me where the nearest phone box is?’

  ‘Oh, if it’s a taxi you’re wanting, Jeff Middleton’s your man. He owns the smallholding right at the end of the lane, but he runs a one-man taxi service on the side.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Throwing her a grateful smile, Loris hurried down the steps to the drive. It was still damp underfoot, but the sky was clear for the first time in days and overnight the level of the river had dropped.

  In the daylight the bridge looked a great deal stronger and safer than it had done the previous night, and she crossed it without fear.

  With its bare hedges and lack of trees there was no cover on the lane, and, her heart in her mouth in case Jonathan’s car should appear, she started up it. Though the verges were muddy and waterlogged, the roadway itself was now clear of water and, alternately running and walking, she made good time.

  She had just reached the end and identified the smallholding when she heard the sound of an approaching car.

  Darting into the gravelled entrance, she hid behind a somewhat ramshackle hen-house while she watched Jonathan’s white saloon drive past and turn down the lane.

  ‘Is it eggs you’re wanting?’

  The voice made her jump. She turned to see a youngish, fresh-faced man wearing a thick navy sweater over a pair of scruffy trousers.

  ‘No…no, thank you. I need to get into London, and I was hoping to hire a taxi.’

  ‘When for?’

  ‘Well, now.’

  ‘Be with you in a minute. Just need to fasten up the goats. You can get in if you want.’ He jerked a thumb at a beaten-up Cortina that stood in the drive.

  She climbed in and slammed the door, thanking her lucky stars that she’d just made it in time.

  Anxious as she was to get moving, it seemed an age before the man returned and, wiping his hands on a piece of oily rag, got behind the wheel.

  ‘Second call out so far today,’ he remarked as he turned the key in the ignition and the engine roared into life. ‘Took the new owner of Fenny Manor over to Harefield this morning.’

  With a grinding of gears and jerk or two they were off, their tyres crunching on the gravel. They were just about to pull out of the drive when, from nowhere it seemed, the white saloon appeared and drew up in front of them, blocking the exit.

  Jonathan jumped out and came strolling over as Jeff Middleton rolled his window down.

  ‘Hello again, Mr Drummond.’

  ‘Afternoon, Jeff. I see you have my guest with you.’

  ‘Just driving the young lady into London.’

  ‘I’m going there myself, so I’ll be happy to take her…’

  ‘No, thanks, I’d rather go with Mr Middleton.’

  Ignoring Loris’s protest, Jonathan produced a small roll of notes which smoothly changed hands. ‘Might as well save you a job.’

  ‘Can’t say I haven’t got plenty to do,’ Jeff agreed and, stuffing the notes into his pocket, climbed out of the car.

  Jonathan came round to open Loris’s door and, ignoring the angry look she gave him, helped her out.

  His hand lightly holding her elbow, he escorted her over to his car and settled her in before slipping behind the wheel.

  As always his touch set her pulses racing and made her breathless, and she had to struggle to hide how conscious she was of him.

  They drove for a while without speaking, then he broke the silence to ask, ‘So what made you decide to run away?’

  ‘I wasn’t running away, simply leaving. What did you expect me to do? Take up permanent residence?’

  ‘Would that be such a bad thing?’

  ‘I’ve never really fancied a ménage à trois,’ she said coldly.

  ‘If the thought of Elizabeth bothers you, I could always call in an exorcist.’

  ‘It isn’t the thought of Elizabeth that bothers me…’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t thinking of asking Longton to live with us.’

  ‘Oh, you’re quite impossible,’ she snapped.

  ‘If you keep on saying that I may well develop a complex,’ he said plaintively.

  ‘What I could do with you developing is the ability to stay out of my life,’ she told him tartly, while her treacherous heart rejoiced just to be with him.

  ‘Is that what you really want, now you won’t be marrying Longton?’

  She took a deep, steadying breath, and asked, ‘What makes you think I won’t be marrying him?’

  Though she knew that her question had shaken him, Jonathan’s voice was even as he observed, ‘You’re not wearing his ring.’

  Feeling in her bag, she retrieved the ring and slipped it back on.

  ‘You don’t still intend to go through with the wedding?’

  ‘Of course,’ she lied.

  His jaw tightened. ‘I thought last night might have meant something to you? Might have made you change your mind?’

  She tried to say something light, dismissive, but all at once tears pricked behind her eyes and she found herself unable to speak. Instead she shook her head.

  ‘Very well, discounting last night,’ he said almost roughly, ‘Longton still isn’t the man for you. You’ve just told me you don’t fancy a ménage à trois, but that’s what you’re letting yourself in for. Though he wants you enough to marry you, he isn’t prepared to give up his mistress—’

  ‘That’s not true. He swore he didn’t have one and I believe him.’

  There was a short silence, then, apparently realising he was getting nowhere, Jonathan changed tack. ‘Where is Longton today?’

  ‘He’s away on business.’

  ‘So you weren’t planning to see him?’

  ‘Not until tonight. If his plane isn’t late he’ll be at my flat for about six-thirty.’

  Jonathan said no more, and they drove for the next few miles in silence. They were coming up to a pleasant-looking country pub and, pulling into the car park, he stopped the engine and suggested, ‘You must be more than ready for a drink and something to eat?’

  Her mind had been far too busy to let her think of food, but all of a sudden she felt thirsty. ‘A cup of coffee wouldn’t go amiss,’ she agreed.

  They made their way inside and, sitting by the window, ordered ham sandwiches and a pot of coffee.

  Head bent, busy once more with her thoughts, Loris ate and drank abstractedly.

  Studying her preoccupied face—the dark silky brows and lashes, the pure bone structure, the neat nose and lovely, passionate mouth—Jonathan thought she was the most exquisite thing he’d ever seen.

  All at once becoming aware of his scrutiny, she glanced up.

  ‘Penny for them?’ he offered.

  Without meaning to, she found herself admitting, ‘I was thinking about Mrs Marchant.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘How long have you known her?’

  ‘Quite a long time.’

  ‘Then you knew her while you were still living in the States?’

  ‘Yes. Jane and her husband came over to stay with me from time to time.’

  Jonathan’s remark made her wonder if he was responsible for the break-up of the other woman’s marriage. If he was, it seemed to make things so much worse.

  Her conscience bothering her, Loris asked, ‘Wouldn’t she be terribly upset if she found out about last night?’

  ‘I very much doubt it. As I told you, she’s extremely tolerant.’ Seeing his companion frown, he observed, ‘You don’t look too happy?’

  ‘I just can’t understand any woman being that tolerant. Are you certain—?’ She stopped speaking abruptly.

  ‘Certain about what?’ he asked.

  ‘That she really loves you?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I think she does.’

  He sounded so laid back, so sure of himself, that for a moment Loris was silent, wondering about his values, how he regarded marriage.
>
  She had thought, from some of the things he’d said, that he had good old-fashioned principles. But suddenly she wasn’t so certain. Suddenly she had doubts about what kind of man he really was.

  Needing to know, she asked, ‘What sort of marriage do you envisage?’

  He raised a fair brow. ‘In what way?’

  ‘I mean do you intend to have one of those modern marriages where each partner goes their own way?’

  ‘Good Lord, no! As far as I’m concerned that isn’t a real marriage. I want total commitment on both sides, a loving and stable home in which to bring up our children.’

  ‘So after you’re married there’ll be no more nights like last night?’

  The devilish smile she had come to like so much danced in his eyes. ‘I certainly hope so…’

  Seeing the doubt on her face, he added, ‘But I’d like the woman involved to be my wife.’

  In one way it was the answer she had hoped for. It meant that she hadn’t been wrong about him. But at the same time it was like a knife turning in her heart.

  As she sat still and silent, trying to absorb the pain, he said casually, with a glance at his watch, ‘I guess we’d better be moving.’

  They had been late eating and it was mid-afternoon by the time they left the pub. In sharp contrast to the last time they had shared a pub meal the sky was a clear baby-blue and the day, though cold, was bright.

  Their route into London was clogged by traffic, and while Jonathan concentrated on his driving Loris fell into a brown study.

  By the time she surfaced they had reached the outskirts of town and were turning off the main road and into Bladen Place.

  ‘This isn’t where I live,’ she said.

  ‘No, I know it isn’t.’ He slid from behind the wheel and came round to open her door. ‘But I’ve stopped here to show you something.’

  Bladen Place was a quiet cul-de-sac. Its two-storey houses, though not luxurious, looked well-built and well-maintained, with neatly kept front gardens.

  As Loris got out, she noticed that at number 23, the house Jonathan had parked in front of, the bedroom curtains were still drawn.

  Unlatching the gate, he led the way up the path and, taking a Yale key from his pocket, quietly opened the door.