Wife Without Kisses

by Violet Winspear

  She hesitated, staring up into his dark face. He was a stranger—she knew nothing of him beyond the things Laura Damien had told her, and those things did not make for very much confidence in him. Hard, arrogant, without affection!

  And she—she was a stranger to him.

  Her hand found and clutched his sleeve. “Why do you ask this of me? All you know of me is that I work for

  Laura Damien.”

  “On the contrary, I know that you’re nineteen years old, quite alone in the world, and gifted with patience. Patience is a sign of virtue, isn’t it?” The words came smilingly. “Oh, you’re what I want right enough, Rea Glyn. Now, will you come and see Peter tomorrow?” And as though the words came of their own volition, she heard herself say: “All right, Mr. Ryeland, I’ll come.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  WHILE Rea and Laura Damien sat at breakfast, Laura suddenly glanced up from the Sunday newspaper to demand: “What do you intend doing with yourself today?”

  “If it’s all right with you, Mrs. Damien, I’ll do a little exploring this afternoon,” Rea said.

  Laura looked inquisitive. “With some seashore Lothario?” she queried, and one of her painted brows shot high as Rea uncontrollably blushed. “I see,” she drawled, “so you did go gallivanting last night. Well, don’t get too involved with this young man; I’ve decided to go back to London tomorrow.”

  Rea’s startled gasp was revealing—both to herself and to the scornfully amused Laura. She had so little time to decide now—so little time! If she said yes to Burke Ryeland’s amazing proposal an entirely new life would open for her; a life devoid of hothouse hotels and a wearisome round of hours spent pounding a typewriter and catering to the whims of a brassy, self-indulgent, selfsatisfied woman. If she said no, the tentacles of the painted Laura would stay wrapped around her, for years—forever!

  Burke Ryeland had said he would pick her up at two o’clock, and dead on two Rea was waiting, wrapped in the smooth camel-hair coat that had been her father’s last present to her.

  Burke sounded the motor-horn and Rea swung round

  from the window, smiling shyly when she saw him. He leant across to open the door of the car for her, and she slipped in beside him, aware that her heart was beating very fast all of a sudden. “So you came?” Burke murmured, swinging the car out from the kerb.

  “Didn’t you think I would, Mr. Ryeland?” she asked.

  “I didn’t really know what to think—Miss Glyn.” He grinned at her. “Do you think you could bring yourself to call me Burke—I think we might safely say we’ve reached the Christian name stage?”

  “All right.” She sat slim and straight against the scarlet leather of the car, her hands folded primly in her lap, her fair fringe dancing as the car picked up speed and the whip of the wind came at them.

  “Did the boa-constrictor want to know where you were going?” Burke enquired.

  Rea grinned. “She’s got it into her head that I’m playing fast and loose with a poor fisher-lad. I’ve been warned not to get too involved. She—we’re going back to London tomorrow.”

  Burke shot a quick, questioning glance at Rea. “You’re going, are you?”

  Rea glanced down rather confusedly at her folded hands. “I—I don’t know.”

  “Do you want to go?” Burke insisted.

  She didn’t answer, and now his glance of interrogation held a slight impatience—an impatience that dwindled, however, as he took note of the worried, indecisive way she chewed her lips with small, childish teeth. “Don’t do that,” he said, —you’ll make your lip bleed.”

  “W-what?” Her eyes came to his face and he saw that they were wearing again that look they had worn last night, that startled-doe look, as though she prepared for precipitate flight from the slavering jaws of a rather middle-aged lion. He smiled sardonically. “Did you lie awake all last night, tossing and turning and still wondering whether you’d eaten dinner with a madman?” he queried.

  “H-how did you guess?” She attempted to speak lightly, but was defeated both by agitation and a deep blush. For she had lain awake, going restlessly over and over his story in her mind, knowing it to be a sincere one, yet knowing, too, that she shrank from the many lies that

  would be involved if she agreed to become part of his plot to deceive his grandfather.

  “I knew, naturally, that you were worried,” he replied.

  “But you need only regard the whole thing as a job, you know.” His glance travelled up and down the flushed curve of her profile. “I shall provide you with a weekly or a monthly income, as you wish, making you independent in that respect,” and as he saw her bite her lip again, added: “If we regard the whole thing on business lines, you will, I think, be less embarrassed by the necessary marriage ceremony. And that reminds me, I forgot to ask you last night whether you had any romantic entanglements. Have you?”

  She shook her head quickly.

  She heard him laugh. “That would have been awkward, some fiery young Romeo demanding my release of his Juliet. Tell me, Rea, do you like children?”

  “I’ve not had much to do with them,” she admitted. “I think I like them.”

  “You’ll like Peter. He’s a grand little chap.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Five months.” Burke’s lips quirked on a knowing smile. “Are you wondering how I’m going to explain my possession of a five-month-old son to my grandfather?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, I shall prevaricate, naturally. If you agree to marry me, and we get married, I shall lie about the date of our marriage. It’s in a good cause.”

  Rea bit her lip. “Do you have to do that? Couldn’t you tell the truth?”

  “My grandfather wouldn’ t accept Peter if he knew the truth. That darn pride we spoke about.” The words came flatly, crisply.

  Rea frowned perplexedly. “You said—you said he worshipped your brother.”

  “Worshipped him for a model of virtue.” Burke’s shrug was full of cynicism. “It wouldn’t do for that stern old man to learn that Phil could be—well, as foolish as the rest of us. So I shall lie, quite flagrantly, and young Peter shall come into his own.” He swung the car into a quiet side road with these words, and in a moment it had come to a standstill.

  The house was neat and small, with pink curtains at the windows, a cream-painted gate and a rather threadbare square of front lawn. Rea followed Burke along the crazy-paving path to the front door, standing quiet beside him as he plied the

  knocker. This time yesterday

  she was caught up in a wild, fantastic plot, half promised to this man, who was ready to deceive his own flesh and blood so that the son of a dancing girl might become the heir of ancient, beautiful King’s Beeches.

  Then the door of the little house came open and a very thin, dark little woman, with inquisitive, boot-button eyes, came out upon the step. She grasped Burke’s arms and laughed up into his face. “Hullo, love!” she exclaimed, then she glanced at Rea and her laughter gave way to open surprise.

  “This is Rea Glyn, Polly,” Burke said, releasing himself from the woman’s hands and pulling Rea to his side. “I think I’m going to marry her, Polly.”

  “Are you, now?” The little woman stepped back into the tiny hall of the house, beckoning them to follow her. When they stepped into the kitchen, she swung round and frankly examined Rea with her darting brown eyes. “So you think you’re getting married?” she said to Burke. “Aren’t you sure?”

  He laughed and Rea felt his hard fingers close about her wrist. “She wants to ask Peter’s permission. Go and get him, Polly.”

  “So she knows she’ll have a ready-made baby on her hands.”

  “Peter’s the main attraction, on the level.”

  Polly Wilmot gave Rea a long stare. “Most girls would put King’s Beeches first. Don’t you?” she asked, a trifle rudely.

  Rea coloured warmly. “I’ve never been there,” she replied.

  “Never
—” the woman’s eyes went narrow as she turned them upon Burke. “Isn’t this the one your grandfather wants you to marry?” she demanded.

  “No, Polly.” He spoke crisply, with a sudden touch of impatience, it seemed to Rea. “Now hop along and get young Peter. I want Rea to see him.”

  “I’ll put the kettle on for some tea first.” The brisk, inquisitive Polly went out to the scullery to do so. When she came back into the kitchen, she said to Rea: “Take a chair, young lady.” Then she departed for the upper regions of the little house.

  Burke laughed, watching Rea as she nervously took a chair. “Polly’s bark is worse than her bite, Rea,” he said. “I knew her very well—oh, some years ago. Which doesn’t alter the fact, however, that I shan’t be sorry when she’s safely tucked away in Canada. Our little deception should be fairly foolproof, then . . . Ah, here she is with the boy!” He stepped forward to take the baby from Polly as she came in with him.

  “Go easy, lad,” she said, “he’s asleep.”

  “Does a mighty lot of sleeping, doesn’t he, Polly?” Burke held the baby with a serious masculine care and peered down into the small, sleep-flushed face.

  “I daresay you did the same, at his age.” Polly shot Rea a quizzical look. “Men!” she grunted.

  Rea half-smiled as Burke came to her side and carefully placed the baby in her lap, pulling back the blue shawl so that she might get a better look at him. Black, black hair curled in tiny, endearing ringlets along his forehead, and his plump fists were doubled against plump, rosy cheeks. “Why, he’s perfectly beautiful!” Rea gasped, an enchanted child herself as she gazed at the child in her lap.

  “He’s grand!” Burke said, and there was such a throb of sudden feeling in his voice that Rea knew, instinctively, that he was visualizing the child’s mother. How had Laura Damien described her—wild as a hawk and lovely as a firefly? Rea bent her glance more closely over the sleeping baby, feeling rather embarrassed, as though she had had a stolen glimpse into Burke Ryeland’s heart.

  “I’m going to make that tea,” Polly Wilmot said, and marched off to do so. But at the door, she turned and studied Burke. “When are you two getting married?” she demanded.

  He lounged against the mantelpiece beside Rea, hands in the pockets of his tweed jacket. “If Rea’s agreeable,” he said, “I rather fancy this coming Friday.”

  Rea glanced up, her eyes wide on his face, her cheeks flooding with a sudden violent pink. “So—so soon?” she gasped.

  He laughed and lifted his black brows at Polly. “My bride-to-be doesn’t sound wildly enthusiastic, does she? Do you suppose she’s feeling jittery?”

  Polly snorted, her sharp eye moving to Rea. “All brides-to-be are jittery—it’s part of their attraction.” With which broadside she disappeared into the scullery, from whence came the brisk chink of china and the blatant whistling of

  the kettle.

  —Well, Rea?” Burke said, “will you consent to be my lawfully wedded on Friday?” He watched her, his blue quizzical eyes traveling her rather frightened face. “My dear girl, why are you looking like that?” he exclaimed. —I should think you’d be excited, rather than otherwise, at the prospect of getting away from Laura Damien’s mad noise. Don’t you consider me an improvement on the boa-constrictor?” He held her gaze, his smile assuming an indulgent quality. “Do say yes, Rea. I shall be most cut if you don’t, you know.”

  But Rea didn’t return his smile. She bent over the baby, so warm and rosy and unconscious of being the centre of a drama Burke Ryeland chose to treat with lightness. “Don’t you think—don’t you think you ought to marry someone you’re more sure of?” she murmured. “I’m such a complete stranger to you—a—a person who knows nothing of your way of life. I’ m totally inadequate—can’t you see that?”

  “I’m perfectly content with what I see,” he responded lazily. “I know I don’t have to hold you up to the light to see whether you’re full of hidden vices. And it occurs to me that if you’ve borne patiently with the demands of Laura Damien for nine long months, then you’re far from inadequate.”

  “But—marriage—” Rea shivered slightly. “I’d be perfectly willing to be Peter’s nursemaid—”

  “You have to marry me.” The words came crisply. “You have to become Peter’s mother and my wife. The situation isn’t at all complicated.” She heard him laugh. “It’s a perfectly beautiful one. You acquire leisure to enjoy life, while I acquire my grandsire’s pat on the head for developing into a good, dutiful lad at long last.” Then his tone abruptly altered, lost laughter and grew decisive. “Make up your mind, Rea, you come with me, or you go with Laura Damien. I can give you freedom, though you become my wife. She’ll tie you to that damned busy typewriter of hers for the next twenty years. Some prospect, eh?”

  Abruptly he bent over the baby Rea held so carefully. He touched the damp, dark hair with a gentle finger. “You said you thought him beautiful—and he is. I want to take to King’s Beeches, where he belongs. Help me to take him, Rea.”

  And then, as Burke caressed the baby’s head, he awoke with a tiny gurgle, waved his plump fists and stretched in Rea’s arms. And Rea’s heart jumped into her throat, for the eyes that shot wide open, staring up at her, were as blue, and as darkly fringed, as the eyes of Burke Ryeland—this man who asked her to become the wife he would never kiss.

  “Next—Friday, did you say?” She spoke almost upon a whisper.

  Burke grew very still, his caressing finger pausing upon the baby’s head. Slowly he turned his head and met Rea’s confused, still rather panicky eyes. He searched them deeply, and when they didn’t waver from his, he nodded.

  As they drove back to the hotel, Burke said: “What are you going to tell Laura?”

  “What do you want me to tell her?” Rea countered. He smiled slightly. “Will you mind saying that you’re merely taking on a new job? I think the less that rather loudmouthed party knows about our plans, the better.” Rea studied his profile with something of curiosity. “Why do you dislike her so much—Burke?” she asked, and she flushed, speaking his name. Though she had now committed herself to his amazing, frightening marriage plan, she still felt awkward in his presence, gauche and young and full of shyness. He was so sure of himself, so at ease all the time. Travelled and learned and worldly—and rather cynical, in the way of such people, despite his determination to take his brother’s baby home to King’s Beeches with the minimum of hurt and disillusionment to his grandfather. Despite that hurt he carried, deep within himself; that untouchable, very personal hurt which mention of the girl Dani could bring to his eyes, darkening their vivid blue.

  “I don’t dislike Laura Damien,” he drawled “I can’t work up that much feeling about her. She merely desecrates the landscape for me. As a country boy, born and bred, I appreciate beauty and pleasant solitude, and Madame Damien possesses neither. She’s a predatory mammoth, ever hungry and ever on the hunt.” Rea’s laughter held a half-ashamed note. “Oh, you exaggerate!” she protested. “She’s rather loud, I know, but she isn’t entirely unlikeable. One has to admire her energy. And she writes well; you’ve got to admit that.” He shrugged “I’m not addicted myself to her kind of desert rapturizing, but I suppose she has a certain flair for making young female hearts beat a little faster.” He shot an amused, speculative side-glance at Rea. “Are you addicted to desert rapture, Rea? Do you have romantic moon-drenched dreams?”

  She smiled and shook her head. I’m not the romantic type,” she murmured

  “Aren’t you, Rea?” He was still smiling. “Perhaps that’s just as well considering you’re upon the threshold of making a quite unromantic manage. Tell me, now that you’ve seen young Peter you’ve quite shed all your misgivings, haven’t you?”

  “I—I like him enormously.” She twisted her hands together in her lap. Talk of this—this marriage still brought her heart into her throat; still sent a wild dart of panic shooting through her. There would be lies, fabrications, and she shrank
from them. There would be an old, proud, startled man to deal with—from where, out of her small store of self-confidence, would she find the equanimity to face him? What if he saw through Burke’s deception? What if he scorned her as a wife for Burke?

  “Still worrying about how my grandfather will react to my sudden production of a wife and child?” Burke queried.

  She nodded. “What will you say? How you explain

  us?”

  “The situation will explain itself, I think, Rea.”

  “Explain—but how?” Rea cast a startled side-glance at his calm, sardonic profile.

  “Well, the fact of the matter is,” Burke drawled, “he’s already half inclined to suspect that I’ve been conducting a liaison of some sort, owing to my frequent weekend absences from home—my visits to little Peter, in short. Therefore all I need to do at this stage is play the repentant but hopeful rake.” Burke smiled rakishly. “The old boy has always had a tendency to regard me as such— a girl in every equatorial outpost, you know— so you can rest assured he’ll not probe too deeply into any sudden marriage of mine. As far as he’s concerned, Rea, I joined the ranks of the damned and the Bohemian years ago, when I published my first book. I was a Ryeland, you see!” Burke pulled a wry mouth and swung the grey car round a corner, straight into a high breath of wind with sudden fine rain in it. “I was a Ryeland, and though it was perfectly all right for me to pitch hay and sow turnips and help the cows have their offspring—when I wasn’t looking eligible at county meets and balls—it wasn’t all right for me to dabble my fingers in literary ink and my toes in Nile water. Therefore, since the day I insisted upon doing both, leaving the entire running of the Ryeland holdings to my brother, every one of my actions has been automatically suspect in my grandfather’s eyes.”