by Penny Jordan
Marcus…
She closed her eyes and leaned against the thick trunk of one of the trees.
Of course she had always known that one day Marcus would get married.
Hadn’t she?
That he would meet someone…fall in love with them…
‘Polly.’
Her eyelids swept up in shock, revealing the tears dampening her eyes as she stared in mute distress at the man who had been the focus of her thoughts.
‘What are you doing out here without a coat?’ she could hear him demanding disapprovingly. He, of course, was wearing a coat—or rather a jacket…the soft, well-worn leather one that she and Briony had bought him together one year for his birthday.
‘Marcus,’ she croaked when she had managed to find her voice, and then shivered, idiotically justifying his sharp criticism of her.
‘You are cold,’ she heard him say grimly. ‘Here, take this…’
Before she could stop him he was removing his jacket and wrapping it around her. It drowned her, its warmth enveloping her—and not just its warmth. Weakly Polly closed her eyes as her vulnerable senses were assaulted by the unmistakable scent of him.
‘No, I don’t want it,’ she denied, thrusting it off and turning her back on him as she walked quickly away from him.
She could hear the faint exclamation of exasperation he made as he bent to retrieve it, and she wasn’t surprised when he told her irritably, ‘Don’t be so damn childish, Polly. I do realise, you know, how much you resent having to accept anything from me. There’s no need for you to reinforce that fact—especially not in such a self-defeating way.’
‘That’s not fair.’ Polly defended herself quickly. ‘And it’s not true either. I’ve always been aware of how much both Briony and I owe you, and I’m very grateful for everything that you’ve done for us.’
When he didn’t make any response she added incon-sequentially, ‘This was always one of Richard’s favourite places…’
‘Yes, I know,’ Marcus agreed curtly—so curtly that Polly turned round to face him properly. His face was wearing that austere, withdrawn expression that made him seem so distant and disapproving.
‘He loved to paint here,’ Polly continued protectively. ‘And…’
‘And you keep the painting he gave you of this place in that nun-like cell you call your bedroom…’
‘It isn’t a cell,’ Polly protested, outraged.
‘No, you’re right, it isn’t,’ Marcus agreed tersely. ‘It’s more like a shrine…a shrine to a man—a boy—who would have been appalled by your maudlin determination to turn him into some kind of plaster saint…’
Polly could feel herself starting to tremble. Why was it always like this? Why was it always like this between them? Why did they argue so much…fight so viciously? Why, when he obviously disliked and resented her so much, had Marcus done so much for her? But she already knew the answer to that conundrum. First it had been for Richard and then, after his death, for Briony.
‘Richard was my husband,’ she reminded him with a small quiver in her voice.
‘Was…Was, Polly,’ Marcus emphasised savagely. ‘Richard is dead and has been for a very long time.’
‘Briony wants me to give a private dinner party,’ she told him quickly. ‘She—’
‘Yes, I know.’ Marcus interrupted her shortly. Uncertainly Polly searched his face. What exactly had Briony told him—that she had found the woman she thought would make him the perfect wife? It wouldn’t surprise her. Marcus would accept things from Briony that she could never imagine him accepting from someone else. They were on the same wavelength, so much in tune with one another that…that they made her feel excluded, envious…Envious? Of her own daughter…? Fiercely Polly resisted her thoughts.
‘I have to go back,’ she told Marcus jerkily, her body tensing when he fell into step beside her as she headed for the footpath. Just as she reached it she tried to distance herself from him, gasping in shock as a small branch from one of the trees became entangled in her hair.
‘Keep still,’ Marcus instructed her, immediately realising what had happened and reaching out to free her.
He was standing far too close to her, Polly recognised weakly. Far too close. She was beginning to feel dizzy…light-headed…
‘Keep still,’ Marcus repeated irritably as he tried to tug her hair free. She felt engulfed by him, surrounded by him as he moved closer to her whilst he worked patiently to free her.
Standing this close to him was almost like being in a lover’s embrace with him…Polly could feel her skin starting to prickle with nervous tension. She could hardly breathe and if he didn’t free her soon and move away from her she knew she was going to panic and do something really stupid.
‘There. You’re free now.’
Free…For one wild moment Polly actually contemplated telling him how impossible it was for her ever to be free of the unwanted burden she carried, but just in time she stopped herself, her ‘Thank you’ short and sharp, as though the words hurt her throat.
Her head was beginning to ache, but not because of her pulled hair and no way near as much as her heart.
Marcus provoked her, irritated her, angered her more than anyone else she knew, sometimes she felt that the hostility between them was such that she could almost reach out and feel it. But only she knew how much, how desperately she needed to cling onto that anger and hostility…how much she needed the defence it gave her.
‘There’s no need to walk back with me,’ she told him tersely. ‘I can manage.’
‘As you never seem to cease delighting in reinforcing to me,’ Marcus agreed curtly. ‘Polly, has it ever occurred to you—?’ He stopped.
‘Has what ever occurred to me?’ she pressed him. But he simply shook his head and told her grimly, ‘It doesn’t matter.’
No, she wanted to correct him, I’m what doesn’t matter to you, Marcus…me. But somehow she found the strength not to do so.
On her return to the house Polly went straight to the kitchen. Polly loved cooking, and its pleasure for her came from a deeply rooted nurturing instinct.
‘Ma, you should have had half a dozen children, not just one,’ Briony often told her.
Perhaps it was true; perhaps the love she poured into Fraser House and their guests was simply a form of displacement therapy, an outlet for the love and caring she no longer had her beloved Richard to give.
Paradoxically, perhaps Marcus was like herself, someone who, whilst enjoying and insisting on top-quality health-protecting, wholesome food, was not a gourmet, which was probably why, at forty-two, he still had the superbly fit and muscled body of a man half his age—as Polly had good cause to know. The last time he had been home she had hurried down to the swimming pool intent on having her early-morning swim before getting down to prepare the guests’ breakfasts, and as she had approached the pool she had realised that Marcus had beaten her to it.
Reluctantly impressed, she had watched as he completed a length in a stunningly effective and fast crawl before turning at the far end of the pool to see her watching him. Quickly she’d started to walk back to the exit but, to her chagrin, Marcus had hauled himself out of the water and come after her, stopping her before she could leave.
‘Nice swimsuit,’ had been his drawlingly derogatory comment as he had surveyed her. ‘What is it—one of Briony’s schoolfriend’s cast-offs?’
Furious with him for his rudeness, and herself for allowing herself to be provoked, she had compressed her mouth, refusing to make any verbal response even though she’d known her heightened colour had given away her real feelings.
Perhaps her swimming costume was a little bit old-fashioned, a plain, serviceable affair which she had originally bought when Briony had been a little girl and she had been taking her for swimming lessons; but the bikini Briony had insisted on her buying for their last holiday together was, in Polly’s maternal opinion, far too brief and revealing—little more than a few scraps of black satin
ised cotton edged in a dull gold, and certainly far too sophisticated for a businesslike early-morning swim.
Distractedly she had watched the downward path of the droplets of water coursing their way through the sleek dark pelt of Marcus’s body hair, across the flat, hard-packed muscles of his chest and stomach, and then…
It hadn’t been until Marcus had oh, so deliberately wrapped the towel he was carrying around his hips that she’d realised just how hard she had been staring at him, and where, and her face had flushed an even deeper hue of pink as he had asked her, ‘What is it Polly? Have you forgotten what a man looks like, or is this…’ his hand had reached out and touched the hot skin of her face ‘…because you have remembered?’ And then, before she could say anything he had challenged her, ‘Do you think if your positions had been reversed that Richard would have clung so unnaturally to his widowhood or his celibacy?’
‘Celibacy is easy when you…when there’s only one man you love—only one man you want,’ she had managed to retort; and, after all, it had been and still was the truth.
CHAPTER THREE
‘AHA! I thought so. No way are you wearing that.’ Briony pounced, coming into Polly’s bedroom just as she was zipping up the plain, faithful black dress she’d decided to wear for Briony’s dinner party.
The meal was in the capable if somewhat nervous hands of her young trainee chef, Andrew, and before coming upstairs to get ready she had gone into the conservatory where they were going to be dining to check that everything was in order.
The round table, rather smaller and far more intimate than the long dining table in the dining room, gleamed with crystal and silver, and the conservatory itself was illuminated by the dozen or more heavy floor-standing candelabra which Polly always lit for such occasions.
The simple muslin drapes which had been unfastened to cover the windows added to the wonderful delicacy of the room creating a glimmering, misty, low-lit effect which, as Polly already knew, did wonders for female complexions and—so she had been reliably informed—male libidos!
As she’d come upstairs she had congratulated herself with amused tenderness that Briony was bound to be pleased with her efforts, but it seemed now that she had congratulated herself a little too soon.
‘What on earth do you mean?’ she responded. ‘I always wear this dress for dinner parties.’
‘Exactly,’ Briony agreed. ‘It’s the kind of dull, anonymous thing that all fifty-something women play safe with.’
‘Er…well, yes,’ Polly agreed. ‘That’s why I bought it.’
‘But, Mum, you aren’t fifty-something, and anyway if Marcus sees you in it he will go mad. He told me the last time you wore it that I ought to burn it.’
‘Oh, he did, did he?’ Polly said grimly. ‘Well, in that case…’
‘Oh, help, I shouldn’t have said that, should I?’ Briony yelped. ‘What is it with you and Uncle Marcus these days, Mum? You know, when I was little I used to pretend that Uncle Marcus was my father and I used to close my eyes and make a wish that you and he would get married.’
‘Never,’ Polly told her instantly. ‘Never. I…’
‘Mmm; that’s exactly what Uncle Marcus said too,’ Briony murmured, adding, ‘Anyway, never mind about all that now…Look what I’ve got for you.’
Triumphantly she produced the bag she had been holding behind her back and, with a flourish, removed its contents.
‘You can’t possibly be expecting me to wear that,’ Polly protested faintly as she saw the tiny tube-like piece of fabric her daughter was holding in front of her.
‘Oh, but I am,’ Briony grinned.
‘It won’t fit me,’ Polly told her positively.
‘Yes, it will; it stretches,’ Briony informed her smugly, proving her point by gently pulling out the sheer black fabric with its delicate sprinkling of small jet beads.
‘Briony, there’s no way I can wear that.’ Polly gasped in shock as she saw how see-through the fabric actually was.
‘Relax, Mum,’ Briony laughed. ‘There’s an underslip that goes with it. It’s perfectly respectable, I promise you. Come on, take that horrid old thing off and let me see this on you.’
Polly tried to refuse but Briony was determined to get her own way, reminding Polly that her boyfriend and his godparents were amongst their dinner guests.
‘You want to make a good impression, don’t you?’ she cajoled. ‘And what about Suzi and her boss?’
‘I thought it was Marcus you were hoping would impress Suzi?’ Polly reminded her through gritted teeth as she saw what time it was and realised that if she didn’t get downstairs soon and into the kitchen to calm the young chef’s nerves it might be more than her clothes her guests were likely to pull a face over.
And besides, once the dress was on she was forced to admit that Briony had been right and that with the addition of the underslip the dress was discreetly opaque.
‘See, I told you it would fit,’ Briony crowed as she stood back to admire her handiwork.
‘And how,’ Polly agreed dryly as she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. Was she really as slim as that? She looked tiny, fragile, ethereal almost, the black of the dress surely far denser and somehow more…more sensual than any black dress she had ever worn before.
Pulling it on over her head had disturbed the sleekness of her bob slightly, so that her hair was falling round her face in a much more softly tousled look than she normally wore.
‘No, leave it,’ Briony commanded her as she went to pick up her brush. ‘It looks…’
‘Untidy,’ Polly supplied ruefully.
‘Er…not exactly,’ Briony told her with a grin, adding quickly, ‘Come on, Ma, we’d better make a move, they’ll be here any minute.’
She was right, Polly knew, and with another uncertain look at her reflection she turned to follow Briony.
The dress wasn’t particularly short but it did outline her shape, the boat-shaped neckline revealing the creamy skin of her throat and shoulders and the long sleeves emphasising the slenderness of her arms.
When she saw the look of relief Andrew gave her as she went into the kitchen Polly forgot about her hair and her dress. She had just finished calming Andrew down and reassuring him that everything would go well when Briony burst into the kitchen to announce that her guests had arrived.
‘Poor guests,’ Polly murmured sceptically as she followed her daughter.
It was Marcus she saw first, or rather Marcus her gaze was drawn to first. He was standing by the drinks table smiling warmly at a tall blonde girl who could only be Briony’s promised Suzi, and then he saw Polly and his expression changed. Was it because of the dress? she wondered a little self-consciously as she smoothed it down with nervous fingers.
‘Polly,’ she heard him say harshly as he crossed the floor to join her.
‘Do you like my dress?’ she asked him nervously? rushing into speech. ‘Briony chose it for me. It’s…’
“‘Like” isn’t precisely the word I would have chosen,’ Marcus began, and then stopped as Suzi came over to them and determinedly put her hand on his arm.
She was certainly very elegant, and very taken with Marcus, Polly decided as she watched the tell-tale way the girl was pushing her long blonde hair back off her face whilst moving just that little bit closer to Marcus as he asked what she would like to drink.
Chris she already knew, of course, and his godparents were a very pleasant couple in their mid-fifties, very much the kind of people Polly was used to entertaining as hotel guests.
Behind them and standing to one side of everyone else, very much as an observer, stood another man who Polly guessed must be Suzi’s boss.
Tall, loose-limbed and handsome in that clean-cut, fair-haired way that was so American, as he caught sight of Polly he turned fully towards her, his eyes warming with male interest as he discreetly scanned her face and then her body.
For some reason Polly discovered that she was looking at Marcus. What for?
Marcus was far too engrossed with Suzi to notice another man’s interest in her, and even if he had done, so what? Since when had she needed Marcus’s approval to acknowledge another man’s awareness of her?
‘Everyone, this is Polly, my mother,’ Briony announced, tugging Polly into the centre of the room.
As Briony introduced her to their guests, Polly couldn’t help but notice the way Marcus turned his back on her, as though making a pretence of studying the table in front of him, whilst Suzi’s American boss, Phil Bernstein, gave her a crinkle-eyed smile and closed the distance between them to shake her hand. He continued to hold it warmly in his own as he told her admiringly, ‘Briony warned me that there was no way you looked old enough to be her mother, but…!’
‘Please don’t tell her we look like sisters,’ Briony groaned.
Phil laughed and told her without taking his eyes off Polly, ‘I wasn’t going to. Briony doesn’t look at all like you,’ he continued to Polly in a slow, liquid-honey voice. ‘You are—’ His chest lifted as his gaze roamed over her with very deliberate but non-threatening thoroughness.
‘Phil, you’re embarrassing Mrs Fraser,’ Suzi cut in, giving Polly a cool, assessing look and putting her very firmly in her place—and her generation, Polly noted—with that formal and distancing Mrs Fraser.
‘I’d like to take you up on your offer to show me round the hotel,’ she said, turning away from Polly to continue her conversation with Marcus. ‘It’s nothing like so large as Gifford’s Cay, of course,’ she added a little patronisingly, ‘but nevertheless it would be interesting to have a look. Of course, the English country house style of hotel is getting a trifle passé now, at least at the top end of the market…’
Grimly Polly listened to her slightly acid voice. There was no doubt in her own mind that the other woman was deliberately trying to patronise her, but what she really found annoying was the fact that Marcus had offered to show her round the hotel without checking with her first.
