A Husband of Convenience

by Jacqueline Baird

For the past couple of weeks she had lived with a constant sense of foreboding. She’d told herself it was just nerves. Tonight she was hosting her first dinner party since her accident, but as far as her memory was concerned it was the first dinner party of her life. A wry smile twisted her lips; her inability to remember was preying heavily on her mind. Resting her head back against the sofa, she closed her eyes against the nagging pain behind them, and let the events of the past few weeks run through her mind.

  After the first evening back from the hospital, when she had shared her husband’s bed, Josie had been happy. Conan was a wonderful husband. Kind and attentive, he always attended the antenatal classes with her, cradling her head in his lap while she practised the breathing exercises. Her visits to the hospital were the same—Conan went with her; nothing was too much trouble for him. Every night without fail he delighted in massaging her swollen stomach with oil, and every night they fell asleep in each other’s arms.

  Life was perfect, except for her amnesia. Her brows drew together in a deep frown; she hated the word. But she was fast reaching the conclusion that Conan didn’t care if she never recovered her memory. It was the only bone of contention between them. When she questioned him, he answered, but reluctantly, she could tell. His eyes avoided hers or he laughed off her queries. Lately she had caught him watching her quite a few times with a dark, brooding intensity that sent a chill down her spine. They did not make love quite so often, but when she challenged him he always gave her a glib excuse. One of his top executives was stuck in America, so Conan was working harder than usual. He was also concerned about the baby, or more often he was concerned about her, but none of the excuses quite rang true.

  Josie bit her lip. Perhaps it was her over-active imagination, but she could sense something was troubling him. And last Saturday night had only added to her disquiet.

  Every week Conan took her out to the theatre or to a film and dinner, or maybe they would go shopping. The room set aside for the nursery had been decorated, and they had happily chosen all the furnishings together. But last Saturday evening, after they returned from seeing a new musical, they had had their first real argument.

  Lying on the sofa with Conan beside her, cradling her aching feet in his lap, she asked, ‘Did you really enjoy the show?’ It had been a very avant-garde type of musical.

  He squeezed her toes. ‘The lady in blue paint was quite explicit. Blue was definitely the colour for what she was doing,’ he opined dryly.

  ‘What was she doing?’ Josie asked. As she remembered it, the woman simply had pranced around naked but for paint, with another woman in a black body stocking.

  ‘If you don’t know you’re even more innocent than I thought,’ Conan chuckled.

  ‘Typical of a man—never answer a direct question. I’m sure a woman friend would have explained what the dance was all about and we would have had a good giggle.’ The thought gave her pause, and, glancing at Conan, she added, ‘Do I have any friends?’

  With Jeffrey to watch over her and Conan to love her, Josie had not let herself think too much about her memory loss. Dr Ferguson had told her to carry on with her life, avoid stress, and allow her memory to return naturally.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Conan said tersely. ‘As I told you, ours was a whirlwind courtship; we met and married in weeks.’

  ‘I know.’ Josie sighed. ‘You said I was born in London, but we met in the country, and my father moved in with yours when we married. I get postcards from both of them, they’re obviously enjoying the cruise. It all seems so cosy, but I can’t help feeling—’

  ‘But nothing, Josie. Don’t try and force yourself to remember, and anyway I thought I was enough for you,’ he prompted flashing her a brief smile that did not quite reach his eyes.

  ‘You are,’ she quickly assured him. ‘But I just wish I knew—’

  ‘Stop it, Josie.’ He cut her off again, and, placing her feet back on the sofa, he stood up.

  ‘No,’ she’d snapped back. ‘It’s all well and good for you to tell me not to try, but I’m sick of not knowing who and what I am. I spoke to Dr Ferguson yesterday, and he seems to think any day now I’ll remember, but...’ It was late, she was tired, and her hormones were haywire. ‘I feel like a fat, useless lump, hidden away in the house to be trotted out on a Saturday like a child receiving a treat.’ She sounded like a shrew, and she knew she was being unfair, but she didn’t seem able to stop.

  ‘You spoke to Dr Ferguson yesterday?’ Conan enquired grimly. ‘You had no appointment.’

  ‘I telephoned.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have wasted his time; don’t do it again.’

  Her head shot back and she stared up at him. ‘How dare you tell me what to do?’ she cried, incensed by the anger in his tone. Her loving husband had a temper, it seemed, but so did she. ‘I might be your wife but I am not a child to be told what to do—by you or anyone else.’ She struggled to her feet and glared at him.

  ‘No, but you are with child,’ he shot back, and, as though he’d realised that his tone had upset her, he added quietly, ‘And you are not fat, or useless. You’re a beautiful, glowing girl, and my wife. So please don’t excite yourself, Josie; it isn’t good for you or the baby. I thought I was protecting you by keeping what are, after all, strangers to you from visiting. But if it will make you happy I’ll invite a few mutual friends around for dinner next week.’

  Josie should have been satisfied, but later, as she lay next to Conan in bed, tired in body and mind but unable to sleep, she felt a growing fear for the future. Conan had massaged her stomach as usual, and kissed her lightly, before turning over and going to sleep. But she had sensed a change in him, a mental distancing of himself from her. Eventually she did sleep, but her dreams were filled with weird pictures of an ultra-modern naked blue lady, plus ancient portraits of total strangers in costumes from the last century.

  Thinking about it now, Josie realised she was still apprehensive, and she wished Conan would hurry up and get home. Their guests would be arriving in little more than two hours. Jeffrey was slaving away in the kitchen, having flatly refused her offer to assist him. Maybe if she had a bath, and tried to relax, she would feel better.

  Later, bathed and seated on the bed, wearing a blue silk robe, Josie tried to brush the tangles from her hair.

  ‘Here, let me do that.’ Conan walked into the room, shedding his jacket and tossing it on to the bed. He sat down beside her, and took the brush from her hand to brush her long hair. ‘How are you and Junior today?’ he asked, dropping a light kiss on the exposed curve of her neck.

  Josie shivered and smiled. ‘Fine, now you’re home,’ she murmured. To see him was enough to make her happy.

  ‘Good.’ He stood up and grinned down at her. ‘I see I’m too late to get you to share the shower. Pity...’ His dark eyes glinted wickedly. ‘But I’ll catch you later.’ And, swinging on his heel, he headed for the bathroom.

  Josie grimaced at her reflection in the mirror. Her face and hair were fine; it was the rest that took some getting used to. She was twenty-seven weeks pregnant and there was no disguising her belly. Her red dress was from a designer maternity boutique. Slashed straight across her chest, exposing the curve of her breasts, the narrow straps supported the bodice, and the soft silk, cut on the bias, skimmed around her body, but could not hide her bump.

  ‘You look beautiful.’

  She hadn’t heard Conan come in, but the feel of his long arm around her and his large hand splayed over their child brought a glimmer of a smile to her face. Her violet eyes captured his in the mirror. He was standing behind her, naked apart from a towel around his hips. His broad, tanned shoulders, gleaming in the artificial light, appeared to surround her protectively.

  ‘Of course, you’re not biased,’ she teased. The one certainty in her life was her love for Conan and her unborn child, and her heart lurched as she saw his golden eyes darken, his hands stroking up to cup her breasts, her nipples tautening at his touch. She sighed
. She felt the stirring of his masculine response against her buttocks, and for a long moment their eyes fused and reflected in the mirror a mutual need and desire. Conan blinked and abruptly let her go.

  ‘I’m probably a lot of things you don’t rem—realise,’ he said curtly. But right now I had better get dressed; our guests will be arriving shortly.’

  Josie watched him as he crossed to the bathroom, a worried frown marring her smooth brow. Something was bothering him. She gave a shrug; now was not the time for an in-depth discussion, and she went downstairs to check with Jeffrey that everything was ready. Walking out of the kitchen into the hall, she stopped as Conan ran lightly down the stairs. Her breath caught in her throat. He looked gorgeous in a dinner suit, but then he looked gorgeous in anything—or nothing, Josie thought with a secret smile.

  ‘Remember this was your idea,’ Conan murmured as the doorbell rang.

  An hour later Josie was beginning to enjoy herself. The food was perfect: a light consommé followed by Dover sole, and the main course an invention of Jeffrey’s—chicken breasts stuffed and cooked in his secret sauce, with all the accompanying vegetables.

  They were ten at the table. Josie did not remember any of the guests but was immediately at ease, as Conan had apparently explained she was suffering from amnesia. Pamela, the small lady across the table from Josie, was delightful as was her husband and the bluff Mr. Smales and his wife, Betty. Martin and Belinda Bewick were a couple about Conan’s age and full of stories about their three children. A tall blonde woman, Angela, was not quite so friendly, but her brother Steve, a strikingly handsome American, more than made up for her, keeping Josie amused with his stories.

  By the time they all retired to the drawing room, Josie was feeling quite relaxed and her headache from earlier had eased slightly. Pamela and Belinda had promised to call around to see her without their husbands, to arrange a shopping trip. It was only when Pamela excused herself to go to the bathroom that Josie felt a twinge of disquiet. Angela turned her cold blue eyes on Josie and smiled with saccharine sweetness.

  ‘I know it’s hard in your condition to walk around,’ she said, making Josie feel like a beached whale. ‘But I’m dying to see what you’ve done to the nursery.’ Angela stood up and, with a brief glance around the room before smiling down at Josie, she added, ‘I’m sure the others won’t mind—unless the stairs are too much for you?’

  ‘No, no, of course not.’ Josie got to her feet. ‘I’ll be delighted to show you,’ she murmured, and led the way out of the room and up the stairs.

  The nursery was next door to their bedroom, and Josie opened the door and stepped back as Angela marched past her and spun around to face her.

  Josie glanced around the room and crossed to the muslin-draped crib, tenderly running her hand along the side. The room was perfect, with pale walls stencilled with a multitude of nursery rhymes. ‘As you can see we chose pale lemon...’

  ‘Drop the act,’ Angela snapped.

  Josie’s head shot up. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  The hard blue eyes fixed on Josie seemed to pierce her brain, and a dull ache behind her eyes blurred her vision for a moment. She blinked, but Angela was still staring at her, very tall and dressed in a plain white gown. A brief image of the same woman dressed in black flickered in Josie’s mind. Her subconscious was playing tricks, perhaps, but she had a nasty premonition it was more than that.

  ‘You heard. I hate to admit it, Josie, but I almost admire you. I really thought it was that wholesome, innocent look of yours that had captured Con’s fleeting interest, but you are much cleverer than I gave you credit for.’

  ‘Cleverer?’ What was the woman getting at?

  ‘Yes, fancy catching a man like Con with the oldest trick in the book. When I got back last week and he told me you were suffering from amnesia, I didn’t believe it for a second. ’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Josie said curtly, disliking the woman’s abbreviation of her husband’s name to Con. It smacked of a familiarity between the two of them she did not want to contemplate.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Angela sneered. ‘I was in New York when I heard of your accident, and I rang the office. Good manners dictated I ask after my boss’s wife. But a very chatty secretary told me all about your accident. It was a simple calculation—married at the end of October but over five months pregnant’

  Josie gasped, and for a second her heart stopped beating.

  ‘The amnesia was a brilliant touch; now you can pretend it never happened. Knowing what a soft touch Con is, he wouldn’t dare mention it in your tender state of health,’ she scoffed. ‘My God, the child probably isn’t even his.’

  Josie looked at the other woman, the blood draining from her face, her hands clenching the edge of the crib in a death-grip. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she managed to say between gritted teeth. ‘But I think it’s time we rejoined the others.’

  ‘Bravo,’ Angela jeered. ‘You’re quite an actress. I can’t say I blame you. I might have tried it myself when I lived here with Con, except I can’t stand kids; they’re death to the figure.’ She strolled past Josie, giving her a disparaging glance. ‘But in your case it probably doesn’t matter.’ And she walked out.

  Josie followed Angela down the stairs and back into the drawing room, her mind in turmoil. Her husband had lived with this woman! Why was she surprised? She did not know her own past, let alone Conan’s! When she had first seen him in the hospital, she had wondered at her own good fortune to have such a dynamic, handsome husband. Only a fool would imagine he had reached his thirties without a few lovers, and Josie was the fool.

  She looked at Conan as she walked into the room, but sat down next to Pamela, the pain in her head intensifying by the minute. Conan had only married her because she was pregnant, according to Angela. How could that be? she asked herself. They loved each other. She glanced at Conan again; his dark eyes were narrowed enquiringly on her face.

  ‘All right, darling?’ The endearment fell so easily from his lips.

  ‘Yes, fine.’ She forced her lips into a travesty of a smile, but she wasn’t fine; she was dying inside.

  Joe Smales began to tell a joke, and everyone spoke at once. ‘No more shaggy-dog stories.’

  Pamela stood up and smiled down at Josie. ’You know it’s time to leave when Joe starts his famous—or infamous—jokes. ’

  Josie was struck by a sense of déjà vu. But was it...? Suddenly a stabbing pain behind her eyes made her wince in agony as a thousand memories bombarded her mind. She vaguely registered everyone was standing up to leave.

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Conan murmured, leaning over her and offering her his hand. She looked at him, so suave and sophisticated, and apparently concerned.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she repeated, ignoring his hand, her stomach churning as she rose to her feet to escort their guests out Pamela and her husband departed with a smile, and a promise to call. While Josie, bile blocking her throat, prayed silently, Don’t let me be sick, not yet.

  She never knew how she made it upstairs to the bathroom. Then she was hanging over the toilet being violently sick, retching until her throat ached. She heard Conan banging on the door, his deep voice full of concern, but she did not answer him. The pain behind her eyes had intensified to such a degree she could hardly bear it, but the pain in her heart was infinitely worse.

  She wanted to rant and rave at the trick Conan had played on her. How could she have been so stupid? After the accident she had grabbed at him the way a drowning man clutched a life-raft. Endlessly pouring out her love for him. Glorying in their lovemaking, wantonly eager to please him. Oh! And he had taught her the most intimate sensual pleasures, encouraging her to explore every sexy inch of him. When all the time he’d known the truth. They had never had a real marriage...

  ‘Open this damn door,’ she heard Conan yell, but she ignored him.

  Josie wanted to weep but her eyes remained stubbornly dry. How co
nceited she had been, how confident. When she had wondered about her past, it had never once entered her head that Conan had married her for any other reason but love. Looking back over the past ten weeks, the passionate nights and sometimes days in his arms, he had never actually said he loved her. She groaned out loud in her agony and humiliation. Why should he? She had been his half-brother’s first. Charles... Charles was the father of her child. How could she have forgotten?

  The tears rolled unnoticed down her cheeks as she recalled the true circumstances of her marriage. A lot of little incidents suddenly made sense: Conan’s careful avoidance of the past, while he moulded her to be his willing wife. But why? The question echoed in her brain. He’d married her to get Beeches Manor, but that had been settled at Christmas. He had had no real reason to see her again once he had the estate. He was a very wealthy, attractive man; he could have any woman he wanted, and he certainly had Angela.

  Why? Why had he pretended to want her? There was no excuse for taking her to his bed, allowing her to think they had always had a passionate relationship, pretending to be the father of her child... Then she remembered. Conan had said once that his chief executive was held up in America. Of course. Angela had been in New York for two months. Josie had been a convenient body in the swine’s bed, in the absence of his lover...

  A loud crash had her jumping to her feet. The bathroom door hung off its hinges and Conan stood in the opening.

  ‘Josie, darling...’ he said, concern lacing his tone, then he stopped. His dark eyes searched her tear-drenched face, and something in her expression made him catch his breath.

  Her violet eyes clashed with his. ‘How could you?’ Her voice broke on a sob.

  ‘You’ve remembered, haven’t you?’

  He looked so cool, so calm that Josie wanted to scratch his eyes out; instead she lurched to the vanity unit and, turning on the tap, splashed her tear-stained face with cold water, then bent lower to drink some. Her head was pounding, her eyes stinging, and she could not bear to look at Conan.