Substitute Fiancee

by Lee Wilkinson

  'How much conviction you put into the part is, of course, up to you. But, unless you want to answer to me afterwards, I suggest that you try to make it look credible. At least while other people are present... And, speaking of other people, our guests are due to arrive in something like three-quarters of an hour, so suppose you start to get ready?'

  Resenting his arrogant assumption that she would knuckle under, she told him coldly, 'I've nothing grand enough to wear. All I brought was a simple cocktail dress.'

  'Wear that,' he ordered briefly. Then, with a frown, 'What colour is it?'

  'Black.' As she spoke she remembered with malicious satisfaction that he disliked black.

  Judging by the gleam in his eye he read her mind, but all he said was, 'Black will do fine.'

  'I'm afraid that when I decided to leave here I packed in a hurry, so it's bound to be badly creased.'

  'Then wear something of Melinda's. You're about the same size, and at least she had good taste. There's a wardrobe full of dresses, most of which she's never had on.'

  Chin up, Fran faced him defiantly. 'I wouldn't dream of wearing another woman's clothes!'

  His white teeth snapped together. Stepping forward, he took her chin in his hand and, splayed fingers and thumb biting in a little, lifted her face to his. 'If you're not ready in thirty minutes,' he warned her softly, 'I'll come and dress you myself.'

  Releasing her abruptly, he turned and walked away.

  Trembling in every limb, she watched his broad back disappear into his bedroom. If he'd flown into a rage and shouted she could have defied him more easily, but she'd found his quiet, leashed anger intimidating.

  And she wasn't the only one to find it so.

  In the business world, she recalled, he was noted as a man who was always in control, a man who never raised his voice, yet he was both feared and respected, not only by his staff but by his equals.

  Making an effort, she pulled herself together. The seconds were flying past, and if she wasn't ready in time she didn't doubt that he was quite capable of carrying out his threat.

  Biting her lip, she went into Melinda's bedroom and opened the case she'd left there.

  As she had surmised, the black dress was unwearable, and now it was too late she found herself wishing that she'd packed with greater care instead of just bundling everything in.

  With the utmost reluctance she went over to the wardrobe and looked at the row of evening dresses with the rack of matching shoes.

  There wasn't a single black amongst them, she noted. Most were strong, vibrant colours...blue...green...scarlet... Closer inspection showed that many of them had no back and very little front, and several were lacy and see-through.

  Perhaps as a result of her upbringing, and her dislike of drawing attention to herself, Fran had always tended to dress down, avoiding bright colours and the more daring styles.

  With the best will in the world, she couldn't see herself in any of these striking creations.

  Right at the end, pushed carelessly to one side, as though Melinda had regretted her choice, was an ankle-length smoke-grey chiffon.

  Relatively modest and perfectly plain, with plaited straps which continued beneath the bust-line, it appeared to be exactly her size. A piece of tissue paper lining the bodice confirmed the fact that it had never been worn.

  The matching shoes, Fran noted, were a size too large. But her own grey evening shoes would go with it perfectly. Her mind made up, she hurriedly lifted it out, removed the tissue paper, and laid it across the bed.

  She found herself hoping very much that Blaze would approve her choice.

  Within the last few minutes her resentment at his high-handedness had died. A deep-rooted honesty made her admit that his anger was justified.

  If the necklace was a fake—and though it was hard to believe it seemed unlikely that Richard Henderson could have made a mistake—Blaze had been robbed of a priceless family heirloom as well as the woman he was all set to marry.

  She recalled his haughty statement, 'I've learnt to keep what's mine while I want it,' and shivered. All his carefully laid plans had been ruined, and he'd been left in the kind of situation that could make any man look a fool.

  In the circumstances, she couldn't blame him for venting his anger and frustration on her. Nothing was solely black and white, and though what had happened wasn't her fault, she had been involved, and felt at least partly responsible.

  But it was too late to change anything. The only thing she could possibly do was try to make amends. So if she was forced to go through with this heartbreaking charade then for both their sakes she would endeavour to look her best, and play the part as well as she could.

  After a quick shower to freshen herself up, she put on her prettiest undies and her finest silk stockings, before coiling her hair into a shining knot and making up with care.

  When she was ready, she slipped into the cloud of chiffon and pulled up the concealed zip. Two things immediately became clear. The dress fitted exactly, and it was nowhere near as demure as she'd first thought.

  Stepping in front of the cheval-glass, she gasped at the vision that stared back at her. She had never looked like this in her life before.

  The bust section was cunningly cut to reveal the enticing swell of her breasts and the valley between, and as she moved the floating layers of gauzy material parted to disclose that, on the left, the skirt was slit up to the thigh.

  Fran was still standing bemused when there was a peremptory rap and the door opened.

  Blaze's reflection appeared in the mirror behind her. Freshly shaven, his hair parted on the left and smoothly brushed, he looked extremely handsome in immaculate evening dress.

  For a long moment he stood perfectly still. Then he turned her around and stood gazing down at her, a look on his face that made her stammered 'W-will I do?' superfluous.

  'You look stunning,' he said softly. 'A million dollars and then some... And the colour is perfect with this.' As he spoke he produced the necklace.

  She glanced at it with a sudden distaste.

  Reading her expression, he said, 'Everyone who knows the Balantyne family history will be expecting my fiancée to be wearing it. And, let's face it, you've worn it before, so I can't see any problem... Unless you object to wearing something that's been confirmed as a fake?'

  She shook her head. 'It's not that... I—I just feel...' Unable to put into words exactly how she did feel, she made a gesture of submission and reached for the necklace.

  'Stand still; I'll fasten it for you.' While she stood obediently, he put it around her slim throat, secured the clasp, and settled it into place.

  Stepping back to admire the effect, he commented laconically, 'For a fake it looks well enough...'

  A glance in the mirror confirmed that his words were an understatement.

  'It's a pity we haven't got the real thing for you to wear,' he went on, 'though I strongly suspect that rubies aren't your stones. You need the more subtle gems, like opals and moonstones... Speaking of which...'

  He drew a small leather ring box from his pocket and took out an unusual and very lovely half-hoop of pearly moonstones.

  'An engagement party calls for an engagement ring. This was my paternal grandmother's. I think it's your size.'

  Lifting Fran's left hand, he slipped it on to her third finger. It fitted perfectly, and went with the ensemble as though it had all been minutely planned. Blaze nodded. 'Ideal, I think.'

  It was one of the loveliest rings Fran had ever seen, and, suddenly close to tears, she thought, If only this was for real.

  But of course it wasn't. It was as fake as the necklace. A charade to be played out to save Blaze embarrassment in front of his friends and colleagues. When they discovered that the actual wedding was off, he would no doubt say that the engagement had been ended 'by mutual consent' or whatever excuse would cause the least speculation...

  Watching her face, he lifted a dark brow. 'You don't like it?'

&
nbsp; 'Yes, I do,' she contradicted huskily. 'It's absolutely beautiful.'

  'Then why look so unhappy?'

  Before she could think of an answer, he said half angrily, 'I'm sorry. I'm a stupid, insensitive oaf. Of course you're unhappy. Varley may have run off with my fiancée, but Melinda's run off with yours. And at the moment you probably consider your loss is greater than mine. I was simply buying myself a suitable wife, whereas you loved Varley.'

  Not knowing what to say, and very conscious of his nearness, she finally stammered, 'Shouldn't we be going down? I—I mean your guests will be arriving any minute.'

  'Our guests,' he corrected her. 'And of course you're quite right... But I think we should make time for one more thing.'

  Before she could ask what that was, he drew her into his arms, said half mockingly, 'It's just as well you don't wear lipstick,' and kissed her.

  Unable to help herself, her lips parted to the seductive demand of his, and with no thought of charades or pretence she melted against him while he kissed her as though she was the only woman he had ever wanted.

  After a long moment he lifted his head and smiled into her eyes. 'That's much better,' he said with undisguised satisfaction. 'Now you look all flushed and glowing, exactly like a bride-to-be who's just been thoroughly kissed.'

  Was that why he'd kissed her? she wondered. So that she wouldn't appear sad and wan in front of his friends and colleagues?

  Stroking a fingertip down her warm cheek, he queried, 'Ready to run the gauntlet?'

  As ready as she would ever be, she nodded.

  Blaze's arm around her waist, they descended the stairs just as Richard Henderson appeared in the hall.

  He came over, and, catching sight of the bruises on her arm, asked jokingly, 'Has Edward been beating you already?'

  Shaking her head with a smile, she said, 'A slight accident on the way here. I would have worn a long-sleeved dress had it been possible.'

  'Speaking for myself, I'm rather pleased it wasn't.' Eyeing the grey chiffon appreciatively, he added, 'Just the sight of you makes me feel young again.'

  'You don't think it's too daring?' she asked.

  'I certainly don't. You look absolutely wonderful! Now, I'd better not detain you...I see there are more guests arriving.'

  Amongst the first was Lady Melford, a sharp-eyed, frankly-spoken dowager, who described herself as, 'A near neighbour, and one of the family's oldest friends.'

  The introductions over, that redoubtable lady enquired of Fran, 'So how long have you and Edward known each other, my dear?'

  Uncertain what to say, Fran hesitated, and looked at Blaze for guidance.

  'For about three years,' he replied smoothly, and with perfect truth.

  'Then why have you kept it a secret all this time?'

  Tongue-in-cheek, he answered, 'It's only quite recently that Francesca gave in to my...er...demands, and consented to become my fiancée.'

  Turning to Fran, Lady Melford commented, 'Very sensible, my dear. I strongly disapprove of these modern young females who are willing to jump into bed with a man after only a few hours' acquaintance.'

  His grey eyes ironic, Blaze glanced at Fran before replying gravely, 'Francesca would never have done a thing like that, would you, darling?'

  Itching to kick him hard, she felt her cheeks growing hot.

  Taking note of the younger woman's heightening colour, Lady Melford said, 'Forgive me, my dear, if my plain speaking has embarrassed you.'

  Fran shook her head in a smiling if somewhat flustered disclaimer. 'Of course it hasn't.'

  'You've chosen well, Edward.' Lady Melford gave her verdict. 'So many young men these days end up with a wife as hard as nails and “worldly''—whatever that means. It's most refreshing to meet a bride-to-be who is obviously in love and still capable of blushing... I'm sure you'll both be very happy...

  'Now, I see Richard is already here. I must go and say hello to him while you greet some more of your guests...'

  Fran breathed an inward sigh of relief as the impressive silver-haired dowager left them to bear down purposefully on Richard Henderson.

  Bending his dark head, Blaze murmured in Fran's ear, 'You've passed with flying colours. It isn't easy to earn Lady Melford's approval... Ah, here's Sir Humphrey Waldon, and his wife Judith...I think you'll like them...'

  'I'm sure I will,' she assured him steadily.

  Throughout the long evening, while an excellent buffet was served and the champagne flowed freely, they circulated amongst groups of people who were clearly having fun and enjoying the party.

  Apart from a moment or two, when he crossed the hall to have a quick word with Mortimer, who was keeping an eagle eye on things, Blaze never left her side.

  Pleasantly fielding any awkward questions, he gave a good impression of a relaxed and carefree host, with no concerns apart from showing off his fiancée, and the comfort of his guests.

  For her part, making perhaps the biggest effort of her life, Fran talked and smiled, and received all the good wishes with grace and charm.

  Though she felt as if she was being flayed, no one would have guessed she wasn't the radiant bride-to-be that she appeared.

  Once in a while, in his role of prospective bridegroom, Blaze would smile into her eyes and give her hand a squeeze.

  Though she knew quite well it was only play-acting, each time her heart seemed to turn right over.

  Maybe because of the strain she was under, and the need to keep smiling when she felt more like weeping, the evening dragged endlessly.

  By the time twelve o'clock came she was exhausted, and to add to her discomfort her ankle had begun to protest at the high heels she wore.

  But, a smile pinned to her lips, she stood by Blaze's side until the very last couple were ready to make their farewells. Then, shivering a little in the cool night air, she helped to wave them off.

  As soon as the chauffeur-driven car had drawn away, he urged her inside and closed the door. Stepping awkwardly on her throbbing ankle, she winced.

  'Ankle hurting?' he asked.

  'A bit,' she confessed.

  As she spoke, Mortimer and a couple of the servants appeared, to deal with the debris of the party.

  Blaze waved them away. 'For heaven's sake, man, it'll keep until morning. The entire household has had a long day. I suggest you just lock up and get off to bed.'

  Thank you, sir.' The butler cleared his throat, and then, his manner as impeccable as his clothes, went on, 'May I, on behalf of myself and the other members of the staff, respectfully tender congratulations and all good wishes for you and your fiancée's future happiness.'

  "Thank you, Mortimer.'

  Inclining his head, the butler added, "The fire in your sitting room has been replenished, and a Thermos flask of hot chocolate taken up. Will there be anything else, sir?'

  'No, nothing, thanks. Goodnight, Mortimer.'

  The butler gave a little bow. 'Goodnight, sir. Goodnight, miss.'

  'Goodnight, Mortimer.'

  Throughout, the manservant's face and manner had remained impassive, but for the first time it occurred to Fran to wonder what he and the rest of the staff thought of the sudden change in fiancée.

  As the black-coated figure moved away, once again reading her mind, Blaze remarked sotto voce, 'I doubt if anything surprises Mortimer... And if it did he certainly wouldn't show it...'

  Then, before she could even begin to guess his intention, he stooped, and, picking her up in his arms, headed for the stairs. 'We'd better save that ankle. You'll want to be able to walk on it tomorrow.'

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  REMEMBERING only too clearly what had happened the previous night, Fran felt every nerve in her body tighten and she began to tremble.

  Feeling the involuntary movement, he queried, 'Cold?'

  'No.' Even her voice shook.

  He glanced down at her. 'So what's bothering you? No, don't tell me, let me guess. You're afraid of a repeat of last night?'

 
Her silence was answer enough.

  'Well, you don't need to worry,' he assured her quizzically. 'I have absolutely no intention of letting the same thing happen again.'

  She relaxed slightly. If he meant to just put her down at the door of her bedroom and walk away there would be nothing to worry about.

  When they reached the top of the stairs, however, instead of turning towards her room he headed for the long gallery.

  'Where are you taking me?'

  'Back to my suite.'

  Alarmed afresh, she asked, 'Why?'

  'Didn't you hear Mortimer say there would be a nice fire and a flask of hot chocolate waiting?'

  Fran had presumed that the butler had arranged both for his master's benefit. But, suddenly recalling what Blaze had said about no one venturing up to his suite without express instructions, she realised that this had been planned.

  Her tone accusing, she said, 'You gave orders..."

  He made no attempt to deny it. 'For one thing, you've had very little to eat tonight. For another, I thought we both needed to unwind for ten minutes or so before going to bed.'

  'Oh, but I—'

  'And, if you remember, you left your case up there.'

  It all sounded very logical, yet some sixth sense screamed danger. If he once kissed her, touched her, as he had the previous night—

  Snapping off the thought, she reminded herself a shade desperately of Blaze's mocking assurance. 'I have absolutely no intention of letting the same thing happen again.'

  When they reached his suite the plum-coloured velvet curtains had been drawn over the windows and the room looked cosy and welcoming, with its diffused lighting and glowing fire.

  Shouldering the door closed, Blaze put her down on the settee, her back propped against some cushions, and slipped off her shoes.

  When she would have swung her legs to the floor, he said crisply, 'Better keep that foot up if you don't want it to swell.'

  The possibility made her hesitate. She wanted to be able to leave tomorrow.

  If Blaze would let her...

  But now she had finished playing the role of fiancée, and he'd admitted that he no longer suspected her of being a prime mover in the plot, surely there would be no reason to make her stay?