Marriage on Trial

by Lee Wilkinson

  ‘I don’t see it as a problem.’ Already the car door was open and, a hand beneath her elbow, Quinn was helping her in. ‘I’ve driven in worse.’

  As they joined the slow-moving traffic and began to crawl through fog-shrouded streets, tense and nervous, she stared straight ahead, until the amorphous grey mass made her eyes ache.

  Needing to break a silence that was lengthening and beginning to get intolerable, she said, ‘This is the kind of fog one reads about in Victorian melodramas.’

  Her normally clear, well-modulated voice sounded somewhat hoarse and strained.

  ‘Don’t tell me you read Victorian melodramas?’ While pretending to be shocked, Quinn’s sidelong glance was tolerant, even a trifle amused.

  Relaxing a little, she admitted a shade ruefully, ‘I’ve developed quite a passion for them.

  He laughed. ‘Does Beaumont approve of your taste in literature?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘You don’t appear to know each other too well.’

  ‘We know each other very well.’ Even as she spoke she was aware that wasn’t the truth. Richard only knew the cool, collected, rather reserved woman she had become.

  All her warmth and passion, her easy gaiety and generosity of spirit, her joie de vivre, were dead and gone, buried beneath the tombstone of the past.

  ‘When did you two meet?’ The question seemed to be an idle one.

  ‘When I started to work for Lady Beaumont.’

  ‘And when was that?’

  Elizabeth wondered whether he was genuinely interested or just making polite conversation. But either way it seemed better to talk than sit in silence.

  ‘Last February,’ she answered. And, feeling on relatively safe ground, she went on, ‘The writer I had been working for was going abroad. I needed to find another job, so I joined an agency who sent me as a temp, after Miss Williams, Lady Beaumont’s secretary, went down with flu.

  ‘Then in April, when Miss Williams left to get married, I was offered the position permanently.’

  ‘So you spend your days dealing with a flood of social correspondence? That must be fascinating.’ The sarcasm was blatant.

  There was a great deal more to it than that, but admitting that she was helping Lady Beaumont to research and write the Beaumont family history would be a dead giveaway.

  Quinn slanted her a glance. ‘No comment?’

  ‘The salary’s good,’ she informed him tartly.

  Saluting her spirit, he pursued, ‘So you and Beaumont have known each other since February… Have you been engaged long?’

  ‘You asked that before.’

  ‘As I recall, I didn’t get an answer.’

  When she said nothing, he went on, ‘At a guess I should say not very long at all.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘You looked startled when Beaumont introduced you as his fiancée—as if you hadn’t had time to get used to the idea.’

  Quinn had always been a formidable opponent, she thought bitterly. He missed nothing, and his keen brain drew fast and accurate conclusions.

  ‘In my opinion,’ he went on, ‘Beaumont’s the conservative type, the sort to go down on one knee with a background of soft lights and sweet music and a ring ready to slip onto his chosen one’s finger…’

  Vexed by the open mockery, Elizabeth bit her lip.

  ‘Yet you had no ring. Which suggested a spur-of-the-moment proposal, with the Van Hamel as a carrot. Possibly because he was unsure of you…’

  The summing-up was so precise that he could almost have been there.

  ‘Or maybe for some other reason.’

  ‘Some other reason?’

  ‘Either to persuade you into his bed, or to keep you there, if you were getting restive.’

  If the past five years had taught Elizabeth anything, it was how to hide her feelings and exercise self-control. Slowly she began to count up to ten.

  She had reached four when he invited, ‘Go ahead, say it.’

  ‘Say what?’ Her voice was husky with suppressed anger.

  ‘If you can’t think of anything better, try, “How dare you?”’

  ‘It sounds as though I’m not the only one who reads Victorian melodramas.’

  He laughed as if genuinely amused. ‘Touché.’ Then, like a terrier worrying at a bone, he said, ‘I gather no wedding date has yet been set?’

  ‘No. But Richard has suggested spring.’ She made her answer as offhand as possible.

  ‘Will Lady Beaumont approve of her son’s choice of future wife, do you think?’ There was a bite to the question.

  Elizabeth rather doubted it. Though pleasant and friendly up to a point, Lady Beaumont would almost certainly have preferred a society girl, rather than a secretary, for a daughter-in-law.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know,’ she answered shortly. ‘You’d have to ask her.’

  ‘Suppose she doesn’t?’

  Wondering if he was trying to rattle her, Elizabeth said, ‘I’d rather suppose she does.’ Adding calmly, ‘But, whether she does or not, Richard isn’t a man to allow himself to be influenced.’

  ‘So you’re satisfied that he really does want to marry you?’

  ‘He said he did.’

  ‘And you want to marry him?’

  ‘Of course I want to marry him.’

  Quinn lifted a dark brow, and instantly she wished that rather than being so emphatic she’d simply said yes.

  ‘Why?’ he asked softly. ‘Or is that a silly question?’

  ‘You mean am I marrying him for his money?’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why?’

  Rattled by his persistence, she spoke the exact truth. ‘I want a real home and a family.’ Noting the wry twist to his lips, she added, ‘Isn’t that what the majority of women want?’

  ‘So you don’t love him?’

  ‘Of course I love him.’ Damn! There she was, doing it again.

  ‘In that case I would have expected you to mention love first. The majority of women would have done.’

  He was a hard man to fool.

  Trying not to sound defensive, she said, ‘I wouldn’t have agreed to marry Richard if I didn’t love him.’

  Quinn laughed harshly. ‘If he really loves you, the poor devil has all my sympathy.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she denied sharply.

  ‘Oh, I think you do.’

  ‘You’re mistaken.’

  He shrugged. ‘I thought I detected a distinct lack of passion on your part.’

  The last thing she wanted to feel was passion. Like a fire that blazed out of control, it ended up destroying everything it touched.

  She fought back. ‘What makes you think there’s any lack of passion? In any case there’s nothing wrong with a marriage that doesn’t send both partners up in flames.’

  ‘There’s not much right with it.’

  Stung, she cried, ‘I suppose you consider you’re an expert?’

  ‘Hardly. However, if my wife—’

  ‘But you’re not married,’ she burst out. Then, beset by a veritable tumult of emotion, she asked, ‘Are you?’

  ‘Yes, I’m married. What made you so sure I wasn’t?’

  ‘I-I wasn’t sure… I just thought… I mean I presumed you…’ The words tailed off helplessly.

  He was a virile, red-blooded man and she hadn’t expected him to stay celibate. Indeed she’d tortured herself with the thought of him taking a string of mistresses, and been bitterly jealous of all those unknown women. But somehow she hadn’t expected him to be married.

  Yet why shouldn’t he be? Five years was a long time, and he’d once said he wanted children. He might even have a family by now… The thought was like a knife twisting in her heart.

  But she ought to be thankful, she told herself firmly. As far as he was concerned the past was clearly over and done with. Even if he had recognized her, he would no longer pose any kind of
threat…

  ‘Here we are.’ Quinn’s voice, holding a quiet satisfaction, broke into her thoughts.

  Peering through the dense, smothering curtain of fog, Elizabeth could just make out that they were turning into Hawks Lane.

  Unwilling to let Quinn know exactly where she lived, she had intended to get out of the car on the main road, and walk the hundred yards or so home. But now it was too late.

  ‘What number is it?’ he enquired casually.

  ‘Fifteen,’ she answered reluctantly. ‘It’s just past the second lamp.’

  As the big car slipped down the mews like a grey ghost through the grey fog, she fumbled in her bag for her key.

  When they drew up outside Cantle Cottage, she said hurriedly, ‘Thank you very much for bringing me home… You needn’t get out. If you drive straight on there’s a turning space in about fifty yards.’

  Ignoring her words, he switched off the engine and slid from behind the wheel. A moment later he was holding open her door.

  In her haste to escape she stumbled and dropped the key, and heard it tinkle on the cobbles.

  A hand beneath her elbow, Quinn steadied her and stooped to retrieve it.

  She wondered how on earth he’d see to find it. But a moment later he was opening the door and ushering her inside.

  As she switched on the wall lights and, half blocking the doorway, opened her mouth to thank him again, he calmly walked past her.

  Before she knew what was happening he had closed the door against the swirling fog and was helping her off with her coat.

  Having hung it in the alcove, he turned and, seeing the panic in her grey eyes, asked innocently, ‘Something wrong?’

  Enunciating carefully, she said, ‘I’m grateful to you for bringing me home, Mr Durville, but I wasn’t planing to invite you in… As I said earlier, it’s been a tiring evening and I’m in need of some sleep.’

  She was moving to re-open the door when his fingers closed around her wrist, his grip light but somehow relentless.

  As she froze, he suggested silkily, ‘Before you throw me out, I think the least you can do is offer me some coffee.’

  That mocking ‘before you throw me out’ echoing in her ears, and knowing only too well there was no way she could make him leave until he was good and ready, she agreed stiffly, ‘Very well.’

  When he released her wrist, Elizabeth made herself walk in a controlled manner towards the kitchen. But somehow it still felt like a rushed escape.

  Deciding instant would be quicker, she part filled the kettle and, her hands unsteady, spooned dark roast granules into a cup.

  He’d always liked his coffee black and fairly strong, with just one spoonful of sugar. As soon as it was ready, she picked it up and hurried back to the living room.

  The chintz curtains had been drawn across the casement windows, the standard lamp was lit, and the living-flame gas fire, which stood in the inglenook fireplace, had been turned on.

  Quinn had discarded his evening jacket and loosened his bow-tie, and looked alarmingly settled and at home in shirt-sleeves, sitting on the settee in front of the leaping flames.

  ‘Thank you.’ He accepted the cup, and queried, ‘Aren’t you having one?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m not thirsty.’

  Giving her an upward glance from between thick dark lashes, he used his free hand to pat the settee beside him. ‘Then come and sit by me.’

  She had been intending to sit well away from him, but after a moment’s hesitation, deciding it would be quicker and easier to take the line of least resistance, she obeyed, leaving as much space as possible between them.

  If only he’d drink his coffee and go!

  As though she’d faxed him the thought, he took a sip, and remarked, ‘You must have extrasensory perception.’

  When she looked at him blankly, he explained, ‘You appear to know exactly how I like my coffee.’

  Thrown into confusion, she lied, ‘I must have been thinking of Richard. That’s how he takes his… So it’s just as well your tastes coincide.’

  ‘It surprises me that a man who likes his coffee black would automatically put cream into other people’s.’

  Too late she recalled the creamy coffee that Richard had provided. ‘He knows I take cream,’ she said, and prayed that Quinn would let the matter drop.

  Her prayer was answered.

  With a slight shrug, he set his cup down on the oval coffee table, and looking around the low-ceilinged room with its white plaster walls, black beams and polished oak floorboards, commented, ‘This is a real gem of a place. How long have you been living here?’

  ‘About nine months.’

  ‘You struck lucky. It isn’t often something like this comes up for rent.’

  ‘It isn’t rented.’

  ‘Ah!’ Softly he observed, ‘If one’s romantically inclined, it must make an ideal love-nest.’

  ‘If you’re implying that Richard comes here—’ Realising that she was playing into his hands, she broke off abruptly.

  ‘Doesn’t he?’

  ‘Certainly not! Except to pick me up occasionally.’

  Raising a dark brow, Quinn pursued, ‘But he did set you up here?’

  ‘He did no such thing!’

  Quinn made no attempt to hide his scepticism. ‘I wouldn’t have expected anyone on a secretary’s salary, even if it’s an exceptionally good one, to be able to buy a place like this.’

  ‘I didn’t buy it. Emily Henderson, the writer I’d worked for for several years, asked me to take care of it…’

  After living in a cramped and dingy bedsit above a seedy video shop, having the opportunity to move into Cantle Cottage had seemed like a miracle.

  ‘She’s gone to Australia for a year to stay with her son and his family,’ Elizabeth added flatly, and wondered why she was taking the trouble to explain.

  But she knew only too well why. It was a hangover from the past, when Quinn had so badly misjudged her. Well, the past was long gone, she reminded herself briskly, and she no longer had to justify anything.

  Frowning, as though he could read her thoughts, he harked back, ‘So where do you and Beaumont meet when you have your…shall we say…trysts? Obviously not his apartment… And I can’t see the family home being at all suitable.’

  Losing her temper, she snapped, ‘And I can’t see what makes where we meet any of your business.’

  ‘Then you do sleep with him…’ Though the words themselves were triumphant, there was a kind of weary acceptance in the low-pitched voice, rather than satisfaction. ‘And he wants the Van Hamel as a carrot to keep you where he—’

  ‘You’re quite wrong,’ she broke in furiously. ‘Richard wants the Van Hamel for its own sake… And whether or not I sleep with him is entirely my affair.’

  A look that seemed to hold both anger and pain crossed Quinn’s dark face, but a split second later it was gone, and Elizabeth knew she must have imagined it.

  After a moment, his expression thoughtful, he pursued, ‘Though you clearly weren’t at home in the apartment, I got the distinct impression that you were intending to stay the night?’

  ‘What if I was?’ She tried to sound offhand.

  ‘Yet you seemed to be unprepared, not even a sponge bag, which leads me to believe that it hadn’t been planned in advance…

  ‘It’s my guess that he only proposed to you this evening, perhaps on the way to the sale, and that he asked you then to go back with him.’

  Her expression telling him more clearly than words that he was right, he smiled sardonically.

  When she remained determinedly silent, he went on, ‘He was certainly expecting you to stay, and though he did his best to act like a gentleman he was furious when he realized you really were going to leave…’

  Then, like a cobra striking, he asked, ‘Why did you change your mind? Was it because of me?’

  ‘Why on earth should it be?’ She made an effort to sound dismissive.

  ‘You
tell me.’

  ‘It was nothing to do with you,’ she lied hardily.

  ‘Then why?’

  ‘I had a headache. Now, I really would like to go to bed, so if you could finish your coffee…?’

  Picking up his cup, he drained it, before remarking, ‘My, but you seem uncommonly eager to be rid of me.’

  When she made no effort to refute that statement, he turned to look at her, his green eyes gleaming. ‘Bearing in mind that I still have the Van Hamel, I’m surprised you can’t bring yourself to be a little more gracious.’

  It was a threat, however subtly worded.

  ‘I don’t care a damn about the Van Hamel.’ The retort was out before she could prevent it.

  ‘You may not, but your fiancé certainly does. In fact, judging by the amount I was able to push him to tonight, I’d say he’s set his heart on having it…’

  Once again Quinn was one hundred per cent accurate.

  ‘So if you don’t want to see him disappointed…’

  She didn’t.

  Possibly because of his nature and privileged upbringing, Richard wasn’t a good loser. Like a spoilt child, he was unable to forget a failure. Losing the Van Hamel now would rankle, and could end up souring their whole engagement.

  No matter what other precious stone he chose for her ring, Elizabeth knew quite well that, in his eyes at least, it would always be second best, and every time he looked at it he would feel angry and dissatisfied.

  Gritting her teeth, she made an effort to be civil. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve been ungracious…’

  ‘That’s better,’ Quinn murmured encouragingly. ‘Now perhaps you could make me some supper and another cup of coffee? Oh, and please do join me. I dislike eating alone.’

  Though politely framed it was undoubtedly an order.

  Knowing only too well that he was playing with her, deliberately provoking her, she felt a fierce desire to smack his mocking face and tell him to get out.

  Instead, she rose to her feet without a word, and, picking up his empty cup, carried it through to the kitchen.

  This time she got out the cafetière and warmed it, before taking a wholegrain loaf from the bread bin, and ham and cheese from the fridge.

  She was cutting bread, when a movement in the doorway distracted her and the knife slipped and nicked her finger, making her gasp.