A Secure Marriage

by Diana Hamilton

  She hadn't disabused him; there had seemed no point. No point in anything these days. And she didn't have the emotional resources to endure a ding-dong verbal fight with him. Jude had drained her emotions dry.

  Far from consulting Jude, she had said nothing about the conclusions she'd formed after days and days of concentrated work. True, he had asked her to let him know her findings, so that they could discuss them, and that was because he had a vested interest now. But the salvation of Slade Securities while it was still salvageable was her baby. She owed it to Uncle John. The fact that Jude now had thirty per cent of the voting stock was neither here nor there. She wasn't doing it for him. How. could she willingly do anything for him when he persisted in treating her like dirt?

  'Cleo?' A hand touched her shoulder and she twisted round, her racing heart a testimony to how edgy she had become over the past ten days, quieting down to normal as she encountered Dawn's puzzled eyes.

  'I thought it was you,' Jude's secretary explained. 'Though I couldn't be absolutely sure. You look awful. Lost weight, haven't you?' On that unflattering note Dawn prepared for a natter session, oblivious to the grim-faced throngs pushing past in their rush to squeeze on to homebound trains.

  'I've been working flat out.' Cleo put on a brightish smile and lifted one shoulder in a gesture she hoped denoted unconcern. 'You know how it is—too busy to eat properly. Anyway,' she turned the subject quickly, 'how's Sheila settling down in my old job?' Dawn was far from a fool and Cleo didn't want anyone to guess that everything had turned sour between Jude and herself.

  Dawn pulled a face. 'So-so. I couldn't stand her at first. She's capable enough but hell—those damned airs and graces. She acted as if she expected me to drop a curtsey every time she walked by.' She grinned suddenly, wryly. 'But we started to gel after that husband of yours reduced her to tears yesterday. I knew exactly how she felt! It's a pity you ever left. You were the only one who could handle him, make him remotely human. He's been worse than ever this last week or so. A real s.o.b., if you don't mind my saying so! And if he doesn't change his tune I, for one, am definitely looking for another job.'

  Then a doubtful look flickered over her middle-aged face, as if she was afraid she'd said too much. 'I still think of you more as being his PA than as his wife. So excuse my big mouth, but you might do some good if you dropped a word in his ear.'

  'I'll see what I can do,' Cleo said. Dawn had her sympathy, but she knew Jude would not listen to what she had to say on that, or any other subject. He would be more likely to walk naked through 'he centre of London in the rush-hour! And that made her recall the time when he would have made a point of listening to anything she had to say because in those days he had respected her viewpoint, her intelligence. There was nothing he respected about her now. She didn't even respect herself. And the knowledge hurt, filled her chest with pain. Quickly, before Dawn could guess her misery, she excused, 'I have to go, Dawn. Sorry to rush off, but I'm late as it is. And keep your chin up—try to remember, his bark's worse than his bite. And stand up to him if you think he's out of line.'

  Not very helpful advice, she guessed, as Dawn's shoulders lifted in a helpless shrug beneath her sedate dark green coat. Cleo didn't want Jude's staff deserting him. She cared about him, still loved him, despite the way he'd been treating her, despite knowing, now, that he would never return her love.

  Fenton, and Jude's reaction to the situation—as he stubbornly perceived it—had killed whatever chance their marriage might once have had. And as for that louse, Fenton, there hadn't been a peep out of him since Jude had ordered him out of the house in Bow. Maybe Jude's ferocity had made him think twice about carrying out his threats.

  * * *

  Her feet dragged as she emerged from the tube station at Knightsbridge. It was raining now, the heavy drizzle wetting her charcoal silk suit. It hung on her body where once—before her ill-fated marriage to Jude—it had clung lovingly. Reluctant to return to the cold comfort of the luxurious Regency house in Belgravia, she lingered in the almost deserted streets, growing colder, wetter, until an opulent saloon swept by, spraying her with muddy rainwater before purring on, its tail-lights glittering in the murk, her existence of no more importance than that of a fallen leaf.

  Wiping ineffectually at the mud stains that had probably ruined the suit for ever, the first stirrings of rebellion stirred to life. She was sick to death of being made to feel that her existence was of no importance whatever. Her cousin hated her for some warped reason of his own and her husband didn't give a damn so long as she was an available body in his bed. A body he could use and punish.

  She wasn't going to stand for it any longer!

  She doubled her pace, her high heels beating a determined tattoo on the wet pavements, her shoulders straight. She still loved Jude but she wasn't going to allow him to make her feel defeated, shabby, worthless. Nor would she allow him to use her body to wreak his own savage brand of vengeance. He gave her no quarter. He made love to her with an eroticism that shamed her when, -in the clear light of morning, she recalled the depths of response he was so easily able to draw from her. Somehow, she was going to regain her self-respect!

  His lovemaking was a bitter travesty of what they had shared earlier on in their marriage. Erotic it might be, but it was also a method of marking her as his pos-session, murdering her pride, making her hate herself for her uninhibited and ungovernable response.

  Not any more, though. If there were to be any hope for the future of their marriage at all then it would have to be in name only until their differences were resolved—if they ever could be. She would use the guestroom, or move out altogether, and to hell with his objections, because the sort of marriage they had at this moment wasn't worth a damn.

  Despite the now drenching rain, her neat pointed chin was set at a grimly determined angle as she ran up the four shallow steps that led to the front door and hunted through her handbag for her key. But the door swung open before her chilled fingers had located the key and Jude snapped, 'Where the hell have you been?'

  A frisson of distaste snaked through her and her mouth compressed to a tight line as she pushed past him into the hall. Let him rage if he wanted—she was about to show him she had a mind of her own and would not be treated like worthless garbage!

  The old Cleo was back, her fighting spirit stronger than ever after its absence during the last ten days.

  'To discuss the future of Slade Securities with Luke,' she answered him tartly, then swung past him. 'Excuse me, I have to get out of these wet things.'

  But he caught her, pulling her round, and there was nothing gentle about his grip as hard fingers bit into the fragile bones of her shoulders.

  'Luke?' he queried nastily, his eyes narrow azure slits. 'Or was it Fenton?'

  Cleo drew in a tired breath, striving to hold on to her new determination to hold her own. 'Luke,' she emphasised stonily, shuddering inside as his fingers bit more deeply. 'And if you don't believe me--'

  'Why should I believe anything you say--' he interrupted cuttingly, 'when I walked in on a truth that turned everything you'd ever said or done into a living lie! And if; as you say, you were having a meeting with Luke, why didn't you ask Thornwood to fetch you? Why. choose to struggle home through the rain?' He released her, as if he couldn't bear to be this close, his mouth twisting with distance as he told her, 'You didn't ask for Thornwood because you didn't want him knowing where you'd spent the afternoon, he might have let something slip. So you thought it more prudent to make your own way home, regardless of what I might think when you tried to sneak in, looking like a drowned rat! Or were you counting on getting home before me?'

  'Get lost!' The words were low and furious. 'You've got a sick mind.' She pushed the sodden briefcase at him. 'You'll find all my conclusions here.

  Luke approved them, but only because he was convinced everything he read was your idea!' she snapped bitterly, stalking away from him and stamping up the stairs.

  Her anger
was burned out by the time she emerged from the shower and wrapped herself in a giant blue towel. She might have expected his odious suspicions. He was paranoid where she was concerned. Nothing would convince him that she and Fenton weren't lovers. It was like a worm, eating into his soul, changing him into a man she didn't know.

  Morosely, she rubbed herself dry and padded to the hanging cupboard to find something to wear. Something restrained, dignified. Because, over dinner, she was going to deliver her ultimatum. He must leave her alone, physically, allow her to use the guest-room—or to move out—until he was ready to listen to her explanation of her relationship with Robert Fenton.

  And then, if necessary, if he still couldn't trust her word, he could check with Luke. Luke knew Fenton had been trying to blackmail her.

  Thus, bleakly and coldly decided, she reached to the back of the cupboard and pulled out a grey wool skirt, slightly flared, with its matching waistcoat.

  Worn with a crisp apple green shirt the outfit made her look severe and controlled. Which was precisely the effect she was aiming for.

  Bolstered by her appearance—a modicum of makeup and her hair clipped back behind her ears with good old-fashioned kirby grips helped—she braced herself to deliver a mouthful of plain speaking. And at least she had her timing right, she thought relievedly as she tucked in behind Meg and the heated trolley. She would not now have to endure a pre-dinner drink with the man who so plainly found her beneath contempt, who thought lying was a way of life for her.

  'Something smells good,' Cleo remarked politely. Her mind had never been further from food, but Meg always took trouble and her efforts deserved to be recognised.

  The housekeeper gave her a warm, comfortable smile, 'Lamb casserole with chocolate fudge sponge to follow. You won't mind, madam, if I leave you to it?' She trundled the trolley into the drawing-room, to the small table in the alcove where Cleo and Jude often ate when they were alone to save Meg the bother of setting the huge table in the formal dining-room.

  The table, Cleo noted drily, was set with two covers, candles, silver and crystal—all the right props for a romantic dinner for two. But there was no romance in this marriage, just mistrust and a whole load of agony, she mourned silently as Jude laid aside the papers he'd been concentrating on and stood up, a whisky-glass in his hand, bleak tension in his eyes.

  'I was beginning to think you'd decided to go out again,' he commented bitingly.

  Meg, seemingly unaware of the undercurrents that thickened the air, made the atmosphere volatile, carried on with what she'd been saying. 'Only there's a film on television we both want to watch. But I'll be down later to clear away.'

  'That's fine, Meg.' Cleo had her mistress-of-the-house act honed to perfection and she smiled encouragingly as she took the hot plates and dishes from the trolley. 'Run along, Meg. I can see to this. You don't want to miss the beginning.'

  She heard Jude cross the room as she ladled the herby, aromatic casserole on to plates and tried to relax muscles that had instinctively stiffened. He sat opposite her, his face stony, and as he unfolded his napkin she handed him his plate of meat and then sat in front of hers, knowing she wouldn't be able to eat a thing.

  'I've skimmed through your conclusions,' he imparted coldly as he helped himself to new potatoes and courgettes. 'But I distinctly recall having asked you to consult me before putting anything in front of Luke.'

  'Perhaps you did.' Those shares were the only thing he seemed interested in nowadays, she thought sourly— the only thing of hers, at least. She pushed a piece of meat around her plate, still clinging to her air of poised control because she was going to need it when she told him she would not be sharing his bed, and perhaps not even his roof, until things were resolved between them.

  'You know damned well I did.' His voice was quiet, level, almost soft, and that was more nerve-racking than if he'd shouted. It was the dangerous tone he used when hauling some unfortunate Mescal Slade employee over the coals if the hapless person had had the misfortune to annoy him. She shuddered slightly, and he must have noticed the involuntary tremor because his eyes met hers, hard and cold. He poured her a glass of burgundy, which she ignored, and she choked back hot words and found a tone to equal his.

  'I don't work for you any more. You did the firing and suggested I move to Slade—if you remember.' She pushed her food around some more, just for something to do with her hands. 'I'm under no obligation to consult you at this stage. I prefer to handle this my own way.'

  'The idea was,' he laid his cutlery aside, eyeing her frigidly, 'that we should work together to get the company back on its feet. Or had you forgotten?'

  The look he gave her made her want to run away and hide, but she resisted the cowardly impulse and draped one arm over the back of her chair, achieving a casual elegance she was proud of, and told him dismissively, 'It was your idea, not mine. In any case, I don't quite see how it could be managed without a certain degree of accord—something which our relationship distinctly lacks. So I do this alone, or not at all. And talking of togetherness--' she ousted yet another cowardly surge of desire to remove herself from the room and studiedly re-applied herself to her cooling food, even managing to get a tiny onion as far as her mouth '—I'm going to have to insist that we sleep separately from now on. I want nothing more to do with you physically until—;

  'Why not?' he cut in smoothly, giving her no time to finish what she had intended to say. 'When you enjoy it so much. We both know I only have to touch you to turn you on.'

  And that left her floundering, her cheeks flaming. It was precisely because he could so easily make her want him, need him, abandon her scruples, that she had to sleep alone! She could endure the feeling of degradation no longer!

  'Or is it because you are seeing Fenton again, getting all the satisfaction you can handle?' he added silkily, his eyes slitted and dangerous.

  Blinking back the pain of incipient tears, fighting the racking ache in her chest, she pushed herself out of her chair. She didn't have to take this! She wouldn't take it!

  Her mouth set in a furious line as all pretence of control deserted her, and she ground out, 'I want a divorce.'

  It was pointless to go on trying, to even pretend to hope that things could come right for them again. As soon as she'd realised he would never listen to what she had to say in her own defence she should have known it was all over. So why put herself through this agony, the agony of loving a man who only wanted to punish her, and go on punishing her—for a crime she hadn't even committed?

  'I've been waiting for this.' She could almost see the violent emotion that emanated from him, and his eyes were narrowed, taking in the flush of rage that burned along her cheekbones, the glitter of angry tears in wide grey eyes. 'I've wondered when you'd get around to asking.'

  At his icy words the rage left her, just like that, and she clutched at the back of her chair. Did he mean he'd been waiting for the suggestion to come from her because he wanted out of a marriage that had become intolerable? And had she unknowingly hoped, against all common sense, that he would throw every objection in the book at her, say that, despite everything he still wanted her in his life, that he needed her?

  And then he did say that much, but the same words can mean different things, and her face turned paper- white as he drawled, 'Divorce you so that you can marry Fenton, with the so-called Slade Millions safely in your control? No way.' He thrust his chair back savagely, his height, his breadth of shoulder diminishing her. And his face was austere, tight-fleshed, but a derisory dent appeared at one side of his hard mouth as he told her, 'You used me to gain control of your inheritance, the money you needed to lavish on your lover in order to keep him. But it stops there. Right there. There's no way I'm going to hand you your freedom on a plate. You're my wife and that's something you're going to have to learn to live with. And I mean live with. While you're my wife you'll share my roof-space, share my bed.'

  It was the most demeaning thing he could have said to her, a
nd she didn't know whether she loved him or hated him now. Both, she supposed, the one being almost indistinguishable from the other. And misery and shame goaded her on.

  'There's nothing to stop me walking out on you and going to him,' she flashed recklessly, stung by his hateful words, saying anything at all she could think of that might hurt him as much as he had repeatedly hurt her.

  And strangely, she felt back in control again, almost coldly so, with only a residue of fury left to inject a very slight tremor into her voice as she curled her mouth down in a sneer. 'According to the way you view me, I'm not the type of woman to balk at walking out on my husband and going to live with my lover.'

  There was just a moment of complete silence, very still, heavy, just one moment when she felt she had the upper hand, though she knew she didn't want it. And then he warned, his voice like ice, 'Do that, and I will drag you back, kicking and screaming. And that's a promise. Wherever you go, I'll find you, and make you pay, and go on paying.'

  CHAPTER TEN

  CLEO spent the next ten days at Slade House. She had left a terse note for Jude, telling him where she was going, and had explained to a sympathetic Meg that she needed to spend time with her uncle, who was a sick man.

  She could have gone to her former home, but she'd heard that a firm offer had been made for the property in Bow. Besides, Jude would have had no hesitation in dragging her back, but even he would think twice about the wisdom of dragging her from her uncle's home.

  Most of her days were spent in the office in Eastcheap with Luke and others of the board, and she managed to ignore his surly attitude, taking what comfort she could from the knowledge that her plans for Slade Securities looked like working—with no help from Jude. And Grace had confided that her husband seemed much better, more relaxed, now Cleo had joined the company. And that information had to be welcome, not only because of the improvement in John Slade's health but because it meant, in some measure, that Grace was almost ready to accept her at last. Her remark must have cost her something, since it hardly flattered her beloved son!