Marriage at a Distance (Presents, 2093)

by Sara Craven

  “Is it a deal?”

  “I—guess it has to be,” Joanna whispered.

  “Graciously spoken, as always,” he murmured. “What did you do with your wedding ring?”

  “It’s in my pocket.”

  Gabriel held out a hand. “Give it to me.”

  He slid the ring onto her finger.

  “I’m sure you’ve no wish to repeat our vows…. However, I feel I should seal this solemn moment somehow…. So I’ll kiss the bride.”

  SARA CRAVEN was born in south Devon, England, and grew up surrounded by books, in a house by the sea. After leaving grammar school she worked as a local journalist, covering everything from flower shows to murders. She started writing for Harlequin in 1975. Apart from writing, her passions include films, music, cooking and eating in good restaurants. She now lives in Somerset.

  Sara Craven has recently become the latest (and last ever) winner of the British quiz show Mastermind.

  Books by Sara Craven

  HARLEQUIN PRESENTS®

  1999—A NANNY FOR CHRISTMAS

  2058—MARRIAGE UNDER SUSPICION

  2077—IRRESISTIBLE TEMPTATION

  Sara Craven

  MARRIAGE AT A DISTANCE

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE air in the study was stale and cold. It was gloomy, too, with the curtains at the long windows half drawn against a February dusk.

  But the girl who sat curled up in the big leather chair beside the fireplace had not switched on any of the lamps, or lit the neatly laid fire waiting in the grate.

  Her only response to the chill in the room had been to spread an old velvet smoking jacket over her legs like a rug. And every so often she looked down at it, touching the worn pile gently, breathing the faint aroma of cigars that rose from it.

  Impossible to think that Lionel would never wear it again. That he would never come in through that door, large, loud and unrelentingly kind, rubbing his hands together and exclaiming about the weather, his face red from tramping over the hills with the dogs, or riding out on his latest hunter.

  When the new chestnut had come back yesterday without him, Sadie, his girl groom, had said dourly that she’d warned him the horse was too fresh. But the worst they’d expected was that Lionel had been thrown, perhaps suffered a broken collarbone.

  Instead, as Dr Fraser had told them, the massive heart attack that he’d suffered had probably knocked him from the saddle. It was also, he’d added gently, the way Lionel would have wanted to go.

  Joanna could accept that. Lionel had always been restless, she thought. Always active. Since his retirement as chairman of Verne Investments five years ago, he’d been forever looking for ways to fill his days. He would never have wanted to be chronically ill, perhaps bedridden, the rush and bustle he’d thrived on denied him.

  But that did not make it any less of a shock for those left behind, she thought, the muscles in her throat tightening.

  And the question endlessly revolving in her tired mind was, What’s going to happen to me now?

  Because Lionel’s death had changed everything. Taken all the old certainties away with him.

  Until yesterday she’d been Joanna Verne, his daughter-in-law. The girl who ran the house for him and dealt with all the boring domestic issues he hated to be plagued with.

  Twenty-four hours later she was little better than a displaced person. The estranged wife of Lionel’s son and heir, Gabriel Verne, who had spent the last two years of their inimical separation storming round the globe, building on the success of Verne Investments, turning his father and himself from the merely rich to the mega-rich.

  Gabriel, who would now be coming back to claim Westroe Manor, and also to rid himself finally of the wife he’d never wanted. And her stepmother, she acknowledged wryly.

  In the distance she heard the doorbell jangle, and she pushed the encumbering folds of the jacket away and got to her feet.

  She’d asked Henry Fortescue, Lionel’s solicitor, to call, and she didn’t want him to find her lurking here in the dark like this. She owed it to herself—and to Lionel—to put a brave face on things.

  She moved swiftly, rattling the curtains along their poles to exclude the last remnants of grey daylight, switching on the central pendant, and kneeling to put a match to the kindling. By the time Mr Fortescue was shown into the room by Mrs Ashby, the flames were licking at the coal and the study looked altogether more cheerful.

  Henry Fortescue’s face was strained and sad. He and Lionel had been close since boyhood, she remembered sympathetically as she rose from the hearthrug, dusting her hands on her denim jeans.

  He came across to her and took her hand. ‘Joanna, my dear. I’m so sorry—so very sorry. I can still hardly believe it.’

  ‘Nor I.’ She patted his sleeve. ‘I’m going to have a whisky. Will you join me?’

  The surprise on his face brought a reluctant smile to her lips. She said with gentle irony, ‘I am old enough. And I think we could both do with one.’

  ‘And I’m sure you’re right.’ He smiled back at her with an effort. ‘But only a very small one, please. I’m driving.’

  ‘Highland water with it?’ Joanna busied herself with the decanter and glasses on a corner table.

  ‘Oh, yes. I wouldn’t insult Lionel’s memory by diluting his best malt with soda.’

  He raised the glass she handed him with slight awkwardness. ‘What shall we drink to?’

  ‘I think—absent friends, don’t you?’ They shared the toast, then sat opposite each other on either side of the fireplace.

  After a pause, he said, ‘And how is Mrs Elcott?’

  Joanna bit her lip. ‘In her room. She’s—devastated.’

  ‘I’m sure she is,’ Henry Fortescue said with a certain dryness. ‘It must be intensely frustrating for her to know that her hopes will never now be fulfilled.’

  Joanna raised her eyebrows. ‘That, dearest Mr Fortescue, was almost indiscreet,’ she observed with mock reproof.

  ‘I intended it to be,’ he returned robustly. ‘I knew exactly what she was after and I didn’t like it, either as Lionel’s friend or his lawyer.’

  Joanna sighed. ‘Lionel, as we both know, was too kind for his own good. Look how he’s always treated me.’

  He frowned. ‘I hope you’re not equating your situation with your stepmother’s. It was perfectly natural for Lionel to offer you a home after your father died. Your mother was his favourite cousin, after all. But Cynthia had no claim on his generosity at all. Why, she and Jeremy had only been married a matter of months when the accident happened. She was a total stranger to him.’

  He shook his head sternly. ‘She was a young, healthy woman. Still is, for that matter. There was nothing to prevent her finding another secretarial job—making a life for herself. But instead she moved herself in here—on your coat-tails, as it were.’ He snorted. ‘She should have been the one running the house all this time. I know that was Lionel’s intention.’

  ‘Oh, I never minded.’ Joanna tasted her drink, savouring the smoky warmth caressing her throat. ‘Besides, housekeeping has never been Cynthia’s forte.’

  ‘And what is?’ His tone was sceptical.

  Joanna wrinkled her nose. ‘Being decorative, I suppose.’

  Which I never was, she thought with a pang of pain
, remembering her shrinking teen self waiting to be introduced to her father’s new wife, only to be devastated by a sweeping, dismissive look and a laughing, ‘Goodness, what a Plain Jane’.

  ‘Anyway, none of it will be for much longer,’ Joanna went on hurriedly. ‘I hope she hasn’t lost her secretarial skills, at least, because I can’t see Gabriel allowing her to become his pensioner.’ She paused. ‘Or myself, of course.’

  Mr Fortescue shifted uncomfortably. ‘Joanna—Mrs Verne—you will naturally have certain rights…’

  ‘Alimony—things like that.’ She forced a smile. ‘I don’t want them. And please don’t call me Mrs Verne. I’m reverting to my maiden name as from now.’

  ‘Is that really necessary?’ He sounded troubled.

  ‘Yes,’ Joanna said calmly. ‘Oh, yes.’ She looked down at the amber liquid in her glass. ‘The main reason I asked you here this evening was to beg a favour. I want you to forward a letter from me to Gabriel. Obviously you’ll be in touch with him, and I—I’m not.’

  She bit her lip. ‘While Lionel was here it was impossible to discuss divorce. You know how he felt about it. But everything’s different now.’

  He looked at her gravely. ‘I know he always hoped that you and Gabriel would be reconciled. He blamed himself very much for the breakdown in your relationship. Felt he’d pushed you both into marriage before you were ready.’

  Joanna sat up rather straighter. She said crisply, ‘Even if Gabriel and I had gone through a ten-year engagement with a cooling-off period, it would still have been a disaster. We were completely unsuited.’

  She got to her feet and went over to the desk, picking up a sealed envelope. ‘I’m offering him a quick, clean-break divorce with no blame attached on either side.’ Her smile was small and wintry. ‘Considering his mileage in the gossip columns over the past two years, I call that generous.’

  He said forcefully, ‘As a lawyer, I call it foolhardy.’

  ‘Ah, but you’re Gabriel’s lawyer now, not mine, remember.’ She handed him the envelope. ‘If you would forward it for me, I’d be glad. There’s no reason to delay any longer.’

  He looked down at the letter, frowning a little. ‘Or you could always give it to him yourself.’ He paused, his gaze direct, almost compassionate. ‘You do realise that he’s coming back for the funeral.’

  Joanna could feel the colour drain from her face. ‘I didn’t think he would. Not after that terrible quarrel before he left,’ she said at last. ‘Stupid of me.’

  ‘However bitter the feelings at the time, my dear, Gabriel would hardly absent himself at a time like this. Lionel was loved and respected by the local people, and any sign of disrespect, particularly from his heir, would cause a lot of resentment.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, of course.’ A small harsh laugh choked its way out of her. ‘I—I had no idea he cared so much for the conventions.’

  ‘He’s now the owner of Westroe Manor. He knows his obligations.’

  She said icily, ‘That is not a word I associate with my former husband.’

  She saw a shadow of disapproval on his face, and resumed her seat. ‘I’m sorry. I’m a bit thrown, that’s all. I just thought—I assumed that I’d be allowed a little time—some leeway—to make my own plans before his return.’

  ‘What are your plans?’ His voice was gentle.

  ‘I don’t know yet.’ Joanna shook her head. ‘I keep trying to think—to decide something. But my mind just goes round in circles.’

  ‘It’s early days.’

  ‘Ah, no,’ she said. ‘You’ve just proved to me that it’s later than I think. I shall really have to concentrate.’ She paused. ‘Do you know—have you heard when Gabriel is due?’

  ‘I believe,’ he said carefully, ‘that he will be here the day after tomorrow.’ He hesitated. ‘He has asked for the reading of the will to be delayed until after the funeral.’

  ‘How very traditional.’ Joanna gripped her hands together in her lap, aware that they were shaking. ‘He really does mean to play Lord of the Manor.’

  ‘I don’t think there was ever any doubt of that.’ Henry Fortescue finished his whisky and put the tumbler aside. ‘Do you still wish me to deliver your letter?’

  ‘Under the circumstances, it’s probably easier for me to do it myself,’ she acknowledged wearily. ‘I’m sorry for wasting your time.’

  ‘You never do that, Joanna. And I intended to call on you, anyway.’ He shook hands with her, gravely studying her pale face and shadowed eyes. ‘A word of advice,’ he added gently. ‘I wouldn’t be too hasty about dropping your husband’s name, at least until the funeral is over. Remember what I said about local opinion. The next few days are bound to be hard enough, without creating extra difficulties—resentments—for yourself.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, almost inaudibly. ‘I’m sure you’re right. Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll see myself out.’ He patted her hand and went. Presently she heard him talking to Mrs Ashby, and then the sound of the front door closing.

  She leaned back in the big chair. It wasn’t just her hands any more. Her whole body was trembling violently—uncontrollably.

  The shock of Lionel’s sudden death had stunned her into overlooking its most direct consequence, she realised numbly.

  Gabriel hadn’t been near Westroe Manor for two years, making the breach between them absolute, and she’d presumed he would take his time over his return, that he would be too busy being the Superman of the financial world all day and the playboy of the western world all night to concern himself with his old home. Especially a home that contained his unwanted and discarded wife.

  Did he even know that she was still living there? she wondered. Or that she’d been managing the house and staff for his father?

  But of course he did, she corrected herself derisively. Gabriel made it his business to know everything.

  A sudden image of his thin, dark face, with those insolent, heavy-lidded eyes, tawny as a leopard’s, and that narrow-lipped, mocking mouth flared into her mind, and was instantly dismissed.

  She did not want to remember Gabriel’s mouth, or his hands, or the lean, vibrant body which had so fleetingly made her his possession.

  The events of the few brief nights she’d spent with him were stamped on her consciousness for ever, however many times she’d tried to erase them. And so were the contemptuous words with which he’d finally ended them.

  ‘I think I’ll do us both a favour, and find some other form of entertainment.’ His icy drawl had cut across her quivering senses like the lash of a whip.

  And he’d been as good as his word, she thought bitterly. He’d made no secret of his infidelities, staying away for longer and longer periods that even Lionel could not pretend had any connection with work any more.

  And then, one day, Gabriel had returned. But only to collect the rest of his things. He was leaving, he said, permanently this time.

  Inevitably there’d been a showdown—one blazing, terrifying row. Father and son had faced each other like enemies. Harsh, unforgivable things had been said on both sides, while she’d crouched between them, her hands over her ears, begging them to stop.

  ‘You’ll stay here, damn you,’ Lionel had roared. ‘And do your duty by your wife—if she’s prepared to forgive you. Or you’ll never enter this house again.’

  She’d looked up at Gabriel, her lips mutely forming the word ‘Please’, not knowing even then if she was begging him to go or to stay. The tawny eyes had flicked over her, bathing her in flame.

  Then: ‘I’m sorry,’ Gabriel said derisively. ‘But there are some sacrifices no man should be called on to make.’

  And he’d gone.

  She’d wanted to go too, distressed at the trouble the failure of their marriage had caused and tormented by her memories, but Lionel had forbidden it.

  ‘You’re my daughter-in-law, and the mistress of this house,’ he’d stated, his tone brooking no opposition. ‘Your home remains here.’


  But perhaps she should have stood up to him. Insisted on leaving. Her final school examination results had been respectable enough to win her a training course at a polytechnic, if not a place at university. By now she could have embarked on a career. Had a life of her own. But she’d stayed, feeling that she owed Lionel something more than loyalty, because he’d placed himself at odds with his only son for her sake.

  Not that their marriage breakdown had been the only point at issue, she reminded herself wearily. Lionel’s relationship with Gabriel had always been a volatile one. As father and son, apart from the shrewd business brains they shared, they had always been chalk and cheese.

  They didn’t even look alike. Lionel had been ruggedly built and fair-haired, with a florid complexion. Gabriel was equally tall, but his body was lean, like whipcord. And his dark, saturnine good looks were wholly derived from his Italian mother.

  Temperamentally, they’d been poles apart too. Lionel had been bluff, outspoken and sentimental. A man who enjoyed life openly and always had a good word for his neighbours.

  Gabriel, on the other hand…

  Ah, she thought. What was Gabriel? Had she ever really known?

  There were the surface attributes, of course. The quiet, rather drawling voice, the attractive, crooked smile, the athleticism, the raw courage he displayed on the polo field and riding in point-to-points, the icy nerve he brought to his business dealings. But none of these gave any real clue to what was going on in his mind.

  He seemed, she thought, to watch the world from behind a screen of faint amusement. There’d always been a reserve, a control in his behaviour, even when he’d made love to her—after the first time, at least, she thought, her throat tightening harshly, and this had forced her, in turn, further behind her own barriers of shyness and tension.