Tomorrow's Bride

by Alexandra Scott

  Please—she raised expressive eyes to .look at him across the font—please help me. And, as if he understood, his expression softened, grew encouraging—at least, she imagined so—as she heard her own voice, in response to the queries from the American pastor, giving the expected answers.

  Then it was his turn. Pauli was transferred by his mother from Leigh's arms to Patrick's and no one, seeing the expert way he settled the child in the crook of his arm, the soothing way he patted him when for an instant the child seemed unsettled, could fail to be impressed. And deeply affected. Then the voice, firm and confident, with the same promise that would always send shivers down her spine.

  When his eyes returned to hers guilty colour stained her skin as she realised for the first time, how intent, maybe even hungry, her manner had been, and that was all to do with the dream her mind had been fixed on. No, not that other one, though there was an indisputable connection; this was a daydream in which, had things worked out differently, they were at their own child's christening. For a few delicious moments she had been back at Loughskerrie, in that lovely Georgian house, and surrounded by all those exuberant, friendly Cavours, with his parents and hers celebrating the baptism of a grandchild.

  The pain of it, and the joy, was a torment. Numbly she watched as he handed the child back to his mother, and the dream faded simultaneously. She and Patrick returned to their seats, and they even shared a prayer book for the final responses, his voice firm and melodious, hers, to her own ears, thin and shaky, wholly lacking in confidence.

  There was relief in getting back to the flat and the buffet luncheon produced by caterers. There she could quite easily detach herself; she need never speak another word to him If that was how she felt, not even goodbye, though that would be easy, she decided balefully. She was free to mingle, to chat and laugh with other guests, to enjoy herself, for heaven's sake, which was surely one of the purposes of the occasion and which she hadn't done so far, thanks to him. It was even possible that then* views on that would coincide.

  And as it happened there were several men present who seemed more than willing to help her do just that. One in particular, an American who told her he had been at college with Paul, insisted on exchanging telephone numbers with her, in spite of the fact that she couldn't summon the energy to offer any encouragement.

  Possibly that was because she was too interested in what was happening at the other side of the room, where Patrick, lounging against the wall directly in her line of vision, seemed to have appropriated the two most attractive women present for his own personal pleasure. And theirs—she determined to be fair. Oh, yes, and theirs.

  Cautiously sipping the ice-cold champagne, eyes only vaguely fixed in a certain direction, she drifted casually across, exchanging a word here and there until she was almost within earshot. The taller of the two women, the one with the stunning auburn hair rippling to her shoulders, was another American; she couldn't catch the accent of the other, who was less flamboyant but, she guessed, more Patrick's type.

  A joyful burst of laughter from the trio forced her to raise her head disapprovingly, and at that very moment Patrick glanced her way. She felt herself begin to colour as his smile faded; his words confirmed that he was aware of her curiosity.

  'Don't stand on the fringe, Leigh.' How dared he imply...? 'Let me introduce you to Paul's cousin and a friend from LA.' And he completed the introductions while she simmered quietly, barely giving her time to take in their names. And then almost at once his presence was required elsewhere and she was left, mind totally blank, unable to think of a sensible thing to say.

  'You know Patrick well, Leigh?' The redhead was following him with her eyes, and Leigh found that she was doing the same.

  'Well?' She considered. 'I can't say I know him well, exactly.' How easily lies came tripping from the tongue. 'I met him—oh, some time ago.'

  'Some time ago?' the woman queried in a gently mocking tone. 'You must be spoiled with attractive men if you don't remember precisely. / can remember precisely—date, time, place-where I first met him.'

  'Oh?' It seemed safer to make no further enquiries about that, and in any case a few more guests had joined them and the conversation moved on, but she couldn't rid herself of awareness of him, even when she deliberately turned her back.

  A little later she saw that the redhead had cornered him again—or had it been the other way round? Whatever, she was sparkling wildly and he was lapping it up. A sudden unwelcome vision came into her mind. She saw that beautiful Titian hair spread out on pillows—how seductive... You could hardly blame a man for... Oh, damn it. Firmly she turned and walked from the room. She was mad, persevering with this self-torture; let them do what they wanted—it was nothing to her what he did. With Ines da Silva or itinerant Americans, she simply didn't care, and the pain that was tearing at her was bound to ease soon. But it was impossible to escape for long. Soon Holly winkled her out. 'You must come, love; the speeches are about to begin and I think Paul is going to say nice things about you.' So she was ushered willy-nilly to that end of the room, forced to smile at the flattering references, which naturally included both godparents, and with Patrick standing close enough to touch it took all her powers of self-control.

  After all the more obvious toasts there was one to the godparents, and she and Patrick had no choice but to turn to each other, glasses raised, hypocritical smiles in place, while a few camera bulbs flashed. She imagined it was as unwelcome to him as it was to her. Only by fixing her eyes firmly on a pattern on the wallpaper, just to the left of his shoulder, was she able to preserve an appearance of detachment and enjoyment. But the moment the formality was over she turned abruptly and sought the solace of the nursery.

  Soon there were sounds of guests leaving. Her sense of relief and release was enormous, and she emerged from the nursery just as Holly crossed the hall and began to make her excuses. 'He refuses to wake up for his godmother.' She smiled and shrugged philosophically. 'So I'm having to hope that tomorrow things will be better.'

  'Oh, love, do you have to go away so soon?'

  'I think I should—and you still have your relatives with you. If it's still all right I'll come round in the morning. You do remember I said I wasn't going back till late afternoon? We can have a real heart to heart then. Provided-----' she raised an eyebrow in the direction of her host, who had just come forward to join them '—provided Paul III assures me he'll have returned to his money-bags by then.'

  'You're making me regret the important meeting I have at nine-thirty. I would much rather listen to you two letting your hah- down.'

  'But that would spoil all the fun, wouldn't it?' Holly kissed her friend on both cheeks. 'And thank you, Leigh, for being such a perfect godmother. In fact-----' she turned to her husband for confirmation'—if we had searched the length and breadth of the country we couldn't have found better-looking godparents.'

  'I'll settle for the glamorous godmother,' Paul draped an arm round his wife's shoulders. 'And that hat—it's been the talk of the afternoon.'

  'Oh, yes, the hat.' Leigh wrinkled her nose. "That reminds me—I left it in the nursery. I'd better go and pick it up.'

  There she and Holly found that Pauli was being fed, and somehow Leigh was holding him again, while the girl who was helping consulted his mother about some little adjustments to his cot. She even found she was enjoying it. His cheek against hers was so incredibly soft, the tiny fingers were reaching out to catch her hair, and she propped him against her shoulder, walked up and down once or twice, rubbing his back in what she thought was the approved way.

  She had no idea she was being watched till she passed a mirrored cupboard, and she stopped abruptly as she stared into the unwavering eyes of Patrick Cavour. For just a moment she was transfixed, paralysed by the rush, the deluge of emotions which tore at her senses... Something in his eyes added to her pain—a slight frown, an expression which made her long to rush forward, say something—anything that might begin to soothe... />
  'Here, Leigh, let me.' Holly smiled as she appropriated her son. 'Leaving you all this time...' Then they walked into the hall to find—of course; she might have guessed—Paul with Patrick by the door. 'It's all arranged. Patrick volunteered to see you back, Leigh. He doesn't mind a bit.' Holly grinned at Patrick and lowered her voice confidentially. 'Leigh imagines you have to be coerced into offering to take her anywhere. As if any normal male wouldn't jump at the chance.'

  Too incensed to say anything, Leigh remained silent until they were in the elevator and then, hoping her voice wouldn't show exactly how furious she felt, said, 'I'd be grateful, Patrick—' thank heavens she sounded cool and detached '—if we could stop at the concierge's office. I can call a cab from there. There's no reason for you to get your car out again.'

  'If that's what you want.'

  For an instant she was shocked—in spite of apparently getting her own way, she had not expected him to give in so easily. If not an argument at least he might have gone through the motions, however insincere.

  ‘Best thing-----' Patrick interrupted her thoughts '—would be to call from my apartment. ‘The concierge is often having a break about now.'

  So she found herself following him along the corridor, hesitating outside his door, then stepping reluctantly into the hallway, watching as he crossed to the telephone alcove.

  'You know...' He had begun to dial a number, and for a moment she was too involved with her roused emotions to realise that it was to her he was speaking. She swung round from the water-colour she had been examining so intently. 'You have a mark down the back of that beautiful jacket you're wearing.' She watched the receiver being replaced, aware as he came towards her that her heart was beating madly in her chest, that if he should touch her she couldn't guarantee what her reaction would be... 'If you would like to take it off I could try...'

  'Oh, yes?' Thank goodness she had found the strength to smile with cynical disbelief.

  'It looks-----' his voice was clipped, matter-of-fact and crushing '—very much like milk.'

  'Oh.' For an instant she was taken aback, then it began to register how she had taken the baby, soothing him against her shoulder, and wasn't regurgitation one of their favourite pastimes in those circumstances? 'Oh,' she said again, this time shaking her head in faint resignation.

  'If you would like to give me your jacket, I'll do my best to clean it.'

  'Thank you.' She undid the buttons, slipping the jacket from her shoulders and handing it to him, conscious that her brief camisole top was more than a little provocative. Only, she wasn't going to allow him to imagine that she was nervous, that she was afraid of her own reactions, and besides... she had herself to convince as well... She followed him to the kitchen—all gleaming navy units, shining steel and smoky glass—watching as he dealt quickly and efficiently with the dribble, finishing off with a slightly damp cloth, rubbing it with a clean tea-towel and then offering it to her.

  ‘There you are. I don't think there's any permanent damage and it's not damp enough to cause rheumatics.' He watched impassively as she shrugged herself back into the garment, fastening it with shaking fingers, and she was very relieved, so she told herself, that no decision was required of her. She had been so certain—afraid, rather, she corrected herself quickly—afraid that events might have been conspiring to lead her in that direction, although it was something of an anticlimax to discover that there was no need to fight him off, that he was apparently as unwilling as she was to resume...

  ‘There was something else...' He left her. She followed as far as the hall but waited outside the bedroom, looking at him when he returned, still suspicious. He had something concealed in one hand and this was held out towards her; she found herself looking at the blue necklace she had worn when she was out with Kyle.

  'Yours, I think.' He was unsmiling, accusing enough to bring heat burning into her face.

  'Yes, thank you. I realised I had lost it when I got back to the flat.'

  'I found it beside your chair and recognised it.'

  Oh, I see.' She slipped it into her pocket. 'It isn't worth anything but it's pretty, and I'm glad to have it back.'

  'You don't mind going round with married men?' Now he was coldly stern and judgmental. How she hated people who never allowed others the benefit of the doubt.

  'I'm sorry?' she frowned, halfway between anger and condescending amusement.

  'I suggested-----' now emotions were beginning to show and he spoke with force, through his teeth '—that you like to go about with married men.'

  'And if I do?' Humiliation made her determined to strike back. 'Can you explain how it is any business of yours?'

  'Only to the extent that I expected different standards from you.'

  Seething now with barely controlled anger, she had to resist the inclination to spit out the words. 'By sheer chance I had dinner with Kyle Lessor, who just happens to be my boss. End of story. I suppose even you have at some time been taken out to dinner by your employer without attracting adverse comments?' Now she directed the anger towards herself, irritated that she was choosing to explain...

  'What in this case attracts comment is that Kyle, for all his laid-back manner, has something of a reputation. From what I'm told he seems to be working his way through every available female in the Palais.' 'How dare you?'

  He raised an eyebrow, clearly not following her train of thought.

  'How dare you assume that I'm one of what you call "available" females at the Palais? I notice you never refer to men in that way, or is that-----' her brilliant eyes sparkled with passionate resentment '—because men are always available?'

  'Some undoubtedly are.' His anger was less apparent than hers, showing only in the tightness of the jaw, the clenched teeth and the narrowed eyes, though she had little doubt that it was equally intense. 'Everything I've heard about your employer inclines me to think of him as a philanderer, and-----'

  'I think you'll agree that I know him as well as anyone, with-----'

  ‘That is exactly what I'm afraid of.'

  'You,' she said coldly, 'have no right to be afraid. But what I was going to say-----' the idea had just come to her, and she grasped it eagerly '—was that I know him as well as anyone, with the possible exception of your companion of the other night.' She smiled sourly. 'Perhaps you ought to be interrogating Inés.'

  'What is that supposed to mean?'

  'I mean that rumour has it that Kyle and Inés da Suva had something pretty exciting going for them at one time.'

  'I'm surprised you listen to idle gossip.' His expression seemed disapproving.

  'Oh, I don't know, it can be quite diverting, and besides, in a place like Strasbourg it's rather difficult to avoid. And, from what you've just been saying, you aren't exactly averse to listening yourself. But then I expect her pillow-talk is careful to edit out any detail which concerns herself.' She couldn't imagine what had brought that phrase to her mind, much less what had brought the words to her lips. During the seemingly endless pause she had time enough to wish the words unsaid; they were so utterly tasteless, and, besides, if he should choose to probe beneath the surface, so revealing. Moreover, she didn't really think he was already embarked on an affair with In6s—did she?

  'Being bitchy doesn't suit you, Leigh.'

  'No?' If she had been in any other place, with any other company, she would have broken down then; she would have wept with sheer misery and frustration. But Patrick Cavour was the one man in the world who must never learn of her weaknesses. In front of him she must maintain an air of cool detachment and produce, if it was at all possible, a certain amused condescension. 'It might not suit me but, strangely enough, I find it most enjoyable.'

  'I find that rather hard to believe, knowing you as I once did.'

  At that she laughed, and remembered it later as a shrill and shaming sound, cheap and degrading. 'That was in a different life, Patrick, and maybe we've both changed—more than either of us would like to admit.' '
You're probably right.'

  'Of course I'm right.' Again she felt close to tears, and felt she had no choice but to attack. 'You shouldn't be naive enough to imagine that others have changed, for the worse in my case-----' she flung that charge at him '—while you have remained your old sweet self. Unfortunately, not many of us do.'

  'I don't think anyone who really knows me would ever describe me as naive, and of course I accept what you say. But-----' his voice mellowed, and there was a note of reflection which held her spellbound '—I hope you don't get the impression that I consider all the changes in you are for the worse.'

  The wide violet eyes were watching carefully; she hardly dared to move.

  'No, you have changed from a very pretty girl into a stunningly beautiful woman, and I don't think there's a man living who wouldn't, having seen you, want to make love to you...'

  Aware of something happening to her, a softening which a few moments earlier would have seemed impossible, she still stared, her eyes dark and limpid.

  'That's why it all seems...'

  For a moment she was still too entranced by the first words to notice, then the final ones told her where he was leading, and she was instantly all sparky and defensive. 'Yes, it all seems... such a pity? Is that what you were going to say? Or perhaps——' she made a great play of serious consideration '—yes, sordid would have been a better choice, wouldn't you agree?'