Conflict Of Hearts

by Liz Fielding

  ‘Didn’t you know?’ Lizzie responded with a rather brittle brightness. ‘Your brother professes not to have a heart.’

  Olivia’s face creased slightly in concern. ‘He hides it well beneath that cynical exterior. But surely you of all people must know that it’s just a shell. Protective armour?’ Lizzie was unable to speak.

  Misunderstanding her silence, Olivia sat down beside her. ‘He hasn’t told you?’ Then she went on, ‘No, he wouldn’t. He was only seven when our mother fell in love with someone else, Lizzie.’

  Lizzie stared at her. ‘She had an affair?’

  ‘Not just an affair. She left us. Went away one day and never came back.’ She paused. ‘It was a grand passion. I was into Anna Karenina and Madame Bovary at the time, and I’m ashamed to confess that the drama of it all thrilled me witless. I willingly cast my poor father as the boring older husband...’ She sighed. ‘I hope she was happy. They didn’t have long. They died together in a hurricane.’

  ‘A hurricane?’

  ‘He was an American. They lived in Florida.’

  ‘Noah took it badly?’

  ‘Dad got him to write and beg her to come back. Unforgivable, of course, because when she didn’t Noah felt so utterly rejected... It’s not that he’s incapable of love, as one poor girl he discarded once suggested. He’s just never found anyone he could trust with his heart. Until now.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Time to go.’ She touched Lizzie’s cheek. ‘Be happy.’

  The arrival of Elizabeth Mary French at the register office for her marriage to one of London’s favourite bachelors was greeted by a barrage of flashbulbs.

  As she started nervously on her father’s arm he squeezed her hand reassuringly and paused to let the photographers get their pictures. He seemed to have recovered all his old self-assurance, she thought; he had lost that gaunt, haunted look. At least, for now, he was happy, and right now it took all her self-possession to handle her own personal nightmare.

  ‘Ready, sweetheart?’ he asked.

  She took a tighter grip on the silver Victorian flower-holder, with its spray of creamy freesias and tiny crimson rosebuds that Noah had sent her that morning. ‘Yes, I’m ready.’

  There were more people than she had expected gathered in the little room—faces from home—but she only had eyes for Noah. In a superbly cut dark suit, white shirt and a sober dark red tie he stood out head and shoulders, it seemed, from the crowd as his dark head turned at her arrival. He was very still, very grave. Then he extended his hand to her, and in that moment of silence before she took that last, irrevocable step she heard Peter’s sharply indrawn breath.

  A reminder of why she was there, it drove her forward to surrender her hand to this man who so despised her. For a moment it lay there, small and cold, then, with the most courtly gesture, he raised it to his lips.

  ‘Miss French? Mr Jordan?’ The registrar’s brisk voice broke the almost palpable tension. ‘Will you come this way?’

  The wedding service was short, almost brutally to the point. Afterwards they ran the gauntlet of the Press once more, who were this time eagerly demanding a kiss from the newly-weds for their greedy cameras.

  Noah glanced down at her. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Do you?’ He seemed slightly taken aback by her response. In answer to her question he took her face in his hands and kissed her quite breathless. Then Olivia and James appeared behind them on the steps and Olivia played to her adoring gallery, giving Noah and Lizzie an opportunity to escape to the waiting limousine.

  ‘A few moments of peace. We’d better cherish them; there won’t be many more today,’ Noah said, then turned to her. ‘You look quite lovely.’

  ‘But only down as far as my skin.’

  ‘Elizabeth...’ He picked up her hand where it lay on the seat between them, but she snatched it away. She wouldn’t be patronised. Or used because he thought he had her, bought and paid for. He had made his feelings clear enough. And as for hers—well, she would have to live with them. But there would be no more close encounters of the kind that left her bereft of her self-esteem.

  ‘What happens now?’ she asked.

  He hesitated, clearly wanting to say more. Then he shrugged. ‘Mrs Harper will have made us a light lunch. Then she’ll retire discreetly while we—’

  ‘I thought you would be needed at the gallery this afternoon,’ she said quickly.

  ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, but my staff have worked themselves into the ground to make sure I have this afternoon with my bride.’ He touched her cheek with his fingers, turned her to face him. ‘We could always spend the time in a game of chess?’ he offered.

  ‘A warlike game of move and countermove? How very appropriate. But it’s hardly a long-term solution to the problem.’

  ‘Maybe we should go down to the cottage. At least we’ll be on our own there.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘You don’t find the proposition appealing? Well, perhaps you could stay on after the weekend. At least until Wednesday. I’ll think of some good reason why—’

  ‘What’s happening on Wednesday?’ she interrupted.

  ‘You wanted to go to an auction, remember?’

  ‘Oh. Yes.’ Her eyes flickered to his. ‘And will I be allowed to return to the cottage afterwards?’

  ‘We’ll see.’ He turned away. ‘We’ve arrived. Try and look as if you’re happy.’

  ‘An unhappy bride would doubtless be a terrible blow to your reputation.’

  ‘I could live with that. But if you throw a fit of the sulks Mrs Harper will almost certainly think it’s something she has done.’

  And, since Mrs Harper was waiting at the door to offer her congratulations and best wishes, Lizzie did her best to comply. Then she put down her flowers and walked across to the dining room. ‘How are things progressing for this evening?’ she asked. ‘I really should have been here...’ She ran out of words as she took in the extraordinary sight of the dining room decked in flowers, the table stretched to its full length and laid with heavy silver, the finest china and the sparkle of crystal.

  ‘No. We’re all under control, despite the extra numbers. There’s a pile of presents for you. Mr Jordan said to put them in the drawing room.’ Lizzie followed the woman.

  ‘Good grief! Who are they all from?’

  ‘I’ve made a list. When you’ve finished looking at them I’ve laid a table for you in the morning room. I hope you don’t mind, Mr Jordan, only the dining room...’

  ‘That’s fine, Mrs Harper,’ he said absently. ‘Why don’t you serve it now? We’ll be there in a moment.’

  ‘Oh, Noah! This is awful,’ Lizzie said, as soon as Mrs Harper withdrew. ‘I hadn’t considered...’

  ‘Hadn’t you?’ He turned over a label. ‘This one is from Francesca and Peter.’ He picked it up and shook it. ‘I wonder what it is?’

  ‘Stop it!’

  He shrugged and put it down. ‘Keep a note of who they’re all from if you insist. Then you can send them back. Afterwards,’ he added a little grimly. ‘Let’s have some lunch.’

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ she murmured as the awful reality of what they had done began to sink in.

  ‘But I am.’ He offered his hand. ‘Best smile, Mrs Jordan.’

  ‘For Mrs Harper?’

  ‘If that helps.’

  She tried. And she really tried to eat, but her mouth wasn’t co-operating and her throat was refusing to swallow.

  ‘Can I get you anything else? A little fruit, perhaps?’ Mrs Harper suggested, clearly concerned as she took away Lizzie’s barely touched lunch.

  ‘It’s all right, Mrs Harper, I think we’ve just about finished here,’ Noah intervened, standing up. ‘Elizabeth.’

  Lizzie rose slowly to her feet. ‘Thank you, Mrs Harper. It was all lovely; I just couldn’t—’

  ‘Don’t you fret, Mrs Jordan. It’s all the excitement, I expect. You just go and have a lie down.’

  ‘Yes, I will.’ Then, blushing furious
ly as she realised just what that meant, Lizzie dropped her napkin onto the table and hurried across the room, not waiting for Noah to open the door, running up the stairs towards her room.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Noah’s voice brought her abruptly to a halt. He was standing by the entrance to his own room, and as she turned to face him, he opened it. ‘This way, Mrs Jordan.’

  Her skin turned to goose flesh. He couldn’t expect... It wasn’t part of the deal... ‘I...I’d rather use the guest room.’

  ‘You’re no longer a guest,’ he reminded her, and opened the door. Very slowly, as if wading through treacle, she began to walk back towards him. It seemed to take for ever, but all too soon the door closed sharply behind her, making her jump.

  ‘You’re going to have to try to play the eager bride just a little harder, Elizabeth.’

  She swung round to face him. He was leaning back against the door, far too close for comfort, and suddenly Lizzie felt as if a lump of wood was stuck in her throat.

  ‘How... how much harder?’

  He raised his hand and reached out to touch her cheek with the tips of his fingers. ‘Is it so very difficult?’ Lizzie didn’t answer. Didn’t trust herself to. Noah’s mouth twisted in a smile of pure self-mockery. ‘Perhaps Mrs Harper was right. You should try and rest. No one will disturb you.’

  His hand dropped to the doorhandle, but his eyes never left her face. ‘I’ll be back around six.’ He made a stirring motion. ‘If you could just rumple the sheets a little...’ And with that he was gone, shutting the door very quietly behind him.

  For a moment she remained quite motionless, wondering what would have happened if she had told him just how easy it would have been to surrender. There would have been just more of his cutting remarks in all probability. And for a moment tears of self-pity stung at her lids. Then, furious at such weakness, she stripped away her wedding finery.

  ‘Lie down. Rest,’ she muttered as she searched through her bags, stowed in the dressing room to be sorted and unpacked at leisure. Did he honestly believe that she would be able to sleep? Defiantly she flung on a pair of jeans and, tucking in her shirt, she let herself out of the bedroom. In the doorway she paused and looked back. Then she pulled a face. If he wanted his sheets rumpled, he could damn well rumple them himself.

  She walked. She had no idea where, or how far. She just needed the physical sense of being in control of her own body, her own life, with nobody directing her. Ever since Noah had swept her out of the garden of Dove Court she had been dancing to his tune, faster and faster, until she could barely think. She was almost running when the blare of a car horn brought her abruptly to the realisation that she had crossed a busy road without looking left or right.

  Shaking, she went into a small café and ordered a coffee she didn’t want. She just needed somewhere quiet, somewhere neutral to try to decide what she should do. Just keep walking? Disappear until the hullabaloo and fuss had died down?

  Lizzie thought about it for one blissful second. Walking away from Noah, from Peter, from Olivia, from the whole wretched mess of her life. It was so tempting. But she knew that in the long run it would solve nothing. She had made her bed and no matter how lumpy it was she was going to have to lie on it. Besides, she had never run away from anything. She was Mrs Noah Jordan and for the next six months she would live that lie. But on her own terms.

  She finally took a taxi home and entered the hall to find Noah, his hand gripping the telephone receiver so tightly that his knuckles were white. For just a moment relief flared in his eyes and he took half a step towards her.

  ‘Hello,’ she said brightly, turning away from him to close the door behind her. ‘You’re back early. Unless my watch is wrong.’ She glanced at it, lifted it to her ear and shook it.

  He bit down hard, a muscle working powerfully at the corner of his mouth. ‘Where the hell have you been, Elizabeth?’

  ‘I’m not quite sure. Does it matter? I just felt like a walk.’

  ‘A walk?’ he demanded in total disbelief.

  ‘Yes, a walk. One leg before the other—that kind of thing. People did it before cars became an epidemic.’ She opened a dark green and gold bag, produced a flower-spattered silk tie from its interior and pressed it into his hand. ‘Somehow I ended up near Harrods, so I bought you a present. Your taste in ties is so boringly conservative. Do you want the bathroom first, or can I have it?’

  He brushed aside her casual dismissal of her disappearance. ‘For heaven’s sake, Elizabeth, you were upset... I didn’t know where you were...’

  ‘And where were you, Noah?’ When I needed you, she thought. When I desperately needed someone to hold me and tell me that this nightmare would eventually come to an end.

  He almost flinched. Then he raked his fingers distractedly through his short dark hair, shrugging awkwardly. ‘I had to collect something.’

  ‘It must have been urgent. Oh, Mrs Harper, would you send up a tray of tea, please?’ She reached back, extending her hand to her husband. ‘Come on, darling. It’s time we were getting ready.’

  For a moment he hesitated, and then he picked her up and carried her up the stairs. Inside the bedroom he held her for a moment, frowning slightly. Lizzie, a little breathless at this unexpected turn of events—a little breathless to be held so close that she could hear his heart beat, faster than normal, she thought—finally gave a little wriggle. ‘You can put me down now.’

  Noah dropped her to her feet. ‘What was all that about?’ he demanded.

  ‘Just following instructions, darling. Trying a little harder,’ she said, moving out of his reach.

  ‘Trying...? I believe you could try the patience of a saint,’ he exploded.

  ‘I’ve never tried it with a saint,’ she replied, disappearing into the dressing room.

  Noah’s bathroom was panelled in rich dark wood, with an enormous bath that was fitted with old-fashioned brass taps. Lizzie lay back in it with her eyes closed. The first hurdle had been overcome. She had asserted herself, but it had been touch-and-go. And there were six months of this to get through. She didn’t underestimate the size of the task. A light tap at the bathroom door startled her.

  ‘Your tea is getting cold, Elizabeth. Do you want me to bring it in to you?’ Noah asked.

  Lizzie immediately tensed. Then she quite deliberately forced herself to relax. The second hurdle—enforced intimacy. Well, the sooner, the better. ‘Yes, please,’ she said lightly, submerging herself beneath the foam. But she kept her eyes closed as the door opened and she heard the gentle rattle of china as he placed the cup on the corner of the bath. ‘Thank you.’

  He didn’t go away, and finally she lifted her lids to find him staring down at her, a perplexed expression creasing his brow. ‘If you want to use the shower, Noah, go ahead. You won’t disturb me.’ Not much, he wouldn’t.

  ‘No?’ The corner of his mouth lifted in the suggestion of a smile. ‘In that case, why don’t we share the bath? It’s big enough for two.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve put it to the test on numerous occasions. But never, I’m almost positive, with a bargepole between the occupants. However, you’re most welcome to try.’

  His mouth twisted in a self-deprecating smile. ‘Oh, well, the shower it is. Cold, do you think?’

  ‘You’ve got the idea.’

  He shrugged off his bathrobe and she had a brief, tantalising glimpse of his glorious body as he turned away, but her hands hardly shook at all as she reached for her tea. She was proud of herself.

  And he had apparently taken the hint, leaving her to the privacy of the dressing room to get ready for the evening, taking himself off to the bedroom to dress. When, finally, she was satisfied with her appearance, she opened the door and waited until he sensed her presence.

  Her dress—a midnight-blue chiffon halter-neck—hugged her body like a lover, caressing her curves, kissing her ankles as she walked. On her feet were tiny matching suede pumps. A heavy brocade tailored jacket in shades of
lilac and turquoise and the vivid blue of the sapphire at her finger trailed from her hand.

  ‘Elizabeth...’ He reached for her hand, but she stepped past him. His eyes had told her everything that she wanted to know. He desired her. And she was glad, because she hoped that the next six months would be as much agony for him as they would be for her, that he would learn to regret insults about bargepoles, eventually even, perhaps, learn the folly of his belief that she would have pursued Peter despite his marriage.

  As for what Olivia had done, that was not his fault. And she could almost believe that the woman was totally sincere. She had been so kind, so thrilled that her plan had apparently worked. If she hadn’t overheard that conversation...

  It was strange. After days of feeling everything slipping from her control she suddenly felt incredibly wise and strong. And, since she was about to make Noah very angry indeed, that was probably just as well.

  ‘Noah, I wanted to ask you—’

  ‘Can it wait? I have something for you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  He held out his hand. The fairy-tale pendant dripped pearls and diamonds from his fingers. ‘This is yours now. It once belonged to my grandmother.’ Lizzie felt a tiny, hungering pain flicker through her. It could all have been so very different—should have been.

  ‘The queen’s necklace?’ She longed to feel him fasten it about her neck. But not like this. ‘Good heavens, was your grandmother the silent-movie star with the princely lover?’ she asked lightly, so that he would not see how close she was to tears.

  ‘Turn around, Elizabeth; I’ll fasten it for you,’ he said brusquely.

  She placed both her hands around his fingers and closed them over the necklace. ‘Save your family heirlooms for a wife you can love, Noah.’ She met his puzzled eyes head-on, and it took all her courage to carry on. ‘What I wanted to ask you... I want to wear my locket tonight. I can put it on a ribbon if the chain hasn’t been mended.’