Bride by Contract

by Margaret Rome

  The white ball bounded up the field. Without a touch of rein or spur a pony raced after it, enabling its rider to dribble it the length of the field towards the goal at full gallop. A roar of appreciation from the crowd set the pony dancing from side to side, then he lowered his muzzle to the ground as if bowing like a star performer acknowledging the applause of an admiring audience.

  'Morva, isn't this great fun!'

  She started with surprise when Lynda appeared at, her elbow. Instinctively her eyes flew past her in search of Troy, but Lynda was alone, her beautiful face animated with excitement.

  'Watch! Just look at Percy!' She dug sharp fingernails into Morva's arm, urging her to follow the progress of her brother who had the ball and was dribbling it towards the opposing team's goal. 'Ride Percy, ride!' Lynda almost screamed when an opposing back gave chase until he and Percy were riding neck and neck. Percy remained on the line of the ball, refusing to be ridden off, then a few yards from goal he flicked his wrist, tapping the ball straight through the centre of the goalposts. The sound of a whistle blown for goal was almost drowned by the cheers of his team mates who were circling around waving their sticks in the air.

  'Goal!' Lynda shouted, almost overcome with joy. 'Well done, Percy, darling, well done!'

  Morva's senses reeled, shocked by the message Lynda's words had communicated. Patiently, hardly daring to dwell, upon the consequences, she waited until a pause ensued before the start of another chukka before beginning a cautious probing.

  'I understood that Troy had persuaded you against becoming too involved with my brother.'

  Lynda's brilliant blue eyes widened with surprise. 'Troy never interferes in business that does not concern him, surely, you know that! In any case,' she shrugged, 'my father has moaned to him often enough about how impossible I am to budge once I've made up my mind.'

  'And have you made up your mind to marry my brother?' Morva forced out the faint thread of sound.

  'I have,' she grimaced, 'but unfortunately Percy appears to have changed his.' Her lovely face clouded. 'Have you any idea why your brother has suddenly cooled off, begun avoiding me as if I were some sort of leper?'

  Reluctantly Morva shook her head, unable to bring herself to voice an outright lie.

  'Perhaps,' she husked painfully, 'Percy has become aware of your deep attachment to Troy.'

  Lynda's loud peal of laughter was to reverberate through Morva's mind for hours afterwards.

  'I did have a schoolgirl crush on your bad-tempered husband,' she admitted with a wide, engaging grin, 'but even I am not stubborn enough to continue competing in a race I've no chance of winning. But I don't mind admitting to you, Morva, that I intend playing every trick in the game to become part of all this.' Her wave encompassed the group of athletic young men, their strings of ponies, and Ravenscrag towering majestically in the background. 'Percy has introduced me into a world I find fascinating. He holds a key that can open a padlock, gaining me entry into the exclusive circle of jetsetters whose movements are governed by the months of the years—Barbados in January; Monaco in April; Gstaad in December. But each of us lacks one essential commodity—Percy needs money and I need style,' she admitted with engaging honesty. 'Therefore, how can either of us lose by combining our assets? Through marriage, we can wring every last drop of enjoyment out of his impeccable connections and my embarras de richesses.'

  'Is that all you ask of marriage,' Morva's soft brown eyes pitied her, 'mere enjoyment?'

  'Doesn't everyone…?' Lynda looked genuinely surprised.

  Impulsively, Morva swung on her heel and began hurrying towards the castle, her steps made urgent by the sudden realisation that if Lynda were prepared to strive so hard for so little, she would be a fool to allow shyness to prevent her from engaging in a no-holds-barred battle offering, a prize to the victor that was worth so much…

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  'Aunt Cassie, I can't appear in public wearing this!' Morva's protest faded into an appalled hush as she stared at her almost unrecognisable reflection in the mirror, feeling her stomach turning somersaults as she wondered what Troy's reaction would be to the shocking transition made by a timid brown sparrow into a bold, garish parakeet.

  'You can and you must!' Aunt Cassie stepped back to admire the plume of ostrich feathers she had just finished pinning into an upswept coiffure. 'An hour spent acting the part of a voluptuous, thrill-seeking saloon girl is a preferable alternative to being condemned to sleeping for the rest of your life with only a doll for company,' she reminded tartly, and with what Morva considered to be unnecessary cruelty. 'Our object is to startle every man present with a nostalgic reminder of the busty, luscious young girls who descended upon the Yukon during the days of the gold rush, female prospectors who used sex appeal to send naughty thoughts racing through the minds of the miners they aimed to separate from their nuggets!'

  Nervously, Morva blinked through a web of spidery, false eyelashes at the bright vermilion, tightly laced bodice squeezing her waist to the width of a man's handspan. Faint excitement began stirring beneath her terrified stupor as slowly she followed the course of hips curving seductively beneath a slick satin skirt that clung around slender thighs then flared towards a hem edged with black satin ruffles that rustled behind heir knees when she walked then divided dramatically at the front to form a vee-shaped split deep enough to expose fishnet stockings topped with fancy garters and an enticing flash of bare thigh.

  But would men's eyes remain lowered, she fretted painfully, or would they lift to linger upon a daring expanse of naked shoulders and curving breasts threatening to spill pale as cream from overfilled cups?

  'Here, put this on!' As if Aunt Cassie had also begun doubting the. wisdom of too much exposure, she hastened to fasten a diamante collar around Morva's vulnerable young neck then stepped back, her gaze drawn as if magnetised towards a pointed pendant hanging like a warning to wandering eyes to avoid the hazard of venturing too far over snow white slopes, of risking a slide down a deep, mysterious plunge.

  'Ah, well,' she shrugged, sounding suspiciously eager to appease an uneasy conscience, 'having gone this far, we might as well conclude the experiment. Just try to remember, Morva, honey,' she bolstered briskly, 'that the stage is set, the cast assembled, the audience primed to react with enthusiasm to the appearance of Klondike Kate. The success of the performance is entirely up to you!'

  The escalating sound of raised voices, laughter, and enthusiastic applause which for the past hour had been encroaching upon the quiet, tense atmosphere inside the small dressing room seemed to bear out the truth of Aunt Cassie's words. Percy's friends, especially, sounded in high spirits, their unmistakably upper-class accents piercing the hubbub of excited Transatlantic voices.

  'Good luck, gal!' Aunt Cassie stood on tip-toe to press an. encouraging peck upon Morva's brightly rouged cheek. 'Try to forget for an hour that you are the Countess of Howgill. Go in there with both guns blazing—a Diana of the mountains determined to get her man!'

  She urged Morva along a deserted passageway then with a last quick wink of encouragement opened the door, stepped inside the makeshift saloon, and left her standing alone, reeling from a blast of noisy merriment—high-pitched female laughter; snatches of song; the thumping beat of a honky-tonk piano; the tinkling of bottles and glasses, and a fug of tobacco and alcohol fumes that caught in her throat and set her senses reeling.

  She drew in a steadying breath, trying to pluck up sufficient courage to embark upon the act that was to be the culmination of Aunt Cassie's endless rehearsals, then stretched out a hand and with the fluttering apprehension of a nervous patient about to enter a dentist's surgery, flung open the door and stepped over the threshold into the din and furore, the rowdy, exciting, flirtatious cut and thrust of the Naughty Nineties.

  Everyone present appeared wildly determined to enter into the spirit of the recaptured era. Guests who had copied Troy's casual attire of checked shirt and denims were seated around tables with
prettily flushed wives perched upon their knees. Flamboyantly dressed members of the Dramatic Society were encircling the piano, belting out a lively, slightly ribald chorus. Percy's friends had obviously taken full advantage of the free drink made available all evening and looking decidedly tipsy, swaying shoulder to shoulder around a table laden with tots of hard liquor and singing at the tops of their voices. Even Troy, standing alone at one end of the bar frowning moodily into an untouched drink, seemed to epitomise the dejection of a miner with nothing to celebrate, one whose pick had bitten into a seam of fool's gold.

  Suddenly she found it surprisingly easy to follow Aunt Cassie's hammered-home instructions to adopt the stance of a flirtatious coquette. She draped her surprisingly relaxed body sideways against the door jamb so that her shapely silhouette was boldly outlined, bending one knee until it was thrusting provocatively through the slit in her skirt to provide an eye-popping display of black stocking top, pale thigh, and garish garter. Immediately, she was spotted by one of Percy's friends whose loud, appreciative whistle drew all eyes towards her.

  'I say,' she heard him yell, 'who's the libidinous lady in the doorway? Excuse me, plebs, while I go and share her space!'

  Morva's brightly painted smile slipped a little when he rose to his feet and began lurching towards her. Then the air became rent with the whoops and yells of followers surging in pursuit, copying the foot-tripping, elbow-digging, shirt-grabbing stampede of miners determined to stake first claim to a gold mine. In seconds she was cornered, fighting off ardent hands, nauseated by a whisky-fumed breath that murmured, 'Come and have a clutch, my saucy beauty!'

  'Stop it! Leave me alone,' she cried out in fear of being crushed by a tightening circle of jostling young sportsmen with senses inflamed by a surfeit of alcohol.

  'My God, Morva. . .! No, it can't be!' Percy's shocked cry of recognition penetrated the din. She saw his pale face wavering as he tried to fight his way towards her before it disappeared completely behind a barricade of muscular shoulders.

  'Gerroff, I saw her first!' When more hands reached out to grab her she began fighting like a hellcat, kicking, slapping, gouging the ring of leering faces.

  'My Gawd, she's got spirit!' Someone yelled on a note of exultant laughter. 'Let's toss her aloft, men, until she's willing to concede a garter as a prize to the lucky winner!'

  She screamed, feeling clutched by an octopus when hands snapped around her waist, her arms and even behind her knees. All hell seemed to break loose as she fought off her good-humoured attackers. She heard the crack of splintering wood above the sound of their laughter; women's screams, and the shattering of glass as if someone had been pushed into violent collision with a drink-laden table. Then miraculously pressure began easing as faces were plucked rapidly one by one from out of her line of vision. Gripping fingers relaxed until only one pair of hands remained to swing her vigorously off her feet upwards until she felt pinned against a heaving, muscular chest, stabbed to the heart by a glare of azure blue anger.

  She slumped in his arms, too terrified to speak to her rock-jawed husband as he strode out of the chaos-filled saloon and carried her with less concern than he would have shown to a disjointed doll across the moonlit gardens, into the castle, then up the staircase leading to their suite of rooms. Once inside, he dropped her on to the canopied bed then stood towering, his features at one with the slit-mouthed, snarling-toothed images of dragons peering down with contempt upon the most flushed, dishevelled creature ever to have disgraced the stately marital bed.

  'I suppose,' Troy accused in the manner of a man determined to keep tight control of seething emotions, 'there must be some explanation for your shocking behaviour, but for the life of me I can't even begin to imagine what impulse could have driven you to appear before guests dressed like a caricature of some brazen Yukon hussy, to incite drunken horseplay, and to encourage—no, invite—the attentions of a crowd of unruly, witless youths! Are you so resentful of having been forced into marriage,' he scathed, 'that you are willing to go to any extreme that might shame me into agreeing to a divorce?'

  She shrank small when his towering frame lowered towards her, afraid of the terrible anger she sensed was boiling beneath a clamped-down lid of control. She parted parched lips to deny the accusation but found that words would not be forced through her tight throat. Then to her horror she felt tears pricking behind her eyelids. His angry image wavered as tears welled then balanced for a second on mascara-spiked lashes before falling with a plop on to rouged cheeks. Momentarily her vision cleared, then quickly she lowered heavily shadowed lids to shut out the sight of eyes of flashing dangerous ice-blue sparks.

  His grip upon her shoulders caught her completely unawares. She was jerked from the bed, planted on her feet, then force-marched towards the bathroom.

  'I refuse to watch you weeping with all that muck on your face!' he gritted, opening the door to shove her in the direction of the shower cubicle. 'You can undress in there,' he nodded towards opaque glass screens, then stood implacable as a rock with arms folded across his chest directing a look that seemed designed to shrivel the despised outfit from her shivering limbs. 'Toss that odious costume over the screen, I'll be waiting here to dispose of it!'

  Afterwards, she was never able to decide how she managed unaided, with shaking fingers and in such a confined space, to unfasten hooks and unbraid laces until the outfit he found so offensive slithered from her limbs to gather in a limp, gaudy heap around her ankles. Yet she could never forget the relief she found in tears that washed her empty of grief while needles of warm water rinsed soapsuds from her face, clearing her skin of every last vestige of make-up, her hair of every last trace of lacquer.

  But her worst moment arrived when she turned off the shower, then stood pink and glowing with embarrassment wondering if he had carried out his threat to remain.

  'I've finished…' she finally quavered, then felt her heart respond with a bump to his curt reply.

  'Good, then I suggest you come out and get dried.'

  The thought of stepping completely nude into his line of vision suffused her body with a blush of humiliation, but he had left her with no alternative.' Tentatively, she eased an inch-wide gap between sliding glass doors, then swallowed back a sob of relief when she saw him standing facing in the opposite direction with one arm extended backwards, dangling his towelled dressing gown within her reach.

  Thankfully, she made a grab and shivered inside its immense folds, then felt immediately soothed, comforted as a child cradled within familiar arms.

  'Thank you, Troy.'

  Interpreting her words as permission he turned round to stare silently, motionlessly, and with a deep intensity that jolted her sensitive nerves and raced scorching colour to her still-damp cheeks. Then casually, as if his volcanic emotions had been doused to the point of extinction, he reached for a towel and began calmly drying her hair.

  'Troy,' she pleaded, completely fooled by his air of mild uninterest, 'I have never plotted behind your back. Divorce was entirely Granny's idea, and though you must have thought me disloyal when I granted Percy permission to carry out the arrangements he had made with his friends, I did so with the best of intentions. He had made up his mind to marry Lynda,' she gulped, 'so I attempted to spare you unhappiness by making a deal—permission to carry out his plans in exchange for his promise not to try to manoeuvre Lynda into a marriage of convenience.'

  'As you have been manoeuvred.' His response sounded grim, but the steady stroking motion of the towel did not waver. 'Lynda is no fool, she's too much her father's daughter ever to enter into a contract containing detrimental clauses. And as for your brother…' Though the towel was obscuring her vision, she sensed that his lips had thinned. '… I can think of nothing I would enjoy more than seeing him installed in the executive suite of his father-in-law's company where he'd be worked harder than any packhorse and, at best, be allowed two or three days off in a year. So you see, Lynda's circumstances are in no way parallel wit
h your own. She is no little lost cub, totally unprepared to face the world—and especially not the world of men—being callously used as bait to attract any prowler likely to fill her family's empty larder!'

  His wrist snapped the towel away from her face to allow him to study her flushed, tousled bewilderment.

  'You were handed to me on a plate, Morva, and much as I despised your family's greed my will was too weak to fight the urge I felt to offer you protection, to restore your surroundings to the standard of perfection necessary to display to advantage the highly polished facets of a flawless gem.'

  She stared transfixed, wondering which was the more preferable—being recruited as a partner in a business deal, or being acquired in the manner of one of the status symbols all business tycoons seemed to find essential and which they were apt to list under the heading of legitimate expenses. Something seemed to snap inside her head. Flinging caution to the winds, ignoring every lesson she had ever been taught about decorum, dignity, and the need to preserve a ladylike composure, she stamped an enraged foot and flared.

  'I don't want to be treated like a priceless heirloom stuck way out of reach, protected from rough handling by a glass case, you… you… great blind bear? Too furious to care about the voluminous robe sliding fast as melting snow from her heated body, she charged forward to pummel his chest with angrily bunched fists. 'I'm a flesh and blood woman,' she stormed, 'just aching to become a wife!'

  His reflexes reacted with the pouncing leap of a virile mountain ram responding to the call of his mate. She suffered just one second of stunned immobility before his arms snapped around her naked body to draw her willingly into a baptism of fire and flame.