The Right Bride?: Bride of Desire / The English Aristocrat's Bride / Vacancy: Wife of Convenience

When she would not feel the warmth of Remy’s arms, the murmur of his voice, or the beloved weight of him as, stunned and breathless, they lay wrapped together after climax. Or even the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under her cheek as she drifted blissfully to sleep.

For a moment she leaned forward, leaning her forehead against the stout panels of the door as the pain of it lanced through her.

Oh, God, she thought. Knowing the truth as I did, how could I have allowed myself to be so happy? To keep silent, even though I was virtually living with him? When I was breathing and dreaming him through every passing hour?

She drew a deep breath, composing herself, then switched off the lights and made her way slowly upstairs.

Tom was sleeping peacefully, and did not stir as she trod over to the cot to check on him. She sank down on the rug beside him, her back to the wall, her arms clasping her knees in the darkness.

Moonlight had filled the room each time she’d slept there with Remy, she thought wistfully. The majority of their nights, however, had been spent at Trehel, because Remy had been concerned that Tante might regard his presence at Les Sables as an intrusion, and hadn’t wanted to risk the older woman’s disapproval.

The new house had occupied their time, too, when his work was done, as she’d helped him begin to turn its empty spaces into a home. Two massive sofas in pale leather had been delivered, and a hunt round the local antiques outlets had produced a substantial table and six elegant chairs.

He’d taken her shopping at the morning markets, and she had revelled in the fresh vegetables and the endless varieties of seafood on offer. Oysters were one of Remy’s passions, and he’d taught her to open them with a special knife, then eat them with a squeeze of lemon juice and a sprinkle of pepper.

Mealtimes had become a delicious adventure, from the preparation stage and the cooking, down to the last crumb of cheese.

Allie had bloomed under his tutelage, and she’d known it, as her life opened up in all kinds of ways. She had even learned to ride, with the surprisingly patient Roland enduring endless circuits of the paddock on a leading rein.

And she’d soon found that Remy’s work could affect him profoundly—as when he’d come back to Trehel, grey-faced and numb, having lost a five-year-old whose parents had not recognised the symptoms to viral meningitis, after an allnight battle at the local hospital. She had learned, too, that at such times he would turn to her body for his own healing, letting their mutual passion assuage in some way his anger and sense of failure.

Tante had remained in Vannes with her friends. She’d explained that she had twisted her ankle in the fall, and that the swelling was taking longer than expected to go down, but Allie had wondered wryly if her absence was prompted more by tact than actual infirmity, and if her great-aunt was hoping their attraction to each other would have burned itself out by the time she returned.

She’d spoken to Tante on the phone every day, but by tacit agreement there had been no reference between them to her relationship with Remy, or the increasingly vexed question of her marital status and its resolution.

With each day that had passed, the right moment for such a confession had seemed to became more and more difficult to find. And the longer she’d left it, the worse it had become.

She’d begun to feel as if her happiness with Remy was the equivalent of holding thistledown cupped in her hand, knowing that one strong blast of reality could destroy it for ever.

On the plus side, Solange, since the afternoon when she’d slammed out of the house, had kept her distance, although once or twice in Ignac Allie had gained the impression that she was being watched, and with no friendly eye either. But she’d spotted nothing, so maybe, she’d told herself, she was just being paranoid.

Yet the vague feeling of unease had persisted, as if she’d sensed that somewhere a thunderstorm was hovering that would bring the bright golden days of sunshine to an end.

And I was right, Allie thought, wearily raking a hand through her hair and staring ahead of her with eyes that saw nothing. Ah, dear God, I was so right…

The day had begun calmly enough, she recalled. It had been a Saturday, and Remy had had no surgery, so, after visiting the market, they’d driven to Carnac and spent the morning on the beach there, quitting the sands when they’d begun to get crowded in order to enjoy a late and leisurely lunch.

‘I’d better go to Les Sables,’ Allie mused as they drove back. ‘I haven’t set foot there for two days, and it might have burned down.’

Remy raised an eyebrow. ‘I think word might have reached us by now, ma chère,’ he drawled.

She sighed. ‘I know, but I’d still better check it out. Besides, I need some more clothes.’

‘D’accord.’ As he pulled up outside the house, his arm went round her shoulders, scooping her close, his lips meeting hers in a frankly sensuous caress. ‘I shall see you later, then, at Trehel,’ he told her, adding huskily, ‘And don’t keep me waiting too long, chérie, because tonight is going to be a very special meal.’

Her heartbeat jolted a little in sudden excitement, mixed with a touch of panic as her instinct warned her where the evening might lead.

Swallowing, she touched his cheek. ‘I won’t be late.’

She paused at the door to wave, and saw his hand lift in a smiling salute as he drove away.

So the moment had come, she thought, as she turned slowly and went indoors. Remy planned to talk about their future together. She knew it. Therefore she could afford no more evasion—no more prevarication.

And she would have to speak first. Lay all her cards on the table. Explain to him that she’d dreaded saying anything that could detract from their happiness in each other, and ask for his understanding.

The first real test for both of us, she thought wryly. But if he really loves me…

She shook herself out of her reverie. Her best course was to get over to Trehel as quickly as possible and tell him everything. And, as he’d made it clear this was going to be an occasion, she would dress for that too. Soften his justifiable wrath by making herself look as enticing as possible—by appealing directly to his senses. And she knew how.

There was a dress that he’d never seen, a black silky slip of a thing, with narrow straps and a neckline that dipped far more daringly than usual, making it discreetly obvious that it required only the minimum of underclothing. She’d put it into her case on sheer impulse, but she realised now there would never be a better time to wear it.

She went up to her room, stripping off shorts and tee-shirt, and the bikini she was wearing beneath them, then showered, shampooing her hair at the same time, to get rid of all traces of salt and sand.

She might wear it up for a change, she thought, smiling to herself as she imagined Remy unfastening the clip at some point, and letting the soft strands spill through his fingers.

She applied her favourite scented body lotion, then drew on a pair of tiny black lace briefs. For a long moment she looked at herself in the full-length mirror, assessing almost clinically the seductive effect of the little black triangle against the creaminess of her skin.

I’m not a beauty, she thought, but please—please—let him find me beautiful tonight. Let him desire me so much that nothing else matters. That, in spite of everything, he’ll know that he can’t live without me—and he’ll forgive me what I have to say, and wait until I’m free to come to him. Oh, please…

She zipped herself into the dress, then picked up a comb and began experimenting with her hair. She paused, her attention arrested by the sound of a vehicle approaching fast.

It sounds like the Jeep, she thought, bewildered, and one swift glance from the window confirmed this.

He’s come to fetch me, she thought ruefully, and I’m not nearly ready yet.

Still barefoot, she began to descend the stairs, halting, a smile playing round her lips, as the door was flung wide and Remy strode into the living room below.

‘You’re impatient, monsieur,’ she teased. ‘You’ve spoiled my surprise.’

Then she saw his face and gasped, her hand tightening convulsively on the stair-rail.

He was as white as a sheet, his skin drawn tautly across his cheekbones, his mouth harshly compressed. The vivid eyes stared up at her, the ice of their contempt searing her like a living flame, and she realised he was holding something like a sheaf of papers, rolled in his hand.

‘A surprise, madame?’ His voice cut like a knife. ‘I think I have been surprised enough for one day.’

He tossed the papers he was holding towards the foot of the stairs, and she realised they were, in fact, the pages of a glossy magazine.

She said hoarsely, ‘I—I don’t understand.’

‘Then you have a short memory, madame,’ Remy returned with paralysing scorn. ‘Also a selective one, if you have managed to so conveniently forget your own wedding.’

And then, at last, Allie remembered. Oh, God, she thought with a kind of sick despair, that dreadful interview with County magazine that Grace had insisted on—the ghastly pictures they took of me in my dress and veil, posing me beside Hugo so it wouldn’t be quite as obvious that he was in a wheelchair. The whole appalling farce. How could I ever have forgotten? Yet I did. And now—now—it’s come back to haunt me.

She looked down at the crumpled magazine. Forced frozen lips to ask, ‘Where did you find it?’

‘I did not,’ he denied curtly. ‘Solange Geran was throwing away some old magazines her English guests had left in one of the gîtes, and she saw the photograph. Read the story of the bride and groom whose love triumphed over adversity.’ His laugh was corrosive in its bitterness. ‘A romantic story she could not wait to share with me, naturellement.’

Solange, she thought with a terrible weariness. Of course…