Marriage Under Suspicion

Was it, maybe, because I didn’t want to hear the answers? Because I was afraid to pursue them?

She shivered, and turned away from the strained face confronting her in the glass.

Ryan might not have been overwhelmed to see her, but they were hardly newly-weds, for heaven’s sake. It didn’t make him guilty of anything. And there was no real reason for him to change his plans either. They were both adults with their own lives.

And she could well do without a family Sunday at Whitmead, she told herself, pulling a face. The perfect roast, the home-grown vegetables, the seriously alcoholic trifle all ordained beforehand, and produced without a hitch, even when extra guests turned up, as they often did. The afternoon spent playing croquet or French cricket, or taking the dogs for a walk, to build up an appetite for the equally sumptuous tea. The noisy games of cards or Trivial Pursuit during the evening. It was all like a cliché of English country life.

Oh, come on, she chided herself. That really is bitchy. You really don’t want to go in case Sally and Ben are there with the children, and comparisons are drawn. Be honest about it. You don’t want another row with Ryan on the drive back.

And she shouldn’t be derogatory about Ryan’s parents, even in thought, she added ruefully. Because she liked them both—even if Mrs Lassiter’s warmth, charm and unbounded energy did make her feel slightly inadequate at times.

She simply wasn’t used to the overt family affection, the candour about personal issues, the lively arguments, and the casual but whole-hearted hospitality.

Her own upbringing, she thought, had been so very different.

With a silent sigh, Kate wandered back into the living area, and stood for a moment, staring at the closed door to Ryan’s office. There was nothing in the world to stop her crossing the space that divided them, of course.

She could open that door, go into that room, and ask how much longer he was going to be. She’d done it before, after all. And on more than one occasion she’d left her clothes on the floor first.

But even as her mouth curved in a reminiscent smile she knew she would not be doing so this evening.

When she’d gone to Ryan earlier, put her arm around him, he’d held her in return. But there’d been no passion in his response. No kindling intimacy in his touch. Once, he would have drawn her close against his body, found her mouth with his, his hands rediscovering all the sweet, sensuous routes to their mutual desire.

She had never before offered herself, and been rejected.

Although it hadn’t been a real rejection, she assured herself quickly. After all, he’d said ‘Later’, hadn’t he?

But, although this was later, she knew she wasn’t going to risk it. She would let him set the parameters tonight.

She went up to the bedroom. In her lingerie drawer, she found the nightgown she’d bought the previous month on an impulse, but not yet worn. She unwrapped the layers of tissue and looked at it with satisfaction.

It was ivory satin, and classically simple, the bodice deeply slashed beneath shoestring straps, the skirt cut cleverly to cling.

Seductive, she thought, without being obvious. And there would never be a better time to try its effect

She changed into it, brushed her hair loose over her shoulders, and added a breath of Patou’s Joy to her throat, wrists and breasts.

Then, leaving one shaded lamp burning, she lay down on top of the bed to wait for him.

And we’ll just see if he makes that early start for Whitmead, she thought, smiling to herself. Or if he’ll have to ring his parents, and tell them he can’t be there after all. Such a shame.

It was the kind of situation that usually she’d revel in, but somehow she found it impossible to relax—to think herself into the appropriate frame of mind.

She was planning to ravish her own husband. She wanted him to find her warm and willing, not nerve-racked and clammy-skinned. She needed to feel anticipation, not uncertainty.

She found she kept turning her head restively towards the stairs, every sense alert for a sound, or sign of movement. But there was nothing. Ryan had said he wouldn’t be long, but the time seemed endless.

She remembered the deep breathing learned at her Yoga classes at college, and its calming effect. She let herself sink into the mattress, counting silently to herself as she inhaled, held the drawn breath then slowly released it.

Gradually, she felt her inner tension ease, but at the same time her eyelids began to grow heavy.

Sleep, she thought drowsily. I mustn’t go to sleep. I have to wait—wait for Ryan. . .

It was the cold that woke her eventually. She sat up with a shiver, one glance at the bed beside her telling her that she was still alone. The numbers on the clock radio informed her it was the early hours of the morning.

She slid off the bed, put on her robe and went downstairs.

Ryan was lying, fast asleep, on one of the sofas. Nearby the television still hummed gently, its screen blank.

Kate turned off the power, before bending over her husband, shaking his shoulder gently.

‘Ryan,’ she whispered. ‘Darling, you can’t stay here. Come to bed—please.’

He muttered something unintelligible under his breath, but he didn’t stir, not even when she shook him again, harder.

She waited for a moment, then trailed slowly and defeatedly back to the gallery.

Even under the covers, the king-size bed felt frigid and unwelcoming.

She thought, So, he fell asleep in front of the television. It happens. It’s no big deal.

And suddenly found that she wanted, very badly, to cry. Because it was a very big deal indeed.

CHAPTER THREE

KATE opened unwilling eyes to discover broad daylight. She sat up slowly, propping herself on an elbow, while she pushed her hair back from her face with her other hand, and looked around her, dazed from a restless night punctuated by brief, disturbing dreams.

The first thing she registered was that the pillow beside her was rumpled, and the quilt had been thrown back, indicating that Ryan had spent at least part of the night with her.

Well, she thought, that was something—even if he hadn’t bothered to wake her.

She swung her feet to the floor, and padded across to the bathroom. Ryan’s damp towel was hanging on the rail, and a pleasant aroma of cologne, toothpaste and soap pervaded the moist air. But he had gone.

As she turned away, disappointed, a faint but persuasive scent of coffee invaded her consciousness, and she followed it down to the kitchen.

Ryan was standing at the worktop, buttering a slice of toast. He was wearing faded chinos with a plain white shirt. An elderly sweatshirt was draped round his shoulders, and his hair was still damp from the shower.

Kate leaned against the door jamb and watched him, allowing, with a shrug of her shoulder, one of the straps of her nightgown to slide down.

She said, softly, ‘Hi, there.’

‘Hi, yourself.’ His smile was easy, widening as his eyes surveyed her. ‘You look positively delectable, Mrs Lassiter. I don’t think I’ve seen that particular nightdress before.’

‘You were meant to notice it last night.’ Kate smiled back at him, pleasurably aware that her nipples were hardening under his scrutiny, and clearly outlined under the cling of the satin for his delectation.

‘Sorry about that.’ He didn’t sound particularly repentant. Nor did he come across to her as she expected. ‘I worked longer than I intended, and then I got interested in something on television. You know how it is.’

She said, gently reproachful, ‘You could have woken me—when you came upstairs.’