Unwanted Wedding Read online

  ‘By rewarding them for good behaviour by buying them something in the same way that you’d throw a dog a biscuit,’ Rosy challenged him, her eyes flashing with contempt and anger. ‘The man I love will treat me as his equal, Guard—in every way. The last thing he’d want would be for me to feel beholden to him for anything. What we give each other will be given freely.’ She broke off, frowning as she saw the way Guard was looking at her.

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ she asked him uncertainly.

  She had never seen him looking at her like that before, never seen him watching her with such intense concentration.

  ‘Nothing’s wrong,’ he denied harshly. ‘But one day, Rosy, you’re going to have to grow up and to learn the pain that comes with such idealism. I hope for your sake that, when you do, there’s someone around to pick up the pieces…’

  ‘Just so long as it isn’t you,’ Rosy muttered defiantly under her breath. Trust Guard to want to have the last word, to want to put her down.

  It was almost an hour now since Guard had dropped her off in the shopping quarter of the city, but so far she had seen nothing she wanted to buy, Rosy admitted as she passed in front of a small boutique to study the dress in the window. Of black velvet and silk taffeta, it had a black velvet bodice with a slightly off-the-shoulder neckline and long, tight sleeves; the bodice fitted tightly, snugly over the waist and the taffeta skirt flared out from just above the hips.

  The expensive fabric and the colour gave the dress sophistication, but the skirt made it a younger woman’s dress, not the kind of thing which could be worn by Madame la Comtesse, for instance.

  Determinedly, Rosy walked into the shop.

  ‘It’s a very small size, a couture model,’ the saleswoman began doubtfully when Rosy enquired about the dress. But once Rosy had removed her coat, she added more warmly, ‘But, yes, it will probably fit you.’

  It did…just…She had had to remove her bra to try it on, otherwise the straps of her underwear would have shown, but the bodice of the dress was stitched in such a way that it gave her just as much shape as though she had been wearing a bra, Rosy admitted as she studied her reflection in the mirror.

  The richness of the velvet seemed to emphasise the creamy texture of her skin, the way her curls caressed the unfamiliar bareness of her exposed shoulders giving her a slightly vulnerable look that made her frown slightly.

  ‘It might have been made for you,’ the saleswoman enthused.

  ‘It’s very expensive.’ Rosy hesitated—and she would have to buy new evening shoes to go with it. In the end it was the memory of Guard’s contemptuous dismissal of her clothes and her taste that made up her mind for her.

  ‘You won’t regret buying it,’ the saleswoman assured her, as she packed the dress for her. ‘A dress such as this is an investment, a classic. It will never date.’

  No, but I shall, Rosy reflected wryly as she made her way back to a shoe shop she had passed earlier.

  ‘You managed to find something, then?’ was Guard’s only comment when he picked Rosy up later at their appointed meeting place.

  In addition to the dress, she had several other packages: shoes, a small evening bag to go with them, a soft cashmere wrap to wear over the dress and a pretty seventeenth-century enamelled box she had noticed in the window of an antiques shop and which she had bought as a small gift for Monsieur Dubois’s daughter.

  Something more anonymous and safer might have been a wiser choice, she acknowledged as Guard drove out of the city, but the box had been so pretty.

  ‘Damn,’ Guard cursed softly, suddenly causing Rosy to glance questioningly at him. ‘I meant to ask you to buy something for Gerard’s daughter. It’s too late to turn back now and—’

  ‘I’ve got her something,’ Rosy told him, turning in her seat to retrieve the parcels she had put on the back seat of the car.

  She unwrapped the small box, carefully balancing it on the palm of her hand to show him.

  When he said nothing, her heart sank slightly. Obviously he didn’t approve. Well, that was just too bad, she decided crossly. She liked it and—

  ‘You know, Rosy, there are still times when you can surprise me. You affect to be uninterested in tradition, you state that you think it’s almost a crime for somewhere like Queen’s Meadow still to be a private home, and then you go and buy something like this…’

  ‘If you don’t like it—’ Rosy began challengingly, but Guard was already shaking his head in denial of her statement.

  ‘I think it’s perfect,’ he told her simply. ‘Perfect.’

  His compliment was so unexpected that Rosy had no idea what to say. She raised her eyes to his and then tensed slightly as she saw the way he was looking at her. It was as if…as if…A funny, unfamiliar, achey sensation filled her chest, radiating out from just where her heart was.

  ‘Rosy…’

  Why, when she had, after all, heard him say her name so many times before, was the sound of his voice suddenly making tiny quicksilver shivers dart up her spine? Why did the sound of it suddenly remind her of a tiger’s purr, of soft velvet on smooth skin, of the seductive whisper of a man to his lover…?

  Hurriedly, she rushed into speech, desperately pushing away such dangerously contentious thoughts.

  ‘I even managed to remember to buy wrapping-paper, Guard, and a card. Do you know her name? I should have asked Monsieur Dubois. I hope she doesn’t think that we’re intruding. After all, it is her party and she doesn’t know us.’

  ‘Her name, I believe, is Héloise,’ Guard responded, his voice suddenly oddly flat. ‘As to whether or not she’ll resent our presence, I should imagine that is extremely unlikely.’

  He didn’t speak again until they were driving into the château, and then it was only to remark that, since they had both missed lunch, she must be hungry and he would ask Madame if it was possible for them to have a light meal in their suite.

  ‘Ah, good, you’re ready. We should be all right for time, but—’

  Rosy tensed as Guard suddenly fell silent as he caught sight of her. She watched him uncertainly from the open bedroom door.

  In the shop she had been so confident that the dress was the right choice, but now suddenly she wasn’t so sure.

  Guard’s silence, the way he was looking at her…She swallowed nervously.

  ‘What’s wrong? If it isn’t suitable…’

  ‘No…’ Guard was shaking his head as he turned away from her to pick up the jacket he had placed on the back of a chair and put it on. ‘It’s fine…’

  His voice sounded oddly strained, almost slightly hoarse, Rosy recognised, her attention distracted from her own appearance as she watched the way the movement of Guard’s body stretched the white fabric of his shirt against the long, sinewy muscles of his back.

  She could see the movement of them beneath his skin through his shirt. Her mouth had gone slightly dry.

  She felt breathless and slightly on edge, her senses abruptly and unfamiliarly heightened so that, across the space that separated them, she was suddenly sharply aware of the clean male scent of Guard’s body. She gave a small shudder, her pulse suddenly racing, the bodice of her dress tightening slightly against her breasts as though—She glanced down at her body and gave a small, stifled gasp as she saw the raised outline of her nipples pushing against the velvet fabric, embarrassment flushing her skin as she turned round quickly and hurried back into the bedroom, calling out quickly to Guard, ‘My wrap…I almost forgot…It’s quite chilly and—’

  Could Guard hear the agonised, embarrassed confusion in her voice as clearly as she could? She was not cold at all, but what other explanation could there be for that quite unmistakable physical reaction?

  ‘You’re cold?’

  Guard was frowning as he followed her into the bedroom.

  ‘I—I was. I’m all right now,’ Rosy fibbed as she hugged the wrap protectively around her body. ‘I—I thought you wanted to leave,’ she reminded him. ‘We don’t wa
nt to be late.’

  ‘Nor do we want to be too early,’ Guard told her drily, and then reminded her, ‘We are, after all, very newly married…’

  When she continued to look blankly at him, he explained grimly. ‘Use your intelligence, Rosy. We’re newly married and supposedly very much in love. Do you really imagine if that was actually true that there’s any way I’d be letting you walk out of here so easily, or that you’d want me to?

  ‘Oh, no—’ His voice had dropped to a soft whisper that was almost a hypnotic caress, Rosy acknowledged, as she felt another feverish shudder run through her.

  ‘If we were really what we’re supposed to be, right now that stunningly fetching little number you’re wearing would be lying on the bedroom floor and you, my dear, would be lying in my arms.’

  ‘Stop it, Guard, stop it,’ Rosy protested shakily. ‘We’re not in love. We’re not…It isn’t like that…and…’

  ‘No, it certainly isn’t,’ Guard agreed drily. ‘Are you sure you need that wrap?’ he added as he walked to the door and opened it for her. ‘You look quite flushed…’

  Rosy glared at him as she swept past him. He knew quite well what had caused her skin to colour up like that, damn him.

  Did he also know that all she had on under her dress was a tiny pair of briefs and a pair of silky, hold-up stockings?

  Of course not, how could he? And yet there had been something about the way he had looked at her when he made that comment about the dress lying on the floor and her lying in his arms which, for some reason, had immediately conjured up in her imagination an image of herself almost completely naked, her breasts pressed flat against his chest, while he ran his hands up over her back and told her what he wanted to do to her and what he wanted her to do to him, how he wanted to touch her and how he wanted her to touch him.

  As she hurried downstairs another shudder racked Rosy’s body, a sharper one this time, saw-edged and painful, making her bite down sharply on her bottom lip in suppression of it.

  Her fears that she might feel awkward and uncomfortable among people that she did not know, or that Monsieur Dubois’s daughter might resent her father’s having invited them, were very quickly dispelled—not only by Monsieur Dubois’s and his wife’s warm welcome of them, but additionally by the enthusiastic reception they received from Héloise herself, and Rosy was very quickly drawn into the circle of younger people surrounding her while Guard remained talking with their host and hostess.

  Héloise and her friends were a lively, intelligent crowd, very vocal in expressing their ideals and beliefs, teasing Rosy a little—but not unkindly—over what they saw as her nation’s reluctance to accept the concept of European citizenship. But Rosy soon discovered that, like her, they too were very concerned about the plight of those less fortunate than themselves, and she was soon absorbed in a discussion with one of Héloise’s male friends about the growing problem of the city’s homeless.

  Renauld, although physically nothing like Ralph—he was much more sturdily built, with thick, curling brown hair and hazel eyes that, Rosy couldn’t help but notice, warmed with very open male appreciation when he looked at her—shared very many of Ralph’s ideals, leavened with a sense of humour that Ralph tended to lack.

  ‘It seems to me that this is a problem that is common to all nations,’ Renauld enthused, as he detached Rosy from the others so that he could talk exclusively to her. ‘It occurs to me that we would all have much to gain from exchanging our experiences—sharing what we have learned with one another.’

  ‘Hold a conference, you mean?’ Rosy teased him.

  ‘Perhaps something a little less formal than that. I go to Britain occasionally on business, and I should be very interested in visiting your shelter, if that could be arranged.’

  ‘I’m sure it could,’ Rosy responded enthusiastically. ‘I know Ralph would be very interested to meet you.’

  ‘You are some way out of London, though, from what you tell me,’ Renauld began. ‘Is there a hotel…?’

  ‘Oh, there’d be no need for that,’ Rosy assured him quickly, impulsively. ‘You could stay with us.’

  ‘Now that I shall look forward to,’ Renauld told her softly.

  ‘Don’t take Renauld too seriously,’ Héloise warned her teasingly ten minutes later when she came over to join them. ‘He is a terrible flirt…’

  ‘You are being very unfair, Héloise,’ Renauld protested, unabashed by her comment. ‘I am very good at it.’

  The three of them were still laughing when Guard came to join them several minutes later.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s time for us to leave,’ he told Rosy, explaining to the others, ‘We have an early flight to catch in the morning.’

  ‘So soon?’ Rosy protested, unable to conceal her surprise when Guard told her drily what time it was.

  ‘No need to ask if you enjoyed yourself,’ Guard commented once they were in the car heading back to the château.

  There was a note in his voice that Rosy couldn’t quite place. Not anger or irritation exactly, but something…

  ‘You and young Renauld Bressée certainly seemed to find plenty to talk about.’

  Young Renauld…? Rosy’s forehead creased in a small frown. During their conversation, Renauld had told her that he had just passed his twenty-fifth birthday, which might make him younger than Guard, but it certainly didn’t merit that odd note of dismissive contempt in Guard’s voice.

  ‘He was telling me about a scheme he’s involved with that’s similar to our shelter,’ Rosy responded defensively. ‘He seemed very interested in the work we’re doing. I—I invited him to come down and meet Ralph the next time he’s in London on business,’ Rosy added, rushing through the sentence and avoiding looking at Guard as she spoke.

  Although why she should feel she had somehow done something wrong—that she had somehow angered Guard—she really had no idea, she told herself firmly.

  ‘And that would be the sole purpose of his visit, would it?’ Guard challenged her. ‘To meet Ralph?’

  Rosy was glad of the darkness of the interior of the car as she felt herself starting to blush slightly.

  There was an edge to Guard’s voice which underlined her earlier discomfort.

  ‘Of course. Why else would he come?’ she demanded.

  ‘Oh, come on, Rosy, even you aren’t that naïve,’ Guard told her bitingly. ‘It was pretty obvious that Bressée was far more interested in inspecting your bed than those at the shelter.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ Rosy protested. ‘And even if it were—’

  She stopped abruptly, suddenly realising that the claim she had been about to make that it was no business of Guard’s was no longer wholly true. She had, she recognised, almost forgotten their new relationship.

  ‘Even if it were what?’ Guard demanded in a hard voice. ‘You aren’t interested in him? That wasn’t the impression I was getting.’

  ‘We were talking, that was all,’ Rosy objected. What was wrong with Guard? It was almost as though…As though what? As though he was jealous? Impossible. But even though Rosy assured herself that she had done nothing to merit Guard’s attitude towards her, she could already feel the happiness she had experienced at the party starting to drain away. She turned away from Guard and looked bleakly out of the window into the darkness.

  She gave a small shiver, remembering what Peter had told her when she had asked him how she and Guard would end their ‘marriage’.

  ‘You will have to stay together at least a year,’ Peter had warned her. ‘Anything less than that and it would be bound to cause suspicion. Initially, you could publicly opt for a “trial separation” and then slowly move from that towards divorce.’

  At least a year. Suddenly it seemed a very, very long time.

  ‘There’s no point in sulking, Rosy,’ she heard Guard telling her tersely. ‘You knew what the situation was going to be; the part you’d agreed—chosen, in fact—to play. You’re a very new bride, and very new bride
s do not ignore their husbands and flirt with another man.’

  ‘If you mean Renauld, I was not flirting with him,’ Rosy protested angrily. ‘We were simply talking.’ She paused, her eyes flashing as she turned to look at him. He was concentrating on his driving, his gaze fixed firmly ahead of him, his jaw warningly taut.

  ‘You may not be able to have a conversation with a woman without flirting with her, Guard,’ she told him recklessly, ignoring the message her senses were relaying to her, ‘but not all men are like you. Thank God,’ she muttered under her breath.

  ‘No, they’re not,’ Guard agreed harshly. ‘I doubt your precious Ralph, for instance, or Renauld Bressée, would be prepared to put their reputation at risk in a fraudulent marriage just because—’

  ‘Just because what?’ Rosy pressed, when Guard stopped speaking. ‘Because I asked you? You’re not being fair, Guard. We both know exactly why you agreed to this marriage. You married me because you want Queen’s Meadow.’

  As she said the words, Rosy felt her throat starting to close up as a wave of intense desolation swept over her.

  She hadn’t wanted any of this—a fictitious marriage, a husband who didn’t even particularly like her, never mind love her. The last thing she had ever wanted was to live a life filled with lies and deceit, to live with a man who felt nothing but irritated contempt for her, who constantly criticised her.

  Everything she was having to do went so totally against her deepest principles that it was no wonder she was feeling so uncomfortable with herself, so on edge and miserable.

  She had been a fool ever to listen to Peter, to think that—

  ‘And of course the Ralphs and the Renaulds of this world are far too perfect, far too high-minded even to consider doing such a thing, is that what you think?’ Guard demanded tautly. ‘Don’t kid yourself, Rosy,’ he warned her. ‘If you’d dangled the deeds of Queen’s Meadow in front of Ralph for bait, he wouldn’t even have thought twice about the moral implications of such a marriage.