Читать книгу The Impetuous Bride - Caroline Anderson - Страница 8

‘THANKS.’

Lydia shut the door of the taxi, hitched her backpack up on to one shoulder and turned towards the house, a mixture of dread and eager anticipation tangling in her chest.

It hadn’t changed at all. The roses tumbled in cheerful profusion over the Georgian façade, and the windowframes gleamed brilliant white against the soft old-rose of the bricks. A light wind from the river drifted across the sweeping lawns and caressed her skin with the scent of wild honeysuckle, and she looked down towards the soft blue-green haze of the willows on the riverbank and sighed.

Home, sweet home.

It was June—just a year since she’d left without a backward glance, and now she was back for Melanie’s wedding. The irony brought a twisted little smile to her lips as she headed down towards the house, her backpack bumping against her thighs.

Only one thing was different. There was no Labrador bouncing round her, butting her hand for attention and smiling up at her, tongue lolling, because two months ago their beloved Molly had fallen asleep one night and failed to wake. It seemed strange without her—strange and empty.

The kitchen door was hanging open—just as well, really, as she didn’t have her keys, but the house was usually open and if not there was always a key on the shelf in the old milking parlour.

She went in through the open door, dropped her backpack by the fridge and pulled open the door. She needed a drink. Everything else could wait.

He’d known it was going to happen, of course. Known she’d come back for Melanie’s wedding, if nothing else. He’d been prepared for that, been prepared for seeing her again and steeled himself against it.

Or at least he thought he had. Now, though, his body ground to a halt for an endless moment, then went into overdrive. His heart pounded, his mouth dried, his gut clenched, and need, deep and hot and urgent, ripped through him.

She was wearing shorts—little skimpy cut-off jeans above skinny brown legs and bare feet in leather sandals. Well, maybe not skinny, but impossibly slender. Thinner than they had been, anyway. Fragile. Her T-shirt was loose and baggy, but even so he could tell she’d lost weight. Had she been ill?

Concern for her overtook the raging need, and the complex mix of emotions threatened to choke him.

She’d taken a carton of orange juice from the fridge and was draining the glass when she noticed him. Her hand trembled, and she set it down abruptly. ‘Jake,’ she said simply, and a tentative and rather forlorn smile tugged at her lips. ‘How are you?’

Not ready for this. Not ready for that voice, soft and low and sexy, that had haunted his dreams.

‘I’m fine,’ he lied. ‘How are you? Good journey? We were wondering when you’d arrive.’

She shrugged, picking up the empty glass, toying with it. ‘OK journey, I suppose. Long flight, delays, and so on. It’s nice to be home.’

‘Your parents are in the drawing room with Melanie and Tom. They’ll have my guts if I keep you talking out here. You’d better go and see them.’

She nodded, put down the glass and headed towards him. He was standing in the doorway, and she hesitated for a moment because he didn’t move.

He didn’t know why he didn’t move, just that he didn’t—couldn’t, really, until he’d done this one, foolish thing.

He reached out and cupped her chin, bent his head and brushed a feather-soft kiss across her moist, dewy lips.

‘Welcome home, Lydia,’ he said softly, and then dropping her as if she might burn him he pushed past her and went out of the back door and into the sunlight. He dragged in a lungful of the fresh clean air, and closed his eyes. He could taste the sweet citrus tang of the orange juice on her lips, and the white heat of his response shocked him.

He’d really, really thought he was over her, but he wasn’t. He still wanted her every bit as much as he ever had—maybe more. There was nothing like a bit of abstinence to make the heart grow fonder, he mocked himself. Still, she was back, and he was going to have to deal with it.

Well, fine. He could. Just so long as he remembered she’d walked away before, and she’d do it again. She was trouble—big trouble, with a capital T, and he wasn’t going to fall for her charms again.

Ever.

Lydia stood rooted to the spot for an age, her fingers pressed to her lips, her eyes wide with surprise. She should have expected him to be here, should have expected that he would still have this effect on her.

She’d known he’d be at the wedding, of course, but it had never occurred to her that he’d be here in her parents’ house—just sitting around chatting, for heaven’s sake!

Even if he did live just next door.

Oh, damn.

Of course he’d be here. He was Tom’s oldest friend. They’d known each other from birth, practically. Of course he was about.

‘Jake, can’t you find it—? Darling!’

She found herself engulfed in her mother’s hug, and the next second the others were there, laughing and crying and hugging, and then there was Tom, looking over Melanie’s shoulder towards the door.

‘Has Jake gone?’ he asked, sounding surprised.

She nodded. ‘Yes. He bumped into me on the way out.’ She looked towards the door, puzzled. Well, she’d assumed he’d been on the way out—or had he left because of her?

There was a moment of awkward silence, then her father hugged her again. ‘Oh, it’s lovely to have you back, poppet. Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine,’ she lied, her eyes still lingering on the door. She dragged her attention back to her family, and linked arms with her father and sister. ‘Absolutely fine. It’s lovely to be home. Now, come on, I want to hear about the wedding plans. Tell me all.’

Melanie laughed self-consciously. ‘It’ll all be horribly familiar,’ she said with a wry grimace, and Lydia’s heart sank.

Of course. Mel had thrown herself into planning Lydia’s wedding last year, and throughout Lydia had been acutely aware that it was not really the wedding she’d wanted. The marquee by the river, the elaborate flowers, the little gilt chairs, the round tables with their snowy cloths and sparkling tableware—it had always been Mel’s wedding.

Lydia had wanted to get married under the willow with just a very few immediate family, and have a picnic by the river with champagne and soft, ripe cheeses and sweet, juicy grapes.

Instead Melanie had gone into a huddle with her mother and come up with a three-course meal and elaborate seating plans and a guest list that left no one out.

Jake had smiled tolerantly, and Lydia had felt powerless to resist.

Until the very end.

And now, like some kind of awful joke, it was all going to be re-enacted, but this time the cast would change places and the curtain wouldn’t come down until after the final act.

And she and Jake would have to endure the parody of their wedding, and pretend enthusiasm and delight for the benefit of their loved ones.

Suddenly she found herself wishing she’d stayed away for another month and come home when it was all over.

‘So, tell us all about your travels,’ her mother said, settling back with an expectant smile. ‘We’ve had such brief contact, you naughty girl.’

Lydia grinned sheepishly. ‘Sorry. I just needed to get right away.’

‘We understand. So—tell all. Where have you come from now? We could hardly keep up with you.’

‘Australia—well, via Singapore. I stopped off to see a few friends.’

‘So tell us all about it,’ her father instructed. ‘You went to Thailand first when I dropped you off at the airport, is that right?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, and I just bummed around for a month and tried to sort myself out, then I had to leave because I didn’t have a visa, so I went to India and worked in a hotel as a courier, then I went to Singapore, and Bali, then over to Australia, on to New Zealand and back to Australia, just doing anything I could find for cash and a roof over my head.’

Her mother closed her eyes. ‘It sounds so dangerous.’

It had been, of course, but there was no way she was telling her mother about the foreign tourist who’d tried to rape her in India, or the girl in New Zealand who’d stolen everything except her photos, her passport and the clothes she’d had on.

‘It was fun,’ she said, ignoring the hard work and the hunger pangs and the dysentery. What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them, she decided, and anyway, she’d survived and learned a few vital lessons.

‘You’re skinny,’ her father said bluntly, scanning her legs.

She curled them tighter under her and laughed lightly. ‘Nonsense. It’s just because I’m brown. So, tell, me, how’s business?’ she asked her mother, deftly switching the subject.

‘Brilliant. We’ve done several new projects—Dunham Hall, the Priory at Whitfield—loads. You would have loved Dunham. We did a stunning authentic kitchen and a fabulous butler’s pantry. It’s like a time warp. I’ve got all the photos; I’ll show you later. I just need to ring the florist before I forget, and give her some answers. Raymond, could you go through it with me again, please, darling? It’s only a week; we really must sort it out.’

Which brought Lydia back to the reason for her return. As her parents went out, she looked at Melanie and Tom, sprawled comfortably on the sofa together, Tom’s arm draped possessively around Mel’s shoulders, and she gave an inward sigh. She couldn’t envy them their happiness. It had been within reach, and she’d walked away.

‘So, lovebirds, when did you decide to tie the knot?’ she asked, striving for a light tone.

‘About a year ago,’ Tom confessed with a smile. ‘When I first met her in the run-up to your wedding. I took one look at her, and I thought, That’s my woman.’

‘Caveman stuff, eh?’ Lydia teased, wishing she’d been anything like as sure of Jake as Mel clearly was of Tom—because, of course, if she had been, she would have stayed and married him.

‘Oh, I like caveman tactics,’ Mel said with a chuckle, laughing up at him. ‘I love it when he gets all masterful. Makes him think he’s boss, and he enjoys that.’

Lydia laughed at Tom’s resigned smile. She guessed her quicksilver high-spirited sister ran rings round the straightforward and honest man she’d chosen, but he was generous enough to indulge her.

If only she’d had so open a relationship with Jake, but for some reason they’d never really broken through the surface and shared anything on a really deep level. Perhaps that was the problem.

Perhaps, she thought, that was the only problem. Maybe if they’d really talked to each other, got to know each other better, she would have known if he’d loved her.

Tom was getting to his feet. ‘I have to go—things to sort out with Jake. I’ll be back later. Lydia, come out with us for dinner. We’re going to a new trattoria in town.’

‘We?’

‘Us and Jake.’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘I don’t know. He might not want me there.’

Tom blinked. ‘Don’t be silly. That’s all water under the bridge now. He won’t mind.’

Lydia wasn’t so sure, but then she’d never been sure of Jake. ‘I’ll see,’ she compromised.

He bent and gave Mel a lingering and tender kiss, and then went out, leaving the two sisters alone for the first time.

Mel, direct as ever, looked across at her and said bluntly, ‘You look like hell. You’re too thin, your eyes are tired and you look sad. Has it really been that bloody a year?’

And, for no very good reason that she could think of, Lydia burst into tears. In an instant Mel was perched on the arm of the chair and her arms were round Lydia, and she was being hugged and comforted by someone who really loved her. Lord, how she’d missed that! She slid her arms round Mel’s waist and hugged her back.

‘It’s good to be home,’ she said a little damply, and Mel shoved a tissue in her hand and smoothed her hair back off her brow.

‘Are you going to be OK about Jake?’ she asked gently, and Lydia shrugged.

‘I don’t know. I thought so, but seeing him just now—I don’t know any more. Has he said anything about me coming back?’

She shook her head. ‘Not really—not to me, and not to Tom, if what he just said is anything to go by. I don’t suppose you have to see that much of him, really, if you don’t want to.’

‘Mmm.’ If she didn’t. The trouble was, she wasn’t at all sure that not seeing him was what she did want. She’d missed him endlessly this last year, and seeing him now had brought it all back. She blinked back another wave of tears and straightened up.

‘Has he—um—you know—?’

‘Got another woman?’ Mel smiled understandingly. ‘No. Not that I’ve heard about, and Tom would have told me if he’d known. He’s been in London a lot, of course. He’s hardly here at all—well, nor’s Tom, of course, but I spend a lot of time in London with him when Mum can spare me, which isn’t that often. The business has really taken off in the last year—she’s delighted you’re back, by the way.’ Mel shot her a keen look. ‘I take it you are back?’

Lydia shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Probably, but I don’t know if I’ll stay here. Not with Jake next door.’

‘Well, that’s not a problem; the house is up for sale. He’s moving away.’

‘What?’ Lydia felt as if the bottom had fallen out of her world. ‘He’s what?’ she repeated, shocked, and then realised just how much her feelings about coming home had been to do with Jake. He couldn’t be moving away. She’d never see him again—

‘He’s going to stay in London—like I said, he’s hardly ever here now.’

Never here? Oh, Lord. She stood up, patting Mel on the shoulder in passing. ‘I’m going out for a walk,’ she said, and went blindly into the kitchen, past the place where he’d kissed her just now in the doorway of the room where he’d proposed to her just over a year ago, the room where so many of her hopes and dreams had been formed, only to come crashing down around her ears.

She ran down through the garden, over the lawn, under the rose arch and down to the wildflower meadow by the river where the marquee would be put up in just a few days.

Her willow was there, the tips of the branches trailing in the water, and she leant against the trunk and dragged in a shaky breath, and then another.

He couldn’t go.

The river swam out of focus, and she slid down the trunk and plopped on to the damp grass, dropping her head back against the rough bark and closing her eyes. The tears slipped unheeded down her cheeks, and she wished she could turn back time and change the course of the last year.

Maybe if she’d married him, given him a chance, all her doubts and fears could have been ironed out. Maybe they would have learned to talk to each other, learned to open up their hearts and dared to share their feelings.

And maybe then, instead of a dull and endless ache inside, she would have been filled with joy and contentment, like Mel.

She turned her head and looked towards Jake’s house, and then she saw him, standing by the river on his side of the fence, watching her. He was too far away to see her tears, but he lifted his hand and waved, and turned away.

She wanted to run after him, to ask him if he’d loved her, really loved her, or if he’d just allowed himself to be manoeuvred into the whole wedding thing.

She didn’t, though. She didn’t move. Instead she sat there and watched him until the tears blinded her again and he was gone.

What was she doing there? He stood for an age, watching her leaning against the tree, her face tipped up to the dappled sun, and he ached to hold her.

You’re a fool, he told himself. She’s no good for you. She’s just a beautiful butterfly, and if you trap her she’ll die as surely as if you put a pin through her heart.

He glanced at his watch. There was someone coming to see the house at four—just an hour away. He had to go and tidy the kitchen—the kitchen Lydia had designed and installed, the kitchen she’d planned as if it were her own.

She was everywhere in it. Every finishing touch, every clever little idea screamed her name. That was one reason why he was selling up. That and her return. Watching her day after day flitting about the place, hearing that beautiful tinkling laugh, watching her run to her car with those never-ending, gorgeous legs flashing in the sun—

He’d had dreams about those legs tangling with his, entwined around his waist as he buried himself deep inside her.

He growled impatiently, and she looked up, straight at him. She was too far away to read her expression, but he couldn’t stay there in case she came over and read the yearning in his eyes.

He lifted his hand in a casual salute and turned away, walking back to the house with a heavy heart. He couldn’t let her do this to him. He couldn’t wallow in self-pity like this or he just wouldn’t survive.

He had this week to get through, and the wedding next Saturday, a week today, and then he wouldn’t have to see her again. He could leave the house. Packers could clear it and bring the things he wanted to London, and the rest could be sold.

And maybe then he could move on.

‘Lydia? Tonight?’ Jake gave what he hoped was a casual shrug, and tried to ignore the sudden lurching of his heart. ‘Sure. Why should I mind?’

‘Well, that’s what I said,’ Tom replied. ‘Anyway, whatever, you’re going to have to see each other this week so you might as well get used to it.’

‘Absolutely. It’s not a problem,’ he assured Tom, hoping it was true. ‘How are the plans going?’

‘Oh, pretty smooth. There’s a lot to do, but, having just had a dry run, as it were, I don’t suppose it’s as bad as it could have been.’

Jake winced inwardly. A dry run? Was that how they viewed the disastrous mess last year had been?

‘It could have been a simpler affair,’ he pointed out, and Tom gave a rueful laugh.

‘With Mel orchestrating it? Not a chance. My darling girl wants all the bells and whistles, and that’s what she’s having. It seems to be a family failing.’

Except, of course, that Lydia had looked increasingly unhappy with it—or with him? He didn’t know. He hadn’t stopped to find out.

‘What time are we going out?’ he asked now, and Tom shrugged.

‘Seven-thirty? Table’s booked for eight-thirty, but we could go for a drink first.’

‘Fine. I’ll be ready. Right, stick that mug in the dishwasher and get out of here. I’ve got viewers coming to see the house in ten minutes and I need to check it. How’s your room?’

‘It’s fine. Lord, man, you’re such a nag.’

‘Check it.’

Tom saluted, vaulted off the edge of the worktop, dropped his mug in the dishwasher with a clatter and sauntered out into the hall. Jake shook his head, wiped down the worktop again, took a last look round and headed for the hall.

Fresh flowers stood in a huge vase on the side table, the sun was streaming into the drawing room windows and it looked good. He heard Tom coming downstairs two at a time, humming.

‘Well?’

‘Spotless. It’ll knock ’em dead.’ Tom punched him affectionately on the shoulder and headed out through the back door, just as the front doorbell rang.

They loved it. Everyone who’d looked at it loved it. There was going to be a mammoth fight over it, apparently, and the agent predicted that it would go to sealed bids, with people making their best and final offers at some time in the next week or two.

Well, at least it wouldn’t hang on, he thought heavily, closing the door behind the viewers at shortly after five. They’d wanted to look at everything several times, and he’d sent them off on their own and then had to listen to them raving about the kitchen for a good ten minutes.

Every little feature that Lydia had factored in, the woman had picked up on. The convenient way the trays slotted into units and became part of the fabric, the ingenious way the cupboards hinged out to give access to the back, the huge and practical work island with a granite area for pastry-making inset into the solid mahogany top, the butcher’s block set into another area—she’d loved them all.

She’d loved the deep butler’s sink under the window, the decorative tiling behind the Aga, the butler’s pantry with its stone shelves and floor-to-ceiling storage—all of it, each scrap of worktop and every single knob had been commented on and caressed lovingly.

She’d been particularly interested in the space under the worktop in the side of the island nearest the Aga.

‘It’s a dog bed,’ Jake had explained.

She’d blinked and looked at it, then at him. ‘It is?’

‘Potentially. I’ve had to spend more and more time in London, though, and the dog wouldn’t have fitted in,’ he’d explained economically.

‘Oh, how sad. Our dog would love it, so near the Aga. What a clever idea. Still, maybe one day you’ll be able to have your dog.’

Jake had done the only thing he could—he had smiled and nodded and tried not to grind his teeth too loudly.

And now, finally, they were gone, after one last look round the upstairs, and he was on his own. He went into the drawing room, dropped into his favourite chair and sighed.

Why the hell had she had to come back?

Lydia wasn’t at all sure about going out that evening. She’d fallen into bed at three-thirty, and to her surprise she’d slept soundly till seven. Now Mel was sitting on her bed shoving a cup of tea in her hand and telling her to get up and come out, it would do her good and they had so little time left before she was married.

That wasn’t how it felt to Lydia. The week ahead stretched away into the hereafter, as far as she was concerned, and she couldn’t see any way round it. That being the case, she might as well get used to it. She threw the bedclothes off, slid out of bed and put the tea down to cool.

‘I’ll come,’ she agreed. ‘How dressy is it?’

‘Anything—I’m wearing a casual silk trouser suit.’

Lydia rolled her eyes. ‘I have shorts—that’s about it.’

‘You have loads of clothes!’

‘And none of them will fit. I’m thinner, Mel.’

‘Not that much thinner. Let’s see—here, look, this is nice and it fits where it touches. Wear that.’

Jake’s favourite dress. Oh, hell. She sighed, dropped the dress on to the bed and headed for the bathroom. ‘OK. Give me five.’

It took longer, of course, because her hair needed washing, but luckily the tan covered the shadows round her eyes, so she slapped on a bit of smoky eyeshadow, a flick of mascara and a dash of soft pink lipstick, and then shimmied into the dress.

It still looked good. It was long and soft and floaty, and she just hoped that Jake wouldn’t remember it was what she’d been wearing when he’d proposed to her.

It was that dress. Damn. Of all the things she could have worn, it had to be that one. He’d had fantasies about her in it, standing with the wind blowing it against her body and lovingly outlining every curve.

Not that she’d have many curves to outline now, he thought, studying her critically. Without the baggy T-shirt he could see the slender arms and narrow waist, the small, high breasts and, when she moved, the angle of her hipbone.

She wasn’t wearing a bra. She usually didn’t—with the breasts that she scornfully described as two grapes on a chopping board she hardly needed to, but the cool night air had pebbled her nipples and he wished she’d put a jumper on before he disgraced himself.

‘Right, are we ready?’ Tom asked, hugging Mel to his side, and Lydia nodded.

‘I’m starving. I hate aeroplane food.’ She yawned hugely, and then laughed. ‘Sorry. I was in bed. Mel dug me out half an hour ago.’

In bed. Wonderful. Just what he needed. Between that and her pert little nipples, he was going to make an idiot of himself for sure. He tugged his heavy cotton sweater down and just prayed that it wouldn’t get too hot in the restaurant.

The atmosphere was dreadful. Mel and Tom did their best to keep the mood light, but Lydia was too tired to join in really and Jake, working his way steadily through the wine, was grimly silent.

Until the coffee was served, that was, and then he sprawled back in his chair, one arm coiled round the back, and regarded her levelly as he stirred his sugarless black coffee with unwarranted determination.

‘So, Lydia, do tell—did you “find yourself” on the hippy trail?’

‘Hippy trail?’ she said, trying not to wince at the coldness of his tone. ‘I met a lot of very interesting people—very nice people. I made some wonderful friends, and learned a great deal about trust and team work and sharing. And you? What have you done in the last year?’

‘Oh, turned over a few more companies, stripped a few assets, trashed a few lives—you know the sort of thing.’

‘Nothing worthwhile, then,’ she quipped, hating herself even while she knew it was just self-defence.

He laughed coldly. ‘Absolutely not—not compared to dumping my fiancé just before the wedding and disappearing off round the world like an irresponsible child. I’m amazed you haven’t come back reeking of patchouli and covered in multiple body piercings.’

She closed her eyes briefly, reeling from the shock of his unwarranted attack. Well, maybe not unwarranted, but totally out of character—wasn’t it? Tom seemed to think so. He jerked upright and glowered at his old friend. ‘Hell, Jake, that’s a bit harsh,’ he said.

‘Is it? The woman jilts me two days before our wedding and you say I’m harsh? I don’t think so.’

Lydia felt hot colour scorch her cheeks. Her heart was pounding and she thought she was going to be sick. She just had to get out of there, away from him and his bitterness and hatred before it destroyed the crumbling veneer around her and exposed her pain. She looked round desperately at Mel.

‘If you don’t mind, I think I’ll get a taxi home. I don’t really want this coffee, and I’m tired.’ She stood up, conscious that Jake, who last year would have stood up without fail, was still sprawled in the chair scowling into his cup. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘Tom, take her home,’ Mel said hurriedly.

‘No, we’ll all go,’ Jake said, standing up abruptly and pulling his wallet out. ‘There’s no point pretending we’re having fun.’ He dropped a handful of notes on the table, nodded to the waiter and headed for the door, his coffee untouched.

‘Is everything all right?’ the waiter asked anxiously, fluttering round them, and Tom soothed him.

‘It’s fine. We’re just rather tired. Thank you.’

He put a proprietorial arm around Lydia’s shoulders, and led her out of the door. Mel was ahead of them, steaming after Jake and giving him hell, if Lydia’s guess was right. Oh, damn. She should have stayed at home in bed and not come out with them. It was foolish to expect that they could be civil.

It might be water under the bridge by now, as Tom had said, but it had been a tidal wave, and the bridge was damaged beyond repair.

He seemed so angry still. That puzzled her, because for all she’d felt she didn’t really know him, she’d known that much about him, and he wasn’t a vindictive or unkind person.

So why, then, was he so angry? Unless it was because he still cared about her. And if he still cared that much, if he was still so angry, then maybe he really had loved her. It might just have been wounded pride, of course, but if not, was it really too late, or was there still a chance for them to mend the bridge?

Lydia didn’t know. All she knew was that she had a week in which to find out—a week that only hours ago had seemed to stretch on for ever, and now seemed nothing like long enough…