Читать книгу His Independent Bride: Wife Against Her Will / The Wedlocked Wife / Bertoluzzi's Heiress Bride - Сара Крейвен, Catherine Spencer - Страница 7

IT WAS raining heavily, but the girl paying off the taxi did not turn up her coat collar, or try to avoid the rivulets of water running across the pavement. She seemed oblivious to the wet chill of the evening, pausing under a street lamp to check the address on the scrap of paper clutched in her hand.

It was just one of a number of similar tall houses in the terrace, its neat front door reached by a short flight of railed steps. There was a polished brass plaque by the entrance, and an equally burnished doorbell beneath it.

She touched the button, but it was damp and her fingers slipped. Or was she beginning to lose her nerve? She took a deep, steadying breath, then pressed the bell again, more firmly.

Her ring was answered promptly by a man in a porter’s uniform.

‘May I help you, miss?’ His tone was civil but guarded.

She said, ‘I’d like to speak to one of your members—a Mr Harry Metcalfe.’

His brows lifted, and she found herself being closely scrutinised.

‘Mr Metcalfe is attending a private party, miss. I don’t think he would wish to be disturbed. But I could take a message, if you like.’

‘I’m afraid that won’t do.’ She lifted her chin. Returned his stare. ‘I need to talk to Mr Metcalfe myself. It’s—urgent. So will you get him, please?’

For a moment she wondered blankly what she would do if he simply denied her Harry again and shut the door in her face. But, grudgingly, he stood aside, and she walked into a large square hallway panelled in dark wood.

Straight ahead a wide flight of stairs, carpeted in deep crimson, curved away to the upper floors. On her right was a desk, with two telephones, and the club’s registration book with a pen tray beside it. There was also a newspaper folded at the crossword and a mug of tea, half-drunk, beside it.

And on the other side of the hall was a series of doors, all closed.

Behind one of them, she supposed, was Harry, centre of attention at his private party. But which one?

The porter opened the nearest door, motioning her to precede him into the room beyond. He pressed a switch, bringing two heavily shaded wall lights into service.

‘If you’ll wait here in the reading room, miss, I’ll see what I can do.’ He added dourly, ‘But I can’t promise.’

Reading room? she thought as the door closed behind him. It was so dim in here, you’d probably go blind.

As she unfastened her damp trench coat, she looked around at the formal groups of hard leather armchairs and the table in the centre with magazines and periodicals arranged in regimented rows. They looked as if their cover stories might relate to Queen Victoria’s jubilee, she thought, her mouth twisting.

Stationed round the walls were several glass-fronted bookcases with elaborate locks, but no keys, as if to discourage any attempt to open them, let alone prise out one of the rigid leather-bound volumes they contained.

The whole room seemed as if it had been frozen in time—or was that only because she felt the same? Numb, as if the world had stopped six hours ago when she’d looked at a line on a plastic tube, and seen it turn blue.

‘Harry.’ She whispered the name into the emptiness. ‘Harry, you’ve got to help me. I don’t know what to do.’

She heard the door open behind her and spun round in instinctive relief. But it was short-lived. Because the newcomer wasn’t Harry. It was someone she’d never seen before. Someone taller, and much darker than Harry, but by no means as handsome, she thought, apprehension uncurling inside her. Harry had charm, and a smile that could melt icebergs. This man’s mouth looked as if it had been forged from steel.

In addition, he had hair as black as a witch’s cat, and the coldest blue eyes she’d ever seen. Which were currently looking her over with unconcealed exasperation.

‘Oh, God.’ His voice was low-pitched with a faint drawl. Perhaps a trace of an accent too. ‘Who had the bright idea of inviting you, sweetheart? Because I’ll wring his bloody neck.’

Jolted, she stared back at him. She said, ‘I think there’s some mistake. I’m here to see Harry Metcalfe.’

‘I’m sure you are,’ he said. ‘But Harry’s enjoying a bachelor dinner with some friends and relations, including his future father-in-law,’ he added with a touch of grimness. ‘So you can see that your intrusion would be completely inappropriate.’ He reached into the jacket of his elegant suit and took out his wallet. ‘How much to make you disappear?’

Her brows snapped together. She said, icily, ‘I don’t know who you are, but…’

‘And I don’t care who you are,’ he cut across her, his tone bored. ‘It’s what you are that sticks in my gullet. Because it’s really not that kind of party, so be a good girl, and don’t hang around where you’re not wanted.’ He extracted some banknotes from his wallet. ‘Now, tell me how much you were going to be paid, and add on the cab fare, so we can all get on with our lives.

‘And it’s nothing personal, darling.’ The blue gaze skated over her again more slowly, taking in the simple knee-length black dress that her open raincoat revealed. His smile was swift and cynical. ‘In other circumstances, I’d probably enjoy watching your performance. You might even persuade me to join in, if I’d had enough to drink. But this isn’t your night, so I suggest you get off to your next engagement.’

She stared up at him, dazed, bewildered. She said thickly, ‘What the hell are you talking about? I came here to see Harry, and I’m not leaving until I do.’

‘Yes, you are,’ he said. ‘With a police escort, if necessary. Here.’ He walked over to her, briskly peeling off some of the notes, and before she could read his intentions he pushed them down the front of her dress between her breasts, the long fingers casually brushing her rounded flesh.

She gave a small cry of outrage and stepped back, dragging out the money and throwing it at him.

She said hoarsely, ‘How dare you—how dare you touch me—you bastard?’

‘You mean touching’s not part of the act?’ He was unfazed, even mocking. ‘Now, there’s a novelty.’ He paused for a moment, glancing towards the door. ‘Oh, God,’ he said wearily. ‘The bloody cavalry. Just what I didn’t want.’

The door was flung open and a younger man came in, sandy-haired and faintly flushed. ‘I’m the search party, old boy,’ he announced, faintly slurring his words. ‘Your uncle Giles is asking for you.’

Then as his gaze discovered the room’s other occupant he halted, and let out a long, slow whistle. ‘You sly devil, you,’ he said, grinning. ‘Where did she come from?’

‘How odd you should ask.’ The drawl was even more pronounced. ‘That, my dear Jack, was going to be my question—to you.’

Jack’s brows lifted, and he began to laugh. ‘You mean some live entertainment’s arrived after all?’ He raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘Nothing to do with me, my friend. I seriously didn’t dare, not when I heard your uncle Giles was planning to honour us with his presence. Couldn’t see old Harry wanting to get his kit off and frolic with his bride’s father looking on.’

He gave another appreciative whistle. ‘But she’s a bit adorable, eh? Not the usual type at all. Fancy giving a private show down here, darling? Just for the two of us?’

‘No, she doesn’t.’ The retort from her adversary was clipped and immediate. ‘You may be drunk enough, but I’m not. And anyway, we have a party to go back to, so she’s leaving.’

He took her arm, but she wrenched herself free. ‘Let go of me,’ she said stormily, a hectic flush spreading along her cheekbones. ‘You don’t understand. This isn’t—I’m not what you obviously think. I know Harry. I’m a friend of his, and I have to see him tonight—talk to him. It’s terribly important.’

‘Harry’s friends are upstairs at his stag party,’ he said. ‘And you definitely weren’t on the guest list. Now go.’ He took her by the shoulders and turned her, pushing her inexorably towards the doorway.

She struggled against his grasp, aware of the raincoat slipping from her shoulders as they reached the hall. Her bag sliding away too, with the coat. Hitting the floor.

She reached down, trying to grab for it, and stumbled, almost sinking to her knees, but his fingers were like iron, pulling her up again.

The porter was on his feet, and there were other people there too—men—some of them on the stairs, but others right there in the hall, surrounding her, groping at her, trying to reach her zip, laughing and shouting, ‘Off. Off.’

She felt the back of her dress tear, and cried out in fear. Knew the shock of her tormentors’ hands on her bare skin.

And she suddenly saw Harry in the turmoil of grinning, hooting faces, standing towards the back. He was as white as a ghost, his mouth open in shock, staring at her as if she was his worst nightmare.

She called out to him, her voice high and desperate with panic. ‘Harry—help me—please. You must…’

But he didn’t move or speak. Only his expression changed, going from surprise to guilt. And from guilt, she realised, to cold fury.

It was then that she stopped fighting. That she let the hard male hands still on her shoulders propel her towards the club’s open front door.

Where they halted. She found herself swung, not gently, to face him. She saw the blue eyes skim her with contempt, and, gasping, wrenched herself free of him at last, her naked skin feeling flayed where he’d touched her.

He took her coat and bag from the sandy-haired man, who’d appeared beside him, and tossed them to her.

He said softly and unsmilingly, ‘I’d consider a change of career, darling, if you want to make a living. I don’t think you’re cut out for this.’

Then the door closed, leaving her outside in the rain-washed darkness, and more alone than she had ever been in her life.