Читать книгу Reunited: Marriage In A Million - Liz Fielding - Страница 7

BELLE walked through the open front door and, if her heart could have sunk any lower, the view through the dining room doors to the chaos of caterers and florists in full cry would have sent it to her boots. She’d arrived in the middle of preparations for one of Ivo’s power-broking dinners that her sister-in-law would be directing with the same concentration and attention to detail as a five-star general planning a campaign.

About to toss in the proverbial hand grenade, she kept her head down and headed straight for the library, where she knew she’d find her husband.

The fact that it was barely past nine o’clock on a Saturday morning made no difference to Ivo Grenville, only that he’d be working at home rather than at his office.

He didn’t look up as she opened the door, giving her a precious few seconds to look at him, imprint the memory.

One elbow was propped on the desk, his forehead resting on long fingers, his world reduced to the document in front of him.

He had this ability to focus totally on one thing to the exclusion of everything else, whether it was acquiring a new company, a conversation in the lift with his lowliest employee, making love to his wife. He did everything with the same attention to detail, intensity, perfectionism. If, just once, he’d cracked, had an off-day like the rest of the human race, seemed fallible…

The ache in her throat intensified as, with a pang of tenderness she saw the dark hollows at his temple, a touch of silver that she hadn’t noticed before threaded through the thick cowlick of dark hair that slid across his hand. He was tired, she thought. He drove himself too hard, working hours that would be considered inhuman if he’d expected his staff to emulate him, and she longed to be able to just go to him, put her arms around him, silently soothe away the stress…

Just be a wife.

He dragged his hand down over his face, long fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as, eyes closed, he gathered himself to continue.

Then, maybe remembering the sound of the door opening, he looked up and caught her flat-footed, without her defences in place.

‘Belle?’ He rose slowly to his feet, saying her name as if he couldn’t believe it was her. Not that surprising. He’d never seen her looking like this before. The advantage of not sharing a bedroom with her husband was that he never saw her with morning hair, skin crumpled from a night with her face in a pillow. Definitely not in clothes she’d been travelling in for the better part of twenty-four hours, with nothing on her face to hide behind but a thin film of moisturiser. It was little wonder that for a moment he appeared uncharacteristically lost. ‘I didn’t expect you until tomorrow.’

Not exactly an accusation of thoughtlessness, but a very long way from expressing delight that she was home a day early.

‘I switched to an earlier flight.’

‘How did you get from the airport?’ That was all the time it took him to gather himself, concentrate on the practicalities. ‘If you’d called, Miranda would have sent the car.’

Not him, but his ever present, ever helpful little sister. Always there. As focused and perfect as Ivo himself. Too rich to have to bother with building a career, she was simply marking time until some man—heaven help him—who met her requirements in breeding, who was her equal in wealth, realised that she would make the perfect wife.

It was Miranda, not her, who was the chatelaine here, running her brother’s social diary and his house with pinpoint precision. The person the staff looked to for their orders.

Who’d had a separate suite ready for her when they’d returned from their honeymoon so that her 4:00 a.m. starts wouldn’t disturb Ivo.

That was the inviolable rule of the house. Nothing must be allowed to disturb Ivo.

Not even his wife.

Little wonder, Belle thought, that she’d always felt more like a guest here. Tolerated for the one thing she could give him that not even the most brilliant sister could deliver.

Even now she had to fight the programmed need to apologise for her lapse of good manners in arriving before she was expected. The truth was that she hadn’t rung to tell Ivo the change to her schedule because to call would be to hope that just this once he’d drive down to Heathrow himself, join the crowd of eager husbands and wives waiting for that first glimpse of a loved one as they spilled out into the arrivals hall. Just as she’d hoped that he would, despite what she’d told Claire and Simone, fly to Hong Kong to meet her.

Her heart just wouldn’t quit hoping.

But his momentary lapse from absolute certainty had given her the necessary few seconds to gather herself, restore the protective shell she wore to disguise her true feelings, and she was able to shrug and say, ‘It seemed less bother to get the train. No,’ she said quickly, as he finally abandoned his papers, stopping him before he could touch her, kiss her. ‘I’ve been travelling for twenty-four hours. I’m not fit to be touched.’

For a moment he looked as if he might dispute that. For the second time she glimpsed a suggestion of hesitation, uncertainty. She was usually the one hovering on the edge of the unspoken word, afraid that the slightest hint of emotional need would bring the whole edifice of her marriage crashing down about her ears.

Outside, in the real world, wearing her Belle Davenport persona, she wasn’t like that. She could play that part without thinking.

And at night, in the privacy of her room where, with one touch, the brittle politeness melted away, his distance dissolving in the heat of a passion that reduced their world to a population of two, it seemed anything was possible.

But afterwards there was no tenderness, no small talk about their day. He was not interested in her world, had no desire to discuss his own concerns with her. Felt no need to sleep with his arms around her, holding her close for comfort, but left her to her early morning alarm call while he, undisturbed, got on with his real life.

It was the role of wife—beyond the basics of the bedroom—that she’d never been able to fully master. But then, with Miranda immovably entrenched in every other aspect of the role, there had never truly been a vacancy for a wife. Only a concubine.

Hard as this was going to be, she knew it could not be as difficult as staying. ‘Can we talk, Ivo?’

‘Talk?’ His frown was barely perceptible, but it was there. ‘Now?’

‘Yes, now.’

‘Don’t you want to sort yourself out? Take a shower?’ He glanced back at his desk. He didn’t have to say the words; it was plain that he had more important things to do.

‘For heaven’s sake, Ivo, it’s Saturday,’ she snapped, losing patience, needing to be done with this. Get it over. ‘The stock markets are closed.’

‘This isn’t…’ he began. Then, ‘It’ll take ten minutes, fifteen at the most.’

She’d been away for weeks. Any other man would have dropped whatever he was doing, eager to see her, talk to her, ask how she was, how it had been. Tell her that he was glad to have her home. If he’d done that, she thought, the words sitting like a lump in her throat would have dissolved, evaporated. She could not have said them. But for Ivo business always came first, while she was an inconvenience, a constant reminder of his one weakness…

‘Why don’t you go up? I’ll be there just as soon as I’ve finished this,’ he suggested and, without waiting, he turned back to his desk. ‘We can talk then.’

No. That wasn’t how it worked. Not that he wouldn’t come. Fifteen minutes from now she’d be in the shower and he’d join her there, demonstrating with his body, as he never could with words, exactly how much he’d missed her.

The only thing they wouldn’t do was talk.

Afterwards, after the drugging pleasures of his body that would drive everything from her mind, she’d wake, as always alone—he’d have gone back to work—and there would be some trinket left at the bedside: something rare and beautiful, befitting her status as his wife, an acknowledgement that he’d been selfish, unreasonable about the Himalayan trip. She would wear whatever it was at dinner, a wordless acceptance of his unspoken apology.

Not today, she promised herself, her hand tightening around the tiny cellphone in her pocket—a direct connection to Simone, Claire. Women who knew more about her than her own husband. They’d spent every free minute of the last few days talking about their lives, the past, the future; they had listened, understood, cared about her in ways he never could. With them to support her she would find the strength to break out of the compartment he’d made for her. He might be satisfied with this relationship—and why wouldn’t he be?—but she needed more, much more…

‘No, Ivo.’ Already, in his head, back with whatever project she’d interrupted, he didn’t seem to hear her. ‘I’m afraid it won’t.’ He stopped, turned slowly. ‘Wait.’

His skin was taut across his face, emphasising the high cheekbones, the aristocratic nose, a mouth that could reduce her to mindless, whimpering jelly and, looking at him, Belle found it achingly hard to say the words that would put an end to her marriage.

He did nothing to help her but, keeping his distance, the tips of his fingers resting on the corner of his desk, a barrier between them, he waited, still and silent, for her to speak. It was almost, she thought, as if he knew what she was going to say. If so, he knew more than she did.

‘This is difficult,’ she began.

‘Then…then my advice is to keep it simple.’ His voice, usually crisp and incisive, was slightly blurred. Or maybe it was him that was blurred behind a veil of something she was very afraid might be tears.

‘Yes,’ she said, and blinked to clear her vision. No tears. She’d learned a long time ago not to show that kind of weakness. ‘Yes,’ she said again. This was not something that could be wrapped up in soft words. Somehow made less painful with padding. Simple, direct, to the point, with no possibility of misunderstanding. That was the way to do it. ‘I’m sorry but I can’t live with you any more, Ivo. I’m setting you free of our deal.’

‘Free?’

‘We said, didn’t we, that it wasn’t a till-death-us-do-part deal. That either of us could walk away at any time.’ Then, when he did not respond, ‘I’m walking away, Ivo.’

Predicting his reaction to such a bald announcement had been beyond her, but if she’d hoped that his cool façade would finally crack, she’d have been disappointed. There was no visible reaction. He looked neither shocked nor surprised, but then he’d made a life’s work of being unreadable, keeping the world guessing. The fact that he could do it to her confirmed everything she had known about her marriage, but until last week had been too weak to confront.

His response, when it finally came, was practical rather than emotional. ‘Where will you go?’

That was it?

Not, ‘Why?’ Or did he believe he already knew the answer to that? Assumed that the only reason she would leave him was because she’d found someone else? The thought sickened her…

‘Does it matter?’ she asked abruptly.

‘Yes, it matters…’ He bit off the words, shook his head. ‘Manda will need to know where to forward your mail.’

On the point of saying something very rude about his sister, she stopped herself. This was not Miranda’s fault. And she was not hiding from him, running away. Just distancing herself. For both their sakes. ‘The tenants moved out of my flat last month,’ she explained. ‘I’ll stay there.’

‘That won’t do—’

‘It’s what I want,’ she cut in before he could take over and set about organising accommodation that he considered more acceptable for someone who bore his name.

He didn’t look happy about it, but he let it go and said, ‘Very well.’ Then, ‘Is that it?’

No!

Her heart cried out the word, but she kept her mouth closed and, getting no answer, he nodded and returned to his desk to resume the work she had interrupted.

Numb, frozen out, cut off by a wall of ice, she was left with nothing to do but pack her immediate needs and leave.

Miranda emerged from the dining room as she headed for the stairs.

‘Belle? What are you doing here? I didn’t expect you back until tomorrow.’

‘It’s lovely to see you too,’ she said, without stopping, without looking back.

Ivo Grenville was staring blindly at the document in front of him when his sister, taking advantage of the door that Belle hadn’t bothered to close on her way out, walked into the library.

‘What’s the matter with Belle?’ she asked. Then, without waiting for an answer, ‘Honestly, she might have had the good manners to let me know she was coming back today.’

‘Why should she? This is her…’ He faltered on the word ‘home’, but his sister was too busy waving his objection away with an impatient gesture to notice.

‘That’s not the point. Even if I can drum up another man for tonight, I’ll have to totally rearrange the seating. And the caterers are going to—’

‘No.’

‘No? You mean she won’t be joining us for dinner?’ She relaxed. ‘Well, thank goodness for that. To be honest, she did look a mess, but I’ve no doubt people would run around, pull out all the stops for her. One smile and people just fall over themselves—’

‘No!’ He so rarely raised his voice, and never to her, that she was shocked into silence. ‘You won’t have to rearrange the seating because tonight’s dinner is cancelled.’

‘Cancelled?’ Her laugh, uncertain, died as she saw his face. ‘Ivo…?’ Then, ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t cancel this late. The Ambassador, the Foreign Secretary…What possible reason can I give?’

‘I neither know nor care, but if you’re stuck for an excuse why don’t you tell our guests that my wife has just announced that she’s leaving me and I’m not in the mood to make small talk. I’m sure they’ll understand.’

‘Leaving you? But she can’t!’ Then, flushing, ‘Oh, I see. Who—’

‘Manda, please,’ he said, cutting her off before she could put into words the thoughts that had flashed through his mind. Thoughts that shamed him. Belle had never been less than forthright, honest with him. She’d wanted security; he’d wanted her…‘Not another word.’

He heard the door close very quietly and finally he sat back, abandoning the documents that moments before he’d insisted were too important to wait. Nothing was that important but, in the instant when he’d looked up and seen Belle, he’d known what was coming. It was in her eyes, the look he’d been waiting for, dreading, had always known would one day come. Security, for a woman of such warmth, such passion, was never going to be enough.

His first thought had been to postpone it, delay it, do anything to give himself time.

Another hour. Another day…

Each and every day of his working life he took a few precious minutes out of his morning to watch her as she lit up the television screen in his office. Each day, while she’d been away, he’d seen the change in her, had felt her moving away from him, had recognised the danger. Maybe it had begun even before she’d left; he just hadn’t wanted to see it. Maybe that was why he had tried so hard to stop her going on the trip.

He opened the desk drawer, pushing aside the ticket to Hong Kong, bought on the day he’d watched, agonised, as she’d talked into the camera, smiling even though there was blood trickling down her face. Plans he’d been forced to abandon when a crisis had blown up over a project he’d embarked upon.

He’d told himself that it didn’t matter. That he would drive down to the airport and meet her flight. Give her the necklace he’d had made for her with the diamonds his mother had worn on her wedding day.

Wrong on both counts.

Belle didn’t bother with the shower; she didn’t want to spend one minute more than necessary in this house. What she did need were clothes, and since she was due back at work first thing on Monday morning that involved rather more than a change of underwear and a pair of jeans.

She stared helplessly at the dozens of outfits that had been carefully chosen to provoke the desire in the red-blooded male to wake up each morning to her presence on the television screen, the wish in every female breast to be her best friend.

It was a difficult trick to pull off. Between them, however, the designers and the image consultants had managed it. Everything about her that the public recognised as ‘Belle Davenport’, her life, her marriage, had been airbrushed so thoroughly that she’d forgotten what was real and what was little more than a media fabrication.

Maybe that was why, for so long, she had felt she was running on empty. That if she stopped concentrating for a second the floor would open up beneath her feet and she’d disappear.

Suddenly losing it, unable to keep up the pretence for another minute, she turned her back on them and tossed the bare essentials in a holdall—underwear, shoes, a few basics, the first things that came to hand.

What else? She looked around. Make-up…

She grabbed for a gold-topped glass pot but her hands were shaking and it slipped through her fingers, shattered, splashing pale beige cream in a wide arc over the centuries-old polished oak floor, an antique rug. With a cry of dismay, she bent to pick up the pieces of glass.

‘Leave it!’

Ivo…

‘Leave it,’ he said, taking her hand, pulling it away from the glass. ‘You’ll cut yourself.’

Her skin shivered at his touch; his hand was cool and yet heat radiated from his fingers, warming her—as he never failed to warm her—so that the siren call of everything in her that was female urged her to let him lift her up into his arms, to hold him, tell him that she didn’t mean it. That she would never leave him. That nothing else mattered but to be here with him.

He touched her cheek, then pushed back her hair to look at the graze on her forehead, regarding her with eyes the colour of the ocean, a shifting mix of blue, green, grey that, as with the sea, betrayed his mood. Today they were a bleak grey, her doing she knew, and she forced herself to turn away from his touch as if to gather up the rest of her make-up. It was easier to cope with his reflection in the mirror than face to face.

‘Is this because I didn’t want you to go away, Belle?’ he asked, his hands on her shoulders, his thumbs working softly against the muscles, easing the tension as they had done times without number in a prelude to an intimacy that needed no words.

His touch shivered through her, undermining her will. She’d lingered too long. He’d taken it as a sign that she was just having a bit of a strop, throwing her teddy out of the pram, was waiting for him to come up and make a performance of appeasing her.

‘No,’ she said. That he didn’t want her to go away was understandable, but she couldn’t allow him to use her weakness to stop her from leaving. ‘It’s because we don’t have a marriage, Ivo. We don’t share anything. Because I want something you’re incapable of giving.’

In the mirror she saw him blench.

‘You’re my wife, Belle. Everything I have is yours—’

‘I’m your weakness, Ivo,’ she said, cutting him short. This wasn’t about property, security. ‘You desire me. You have a need that I satisfy.’

‘And you? Don’t I satisfy you?’

‘Physically? You know the answer to that.’ When he held her, the flames of that desire were enough to warm her, body and soul. But when he turned away she was left with ice. ‘You have given me everything that I asked of you. But what we have is not a marriage.’

‘You’re tired,’ he said, his voice cobweb-soft against her ear. The truth was it didn’t matter what he said, her response to his undivided attention had always been the same; she was a rabbit fixed in the headlights of an oncoming car, unable to move, save herself and her body responded as it always did, softening to him. He felt the change and, sure of his power, he turned her to face him. Instinct drew her to him and she leaned into the haven of his body, waiting for him to tell her that he’d missed her, to ask her what was wrong, to do what she’d asked and talk to her.

Instead he took something from his pocket. A strand of fire that blazed in the light as he moved to fasten it about her neck.

‘I had this made for you for our anniversary next month.’

‘It’s not our anniversary…’

‘The anniversary of the day we first met.’

Belle felt as if she were being split in two. The physical half was standing safe, protected, within the circle of Ivo’s arms. But all of her that was emotion, heart, the woman who’d dug deep and, with the help of her friends, found the strength to confront her past, stood outside, looking on with horror as she was drawn in by this glittering proof that he had thought of her, cherished the memory of the moment when their lives had first connected.

‘No…’

She barely whispered the word as the gems touched her throat. A single thread of diamonds to circle her neck. Beautiful.

Cold.

If his heart was a diamond, maybe he could have given her that. But the warm, beating flesh required more, something that was beyond him. That she had once thought was beyond her…

‘Please, Ivo. Don’t do this…’

It took a supreme act of will to force up her chin, look him directly in the face, find the strength to break free, for both of them.

‘No,’ she repeated, this time with more certainty. And, taking a step back, she brushed the necklace away, taking him by surprise so that it flew from his hand, skidded across the floor.

This wasn’t about desire. Not for him. It wasn’t even as basic as lust. This was all about control.

‘No more.’

She took another step away, then turned and, abandoning her make-up, she picked up her bag, holding him at arm’s length when, instinctively, he made a move to take it from her.

Only then, when she was sure he would keep his distance, did she turn, walk away on legs that felt as if they were treading on an underfilled airbed. On feet that didn’t seem to be one hundred per cent in contact with the ground.

Every part of her hurt. It was worse than that first day on the mountains when she’d thought she’d die if she had to force her feet to push the pedal one more time.

That had been purely physical pain. Muscle, sinew, bone.

This cut to the heart. If she’d ever doubted how much she loved him, every step taking her away from him hammered the message home. But love, true love, involved sacrifice. Ivo had taken her on trust, had accepted without question everything she’d told him about her life before they’d met. Before she became ‘Belle Davenport’. She’d done two utterly selfish things in her life—abandoned her sister and married Ivo Grenville. It was time to confront the past, find the courage to put both of those things right.

Her rucksack was where she’d left it, battered, grubby, out of place in the perfection of the Regency hall. They were a match, she thought, as she picked it up, slung it over her shoulder. She’d always been out of place here. A stranger in her own life.

The door had been propped open by the florists who were ferrying in boxes of flowers. Grateful that she wouldn’t have to find the strength to open it, she walked down the steps and out into the street.

On her own again and very much ‘scared witless…’ but certain, as she hadn’t been for a very long time, of the rightness of what she was doing.

Belle’s flat—small, slightly shabby—welcomed her as the great house in Belgravia never had. Unable to believe her good fortune, she’d bought it the moment she’d signed her first contract following one of those chance-in-a-million breaks. Her fairy-godmother had come in the unlikely guise of a breakfast show host who, when her brief appearance manning the phones on the telethon he was presenting had lit up the switchboard, had run with it and, playing up to the public’s response, had offered her a guest appearance on his show. Not quite knowing what to do with her, he’d suggested she do a weather spot.

For some reason her flustered embarrassment at her very shaky grasp of geography had touched the viewers’ hearts.

One of the gossip magazines had run a feature on her and within weeks she’d had an agent and a serious contract to go out and talk to people in the street, in their offices, in their homes, asking their opinions on anything from the price of bread to the latest health fad.

Even now she didn’t understand how it had happened but, from a situation where she and her bank did their best to ignore each other, suddenly she was being invited into the manager’s office for a chat over a cup of coffee. They hadn’t been able to do enough for her, especially once she’d demonstrated that investing in bricks and mortar—securing herself a home against the time when the sympathy wore thin—had been her first priority.

Against all the odds, she’d gradually moved from her spot as light relief to the centre of the breakfast television sofa, picking up the long-term security of a multi-millionaire husband on the way.

But she’d kept her flat.

She hadn’t needed Ivo—financial genius that he was—to advise her to let it rather than sell it when they’d married. She would never part with it. It wasn’t just that it was a good investment, that it had been her first, her only proper home; it represented, at some fundamental level, a different, truthful kind of security.

After her last tenant had left she’d made the excuse that it needed refurbishing and taken it off the agency books. Almost as if she’d been preparing for this moment.

Shivering, she dumped her bags in the hall, switched on the heating. Looked around. Touched one of the walls for reassurance. The stones in her wedding ring caught the light, flashed back at her, and she stood there for a moment, lost in the memory of the moment when Ivo had placed it on her finger. Then it had been the sun that had caught the stones in the antique ring as he’d pledged to keep her safe, protect her.

He had. He’d done everything he’d promised. But it wasn’t enough. And she slipped the ring from her finger.

Then, in a frenzy of activity, she made the bed, unpacked her things. Stuffed everything into the washing machine.

Ivo was wrong. She wasn’t tired. Her body clock was all over the place and she was buzzing. Once she’d showered, she sorted herself out a pair of trousers, a shirt, a sweater from the jumbled mess in her bag, made a cup of tea and switched on her computer.

Her first priority was to send emails to Claire and Simone to let them know that she was home safely. Update them.

…I’ve moved into my old flat. It needs redecorating, but that’s okay. It’ll be something to keep me busy in the long winter evenings.

She added a little wry smiley.

I hope you both had uneventful trips home since I suspect life is about to get a little bumpy for all of us. Take care. Love, Belle.

She hit ‘send’. Sat back. Remembered Simone’s face as she’d warned her against doing anything hasty. Telling her that Ivo could help…

No. This was something she had to do herself. And, brushing aside the ache, she began to search the ’net for information on how she could find her sister.

The good news was that new legislation meant that not only mothers could register to contact children given up for adoption, but family too.

The bad news was that Daisy had to make the first move.

Unless she’d signed up to find her birth family—and, for the life of her, Belle couldn’t imagine why she would want to—there would be no connection.

Ivo could help…

The tempting little voice whispered in her ear. He would have contacts…

She shut it out, filled in the online form with all the details she had. If that produced no results, there were agencies that specialised in helping to trace adopted family members.

She’d give it a week before she went down that route. Right now, she had a more pressing concern. She had to call her hairdresser and grovel.

‘Eeuw…’ George, her stylist, a man who understood a hair emergency when he saw it, picked up a dry blonde strand to examine its split ends and shuddered. ‘I knew it was going to be bad but really, Belle, this is shocking. What have you being doing to it?’

‘Nothing.’

‘I suppose that would explain it. I hope you haven’t got any plans for the rest of the day. It’s going to need a conditioning treatment, colour—’

‘I want you to cut it,’ Belle said, before he could get into his stride.

‘Well, obviously. These ends will have to go.’

‘No. Cut it. Short. And let’s lose the platinum blonde, um? Go for something nearer my real colour.’

‘Oh, right. And can you remember what that is?’ he asked, arching a brow at her in the mirror.

Vaguely. She’d started off white blonde, like her sister, but her own hair had darkened as she’d got older. She’d reversed the process as soon as she’d discovered the hair colouring aisle in the supermarket, but if she was going for ‘real’, her hair was as good a place as any to start.

‘Cheerful mouse?’ she offered.

‘An interesting concept, darling. Somehow I don’t think it will catch on.’ Then, having examined her roots, presumably to check for himself, he said, ‘Have you cleared this with your image consultant? Your agent?’ When she didn’t respond, ‘Your husband?’

The mention of Ivo brought a lump to her throat.

She fought it down.

It was her hair, her image, her life and, by way of answer, she leaned forward, picked up a pair of scissors lying on the ledge in front of her, extended a lock of hair and, before George could stop her, she cut through it, just below her ear. Then, still holding the scissors, she said, ‘Do you want to finish it or shall I?’