Читать книгу Dragons Lair - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 5

IT was rather stuffy in the small room. The air was heavy with the scent of ageing leather, paper and old-fashioned furniture polish—none of them unpleasant in themselves but oddly oppressive when served up in such a rich mixture. Or was it simply her over-charged emotional state which made them seem so? Davina Greer could not be sure.

She pressed her tongue over her dry lips and cast a longing glance at the tall Georgian windows which gave the impression of having been hermetically sealed since the day they were installed. Then she transferred her gaze to her hands, clasped tensely together in her lap. They were nice-looking hands, she thought judiciously. A little too slender perhaps, but perfectly capable as she had proved over and over again during the past two years. And very bare.

Her lips tightened slightly as almost involuntarily her right hand moved protectively to conceal her left. Surely by this time she should have forgotten what it had been like to wear, briefly, that broad band of antique gold, just as she had tried to forget the emotions she had experienced when it had been placed on her finger.

And in that at least she had succeeded, she thought. Wasn’t that precisely why she was here today?

Mr Bristow was still on the telephone, his voice reassuring, his head nodding firmly as he pressed each point home. They’d hardly had time to do more than exchange a conventional greeting before the call came through, so she had no idea what news he had for her. She stared at the buff folders tied with tape littering the polished top of his desk. One of them she supposed concerned her, but she had no idea which it was. She tried unobtrusively to crane her neck and read some of the names and references printed on the folders, but it was obvious that Mr Bristow was briskly winding up the call, so she leaned back in the comfortable leather chair and tried to give an impression of relaxation.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said as he replaced the receiver. ‘Slight case of panic, I’m afraid.’

‘And you’re looking at another.’ She tried a laugh, but it wasn’t a great success.

Mr Bristow’s eyes studied her keenly for a moment, then he reached for one of the files. It was a very thin one, she noticed, containing only a few papers.

She tried again. ‘I—I hope you have good news for me?’

Mr Bristow pursed his lips. ‘I’m afraid not, or more truthfully, I have no news at all. Your—er—Mr Lloyd has simply not answered any of my letters.’

‘I see.’ Davina bit her lip. ‘Well, perhaps he hasn’t received them. If he’s still moving around all the time …’

Mr Bristow shook his head. ‘When there was no response to the first letter, I sent the remainder by recorded delivery,’ he said. ‘And Mr Lloyd is certainly not—moving around at present. He’s been back in Britain for some considerable time, or so we discovered when we traced him.’

‘Back in Britain?’ Davina echoed bewilderedly. ‘But when? There’s been nothing in the papers about it.’

‘Perhaps he wanted it that way,’ Mr Bristow suggested. He gave the papers in front of him a frowning look. ‘I can assure you that our information is quite correct. He’s resident at present at'—his frown deepened—'Plas Gwyn, Moel y Ddraig. I’m not at all sure my pronunciation is correct, but …’

‘I get the general idea,’ Davina said with a touch of impatience. She was secretly appalled, and her mind was whirling madly. She had accustomed herself for so long to the idea that Gethyn was at a safe distance on the other side of the Atlantic that the news that he had returned quietly, without the blaze of publicity which had attended the majority of his comings and goings in the past, was a severe shock.

At least she could be thankful that he was not actually here in London, she told herself.

She swallowed, forcing herself to speak calmly. ‘So he’s back in Wales. Well, that should make things—easier, surely?’

‘Not if he refuses to reply to our letters,’ Mr Bristow pointed out. ‘Can you think of any explanation for his continuing silence? When you first consulted me, you gave me the strongest impression that your—Mr Lloyd would be only too glad to consent to a divorce.’

Davina’s hands were gripped together so tightly that her knuckles showed white. She said evenly, ‘That was what I had every reason to believe. My—my husband’s—exploits during our separation have been well-enough documented.’ The colour rose faintly in her cheeks. ‘I can’t imagine a single reason why he should wish to prolong this—farce a day longer than necessary.’

Mr Bristow sighed. ‘As I pointed out to you before, newspaper gossip in itself does not constitute acceptable evidence. And you realise of course that if your husband does not give his written consent to the divorce you would have to wait a further three years for your freedom.’

‘But that’s monstrous!’ Davina was indignant.

‘It’s the law,’ Mr Bristow reminded her placidly. He hesitated for a moment. ‘I can always write again, pressing Mr Lloyd for a reply, but I was wondering … Have you—er—Miss Greer—considered the personal approach?’

‘Are you suggesting that I should go to Gethyn and—ask him to agree to a divorce?’

‘It has been done before,’ Mr Bristow said drily. ‘It could result in a perfectly amicable arrangement, particularly as there are only the two of you concerned. Sometimes where there are children to be considered, difficulties can arise, but that isn’t the case here.’

‘No,’ Davina said woodenly. ‘That—isn’t the case. But I was hoping to avoid having to see my husband again.’

‘I think some kind of interview is almost inevitable,’ Mr Bristow said kindly. ‘For one thing, we have to convince the court that a real attempt has been made at reconciliation.’

Davina’s face burned hotly. ‘That’s totally impossible.’

‘Perhaps, but you must at least go through the motions, Miss Greer. It’s not sufficient, I’m afraid, merely to remove your wedding ring and revert to your maiden name. The divorce laws may have eased in recent years, but they are not yet that lax,’ he remarked with something like asperity. ‘Perhaps you would care to think over what I have said and then let me have your further instructions in a day or two.’

‘Yes,’ Davina gave him a constrained smile as she rose to her feet. ‘Maybe that would be best.’

‘I’m sure it would.’ Mr Bristow came round the desk to shake hands cordially with her at the door. ‘Divorce is a messy business, Miss Greer, at the best of times. If there is a chance of reducing the unpleasantness to any extent, then I think you should take it.’

Davina’s thoughts were in total confusion as she emerged from the offices to the warmth of the summer afternoon outside. Officially, she had the rest of the afternoon off, and she supposed she should go home where her mother would be eager to hear what had happened. But she would be expecting to hear that Gethyn had agreed to the divorce and that a date had already been set for the hearing, Davina thought wryly. What had actually transpired would be much less acceptable. Besides, this was one of her mother’s bridge afternoons, and Davina had no wish for her private affairs to feature over the tea-cups once the game was over.

She paused irresolutely on the crowded pavement, then hailed a passing taxi, telling the driver to take her to the Park. At least she would be delaying the inevitable recriminations for a while. Also the stuffy atmosphere in Mr Bristow’s room seemed to have given her a slight headache and she wanted to be able to think clearly.

She had been completely taken aback by Mr Bristow’s suggestion that she should seek Gethyn out and ask him to allow the divorce to go ahead. He had made it all sound so civilised and reasonable, she thought blankly, but then he had not had to suffer those few brief weeks of her marriage to Gethyn.

People said, didn’t they, that to marry in haste was to repent at leisure. Well, she could vouch for the truth of that. Her marriage had been the wild, extravagant impulse of an hour and almost as soon regretted. And now her two years of repentance were drawing to an end and she could be free again—but only if Gethyn agreed. This was what stuck in her throat—this dependence on the whim of a man she had not even seen for two years. That, and the knowledge that he was probably maintaining this silence deliberately to annoy and worry her. There could be no other reason. He had no more wish to continue this nominal relationship than she had.

She paid off the driver and walked slowly into the Park. There were people everywhere and the sun shone down out of a cloudless sky, but Davina felt cold and alone.

Perhaps this hadn’t been such a good idea after all, she thought, skirting a pair of lovers entwined on the grass and oblivious of everything but each other. Once—a long time ago—she and Gethyn had lain like that in this very park and let the world walk indulgently past them. She bit her lip, remembering how he had overcome her reluctance, her protests, drawing her down beside him with compelling hands, his eyes narrowed against the sun laughing up at her, reducing her scruples to absurdity.

Then his mouth had found hers and she was lost, caught in a web of delight from which not even the thought of her mother’s shocked disapproval of such conduct could release her. His lips had explored her face, her throat and shoulders, rousing her nerve-endings to rapturous life. She had been amazed by the ardour of her own response, scared by the feelings his lightest touch could evoke. It had been Gethyn who had moved away first, she recalled painfully, levering himself away from her and sitting for a moment, his head buried in his hands. Then he had looked up and seen her, watching him anxiously, her face flushed, her eyes enormous, her mouth blurred and swollen a little from his passion, and the harshness of his dark face had softened momentarily.

‘Come on.’ He got lithely to his feet. ‘Let’s get out of here before we get arrested.’

The following day, over lunch, he had abruptly asked her to marry him. And she, bewitched by his lovemaking into a frank longing to belong to him completely, had eagerly agreed. It was only later—a long time later—that it occurred to her that he had never said he loved her.

Davina quickened her steps, instinctively fighting the torment that she had released upon herself with these memories. What a child she had been, she lashed herself derisively. No doubt Gethyn had supposed that at nineteen she shared the slick, knowing sophistication of most of her contemporaries. Her eager innocence must have come as an unwelcome surprise to him.

Her mother’s opposition to the marriage had been instant and hostile.

‘You can’t marry him,’ Mrs Greer said, her face white and pinched. ‘A man like that! He must be twice your age, and he’s positively uncouth.’

‘He’s a writer—a poet.’ Davina had tried to reason with her. ‘I know he doesn’t correspond with your idea of one—but he’s famous already …’

‘On the strength of two novels and a few poems,’ her mother had sneered. ‘A television celebrity—until the next nine-day wonder comes along, and then he’ll soon be forgotten about.’

‘Uncle Philip doesn’t think so.’

‘Of course your uncle would defend him.’ Mrs Greer smiled thinly. ‘He’s his publisher, after all. Oh God, I wish you’d never gone to that party, then you would never have met him.’

‘Oh, but I would.’ Davina lifted her head, her eyes shining. ‘It was fate.’

‘Fate!’ her mother scoffed angrily, and turned away. ‘Well, you won’t marry with my consent, Davina.’

‘Then we’ll marry without it,’ Davina said angrily, and saw her mother flinch. Compunction overcame her then, and she went to her, laying a hand on her arm. ‘Mother, if you would just get to know Gethyn—properly.’

‘As you do, I suppose,’ Mrs Greer returned impatiently. ‘How long has this—whirlwind courtship lasted? Three weeks? Do you really imagine that’s a sufficient period of time to find out about a man with whom you intend to spend the rest of your life? If you must continue with this —relationship, why not just become engaged? At least one can withdraw from an engagement honourably before too much harm is done—but marriage!’ Mrs Greer shuddered.

‘I don’t want to withdraw from it,’ Davina said desperately. ‘And neither does Gethyn.’

Her mother’s lip curled. ‘That I can well understand. He’s doing very well for himself, after all. A miner’s son from some obscure pit village in Wales, marrying his publisher’s niece. Another rung on the ladder from rags to riches. Of course he wants to go through with it. He’d be a fool not to. No doubt by now someone will have told him about the money that’s to come to you from your father’s estate when you’re twenty-five, and that will be an added incentive.’

There was a long silence, and then Davina said huskily, ‘That—that’s an appalling thing to say.’

‘The truth often does hurt,’ he mother returned inimically.

Mrs Greer had not attended the ceremony at Caxton Hall a few days later. Uncle Philip had been there, however, with Gethyn’s agent Alec Marks to act as the other witness. It had been swift and rather impersonal and very far from the sort of wedding she had once day-dreamed about when she was younger. Gethyn was different too in a dark formal suit which contrasted strangely with the denims and dark roll-collared sweaters she was accustomed to seeing him wear.

That was what he had been wearing the first time she saw him at the party Uncle Philip had given to launch his new volume of poetry. Poems were often considered by publishers to be a drug on the market, and yet this book would sell, her uncle knew, because Gethyn Lloyd had written it.

The first thing Davina had thought when she set eyes on him was that he didn’t look at all like the star of the show. She had been at many such parties in the past, and writers often, she found, behaved either with a becoming diffidence or an excessive eagerness to please when confronted by the media men, or sometimes both. Not so Gethyn Lloyd.

He hadn’t been the tallest man in the room, yet he had seemed so. There was something about his lean, muscular body, the dark harsh lines of his face, that made the other men seem positively effete. He stood a little apart, gazing broodingly into the glass he held, his dark brows drawn frowningly together above that hawk’s beak of a nose which surely must have been broken at some stage in his career. Then he had looked up suddenly, so suddenly that she had been unable to avert her gaze in time, and his cool green eyes had locked startlingly with hers. And the firm sensual lines of his mouth had relaxed into a smile—not the hurtful mockery she had come so painfully to know later—but with a charm that made her heart turn over.

He came to her side, dealing summarily with a woman journalist from a popular daily who tried to detain him. His eyes swept over her, missing nothing, she thought dazedly, from the dark auburn hair piled smoothly on top of her shapely head to the silver buckles on the shoes just visible beneath the deep plum velvet trousers.

‘I don’t know who you are, but I’d like to take you to dinner tonight.’ His voice was low and resonant, with an underlying lilt which was undeniably attractive.

She smiled. ‘Perhaps you’ll change your mind when you learn my identity,’ she said lightly. ‘I’m Davina Greer.’

He studied her reflectively for a moment, then swung to look at Philip Greer, deep in conversation at the opposite end of the room. ‘Daughter? You’re not much alike.’

‘Niece—and I’m supposed to resemble my mother’s side of the family.’

‘Hm.’ That devastating green glance was on her again, assessing the candour of her hazel eyes under their long sweep of lashes, the high delicacy of her cheekbones and the sweet vulnerable curve of her mouth. ‘Then I must meet her. They say, don’t they, that if you want to know what your girl will look like in years to come, take a look at her mother.’

‘Do they?’ She lifted her brows coolly, trying to conceal the instinctive tremor that had gone through her when he’d said ‘your girl’. ‘I’ve never heard that before.’

‘Oh, I’ve a fund of such information,’ he said softly. ‘Stick with me, lovely, and you could learn a lot.’

She was on her guard instantly, aware that there was an implication in his words that put them squarely into the category of doubtful remarks, to be dealt with by cool politeness. She gave him a formal smile, and changed the subject.

‘Will you be in London long, Mr Lloyd?’

‘Long enough.’ His eyes never left her face. ‘And at least until I’ve persuaded you to have dinner with me.’

‘You’re very persistent,’ she said helplessly.

‘I’ve been accused of worse things,’ he returned laconically. He put out a finger and lifted her chin slightly, forcing her to look at him. ‘What’s the matter? Surely I can’t be the first man who’s fancied you?’

No, she thought, but you’re the first man I’ve ever—fancied, and I don’t know what to do. I’m frightened.

She smiled again, moved slightly so that his hand was no longer even fractionally against her skin. ‘Well, hardly.’

‘So what’s the problem, lovely?’

She managed to meet his gaze. ‘Nothing, I suppose. Thank you, Mr Lloyd. I’d like to have dinner with you.’

Which was a tame way to describe this sweet insidious excitement which was beginning to take possession of her.

‘Good.’ He drained the contents of his glass. ‘Shall we go?’

She stared at him. ‘But the party—it isn’t over yet.’

‘It is as far as I’m concerned. I’ve answered all their questions. Now I’m leaving them in peace to drink and talk at each other, and that’s what they really want to do. Most of them only came here today anyway because someone in the higher echelons suddenly decided that poetry might be trendy. Besides, there’s always a story in me—a miner’s son who can actually string words together like a real person.’

‘That’s rather bitter, isn’t it?’

‘Probably, but it’s the way I’m feeling at the moment. Indepth interviews and expensive whisky seem to affect me like that. I’m relying on you to exorcise all my evil spirits.’

‘That sounds a tall order on such a short acquaintance.’ She pulled a wry face.

‘Who said our acquaintance was going to be short?’ he said. ‘And you don’t have to worry. I think, if you wanted, you could coax wild beasts and dragons to eat out of your hand if you put your mind to it.’

She was embarrassed at the personal turn to the conversation and took refuge in flippancy. ‘Even a Welsh dragon?’

He gave her a long look, and she made herself meet it steadily.

‘Oh, that most of all, girl,’ he said. ‘That most of all.’

Somehow she found herself apologising to Uncle Philip for her early departure and calling goodbyes to the surprised glances which were noting it around the room.

As they waited for the lift in the corridor, she began to laugh.

‘It’s far too early for dinner. There won’t be a restaurant open.’

‘Then we’ll walk and talk and generally further our short acquaintance.’ He allowed her to precede him into the lift. The doors closed noiselessly, shutting them into a tight enclosed world where they were quite alone.

Davina said breathlessly, ‘We need the ground floor. You have to press the button.’

He slanted a glance at her. ‘I’ve been in lifts before. Why are you so nervous?’

She moistened her lips. ‘I’m not.’

‘Don’t lie to me, Davina. Not now, not ever. What do you imagine I’m going to do? Leap on you?’

She felt herself go crimson. ‘Of course not,’ she denied too quickly.

His lips twisted slightly. ‘Then you’re far too trusting,’ he told her mockingly, and sent the lift on its way to street level.

She was recalled abruptly back to the present as a child’s coloured ball bounced towards her and she instinctively put out a foot to stop it. She stood quite still for a moment, assimilating her surroundings, and telling herself that these things were all in the past now and could only have the power to hurt her if she allowed them to. But her eyes were stinging suddenly and she fumbled in her handbag for her dark glasses, insisting to herself that it was only the sunlight that was too strong.

She was dazzled now, as she’d been dazzled then, and as she walked on, the words, ‘Too trusting. Too trusting …’ began to sound a bitter knell in her tired brain.

In the end, she took another taxi and went back to the office. The publishing firm of Hanson Greer was situated in a quiet street not far from the Post Office Tower. She pushed open the glass door and went in with a smile for the receptionist in her panelled cubicle. She accepted a list of the people who had telephoned her during her absence and took the lift up to her office.

Her mother had not wanted her to work here, yet at the time it had seemed a perfectly logical thing to do. Her father had been a director of the firm until his death, and if she had been a boy, it would have been quite natural for her to follow him into publishing. And this was supposed to be the age of equal opportunities, so … Besides, Uncle Philip’s offer of a job had come just when she needed it most—when she was looking round desperately for something to fill this emotional vacuum inside herself, and she had seized it with relief.

She knew the reason for her mother’s opposition, of course. She was terrified that Davina would be brought into contact with Gethyn again through her work. But it hadn’t happened. For one thing, as far as she had known until today Gethyn was still in America, teaching creative writing at some New England college. And for another, in the two years they had been apart, he had apparently not produced another manuscript of his own. While he had been in the States, he had written the screenplay for the successful film of his first book, A Power for Good, but no new work had been forthcoming from him, and although he had never discussed it with her, Davina knew this had been a major disappointment for her uncle.

She went into her small room and sat down with a sigh, her eyes fixed absently on the scrap of paper in her hand. She really ought to make a start on returning these calls. One of them at least would probably be urgent. But the names and numbers kept dancing meaninglessly in front of her eyes, and eventually she dropped the piece of paper impatiently into her in-tray to await her attention in the morning.

Her door opened and the smooth fair head of Jan Preston, her uncle’s secretary, appeared.

‘Oh, you are back,’ she exclaimed in surprise. ‘I’ve been trying to get you at home. Mr Greer would like a word with you.’

Davina groaned inwardly. For a moment she toyed with the idea of asking Jan to forget she had seen her while she made her escape, but she soon abandoned it. Jan was a pleasant woman, but she was simply not on those kind of terms with her. So instead she smiled and murmured her thanks, promising she would be along presently.

When Jan vanished, she got up and walked the few paces to the window. There was little to see but a patch of sky framed by other people’s roofs, and the odd pigeon or two, but when she had first come there, she had spent a lot of time staring out at that limited view until she felt she knew every slate and every Victorian chimneypot.

Her fingers drummed restlessly on the white-painted sill. She knew why Uncle Philip wanted to see her, of course. He knew precisely where she had been that afternoon, and could presumably restrain his curiosity no longer.

She supposed she could not blame him under the circumstances. After all, the other party involved was one of his protegés, a writer for whom he had confidently predicted great things. And he had been right. Both Gethyn’s novels had been runaway best-sellers, here and in the States, and he promised to become a major force in the poetic world as well. Since then—two years of silence.

Her uncle’s voice sounded preoccupied as he called out 'Come in’ in reply to her brief tap on the door. He was dictating some letters into a dictaphone as she entered and he signalled to her to take a seat while he went On talking ‘… and shall look forward to seeing you on the 21st. Yours.’ He switched off the machine and smiled at her.

‘Hello, my dear. How did it go? Did this tame lawyer your mother found produce the goods?’

‘Well,’ Davina considered her polished fingernails, ‘at least he’s produced Gethyn. He’s back in Wales. Did you know?’

‘No.’ Was it her imagination, or had there been a slight pause before the monosyllable? Davina glanced up quickly, but Philip Greer was leaning back in his chair, his frowning gaze fixed musingly on a ballpoint pen he was twirling in his fingers. ‘But all the same I’m pleased to hear it.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it might just mean he’s ready to settle down and get some work done—some real work.’

Davina bent her head. ‘I see.’

Philip Greer gazed at her rather ironically. ‘What did you expect me to say? I haven’t any other hopes where Gethyn’s concerned any more. I’m resigned to the fact that you’re determined to put an end to this marriage of yours.’

She looked up indignantly. ‘Well, what do you expect?’ she demanded in turn. ‘This marriage of mine, as you put it, hasn’t existed for two years. It barely existed before then.’ She gave a bitter laugh. ‘If I’d ignored my upbringing and simply gone to bed with Gethyn, it need never have taken place at all. Now there’s an irony for you!’

Philip Greer made an abrupt movement. ‘If you’re saying that the basis for your marriage was no more than physical attraction, then I should point out that a great many successful unions have started out on little else.’

‘I see,’ she said again. ‘Perhaps I pitched my own expectations too high.’

He sighed. ‘Now I’ve made you angry, my dear, and I didn’t intend that. I’ve always felt—responsible in some ways for what happened between you and Gethyn, and I know your mother shares my viewpoint,’ he added wryly.

She flushed. ‘I know. I’ve tried to tell her …’

‘My dear, no one will ever convince Vanessa about anything she doesn’t wish to hear. And I’m afraid she “took agin” Gethyn the first time she saw him. And he didn’t help, of course. He needn’t have made it quite so clear that he was indifferent to her and her opinion of him. If he’d just pretended …’

She gave a strained smile. ‘Pretence was beyond him, I’m afraid. He—he couldn’t even pretend with me—pretend that I mattered, or that he cared, even a little.’

‘Are you so sure he didn’t?’

‘Uncle Philip,’ Davina stared at him, ‘how can you ask that? You know what happened. He was in the States and I was here—in hospital, losing his baby. I sent for him—I begged him to come back and be with me. But he was far too busy with some television chat show. He just didn’t want to know. Every time the door opened in that hospital room, I thought it was going to be him. Only it never was. And even then, I swallowed my pride when it was all over and telephoned him. Do you know the answer I got? He was resting and couldn’t be disturbed. Later that night I wrote to him and told him I was leaving him. He never replied to my letter either, and I’ve never heard from him from that day to this.’ She forced a smile. ‘I’m sorry about the downbeat ending, but …’

‘Don’t be flip, my dear. It’s unsuitable in this context.’ Her uncle was silent for a while. ‘I can only say that I find his—lack of response totally incredible. I can’t help wondering if it would have made any difference if you had gone to see him, instead of writing. Letters can go astray, you know. Phone messages may not always be passed on, and sometimes are distorted in the re-telling. Did it ever occur to you that there might have been some—misunderstanding?’

‘One, perhaps. Not three,’ she said quietly. ‘And I feel sure his silence was—is—deliberate. He won’t answer my solicitor’s letters either.’

Philip Greer raised his eyebrows. ‘Indeed? So what’s the next move?’

‘I’m not altogether sure.’ She hesitated. ‘Mr Bristow has suggested that I should do—what you’ve just said—go and see Gethyn and try and talk him into agreeing to a divorce.’

‘And you said?’

‘I didn’t know what to say. Frankly, I was stunned.’

‘But you didn’t reject the idea out of hand?’

‘No.’ Davina paused bleakly. ‘I wouldn’t reject any idea that might help me to be free of him.’

‘Hm.’ Her uncle gave her a narrow look. ‘Well, if you do decide to seek him out, I wouldn’t be quite so frank. In fact, it’s a pity that the divorce has to be your sole motive for going to Wales. Now I wonder …’ he relapsed into frowning silence. Then he glanced at her. ‘How would it be if this was ostensibly a business trip? After all, Gethyn is still under contract to us, and we need another book from him. Go and see him—but as my representative, not as his estranged wife. Don’t even mention Bristow’s letters or the divorce, unless he does.’

Davina shook her head. ‘He wouldn’t be taken in by that.’

‘I’m not saying he would be, but at least he wouldn’t be expecting it. I also know Gethyn, my dear, and I’m sure an oblique approach would work best. It’s a pity we didn’t think of it before your mother involved Bristow, but it’s too late to do anything about that now. What I’m trying to say is that you won’t get what you want by flying off to Wales and quarrelling with Gethyn. That would only harden his attitude, and that’s the last thing you want to do.’

‘Yes.’ Davina was silent for a moment. ‘I suppose it’s worth a try. At least it’s better than doing nothing—than just waiting for Gethyn to make the first move.’

Philip Greer tapped his upper lip thoughtfully with his forefinger. ‘Tell him too that there could be another tour in the offing. Oh, it’s quite true,’ he added hastily, meeting Davina’s quizzical look. ‘There have been a number of overtures in the past few months. I’ve just been waiting for the psychological moment to put it to Gethyn. I had to sell the last one to him, as a matter of fact, but you probably know that.’

Yes, Davina thought, as she walked slowly back to her own office. She had known that. But not until afterwards—after she had agreed to marry Gethyn. And then it had been altogether different because the trip to America was going to be their honeymoon—not the handful of nights in the suite of a luxury hotel which Uncle Philip was giving them as a wedding present. She had been as excited as a child at Christmas at the prospect, thrilled to the core as well because Gethyn had told her that if she hadn’t wanted to go with him, he would have called the whole thing off. It gave her a wonderful feeling of power, a feeling of being necessary. It had been a delusion, of course, as she quickly found out, but for that brief time she had never been happier. She had dreamed of the places they would see together—New York, San Francisco, even New Orleans.

‘And Niagara Falls,’ Gethyn had said, grinning. ‘Isn’t that where all self-respecting honeymooners go?’

Only by the time he had left for the States—alone—the honeymoon was already over.

Davina closed her door behind her, and sank down in the chair behind her desk, reaching automatically for the manuscript on top of the pile in front of her. She began to read it, forcing herself relentlessly to concentrate, but it was useless. It was the story of a failed marriage, and even in the first chapter there were words, phrases, scraps of dialogue which struck a painful chord in her own memory. At last she pushed it almost desperately to one side and buried her head in her folded arms on the desktop.

When had it all started to go wrong? she asked herself. Hadn’t her mother sown the first seeds of doubt, even before the wedding ceremony had taken place? She had come into Davina’s room on the morning of the wedding and watched her as she packed a suitcase.

Davina had just been smoothing the folds of a filmy drift of nightgown when she had caught sight of her mother’s expression in the dressing-table mirror, her eyes hooded, her lips thin with distaste.

‘Mother,’ she had said, gently enough, ‘please try to be happy for me.’

‘Happy?’ Her mother’s laugh had been almost shrill. ‘Happy that you’re rushing headlong into marriage with a complete stranger? You may think you know all you need to know, but you’re a child. What do you know of men—of what living with a man means? I was fortunate. Your father was a kind man—considerate, undemanding. But he won’t be like that. You’d better enjoy your innocence while you can. It won’t be yours much longer. Wait until you’ve been alone with him, tonight, and then talk to me about happiness!’

She had turned then and gone from the room, leaving Davina staring after her with startled eyes and parted lips. She had resumed her packing, but the golden glow which surrounded her had dissipated somewhat. It was the nearest her mother had come, or ever would come, she realised, to discussing the sexual relationship with her. She had always sensed instinctively that her parents’ marriage had been lacking in certain aspects. Widowhood, she had often thought wryly, suited her mother far better than being a wife had done. But this was the first time Mrs Greer had ever spoken openly on the subject, and made her disgust plain.

And later when she arrived at Caxton Hall and saw Gethyn waiting for her, tall and unfamiliar in his dark suit, her mother’s words had returned to her mind with paralysing force, freezing the smile on her lips. Even while the registrar was marrying them, she could feel Gethyn’s eyes on her, questioningly. Afterwards Uncle Philip had taken them to the Ritz and they had drunk champagne, and she had found herself acting the part of the radiant bride, laughing that little bit too much, smiling until her mouth ached. And all the time knowing that he was watching her, and not wanting to meet his eyes in case she read in them a message she wasn’t ready for yet. But she had to be ready, that was the whole point. She was his wife now and very soon now they would be alone and he would take her in his arms and everything would be all right. She held on to that thought with quiet desperation. She was just being stupid —bridal nerves. That was all it was—it had to be.

After all, in the past weeks there had been times when she had clung to Gethyn, glorying in his desire for her, but armoured at the same time, she realised, by the iron self-control he seemed to be able to exercise where she was concerned. Now there was no longer any need for that control. She belonged to him.

She sat beside him in the taxi as they drove to the small flat he was renting to fetch his own case, not touching him and thankful for the taxi-driver’s cheerful presence. She would liked to have made an excuse and waited for him in the cab, but he made it quite clear he expected her to accompany him up to the flat. She stood silently while he unlocked the door and then walked ahead of him into the small living room. This was all strange too, she thought, even though it was where they would be living when they returned from the hotel until they left again for the U.S.A. She wandered round the room while Gethyn collected some things from the bedroom. It was difficult to imagine herself sitting in either of the fireside chairs reading while Gethyn worked at the table behind her. She peered into the kitchenette where she would soon be cooking the meals and a feeling of total inadequacy began to invade her.

It was as if some romantic veil had been suddenly torn from her eyes and she was seeing life as it really was for the first time. Where had they gone—all those hours she had spent with Gethyn, wandering round art galleries, browsing through bookshops? He had taken her to dinner, to the theatre, walked with her along the Embankment and through the parks. Sometimes he had kissed her, and she put a hand almost fearfully against her lips. It wasn’t a great deal on which to base a relationship as intimate as marriage, yet this was what she had done. What did she know about him really—except where he had been to school and university and the titles of the books he had written? She knew his parents were dead and that he was an only child like herself, and preferred Italian food to Chinese. She shook her head almost dazedly.

She heard a board creak behind her and turned to find him leaning against the bedroom door jamb watching her. He had discarded his jacket and loosened his tie and looked completely at home, which she supposed he was. She was the stranger here. The little fish, suddenly and disastrously out of water.

‘Come here.’ His tone was gentle enough, but there was an underlying note of command, of ownership even, which made her mouth dry.

She tried to smile. ‘The taxi will be waiting.’

His brows rose lazily. ‘I sent the taxi away. We can call another when we’re ready. Now, come here.’

Her reluctance must have been obvious for by the time her lagging steps had got her across the room to him, he had straightened with a jerk and was frowning.

‘It’s a little soon for second thoughts, isn’t it?’ he asked sarcastically, and she flushed.

‘I—I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Of course you know,’ he jibed. ‘Any resemblance between you and the loving girl I kissed last night is purely coincidental. My God, I don’t think you’ve touched me voluntarily all day.’ He took her by the shoulders, his eyes searching hers. ‘What the hell’s the matter with you?’

‘Nothing,’ she lied. ‘It’s all been a bit of a strain, that’s all. And Mummy was being—difficult this morning.’

Gethyn murmured something under his breath that she prudently failed to hear. Then his grip had tightened, compelling her towards him.

‘Hello, wife,’ he said quietly, and bent and kissed her on the mouth. She made herself remain passive under his touch, waiting for that familiar warm tide of feeling to engulf her, but there was nothing. It was as if her warm flesh and blood had been transformed to marble. She was incapable of even the slightest response, and presently he released her. She had closed her eyes involuntarily as he had bent towards her, and she kept them closed, afraid to encounter his anger, until she knew that he had moved away.

When she ventured to open them, she found he had returned to the bedroom and was focussing all his attention on fastening the straps round his case. She bit her lip.

‘Shall I make some coffee?’ She strove for normality.

‘If you want some,’ he said, his voice expressionless. ‘Can you find everything?’

‘Well, I shall have to learn some time,’ she returned without thinking, and blushed stormily as his sardonic gaze met hers.

‘That’s true,’ he observed smoothly, and swung the case from the bed to the floor. She turned away hastily and went to the kitchenette. She filled the kettle and plugged it in, and found the remains of a pint of milk in the refrigerator.

She was searching through the cupboards for the jar of coffee when Gethyn came in. Immediately the admittedly cramped area of the kitchen seemed to shrink to the proportions of a postage stamp.

‘Look,’ she pointed to the milk. ‘That wants using up.’

‘Perhaps.’ He came to the cupboard and leaned down, his arm brushing hers. It was as much as she could do not to flinch. He produced the coffee jar and set it down on the narrow worktop. ‘Unless we decide to stay.’

‘To stay?’ She could hear the nervousness in her own voice, and knew it would not be lost on him either. ‘But we’re going to the hotel.’

‘I’m not so sure that’s such a good idea.’ His face was enigmatic as he spooned coffee into the waiting beakers. ‘This is going to be our home, at least on a temporary basis. I don’t see why we shouldn’t move straight in, and forgo your uncle’s offer, kind though it was.’

‘Oh, but we couldn’t!’ The kettle was boiling and she moved hurriedly to swith it off.

‘Why not?’ He leaned one elbow on the worktop, watching her levelly. ‘Careful of that kettle. You’re going to scald yourself.’

She set it down, her heart thumping. ‘Because—because it would hurt Uncle Phil’s feelings. It’s his wedding present to us and …’

‘I could phone him and explain the situation. I’m sure he would understand.’

‘Well, that’s more than I do.’ She lifted the kettle and filled the beakers.

‘I simply get the feeling that the implications of the bridal suite are proving a little too much for you at the moment,’ he said unemotionally. ‘I’ll ask him just to postpone it for a few months, if you like, until you’re in a mood to appreciate it more.’

She was panic-stricken. The flat was so small. What possibility of privacy did it afford? She added a splash of milk to her coffee and sipped at it almost distractedly. She preferred it with sugar, but she did not wish Gethyn to join her on another search for the commodity. She thought fast.

‘I think it’s too late to change our minds now,’ she said rapidly. ‘The hotel will be expecting us. Besides, I didn’t really expect to have to do housework on my honeymoon.’

It should have sounded coquettish, but it came out as petulance, and she wished it unsaid. Gethyn’s dark face was still and enigmatic.

He said coolly, ‘As you wish, then,’ and drank his coffee with a slight grimace.

While he phoned for a taxi to take them to the hotel, Davina rinsed the beakers under the tap. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the kitchen window, her eyes much wider and brighter than usual, but that could be the champagne, and a tiny flush of colour high on her cheekbones. She looked as if she was running a temperature, yet inside she felt deathly cold.

She was still cold when the hotel porter ushered them into the suite. Everything was there waiting for them— more champagne on ice, red roses—lovers’ flowers, filling the air with their scent, baskets of fruit. She glanced round and saw through the half-open door the gleam of a gold satin bedspread, and hurriedly averted her gaze. Gethyn was tipping the man, who was asking, after an appreciative word of thanks, if they wished to have dinner in the suite rather than downstairs in the restaurant.

‘We’ll dine up here,’ Gethyn said. ‘We can order later, I suppose.’

‘Of course, sir.’ The man’s voice was deferential, eager to please.

‘Oh no,’ Davina broke in, aghast. ‘I—I mean—wouldn’t it be more fun to have dinner downstairs …’ Her voice tailed away uncomfortably. She knew that they were both looking at her, the porter with a kind of sly amusement under his deferential manner, and Gethyn with an anger that held no deference at all. He turned to the porter.

‘My wife prefers the restaurant. Perhaps you would make the necessary arrangements.’

When the door closed behind the man, he said softly and chillingly, ‘Do you think you could manage to conceal this aversion you have for being alone with me in front of the hotel staff?’

He strode across the sitting room to a door on the opposite side and opened it, glancing in. He was smiling when he turned, but his eyes were like green ice.

‘The instinct that brought you here was quite right, lovely. Every modern convenience at your disposal—even a second bedroom for the bestowal of an importunate bridegroom.’ He stared round the luxurious sitting room. ‘And what shall we call this, eh? No Man’s Land, perhaps? Shall I wait for you here when it gets to dinner time, or would you prefer to eat separately too?’

She said, and there was a sob under her breath, ‘Gethyn?’ She was asking for his tenderness, his understanding, but he had gone and the door was shut behind him. She was alone and afraid.

With a long shuddering sigh, Davina sat up at her desk and pushed her hair back wearily from her pale face. She was still alone, she thought. But at least she was no longer afraid, and to prove it she would go to this place in Wales and meet Gethyn face to face once again.