Marriage Reclaimed. Sara Craven
simply to indulge your sensitivities. My exile is over. This is my home, and I’m going to live in it.’
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Then you won’t object if I move into Larkspur Cottage.’
‘I’m afraid I must. The terms of the will stipulate that you live here.’
She bit her lip. ‘But we could come to some private arrangement about that, surely.’
‘Unfortunately the bequest is already public property. We seem doomed to share a roof—but not for eternity.’
‘Think again,’ she advised curtly. ‘As it happens, I’ve already made my own plans. I wasn’t expecting a legacy on that scale from Lionel, and I don’t need it. I mean to earn my own living.’
‘Doing precisely what?’
She said, with a touch of defiance, ‘I’m applying for a post as a residential housekeeper.’
Gabriel’s brows lifted. ‘Aren’t you a little young for that?’ he enquired gently.
‘I’ve been running this house for the past two years,’ Joanna reminded him defensively. ‘I’m hardly without experience.’
‘But you’ve no references,’ he pointed out softly. ‘And without them you haven’t a prayer of finding a residential job. People have a right to know who’s moving in with them.’
Joanna’s brows drew together. She said slowly, ‘But you, surely, would…’
Her voice trailed away as she saw him shaking his head.
‘No way, my dear wife.’
‘Don’t call me that.’ She was trembling again.
‘No?’ His mouth curled. ‘But you are my wife, Joanna, and the next twelve months seem set to cost me very dear, so it seems appropriate.’
She took a deep breath and leaned forward. ‘Gabriel—stop playing these games. You don’t—you can’t want me here. And I don’t want to stay. I promise I won’t ask you for a thing. So why not just—let me go?’
‘Because it isn’t what my father wanted. He cared about you, Joanna. He clearly wanted you to have a breathing space. A period of reflection while you make some sensible decisions about what to do with the rest of your life. I’m damned sure he didn’t envisage you as a skivvy for some stranger. I intend to respect his wishes. It’s that simple.’
‘And if I just—go, anyway?’ She stared her defiance at him.
‘Then you can forget the cosy divorce.’ His tawny gaze returned her challenge. ‘Because I won’t consent. I’ll make you wait for every long year the law allows, and even then you’ll have a fight on your hands.’ He paused. ‘So what are you going to do, Joanna?’
She said tautly, ‘It would be nice to think I could make a genuine choice. But you seem to have thought of everything.’ She looked at him scornfully. ‘Tell me, Gabriel, what’s it like to always get your own way?’
‘If you think this is the way I’d have picked, then your fainting fit must have addled your brain.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Live here, Joanna, behave yourself, and when the year and a day is up I’ll give you your divorce and the most glowing reference you could ask for. Is it a deal?’
‘I—guess it has to be.’ She swung her feet to the floor and stood, too.
‘Graciously spoken, as always,’ he murmured. ‘What did you do with your wedding ring?’
‘It’s in my pocket.’
He held out a hand. ‘Give it to me.’
Reluctantly, Joanna obeyed. Gabriel stood for a moment, looking at the plain gold circlet as if he had never seen it before.
Then he said abruptly, ‘Now your hand.’
Slowly she unclenched a tense fist and extended it towards him. He slid the ring onto her finger.
‘I’m sure you’ve no wish to repeat our vows.’ There was a note of mockery and something less easy to analyse in his voice. ‘However, I feel I should seal this solemn moment somehow.’
His hands descended on Joanna’s shoulders, drawing her inexorably towards him. He said softly, ‘So, I’ll kiss the bride.’
She wanted to say no—to pull away. But the arms that closed round her were too strong, too determined. And his mouth was too warm, too compelling, stifling the rejection before it could be uttered.
He kissed her slowly and sensuously, as if he had all the time in the world. As if he imagined she would welcome the pressure of his lips parting hers, the silken invasion of his tongue. As if there had been no pain, no disillusionment, and no parting between them.
He held her captive in one arm, allowing his other hand to make a lingering pilgrimage down her spine, from the fragile nape of her neck to the curve of her hip.
Joanna felt her whole body shiver in a response she was unable to control.
When he lifted his head, he was smiling.
He said lightly, ‘If I didn’t know better, Jo, I’d swear you almost enjoyed that.’
The knowledge that he could be right did nothing to appease her.
She said thickly, ‘Is this part of the ground rules—that you’re allowed to—maul me whenever you feel like it?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Treat it as a momentary lapse—not to be repeated. But don’t expect me to apologise.’
He ran a finger down the curve of her flushed cheek, and laughed softly.
‘And don’t look so stricken, darling. Day One is nearly over. Which leaves only three hundred and sixty-five to go. And they’ll soon pass, I promise you.’
He went past her and out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Joanna stood very still, staring blindly in front of her.
She said once again, softly, ‘It will all be over soon.’
But this time her mantra gave her no comfort at all.
JOANNA decided it would be prudent to spend the rest of the day in her room. She took the latest batch of condolence letters with her, and set about answering them. It wasn’t a pleasant task, but it helped divert her mind from the even more disturbing thoughts which threatened to take control.
She was expecting a recriminatory visit from Cynthia, who was bound to be equally displeased at the terms of Lionel’s will. But for once her stepmother seemed to be keeping her distance.
Or at least from me, Joanna amended wryly.
When Mrs Ashby tapped on the door to ask about dinner, she simply requested a bowl of soup on a tray.
‘And then I’m going to have an early night,’ she added quietly. ‘So I’d rather not be disturbed.’
‘Very good, madam.’ Mrs Ashby looked down at the carpet. ‘Although I understand that Mr Verne and Mrs Elcott are dining at the Crown Hotel this evening.’
Which naturally explained a great deal, Joanna thought when she was alone again.
She changed into nightdress and robe, and drank her soup in the chair by the small but cheerful fire—a bedroom comfort to which Lionel had been strongly addicted, she recalled sadly.
‘Radiators aren’t cosy,’ he’d declare.
She listened to the radio for a while, then got into bed and tried to read, but the words of the book danced meaninglessly in front of her eyes. She tried to sleep, but her mind