Never to Love (16 page)

He flicked his cigarette out of the window and rubbed his knuckles against the clean line of his jaw in a thoughtful mannerism.

“There are some things that one cannot ask for, or buy or take. They have to be given voluntarily,” he said soberly. “Do you understand that, I wonder?”

“You have given me everything I ever wanted, but I don’t know what you want,” she said.

“So you have everything you want. Is that really true? Now that you have all the material benefits, are you honestly satisfied? What about the soft core inside the shell? Is that part of you quite contented, too?”

The contemptuous tone sent a shiver through her. Yet why, when he had admitted his own self-sufficiency, should he despise her for the same lack of sentimentality?

“
Tell me this,” he said more quietly. “Before you met me you knew other men, and I imagine some of them were in
lo
ve with you. Didn’t you ever feel anything for them?”

She shook her head. “I told you, I was never in love with anyone.”

“Are you sure that you never wanted to be? You’re very lovely, Andrea, and beauty is made to be loved. Have you ever wanted to be held in a man’s arms and told just how lovely you are? When I’ve kissed you, have you found it unpleasant?”

“Why are you asking me all these things?” she protested, her cheeks flushed.

“I think you know why,” he said evenly. “Now we’d better get started again, or the soup will be cold and Rachel will think you are a bad influence on me.”

For the rest of the drive he was silent, and Andrea stared u
n
seeingly at the passing countryside, her mind a turmoil of conflicting thoughts.

She was still puzzling over what he had said when they reached the Bartleys’
home, a small Georgian manor house.
A number of cars were parked in the graveled space at the side of the house, and Justin maneuvered the Bentley into a space between a shabby old Morris and a low-slung cream sports car with an array of club badges on the radiator bars.

He had helped Andrea out, and she was just about to walk around the car toward the front door when he laid a detaining hand on her arm.

“There’s one more thing before we put on our party faces,” he said.

She looked up inquiringly, and it flashed across her mind that his Spanish descent was somehow more marked than usual tonight.

“It’s something I begin to think I should have done sooner and more often,” he said in a peculiar tone.

The next moment she was held fast in his arms.

“Don’t worry. No one can see us,
querida
,” he murmured, a second before his mouth came down on hers.

Nothing in her previous experience
of his past caresses had prepared her for the passion of his kiss. When at last he released her she was breathless and trembling.

“So you are not entirely immune,” he said softly, and there was a glitter of something akin to triumph in his eyes.

Then, slipping his hand under her elbow, he propelled her around the corner and into the house.

Later Andrea had vague recollections of a maid taking her wrap and showing them into a large low-ceilinged room in which a group of people were drinking aperitifs and talking together with the ease of country neighbors, but it was not until a woman came forward to greet them that Andrea forced herself to assume a semblance of normality. Although she was in her late fifties, Rachel Bartley had the slim figure and graceful carriage of a young girl. Her curly hair framed a face that had never been beautiful, but that seemed so because it reflected the sweetness of her disposition.

She was wearing a simple dress of lilac chiffon with a triple string of pearls at her throat and matching earrings. Her hands were large and capable, with short unpolished nails, and her only ring was a plain gold band.

She welcomed them with genuine warmth, waving away Justin’s apologies for their late arrival and introducing first her husband, a tall soldierly man with a grizzled mustache and beetling eyebrows, and then the other guests.

They dined in a pleasant Regency room with French windows opening onto a sheltered rose garden. Andrea was seated next to her host, with a young clergyman, the owner of the dilapidated Morris, on the right. She was quickly set at ease by Sir Ronald, whose rugged features belied a kindly and humorous temperament.

Justin was at the-other end of the table between a large loud-voiced woman in a shapeless mustard-colored dress, who bred dogs and had their hairs adhering to her skirt, and a shy girl, the Bartleys’ niece, who was spending a sketching holiday with them.

Only once during the meal did Andrea catch his eyes on her, and she hastily turned back to her host.

Her pulses had steadied and she no longer felt that the imprint of his fierce kisses must be visible to everyone present, but she was still profoundly disturbed, not only by Justin’s behavior but by the unfamiliar sensations that it had aroused.

For the first few moments in his crushing embrace she had felt nothing but shock and an instinctive resistance. But the strength of his enfolding arms, the feel of his fingers against the nape of her neck and the urgency of his lips on hers had stirred a mounting excitement until her bones seemed to be melting and a strange fire coursed through her veins. At first she had tried to resist it, but for the first time in her life she had found her willpower helpless against this stronger force. Then, just as she was beginning to respond, he had let her go, and it had been like being woken out of some half terrifying, half wonderful dream. And now, nearly an hour afterward just thinking about it made her heart beat unevenly.

When the women withdrew to the drawing room, leaving the men to linger over port and cigars, Lady Bartley invited Andrea to sit beside her and said, “I am so delighted to meet you at last, my dear. Justin did ask us to your wedding, but Ronald was in Scotland and I was in Norfolk looking after my younger daughter’s children while she had another baby. Her husband is a farmer and they live in a rambling old house miles from civilization, so she had to manage without any domestic help. Now, tell me, how do you like Lingard?”

“It’s the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen,” Andrea said with a smile.

“Yes, isn’t it lovely? Although I will never understand
how Ellen and Tom Bassett manage to run it with so little help, but of course they are devoted to the family and haven’t this slapdash attitude that seems to be the curse of our age. Are you planning to spend much time in Cornwall, or do you prefer Lo
n
don?”

“We haven’t really discussed it yet,” Andrea said, a little awkwardly.

“No, of course not. I must say I hope you do decide to settle here for part of the year. Justin’s mother was a great friend of mine and she adored the place. It seems a pity that it should have been more or less empty for so many years. Of course it’s an ideal background for children, with the cove and the woods to play in
and
that vast schoolroom where they can thump and shout as much as they please without disturbing the rest of the household.”

At her mention of the schoolroom, Andrea, who was feeling increasingly uncomfortable, bit back a puzzled inquiry. When Justin had shown her over the house on their first evening at Lingard, he had not mentioned a schoolroom. Presumably it was on the top floor where, he had said, there was nothing but attics. Had he forgotten the room or had it been a deliberate oversight, she wondered.

Lady Bartley continued to chat about life at Lingard in past years until the men joined them, when Andrea was drawn into a lively discussion about the merits of television. Somebody recalled seeing her in a television fashion show and she was questioned about this with great interest.

Later Sir Ronald showed her the vegetable garden, which was the pride of his retirement. When she returned to the house she was told that Justin was in the driveway talking about cars with the young man who owned the rakish sports coupe.

It was shortly before ten o’clock when Andrea slipped into the hall and asked the housemaid who was bringing in. fresh coffee where the washroom was. She was shown upstairs to a bedroom with an adjoining bathroom.

She was retouching her lips at the mirror above the washbasin when she heard two of the other women enter the bedroom, one of them complaining that her new girdle was cutting her in two.

Andrea could not help overhearing their conversation, but it was not until one of them said, “What do you think of the bride?” that their remarks caught her attention.

“I was pleasantly surprised,” the other one said. “I expected the worst, but she seems charming. Of course one wouldn’t really expect Justin to be caught by a gold digger, but even the most astute men can lose their heads over a pretty face, and this child is quite breathtaking.”

Andrea stretched her hand to turn on the tap and warn them of her presence. But before she could do so, the first voice said, “Personally I feel terribly sorry for her. As you say, she obviously isn’t a gold digger, so I suppose she’s in love with him—he’s certainly wildly attractive. I hope she doesn’t find out about his affair with the Abbott woman.” Andrea stiffened. She knew that to go on listening was against all tenets of decent behavior, but however shameful it might be to do so, she had to hear the other woman’s reply.

“I should think he gave Rosa Abbott her cong
e
when he put up the banns,” the second voice said with a cynical laugh.

“No, that’s the whole point. He’s still in league with her. I saw him leaving her apartment about three weeks ago, when I was taking a shortcut through Shepherd Market. Really, men are the limit! If he can’t give Rosa up why on earth didn’t he marry her? After all, an actress is quite as acceptable as a model.”

“Perhaps she wouldn’t have him. A protector is much
easier to manage than a husband,” her companion remarked. “He’s asking for trouble, though. The bride is bound to hear about it and then there’ll be fireworks.”

“She looks a bit pale and wan in spite of that marvelous makeup. I wonder if she’s expecting the son and heir,” the first voice suggested.

“I suppose that’s why he married her, to safeguard the family fortune. Oh, well, at least she’ll be miserable in luxury.”

There was a pause and a rustle of skirts. For an agonizing moment Andrea thought they were coming into the bathroom, but then she heard the bedroom door creak and their voices fading away along the hallway.

Long after they had gone downstairs she stayed where she was, her mind numbed by the ghastly significance of what she had heard. Then, as the first stunning impact lessened, a tide of confused feelings swept over her. Scorn at her own ignorance of something that she might have suspected long ago. Bitterness at Justin’s duplicity behind a screen of candor. Shame at the cynical amusement or scandalized sympathy with which people must regard her.

Rosa Abbott. The name was like a taunt, jeering at her
naiveté
. With a flare of anger she remembered that shortly before their wedding Justin had taken her to the opening of a play in which the actress was starring. During the intermissions they had discussed her brilliant acting, her looks and her unusual, rather throaty voice. What
had Justin said? Had there been a mocking gleam in his eye? She could not remember. And later that night, after he had taken her home, had he visited Rosa?

“Here you are! We were wondering what had happened to you. My dear girl, whatever is the matter?”

Rachel Bartley pushed open the bathroom door, her smile changing to an expression of concern as she saw Andrea’s pallor and the feverish brightness of her eyes.

“What is it? Are you feeling ill?” she asked urgently.

“No, no. I’m all right now. I was just a bit sick
.”
Andrea said hurriedly.

“Not because of anything you’ve had here, I hope? My poor child, what a wretched evening for you. I wish I’d known you felt ill. Come and lie down for a while and then Justin can take you home.”

“Please
...
it’s nothing. I’m quite recovered now. I didn’t want you to know,” Andrea said, forcing a smile.

Comprehension dawned in Lady Bartley’s troubled blue eyes.

“Of course! How tactless of me. So that’s why Justin is looking so pleased with life. To be honest I thought you looked a little worn, but nowadays so many people wait a year or two that one doesn’t automatically expect a bride to look off-color.” She smiled and patted Andrea’s arm, secretly amused at the flush that had suffused the girl’s face. The announcement of Justin’s engagement to a fashion model had filled her with misgivings, but she might
have known he would choose wisely
.
Quite apart from her exquisite looks, the child was charming. Young, unspoiled, intelligent with delightful manners and none of the artificiality that she had expected.

“Please, would you not mention this to Justin?” Andrea said, striving to sound natural.

“No, of course not. I suppose he’s as panicky as most prospective fathers,” Lady Bartley said with a laugh. “But you will take care of yourself, won’t you, my dear?”

Andrea never knew how she got through the rest of the evening until at eleven o’clock Justin said it was time they started back. But as they said their farewells—Lady Bartley giving her hand a confidential squeeze—she was torn between relief at no longer having to play a part and dread of being alone with Justin.

As he helped her into the car and tucked a light rug over her legs it was all she could do not to jerk away from his touch. Fortunately, he did not seem inclined to talk, and after one or two remarks about the evening, which she answered in a drowsy voice, he fell silent, concentrating on driving.

The journey seemed twice as long as before, but at last they swung into the driveway and approached the house. Like most country folk, the Bassetts went to bed early, and Justin drove around to the garage, which Tom had left open with a storm lantern hanging on the door.

Andrea did not wait for him to finish locking up but crossed the yard and went in by the door that led past the kitchens into the hall.

“Hey! Why the rush?” Justin asked, catching her up at the baize-padded door that divided the servants’ quarters from the rest of the house.

“I’m tired,” she said shortly, pushing it open and crossing the hall without looking at him.

“Too tired for a nightcap?”

“I don’t want one, thank you.”

“You sound annoyed. What’s the matter? Did the evening bore you?”

“No indeed, it was most illuminating.”

He caught her hand and pulled her around to face him.

“You’re angry about something. What is it?”

She freed her hand. “Tell me something, Justin
... W
hat does
querida
mean?”

His eyebrow arched and he smiled. “It’s the Spanish word for darling,
”
he said.

Andrea’s eyes blazed and all the vehement feelings that she had had to suppress during the past intolerable hour at the Bartleys’ house suddenly welled up.

“I see. How touching!” Her voice was taut with disgust. “I knew you were a hard man, Justin, but I never thought you were a hypocrite!”

His smile faded. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“It isn’t necessary for you to pretend any longer. I suppose I should have guessed at the beginning. Perhaps it wouldn’t have made any difference then.”

Her voice broke and she turned and ran blindly toward the stairs, her vision blurred by the stinging tears that she could no longer check.

She heard Justin calling her back, and suddenly she was afraid of him, afraid of what he might do now that she knew the truth. The staircase seemed endless, and as she reached the landing she heard him coming after her, taking the stairs three at a time and commanding her to stop. As she fled along the gallery a rug skidded under her foot and she almost lost her balance. Mercifully her bedroom door was ajar, and she flung herself inside, slammed it shut and turned the key, her breath coming in great gasps and tears pouring down her cheeks. For a moment she slumped against the door, panting, and then she remembered the communicating door and darted across to lock it. At the same instant Justin reached the outer door and, finding it locked, rattled the handle angrily
.

“Andrea! Open this door!” he called.