The Accidental Bride (35 page)

And some of it went up Lizzie’s nose and she sneezed
violently, came violently, and started laughing so hard she couldn’t stop, even while her pussy clenched and clenched in waves of bliss.

‘Bless you!’ cried John, laughing too, then a moment later, he bared his teeth, his hips hammering as he joined her, coming hard and pounding like a train.

It was the silliest, wildest, most inelegant mutual orgasm, resolving in uncontrollable laughter and stereo sneezing fits, until eventually they lay in a heap on the rackety old sofa, chests heaving in unison, bodies streaked with dust.

‘I love you, Lizzie,’ sighed John, when he’d regained his breath. ‘I love your body and your heart and your mind … and I promise that next time I do something about it, we’ll be in a proper bed. A nice clean bed with crisp perfectly laundered sheets … and no dust!’ He smothered her face in kisses, dust notwithstanding. ‘Hopefully, I’ll be able to sneak into your room tonight. I’m quite sure Mother actually expects me to, given that she knows we live together.’

‘I’ll look forward to the sneakage, Lord Jonathan.’ She snuck in a kiss or two of her own, in between his. ‘And in case you were in any doubt, I love you too.’

‘I never was …’ Kiss. Kiss. Kiss. ‘… in any doubt.’

A short while later they were walking back across the park, heading for the house. The threatened rain hadn’t arrived, but the sky was heavy, and the clouds lowering.

Lizzie tucked a little tissue-wrapped parcel into her bag. It wouldn’t do to leave used condoms lying around in the folly.

Watching, John gave her a wry grin. ‘I’ve been wondering … Now we’re engaged, we might try not using those.’

Lizzie’s eyebrows shot up to her fringe. Finally!

‘No, I don’t mean no birth control at all. That’s a given. No children yet …’ He took her hand as they walked. ‘But I wondered how you felt about the Pill? Only if it suits you, of course. I’m sure Richard would be able to refer you to a specialist to advise.’

Sir Richard Spillsey, their doctor now. Lizzie wasn’t sure how she’d feel discussing birth control with him, but a female doctor would be fine.

‘I … I’d like to give it a whirl. I’d like to … um …’ Oh for heaven’s sake, why so shy? After the things they’d done. ‘I’d like us to be skin to skin, you know?’

‘Me too, love, me too … I’ve wanted it, God knows, but somehow I’ve never felt I had the right to ask, in case you felt I was putting the burden of responsibility on you …’ John’s voice was ragged as they halted, looking into each other’s eyes. ‘I’ll get myself checked out again, of course. I’ve always done safe sex, and had regular HIV tests. But sometimes you never know. There have been instances of malfunctioning condoms, and now I want to be doubly … to be trebly sure … rather than put you at any kind of risk.’ For a moment, he looked distraught, and she leant across and up, to kiss him.

‘You’re not putting a responsibility on me, John,’ she said, her lips still close to his. ‘I don’t see it that way. I see it as a sharing of control.’ She gave him a serious look, and saw him get the message immediately. ‘And I’ll get tested too. I’ve only ever done safe sex, but if you’re getting tests, I want to. It’s only fair.’

He kissed her long and sweetly. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘If we hurry, we might get some tea. Otherwise, it’ll be time to change for dinner.’

A sporty open-top Mercedes stood on the gravel drive in front of the main entrance as they approached, giving Lizzie a momentary qualm. More visitors. Or more family? She told herself not to be silly. She could hack it; she had John by her side.

‘Whose car is that? Have your brother and his wife come back? Or your niece?’

John frowned. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what they’re all driving these days. Doesn’t look like George’s style, though. He’s very much a Range Rover man. Could be Helen’s, I suppose.’ His hand tightened around Lizzie’s. It was only infinitesimal, but there was a tension there. Out of all proportion to the idea of meeting his relations.

In the entrance hall, Brewster intercepted them. Had he actually been waiting for them? Lizzie had the strongest impression that he might have been, although there was no question of such a dignified figure simply loitering about.

‘Excuse me, your lordship, your mother asked me to let you know that two new guests have arrived.’ The man paused delicately; a face that Lizzie guessed was almost always a picture of impassivity showed faint signs of discomposure. What the hell was going on?

‘Guests, Brewster … Who?’

John didn’t look impassive either. In fact, he looked worryingly rattled in a way Lizzie had never really seen before, as if that weird sixth sense of his was pinging out of control.

What is it? Who is it?

She suddenly had the most awful premonition, as if she too had John’s almost prescient powers. Her chest felt tight, her whole body unsettled.

‘It’s the Condesa Sanchez de la Villareal, milord, and
her son. The Marchioness thought you’d probably prefer to know immediately on your return. They’re taking tea in the Red Salon.’

Oh hell! Oh bloody hell! It was Clara.

John’s face was like a mask.

Shocked as she felt herself, Lizzie feared for him. He looked vaguely ill, and she grasped his hand in both of hers, holding it tight. His eyes flashed to hers, a torment of shadows, but just as quickly as the dark moment had arrived, he got control again. She could see him bracing up, straightening his spine, regaining composure.

Does he still care for her? Even now?
the demons of doubt whispered in her ear.

‘You know, I had a feeling something like this might happen,’ he said quietly, twisting his wrist so he could hold Lizzie’s hands in his. ‘But I thought I was just being alarmist, and idiotic, so I didn’t say anything.’ He sighed. ‘But it seems my premonitions were spot on after all. Unfortunately …’ His eyes darkened again, scanning her face. ‘Are you all right, sweetheart, you look a bit pale?’

Lizzie laughed; pure nerves. She sounded like a hysteric. ‘I was just thinking the same about you. Bloody hell, aren’t we a pair?’ Her heart was bashing. She tried to calm it. John loved her, not this woman from his past.

And still the butler was standing a few feet away, silently waiting for some kind of answer.

‘Thank you, Brewster,’ John said, his armour of self-assurance fully returned. ‘Thank you for letting us know. We’ll join them presently.’

‘Very well, milord.’ The butler strode silently away, something in the stiffness of his back telling Lizzie that he wasn’t all that pleased by Clara’s arrival either.

‘I think I need a few minutes to “freshen up”, as they say, before we join them.’

What a massive understatement. Perhaps a week spent ‘freshening up’ would be better, and hopefully by then, her bête noire would have upped sticks and moved on, with any luck to an entirely different continent.

‘Me too.’ John mustered a grin. ‘I can’t say that I’m pleased she’s here, but we were planning to meet her sooner or later, with Caroline. She must be massively curious about you, and Clara’s never taken kindly to having to wait for anything. Perhaps it’s better to get it over with now.’ He shrugged. ‘Like ripping off a sticking plaster. Grin through the pain and feel better afterwards.’

‘Yes, you’re right.’ John’s attempt at a joke cheered Lizzie up. You didn’t call someone you still loved a sticking plaster!

John gave her a hug. ‘You’ll be fine, darling. We’re together. You’re my fiancée and before long you’ll be my bride. And she’s just a woman not a ten-headed monster.’

Lizzie let out a shaky laugh. ‘That’s what I’m trying to tell myself.’

‘Come on, let’s tidy ourselves up, and then we’ll make a grand entrance together,’ said John, leading her towards the staircase and shrugging as they ascended. ‘I’m being
fucking ridiculous, aren’t I? I’m a man, not a mouse!’ He grinned at her, boyish for a moment. Shamefaced.

‘Oh, yes, you are a man, Lord Jonathan. I can vouch for that.’ Thoughts of the folly stirred Lizzie’s spirits, a delicious intimacy that shot strength through her veins.

Ten minutes later, nominally freshened, and managing to keep calm by not really thinking too much, Lizzie emerged onto the landing to find John leaning on the opposite wall waiting for her, posed between two ancestral portraits that both looked a bit like him, despite the unfamiliarity of the costumes. As she closed the door, he pushed himself off the wall and came to her, reaching for her hand. Had he been practising biofeedback? He seemed completely composed now.

‘Ready?’ he said, taking her hand. ‘Concerted front, eh?’

Lizzie’s heart turned over. He knew her anxiety, and probably still felt it himself, but together, they were stronger. A team. She followed along, feeling stronger.

Their footsteps were soft on the thick carpet runner, and as they approached the gallery, the sound of conversational voices drifted up from the salon below, their owners as yet unaware they were being approached. As one, John and Lizzie slowed down, like a pair of covert operatives on a recce.

The conversation seemed to be about school fees.

‘They’re absolutely exorbitant. I really don’t know where they get the figures from, especially the so-called “extras”,’ said a low, beautifully modulated female voice. ‘But, it’s the school Jonathan went to, so it must be first class. I want the very best for Charlie, and I think he could be really happy there if we can secure a place for him.’

That’s her. Clara. The ex from hell. My arch enemy. Oh fuck
her, if she looks as good as she sounds, she must be ten times as bloody gorgeous as in her photos!

The Marchioness made some reply, but Lizzie barely heard it. Hanging back, she stole a peek over the rail, moving slowly, as stealthy as John at her side.

Two women sat on either side of each other, on one of the wide red sofas, with tea things on a tray before them. The Marchioness was sipping hers, and to Lizzie’s eyes, the grey-haired woman looked tense, and very far from the joyously happy mother she’d seemed earlier, almost giddy at her favourite son’s news.

The cool, collected creature at her side had suddenly thrown a massive spanner in everyone’s works.

And Clara was cool. A relaxed figure, slim and elegant, she wore what Lizzie recognised, even from her high vantage point, as a powder blue, distinctively braided Chanel suit. Couture, no doubt, too. Made especially for her, not like the single prêt-à-porter item that had fleetingly passed through the hands of New Again last week, only to be snapped up the same day it had arrived.

A glossy cap of dark, nut-brown hair nodded in time to a remark from the Marchioness, the cut immaculately styled. Lizzie couldn’t see Clara’s face from this angle, but everything about the woman’s bearing and the graceful movements of her hands suggested supreme confidence in her own good looks.

‘Come on,’ mimed John, with a shrug. They had to go. They couldn’t hide like naughty schoolchildren up here.

What did you expect, nitwit? Some sexy siren loaded down with bling and clad in skimpy, low-cut tightness? Of course she doesn’t look like a chav. She’s an aristocrat, just like John. She belongs in a place like this.

Perfect marchioness material.

Lizzie’s feet faltered. She suddenly saw a mental image of herself. Who was she kidding that she’d got her own look right for today? Wearing a dress she’d made herself, and all done up to look like a 1950s pin-up star?

Ridiculous nincompoop. You look like exactly what you are: a total outsider in this world.

‘I love you,’ whispered John as they reached the head of the stairs, and both the Marchioness and her companion twisted in their direction.

‘Ah, there you are,’ said the Marchioness, her lined face troubled.

‘Jonathan,’ said Clara, her face tranquil and composed, her eyes solely on John, as if no one but him existed.

Not sure quite how her legs were working, Lizzie descended, one hand on the banister, the other a bit sweaty in John’s. She could see nothing but that face.

In the flesh, Clara was beautiful, utterly beautiful, there was no two ways about it. Not flashy, not what Lizzie would have termed drop-dead gorgeous, but just as quietly and classically lovely as the Googled pix had suggested, with large, lustrous eyes, a straight, elegant nose and a soft pink mouth, barely made up. She had to be at least forty, but she didn’t look it at all; she was an archetypal English rose, ageless, and a perfect product of the privileged upper class.

Not rising from her seat, Clara put out her hand, as if unshakably confident that John would take it as she angled her flawless face for a kiss on the cheek. Which John gave her.

Atavistic jealousy surged in Lizzie’s middle, but just as quickly, she got a hold of herself. Of course John would greet Clara that way; that was the way they did things here.
It would look weird if he shunned his former lover’s touch completely.

‘And you must be Elizabeth? How lovely to meet you.’

As John retreated, it seemed almost as if Clara expected another kiss of fealty, but Lizzie was a frozen doll, and couldn’t bend. She did manage to put out her hand, though, and from somewhere, she found herself smiling, perhaps even looking calm.

‘Yes … I’m Elizabeth Aitchison, very pleased to meet you. You must be Clara.’

The words
I’ve heard so much about you, and all of it bad
seemed to hang in the air as Lizzie managed to shake the cool, slender hand in hers quite firmly.

‘Yes, for my sins.’ Clara’s smile was pleasant and natural. There was nothing in it that Lizzie could interpret as antagonistic, yet still she experienced an edge. ‘I’m sure Jonathan has told you all sorts of tall tales about when we were impetuous youngsters together, but you mustn’t believe half or even three-quarters of it.’

I know it all, you bitch. You hurt him. How can you be so blasé?

‘Oh no, John has been the soul of discretion. You mustn’t worry.’ She managed another smile. God, even a grin! How the hell was she going to keep this up? It was going to need the performance of a lifetime.