You Belong to My Heart (12 page)

Clay did not.

His very soul exposed, he said sadly, “I don’t want an abundance of beautiful women.” He began to choke, swallowed hard, fought back the tears that were stinging his gray eyes. “I only want my Mary.”

B
ROKENHEARTED, A PALE, WAN
Mary Ellen Preble spent long hours at the rail of the Cunard line’s majestic SS Oceana as it slowly crossed the choppy Atlantic. Her white-blond hair blowing wildly about her head, the skirts of her traveling suit pressed against her slender form, she stared sightlessly out at the dark, restless seas and gray, leaden skies.

The long, solitary hours she stood gripping the sea-misted railing were filled with agonies of a kind she had never known existed. She hurt so badly, it was like an intense physical pain from which there was no release. For which there was no balm. She felt as if she couldn’t bear the acute suffering one more hour, one more moment.

Tortured beyond endurance, so utterly miserable she felt as if she no longer wanted to live, Mary Ellen kept reviewing the events of the past terrible week. Again and again and again she relived the horror of hearing her father repeat Clay’s cruel, damning words, words that kept echoing through her aching head like a hated litany:
I’ve tolerated Mary for years. Get me an appointment to Annapolis and I’ll hand your precious daughter back to you.

Mary Ellen still could not accept what had happened. She couldn’t understand how she could have been so wrong about Clay. She couldn’t believe that the man she loved with all her heart and soul had used her so callously.

She
didn’t
believe it. It couldn’t be true. It wasn’t true. There was some mistake, some explanation for all this. If only she could see him. Talk to him. Straighten it all out. Clay
loved
her. He couldn’t hurt her.

Could he?

Maybe he could.

She, better than anyone, knew just how badly he wanted an appointment to the academy. It meant so much to him. Everything. It was everything and she was nothing.
Nothing!
She was but a pawn to be traded for what he really desired. For what really mattered to him.

The strangest, saddest part of the whole affair was that he could have had both. Her parents had loved and trusted Clay, just as she had. They had fully approved of him and would have welcomed him warmly into the family. He was already like a member of the family, so why…why…why?

Round and round in circles she went, one moment believing that it was all some horrid mistake, that Clay loved her and would always love her. The next moment she was convinced that what her father said was true: Clay cared nothing for her and never had. He was, like it or not, heartless, unprincipled, manipulative, and obsessively ambitious.

Agonizing over the hopeless situation would bring on a fresh flood of tears, and she would weep anew. Then the intense crying would finally end, and Mary Ellen’s demeanor would become even more frightening to her worried mother. For hours at a time Mary Ellen would stand unmoving at the ship’s railing, stoic and unreachable. Her staring eyes would hardly blink. Her face was devoid of emotion.

Julie Preble was extremely uneasy about her distraught young daughter. She made it a point to keep a close, watchful eye on Mary Ellen, afraid she might do something foolish, might even attempt to leap to her death in the sea. Her heart ached for her suffering child, and she wondered if perhaps she and John Thomas had made a tragic mistake by what they’d done. Suppose Mary Ellen
didn’t
get over Clay Knight? Suppose she remained unhappy for the rest of her life?

No. No, that wasn’t going to happen. Mary Ellen would be perfectly happy as the wife of Daniel Lawton. She and John Thomas were doing this for Mary Ellen’s sake, and one day Mary Ellen would thank them.

Mary Ellen was no better when they reached England.

She wouldn’t talk, she hardly ate, she couldn’t sleep. No amount of cajoling and humoring could make the heartbroken young girl leave their luxurious Cannaught corner suite.

The worried Julie Preble sighed with relief when she learned that Daniel Lawton and his parents had checked into the hotel.

“Good news, dear,” she said brightly, popping unannounced into Mary Ellen’s bedroom, “the Lawtons from home are in London! They’re right here in the hotel! Isn’t that a pleasant surprise?”

Mary Ellen made no reply.

Julie Preble tried again. “They’ve invited us to join them for dinner, and I—”

“No.”

“Now, Mary Ellen, I know you’re still not feeling well, but—”

“Not feeling well?” Mary Ellen exploded. “You think that’s all there is to this? Poor little Mary Ellen. She isn’t feeling well today.” Her dark eyes were so cold and mean, it frightened her mother. “Don’t you understand that the man I love more than life itself has forsaken me! What would it take to convince you that my world has ended! Can’t you grasp the fact that I don’t want to live without Clay! Nothing matters to me. Nothing and no one. I don’t want to live, Mother, and I
damned
sure don’t want to have dinner with the Lawtons! Now, please, please, get out and leave me alone!”

Julie Preble’s eyes widened. Her hand lifted, clutched her throat. She felt as if she’d been slapped in the face. Mary Ellen had never before spoken to her like that. Shocked to the roots of her pale hair and more alarmed than ever, the stunned mother was at a loss. She knew better than to say anything more to her nearly hysterical daughter. Trembling with emotion, Julie Preble backed away, then turned and left the room.

Unsure what to do, wondering if she should call for the hotel’s physician, Julie sent a frantic telegram to her husband on the floor of the cotton exchange, asking him what she should do. She paced nervously, waiting for an answer.

When the uniformed page told her regretfully that Mr. John Thomas Preble could not be located, the concerned Julie Preble had no choice but to dash off a hurried message to Daniel Lawton. She needed to speak with him in private as soon as possible.

A half hour later Julie sat across the pink damask-draped table from Daniel Lawton in the Cannaught’s darkly paneled tea room.

“It isn’t going to work, Daniel,” she confided in a low, shaky whisper, her fingers playing nervously on the rim of the fragile teacup before her.

Daniel Lawton smiled confidently. “Of course it will work, Mrs. Preble. You’re worrying needlessly. You’ll see.”

“No, no, you don’t understand. Mary Ellen is extremely distressed. She loves Clay so much that…that…” She stopped, thinking how that must sound to this handsome young man who hoped soon to marry Mary Ellen. “She’s not just upset, she’s also very skeptical.” Julie shook her head. “John Thomas counted on Mary Ellen taking his word for everything, but she’s far too clever to accept all this without question. She’s written to Clay, and I’m so afraid—”

“We fully expected that, Mrs. Preble. Of course she’s written to Knight. And I’m sure he’s written to her as well, if he knows where she is. But all messages sent from either of them to the other will be safely intercepted, thanks to the thorough planning of Mr. Preble. Neither Mary Ellen nor Clay Knight will ever receive a letter or any kind of message from the other.” He smiled broadly then.

Julie Preble sighed, looked down at the pink tablecloth. “There’s yet another very real problem, Daniel.”

“Which is?”

Julie raised her head slowly, looked him in the eye. “Mary Ellen says she will not have dinner with you. Now or ever.”

Mary Ellen continued staunchly to refuse to have anything to do with the blondly handsome Daniel Lawton. But Daniel was very persistent. He wanted Mary Ellen Preble, and this was his chance. She was, at the moment, too weak and unhappy to effectively fight anyone for very long.

Daniel pressed his advantage.

Depressed, sick of the dark rainy London skies, Mary Ellen finally gave in and agreed to a visit at the Lawtons’ villa in the South of France.

Aboard a luxurious chartered yacht, she and her mother traveled with the Lawtons to the French Riviera. There they settled comfortably into their hosts’ enormous pink cliffside palace high above the sparkling harbor of Monte Carlo.

The huge villa was light and airy, the Mediterranean sun invading every spacious room. The nights were balmy and beautiful. The lights of the city below twinkled like glittering diamonds, and in the harbor magnificent yachts from around the world bobbed on the calm, protected waters.

Inside the opulent villa, a fleet of well-trained servants were on hand to fulfill the smallest wish of any invited guest.

Except one.

When Mary Ellen secretly passed a sealed letter to a houseboy and asked that he see to it the missive was posted, quietly and without delay, the young man smiled and took the letter. The moment he was out of Mary Ellen’s sight he delivered the peach parchment envelope to Daniel Lawton’s room. Daniel thanked the dutiful servant, took the envelope, and quickly checked the addressee.

Unopened, the letter was tossed into the huge marble hearth, where a small fire blazed purely for aesthetic purposes.

Daniel crossed his arms over his chest and watched, smiling, as the envelope with the small girlish script caught instantly, curled, and turned to ash. Then he went in search of its sweet sender, who obviously needed a strong male shoulder to cry upon.

John Thomas Preble soon joined his wife and daughter at the Lawtons’ cliffside villa. The morning after his arrival, John Thomas stood alone on the wide, sunny balcony outside the lavish second-story guest suite he shared with his wife.

Squinting, he gazed down at the two people strolling hand in hand on the sandy beach far, far below. He smiled with satisfaction. His smile broadened when his wife walked up behind him, slipped her arms around his waist, and laid her cheek on his left shoulder.

His hands quickly covering hers, John Thomas said, pleased, “Mary Ellen and Daniel are out for a morning stroll. Soon they’ll be taking moonlight strolls as well.” He inhaled deeply of the clean, coastal air, loosened his wife’s hands from around his waist, and turned to face her. Putting his arms around her, he pulled her to him and said, “Ah, sweet, my little plan has worked perfectly.”

“Mmmmm. I hope so,” murmured Julie. “Still, it’s a long way from a stroll on the beach to a walk down the aisle.”

“Not when you’re as hurt and defenseless as Mary Ellen.” He hugged his wife more closely to him, tucking her pale head beneath his chin. “She’ll marry Daniel Lawton within the month.”

For a long moment both were silent. Then Julie, her head resting on her husband’s shoulder, said, “God help us if either Mary Ellen or Clay Knight ever find out exactly what we’ve done.”

“Don’t fret, they will never learn the truth,” he said confidently. “There are only three people who know or will ever know of this deception. You. Me. And Daniel Lawton.”

“A
ND DO YOU, DANIEL
Lawton
,
take Mary Ellen to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I do.”

They stood before a robed priest in a small stone chapel on a narrow street in the ancient village of Monaco.

The buoyant bridegroom was tall and handsome in a cutaway and custom-cut pinstripe trousers.

The subdued bride was beautiful in a long, flowing gown of eggshell satin trimmed with thousands of tiny seed pearls. Her white-blond tresses were elaborately dressed atop her head. A shoulder-length veil covered her carefully coiffured hair and pale, pretty face. And effectively concealed the sadness that lingered in her large, dark eyes.

Half dazed, Mary Ellen exchanged vows with Daniel Lawton while the proud parents and a small circle of the Lawtons’ European friends looked on. The brief, solemn ceremony pleased the assembled onlookers. Everyone was light-hearted and happy. Everyone but Mary Ellen.

She didn’t love Daniel Lawton and knew she never would. But they—mainly Daniel and her father—had finally worn her down. She was tired of the battle. She couldn’t fight them all, she no longer had the strength or the will.

The decision they’d all been breathlessly awaiting came after Mary Ellen finally forced herself to accept the cruel fact that Clay didn’t love her, had never loved her. He was, she had realized at last, as cold and uncaring as her father said. If he were not, he would have answered her letters, would have attempted to get in touch with her. She had written to him repeatedly, seeking an explanation, asking for the chance to see him, to talk with him.

He never responded.

Still, even now as she stood beside the tall, blond man who was to be her husband, she wondered: If Clay knew that at this very moment she was marrying Daniel Lawton, would it sadden him just a little? Would he feel at least a trace of regret and loss? She hoped so. She hoped he would hurt the way she hurt.

Mary Ellen told herself she hated Clay Knight and she hoped more than anything in the world that the day would come when he got exactly what he deserved.

“I now pronounce you man and wife…” The priest’s words jolted Mary Ellen out of her painful reverie. “You may kiss the bride.”

Smiling brightly, Daniel turned to Mary Ellen, lifted the veil from her face, and carefully folded it back atop her pearl-encrusted headdress. He clasped her slender shoulders, bent his blond head, and, mindful of his rearing, brushed only a brief, chaste kiss on her lips.

Then he tucked her hand around his bent arm and led her down the narrow aisle and out into the bright October sunlight while the proud parents and invited guests applauded and tossed rice.

A waiting carriage, embellished with ropes of white orchids interwoven with tiny silver bells, whisked the newlyweds up the steep cliffs to the pink villa, where a sumptuous feast awaited. The entire wedding party followed the pair to the cliffside mansion to help them celebrate the grand occasion. The lavish luncheon was served outdoors, and the merrymaking began when the first toasts was proposed to the handsome pair.

Mary Ellen ate little, but when her new husband handed her a second glass of chilled champagne, she drank thirstily. Daniel smiled, squeezed her narrow waist, and signaled a passing waiter to refill her glass. The revelry lasted for hours, and Mary Ellen continued to sip the bubbly wine throughout the sunny autumn afternoon. She had every intention of being more than a little tipsy when night fell and she was alone with her husband.