A High Price to Pay (8 page)

of a lot lately. I want to have the right to take care of her as soon as it

can be arranged.'

'Of course you do.' Mrs Bristow smiled at them both...'You'll have

some tea before you set off? I'll go and see about it.' She hurried off,

leaving them to follow at their own pace.

The silence between them was almost tangible, and Alison felt it

needed to be broken.

She said, 'What a lovely garden this is. Surely your mother doesn't do

all of it herself?'

'She does as little as I can arrange,' Nick told her. 'I employ a full-time

gardener for her to bully.' At her enquiring look, he explained, 'Her

heart isn't all that strong. She pooh-poohs it, but she needs to avoid

undue exertion. Even having me was something of a risk, which is

why I was an only child.'

'Oh, I'm sorry.'

'You don't need to be,' he said briefly. 'She leads a very full life,

actually, now that she's adjusted to widowhood.'

Alison found herself wondering whether her own mother would

eventually do the same. It was very early to tell, of course. Nick's

mother had had time to recover and rebuild her life. And the two

women were, of course, very different personalities.

Nick's voice cut across her reverie almost prosaically. 'I'm afraid

we're under observation from the drawing room. We'd better not

disappoint her.'

Before she had realised what he meant, he had stopped, drawing her

into his arms.

He said quietly, 'Don't fight me this time, Alison.'

The sun was warm on her upturned face. Somewhere near at hand a

bird sang with piercing sweetness. She could not have moved even if

she'd wanted to do so. And she didn't want to.

That was the last coherent thought she produced before his mouth

came down on hers. He was very gentle, very restrained, acting the

kiss, but in fact barely brushing her lips with his. And suddenly,

shockingly, it wasn't enough.

Suddenly, Alison wanted to be closer. She wanted to press herself

against him, to draw him down to her, to open her mouth to his

intimate exploration. She wanted the kiss to be real, born of a need

which refused to be denied, instead of this cool travesty of an

embrace which hardly even acknowledged the fact that she was a

woman.

She felt her nails dig into the palms of her hands in endurance, and as

if he sensed her sudden tensing, Nick lifted his head.

'Don't panic,' he advised acidly. 'Your ordeal is over.'

Until the next time, Alison thought, walking beside him, her heart

banging against her ribs like a terrified bird. Until the next time.

IT was a very simple dress, Alison thought. Made of crepe in a shade

somewhere between grey and lavender, it relied for its effect on the

elegance of its cut, and details like the full sleeves falling to tightly

buttoned cuffs, and the deep white collar. It certainly didn't look like a

wedding dress. But then she didn't feel like a bride.

She put up a hand and smoothed back a tendril of hair. Melly had

done her proud, she thought with a faint smile, swirling the soft

brown cloud into an elegant topknot, and securing it with the spray of

matching flowers which had come with the dress and which she

hadn't quite known what to do with.

But Melly had known. In fact, Alison thought with a sigh, it was a

pity she was the younger sister. If the positions had been reversed,

Melanie would have coped ebulliently with everything— especially

Nick, with whom she flirted outrageously, considering him as her

future brother- in-law, fair game for her to practise her wiles on.

He encouraged her, of course. With Melanie, Nick was more human

than Alison had ever seen him, except perhaps with his

mother—teasing, affectionate and endlessly indulgent.

And entirely different, she had to admit, from the way he behaved

towards herself.

She grimaced slightly. Well, what did she expect, after all? The

bargain between them was made, and legally signed under the

bewildered aegis of Alec Liddell. And Nick had been generous—that

she could not deny, even if she wanted to. She had been astounded by

the size of the personal allowance he was making her, in addition to

the account he had opened at a local bank for the payment of all the

household bills. He had made it clear such mundane details were to be

left to her. What he had concerned himself with was the redecoration

of the house. Alison found herself spending evening after evening

poring over portfolios of sketches and designs, and swatches of fabric

and wallpaper. Her initial resentment of the clean sweep he was

making in what had been her family home was soon outweighed by

the realisation that refurbishment was badly needed and had been for

some years.

Her mother, however, was not so easy to convince, and there had

been a number of near- clashes between them, with her

sweetly-voiced reproaches on one side, and Nick's scarcely veiled

intolerance on the other. Fortunately, he had produced a

master-stroke by inviting her to choose exactly how she wanted her

own flat, converted from a little-used guest suite overlooking the rose

garden, designed and decorated, and Mrs Mortimer was soon happily

absorbed in her own plans, and less inclined to dwell mournfully on

what she called 'change for change's sake'.

For herself, Alison had found little to quarrel with in Nick's taste, and

they had achieved a reasonable harmony. The only awkwardness had

arisen when he had shown her the designs for their respective

bedrooms. She had not realised until then that he intended to use the

master bedroom and the adjoining room for their accommodation,

and had protested instinctively.

Nick looked at her, his brows lifting coldly. 'I realise, of course,' he

said, 'that you'd like me banished to the other end of the house, or

even to a separate building for preference, but I'm afraid the next

room is as much concession as I'm prepared to make. I've already told

you—as far as outsiders are concerned, this is a normal marriage.'

She swallowed weakly. 'But there's a communicating door ...' she

began, intending to tell him that the adjoining room was intended

principally as a dressing room.

'How incredibly suggestive,' Nick drawled, giving her a

contemptuous look. 'Would you like me to have it bricked up? Or

would a bolt on your side only be adequate?'

Her face had burned with mortification, and she'd mumbled,

'Perfectly adequate,' before turning away and picking up some

samples of curtain fabric with hands that shook, and studying them as

if her life depended on it.

In the circumstances, she had decided ruefully, it would be downright

dangerous to query why Nick had opted to install a king-sized bed in

her room instead of something more appropriate and conventional.

Mrs Mortimer was going to stay with the Bosworths, after the

wedding, and the decorators would be moving in during the month

that Nick and Alison would be away on honeymoon.

Alison sighed. The honeymoon had proved to be another bone of

contention. She had considered it an unnecessary refinement, until

Nick's mother had raised the subject.

'Where are you taking Alison, darling?' she had asked cheerfully.

'Somewhere glamorous and exciting, or quiet and restful?'

'A little of both, I hope,' Nick had returned lightly. 'I've chartered

Greg Parsons' yacht to cruise the Greek Islands.'

At the small surprised sound he had startled out of her, he had turned

to Alison solicitously. 'What's the matter, sweetheart? You don't

suffer from seasickness, do you?'

If she'd had her wits about her, she would have replied firmly,

'Terribly', and that would probably have been the end of the matter.

But she was too astonished and indignant to be able to think clearly.

As he drove her back to Ladymead later, she had rounded on him

furiously. 'You didn't tell me we were going on honeymoon!'

'It's the usual course of action after one's married,' he returned

casually. 'What's the matter? Do you have some objection?'

'Any number,' she retorted, isn't it carrying things rather to farcical

extremes?'

'On the contrary, it's a perfectly conventional thing to do,' Nick

drawled. 'And as I'm tired of telling you, on the surface at least, this is

going to be a very conventional marriage. But if you have some

rooted aversion to the Greek Islands, then I'll tell Greg we don't want

his boat after all.'

'I think my rooted aversion is rather closer to home,' Alison said

clearly and coldly.

He smiled thinly. 'I'd rather managed to work that out for myself. I'm

afraid you'll just have to grit -your teeth, darling, and keep reminding

yourself that nothing lasts for ever in this uncertain world. Once the

honeymoon's over, I'll do my best not to intrude too much on your

halcyon little world down here. For whole periods at a time you

should be able to forget that I exist at all.'

If only she could believe that! Alison thought bitterly, as she stood on

the steps at Ladymead and watched the tail-lights of the car vanish.

One of the most disturbing facets of her brief, hectic engagement had

been how completely Nicholas Bristow had managed to brand

himself across her consciousness. She supposed it had been

unavoidable in the circumstances. There were so many arrangements

to be made, so many details to be agreed, even on a mundane level.

And, once she was legally his wife, would things really be any

different? And now that her quiet existence had been turned

irrevocably upside down, would she be content to stay at Ladymead

waiting for his visits, like—like some dreary Mariana of the Moated

Grange?

She looked restlessly round her room. It was odd to think she would

never sleep here again. The next time she came to Ladymead she

would have to use the enormous room which Nick was having

decorated for her in shades of ivory and aquamarine, and sleep in that

bed—as wide as the Gobi Desert, and as barren, she thought with

sudden bitterness.

Oh God, how had she allowed herself to get involved in this wretched

mess? She wanted to hide. She wanted to crawl back into her own

narrow bed, and pull the covers over her head, and say she was ill, say

she was—anything, as long as it meant she wouldn't have to drive

with Uncle Hugh to the Parish Church and become Nicholas

Bristow's unwanted bride.

And at that moment heard a tap on the door, and her uncle asking

anxiously, 'Are you ready, my dear? It's time we were leaving.'

'Coming!' she made herself say. Then she pickedup the prayer-book

her father had given her at her confirmation, and went to the door.

His face lightened at the sight of her. 'You look lovely, child,' he

declared with false heartiness.

She smiled at him, knowing that neither he nor Aunt Beth could

comprehend why she was taking this step. They'd been stunned when

she first told them the news, then overtly disapproving, then resigned.

In fact, Aunt Beth had thawed sufficiently to make her niece a private

gift, in addition to the exquisite Georgian writing desk which had

been their official wedding present.

Alison hadn't known what to expect when she untied the ribbons on

the silver and white striped box, and hadn't known whether to laugh

or cry as she had inspected the contents—several sets of the most

exquisite handmade lingerie she had ever seen—satin and

crepe-de-chine trimmed with lace in shades of ivory, oyster and

coffee—a tacit acknowledgement, she thought drily, that Aunt Beth

considered she would need every weapon in the armoury to hold her

husband's interest. But what Aunt Beth never would—never could

know was that it was a battle which would never be fought. She'd left

the lovely things in their box in her wardrobe.

She was surprised to find how crowded the church was as she moved

up the aisle to the voluntary. She supposed the announcement of her

marriage had been something of a nine-day wonder locally. She was

glad to see a number of familiar faces from Mortimers. It still wasn't

certain what was going to happen to the works, but it looked as if it

was going to be saved, or so Nick had told her rather curtly when she

had timidly enquired. His intervention seemed to have been

successful.

But Simon wasn't there. His reception of the news that she was to be