Marriage Under Suspicion

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Was it, maybe, because I didn’t want to hear the answers? Because I was afraid to pursue them?

She shivered, and turned away from the strained face confronting her in the glass.

Ryan might not have been overwhelmed to see her, but they were hardly newly-weds, for heaven’s sake. It didn’t make him guilty of anything. And there was no real reason for him to change his plans either. They were both adults with their own lives.

And she could well do without a family Sunday at Whitmead, she told herself, pulling a face. The perfect roast, the home-grown vegetables, the seriously alcoholic trifle all ordained beforehand, and produced without a hitch, even when extra guests turned up, as they often did. The afternoon spent playing croquet or French cricket, or taking the dogs for a walk, to build up an appetite for the equally sumptuous tea. The noisy games of cards or Trivial Pursuit during the evening. It was all like a cliché of English country life.

Oh, come on, she chided herself. That really is bitchy. You really don’t want to go in case Sally and Ben are there with the children, and comparisons are drawn. Be honest about it. You don’t want another row with Ryan on the drive back.

And she shouldn’t be derogatory about Ryan’s parents, even in thought, she added ruefully. Because she liked them both—even if Mrs Lassiter’s warmth, charm and unbounded energy did make her feel slightly inadequate at times.

She simply wasn’t used to the overt family affection, the candour about personal issues, the lively arguments, and the casual but whole-hearted hospitality.

Her own upbringing, she thought, had been so very different.

With a silent sigh, Kate wandered back into the living area, and stood for a moment, staring at the closed door to Ryan’s office. There was nothing in the world to stop her crossing the space that divided them, of course.

She could open that door, go into that room, and ask how much longer he was going to be. She’d done it before, after all. And on more than one occasion she’d left her clothes on the floor first.

But even as her mouth curved in a reminiscent smile she knew she would not be doing so this evening.

When she’d gone to Ryan earlier, put her arm around him, he’d held her in return. But there’d been no passion in his response. No kindling intimacy in his touch. Once, he would have drawn her close against his body, found her mouth with his, his hands rediscovering all the sweet, sensuous routes to their mutual desire.

She had never before offered herself, and been rejected.

Although it hadn’t been a real rejection, she assured herself quickly. After all, he’d said ‘Later’, hadn’t he?

But, although this was later, she knew she wasn’t going to risk it. She would let him set the parameters tonight.

She went up to the bedroom. In her lingerie drawer, she found the nightgown she’d bought the previous month on an impulse, but not yet worn. She unwrapped the layers of tissue and looked at it with satisfaction.

It was ivory satin, and classically simple, the bodice deeply slashed beneath shoestring straps, the skirt cut cleverly to cling.

Seductive, she thought, without being obvious. And there would never be a better time to try its effect

She changed into it, brushed her hair loose over her shoulders, and added a breath of Patou’s Joy to her throat, wrists and breasts.

Then, leaving one shaded lamp burning, she lay down on top of the bed to wait for him.

And we’ll just see if he makes that early start for Whitmead, she thought, smiling to herself. Or if he’ll have to ring his parents, and tell them he can’t be there after all. Such a shame.

It was the kind of situation that usually she’d revel in, but somehow she found it impossible to relax—to think herself into the appropriate frame of mind.

She was planning to ravish her own husband. She wanted him to find her warm and willing, not nerve-racked and clammy-skinned. She needed to feel anticipation, not uncertainty.

She found she kept turning her head restively towards the stairs, every sense alert for a sound, or sign of movement. But there was nothing. Ryan had said he wouldn’t be long, but the time seemed endless.

She remembered the deep breathing learned at her Yoga classes at college, and its calming effect. She let herself sink into the mattress, counting silently to herself as she inhaled, held the drawn breath then slowly released it.

Gradually, she felt her inner tension ease, but at the same time her eyelids began to grow heavy.

Sleep, she thought drowsily. I mustn’t go to sleep. I have to wait—wait for Ryan. . .

It was the cold that woke her eventually. She sat up with a shiver, one glance at the bed beside her telling her that she was still alone. The numbers on the clock radio informed her it was the early hours of the morning.

She slid off the bed, put on her robe and went downstairs.

Ryan was lying, fast asleep, on one of the sofas. Nearby the television still hummed gently, its screen blank.

Kate turned off the power, before bending over her husband, shaking his shoulder gently.

‘Ryan,’ she whispered. ‘Darling, you can’t stay here. Come to bed—please.’

He muttered something unintelligible under his breath, but he didn’t stir, not even when she shook him again, harder.

She waited for a moment, then trailed slowly and defeatedly back to the gallery.

Even under the covers, the king-size bed felt frigid and unwelcoming.

She thought, So, he fell asleep in front of the television. It happens. It’s no big deal.

And suddenly found that she wanted, very badly, to cry. Because it was a very big deal indeed.

CHAPTER THREE

KATE opened unwilling eyes to discover broad daylight. She sat up slowly, propping herself on an elbow, while she pushed her hair back from her face with her other hand, and looked around her, dazed from a restless night punctuated by brief, disturbing dreams.

The first thing she registered was that the pillow beside her was rumpled, and the quilt had been thrown back, indicating that Ryan had spent at least part of the night with her.

Well, she thought, that was something—even if he hadn’t bothered to wake her.

She swung her feet to the floor, and padded across to the bathroom. Ryan’s damp towel was hanging on the rail, and a pleasant aroma of cologne, toothpaste and soap pervaded the moist air. But he had gone.

As she turned away, disappointed, a faint but persuasive scent of coffee invaded her consciousness, and she followed it down to the kitchen.

Ryan was standing at the worktop, buttering a slice of toast. He was wearing faded chinos with a plain white shirt. An elderly sweatshirt was draped round his shoulders, and his hair was still damp from the shower.

Kate leaned against the door jamb and watched him, allowing, with a shrug of her shoulder, one of the straps of her nightgown to slide down.

She said, softly, ‘Hi, there.’

‘Hi, yourself.’ His smile was easy, widening as his eyes surveyed her. ‘You look positively delectable, Mrs Lassiter. I don’t think I’ve seen that particular nightdress before.’

‘You were meant to notice it last night.’ Kate smiled back at him, pleasurably aware that her nipples were hardening under his scrutiny, and clearly outlined under the cling of the satin for his delectation.

‘Sorry about that.’ He didn’t sound particularly repentant. Nor did he come across to her as she expected. ‘I worked longer than I intended, and then I got interested in something on television. You know how it is.’

She said, gently reproachful, ‘You could have woken me—when you came upstairs.’

‘You were sleeping like a baby. I didn’t have the heart.’ He took a pitcher of fresh orange juice from the refrigerator, and poured her a glass. ‘Your morning tonic, madam.’

‘I can think of a far better pick-me-up than that.’ Kate spoke huskily, meeting his glance, knowing that he liked seeing her like this, flushed and tousled from sleep. She adjusted the strap of her nightgown, letting her hands linger momentarily on her breasts. ‘Why don’t we have—breakfast in bed?’

‘I told you why last night.’ He sounded faintly amused. ‘As soon as I’ve drunk my coffee, I’m off to Whitmead.’

‘You’ve been invited to lunch.’ She heard a pettish note in her voice, and tried to sound more beguiling. ‘It surely won’t take all morning for you to drive there.’

‘Dad wants me to help him with some fencing.’

‘Oh.’ Kate straightened. ‘And that naturally takes precedence over your wife?’

‘It does today.’ He set the glass of orange juice down on the worktop. ‘You seem to have forgotten that you weren’t even going to be here.’

He paused. ‘Tell me, Kate, if the wedding had gone ahead, and I’d asked you particularly to come with me today, would that have taken precedence over the usual mopping-up operations?’

‘That’s not fair,’ she protested. ‘A wedding—or any kind of party—is entirely different. I set it up beforehand, and supervised the clearing-up afterwards. I don’t have a choice in this. It’s work.’

He shrugged. ‘On the other hand, it could simply be a question of priorities. And today mine have been decided for me.’

He pushed the slice of toast to one side, untouched, and walked to the door. On the way past, he turned to her, his hands reaching for her wrists, pinioning her suddenly against the wall.

Kate gasped, half in indignation, half in excitement, as she twisted against his imprisoning grasp in an unavailing attempt to free herself.

Ryan’s hazel eyes were unsmiling but intent as they looked into hers, watching her pupils dilate in anticipation, in the beginnings of an arousal she was powerless to control.

He leaned forward and kissed her slowly, almost insolently, his teeth grazing her lip, his tongue gliding against hers like heated silk.

Her response was immediate. Her mouth moved against his, sweetly, greedily. She lifted the hands which clasped hers, and placed them on her breasts.

She thought, exultantly, He’s mine.

His leg parted her thighs, pressing the satin of her gown against the moist satin of her body in a deliberate, tantalising friction which forced a tormented moan from her throat.

She wanted him so fiercely that it hurt. She needed to feel him sheathed inside her—to be taken, there and then, against the wall, or on the floor. She wanted to see his cool, ironic control shattered in tiny pieces. To possess him, to know that he was as driven and desperate as she was herself.

Even when he stepped back, his breathing hurried and harsh, she thought she’d won.

She hooked her fingers under the straps of her gown, and pulled them down, letting the folds of satin slide down her body, and cascade around her bare feet. She waited, her nakedness a challenge, her body heated and ready for his invasion.

And saw him smile at her.

‘Goodbye, darling,’ he said softly. ‘Don’t ever think I wasn’t tempted.’

He turned, and walked away from her towards the main door.

For a second, she was too shocked to move or speak. Then sheer outrage rescued her.

‘Bastard,’ she hurled after him, chokingly. ‘Don’t you dare walk out on me.’

But Ryan’s only response was to blow her one mocking kiss as he left.

Kate closed down her computer, and switched off the power, sitting for a moment and staring at the blank screen. She could only hope that what she’d stored over the past hour made some kind of sense, but she guaranteed nothing.

For once, her mind had not been on the job in hand.

Instead, she’d found herself going over and over again the events of the past twenty-four hours, as if she were trapped on some weary treadmill.

And the inescapable and unpalatable fact facing her was that, leaving aside whether or not Ryan was actually having an affair, her own relationship with him seemed to have reached some kind of watershed.