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Marriage By Arrangement
Sally Wentworth
In name only?Red McGee hadn't got her nickname for nothing. Her hair was as red-hot as her temper. Linus Hunt didn't particularly like her hair or her temper. He liked his life calm, orderly and businesslike. And Red was disorderly, chaotic and… well, just too passionate!She had a tendency to act on impulse - but when Red told her father that she was engaged to Linus Hunt, she never dreamed that fiction would eventually become fact! Linus, it seemed, had already decided that an engagement would be a very convenient arrangement for them both!"Unforgettable reading." - Romantic Times
A church! What on earth had made Linus choose a church when he knew that the whole marriage was only makeshift? (#ub9f2c30f-9cdc-5348-9f6d-0110e6274e49)About the Author (#u0aaa62ea-06ad-50a0-b976-465f0bf8416f)Title Page (#u479c540a-e3f4-5bc2-8fce-65544482108f)CHAPTER ONE (#u74a5032e-6794-5424-97a7-5dff061dfa81)CHAPTER TWO (#u0b14f9bc-2558-5edc-bd11-ad569d8434ad)CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
A church! What on earth had made Linus choose a church when he knew that the whole marriage was only makeshift?
As soon as Red was able to get Linus alone, she said, “Surely a registrar’s office would have been the right place for us? And we could have got it over and done with so much more quickly.”
“I don’t think I fancy getting married in some dusty office.”
“But it isn’t for real!” she exclaimed.
Linus gave an exasperated sigh. “If you want to convince people that you mean something, even if you don’t, then you have to make it look good. Appearances are all, Red. You ought, as an actress, to know that....”
SALLY WENTWORTH was born and raised in Hert ford shire, England, where she still lives, and started writing after attending an evening class course. She is married and has one son. There is always a novel on the bedside table, but she also does craft work, plays bridge and is the president of a National Trust group. They go to the ballet and theater regularly and to open-air concerts in the summer. Sometimes she doesn’t know how she finds the time to write!
Look out for THE CUILTY WIFE by Sally Wentworth in August (#1902). When a wife keeps secrets from her husband, the result is a stormy marriage!
Marriage By Arrangement
Sally Wentworth
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE
‘WHAT the hell is it?’
The man who finally opened the door to Red McGee’s continuous ring looked extremely angry. He was tall and wore only a bathrobe belted round his waist. He also looked as if he had a monumental hangover. Under dark, dishevelled hair his eyes were puffy and bleary, and he hadn’t shaved for so long that his beard looked like overgrown designer stubble. Maybe it was designer stubble, but Red didn’t think so. This guy looked as if he had been on some bender.
She hesitated, not having expected a man to come to the door, and checked that she’d got the right house number before saying, ‘G’day. Is this Mrs St Aubyn’s place?’
‘Yes. But what-?’
‘I’ve called to see her.’ Red made to step into the house but the man barred her way.
‘What for?’ be demanded brusquely.
Red grew indignant. ‘I’ll tell that to her.’
‘No, you won’t.’
She put her hands on her slim hips. ‘And why not?’
‘Because she’s in bed; that’s why not.’
Red went to glance at her watch, then remembered that she’d pawned it. But it must be almost noon. ‘At this time of the day?’ she said in surprise.
‘So?’ The man pushed his hair back off his forehead and surveyed her belligerently.
Red blinked, wondering if his bleary-eyed state wasn’t, after all, due to drink but to a long, passionate night and morning. But that wouldn’t explain the beard. Unless...
Red’s mind boggled. He was, she supposed, in his thirties, and might have been called good-looking if he hadn’t been so unkempt, but if he was the type that this Mrs St Aubyn, the voice coach she’d been recommended to, wanted to spend half the day in bed with, then who was she to judge? So Red shrugged and said, ‘I came about voice-training lessons.’
‘She doesn’t give lessons at the weekend. Phone on Monday.’
The man yawned without putting his hand over his mouth and swayed a little, his eyes beginning to close. He went to shut the door but Red stuck her foot in the way. ‘Look, I’m in a hurry. I’d like to book some lessons so that I can start Monday.’
‘I told you, she isn’t available.’
‘So can’t you look in her appointments book? Can’t I come in and leave a note so that she can phone me back? Is it so impossible to get anything fixed around here?’ Her voice had risen and her accent grown stronger in annoyed frustration at having to deal with this moron.
‘Come back on Monday.’
‘No, I want to get it fixed up now.’
The man gave something close to a snarl. ‘Look, I’ll spell it out to you so that even someone as woollen-headed as you can understand. She—is—not—available. Call—on—Monday.’
He pronounced each word slowly, as if he were speaking to an idiot, making Red seethe with anger, the temper that went with her thick mane of red hair starting to rise. ‘Don’t you call me a sheep just because I come from Australia,’ she retorted, her accent now as broad as it had ever been.
‘I wasn’t implying that. I just meant that you were thick and stupid.’
‘Why, you pommy bas—’
The door swung wide as it was pulled from the man’s hand by a woman wearing a delicate silk negligée.
‘What on earth is going on?’ the woman demanded.
It had to be Mrs St Aubyn; her voice was well modulated even though she was frowning in annoyance. She was older than Red had expected—very slim and well preserved, but definitely in her late forties at least. And definitely older than the man, which must make him some kind of toy boy.
Red shot him a look of contempt. ‘I came for some voice lessons,’ she explained.
‘Well, you certainly need them. You’d better come in; the whole street must be watching.’ Mrs St Aubyn stood aside and put a caressing hand on the man’s shoulder, saying as she did so, ‘I’ll deal with this, Linus. You go back to bed. You poor darling, you must be exhausted.’
Wow! Red thought as she stepped inside. He must be really something if he can perform that well. The man merely shrugged and turned away immediately to go upstairs, so didn’t see the surprised, contemplative look that she gave him.
Leading the way into a room off the hall, Mrs St Aubyn picked up an appointments book and turned to Red. ‘I take it you’re an Australian?’
‘Yes, I am,’ Red said with defensive pride.
‘So why do you want lessons?’
‘I’m an actress.’
‘And there isn’t much work around for Australian girls,’ Mrs St Aubyn said in understanding.
‘No. I tried for a part in that television series based in the East End of London, but they said no as soon as I opened my mouth. Then someone I know recommended you, said you were good.’
‘Thank you. When did you want to start the lessons?’
‘On Monday.’
The older woman shot her a glance. ‘I’m really very busy. I’m not sure if I can fit you in at such short notice. But in three weeks or so—’
‘I can’t wait that long.’
‘You’ve got the chance of another part, have you?’
Figuring that there was always a chance of a part, Red nodded. ‘I’ve got to get rid of this accent.’
‘Yes, well, I’m hardly surprised. Actually, you’re in luck; I have a young man who’s joined a touring company, so he has postponed his course of lessons. You can take his block of appointments, if you like.’
‘That’s great. When do I start?’
‘Come on Tuesday, at eleven.’
‘And how much is a course of lessons?’
Mrs St Aubyn named the figure. ‘That’s for ten lessons of one hour.’
The price was high, but not a lot more than Red had expected. She nodded. ‘Right.’
‘Your name?’
‘Red McGee.’
Raising delicately arched eyebrows, Mrs St Aubyn wrote in her name. Watching as she did so, Red rather wistfully noticed how elegant she looked, even though unmade-up and wearing just a nightdress and the negligée over it. Most women wouldn’t have got away with it, but Mrs St Aubyn seemed to be one of the fortunate ones who always looked classy under any circumstances.
Remembering how she herself looked after a late night, let alone a hectic one spent with a lover, Red wondered if it would be possible to learn how to acquire such elegance along with the voice training.
Showing her to the door, Mrs St Aubyn said firmly, ‘And please don’t call here again at the weekends.’
Was that because she always had her boyfriend to stay then? Red wondered. She glanced up the staircase with its curved banister rail, but there was no sign of the man who’d tried so hard to get rid of her.
What had Mrs St Aubyn called him? Some outlandish name. Linus, that was it. What kind of wimpish, pommy name was that? Although the man hadn’t looked like a wimp—more like a drunk. Still, he must have something, because it was quite obvious that Mrs St Aubyn was keen for her to go so that she could go back to bed, back to her toy boy. Red hardly had time to turn to say goodbye before the door was shut behind her.
Glancing back at the narrow, three-storeyed Georgian house, with its wrought-iron balconies at the first-floor windows, Red saw that the shutters on that floor were still closed, and couldn’t help wondering if that was the room where the two slept—or more likely weren’t sleeping at all.
This was a place typical of London, in the area they called Pimlico—a quiet street, tree-lined, the houses long terraces of yellow brick that had weathered into a pleasant greyness over the last two hundred years. Each house had a solid front door, generally painted white, with an ornate fanlight over it, and some of them had tubs containing neat bay laurels on either side of the doorway. Not a pretentious street, but nevertheless one that gave an aura of quiet gentility and the means to preserve it.
Red hurried home to the small flat she shared with another actress, Jenny, older than herself by some eight years, and told her all about it.
Jenny whistled when she heard how much the lessons were going to cost. ‘Where on earth did you get the money?’
‘I pawned my watch,’ Red answered without a qualm.
‘Not the one your father gave you for your twenty-first birthday?’ And when Red nodded, she added, ‘What if he finds out?’
‘He’s in Australia; how will he find out?’
Jenny shook her head. ‘You shouldn’t have done it.’
‘He should have sent me the money instead,’ Red said impatiently. She had in fact asked for money, but her father considered that the allowance he sent her every month was enough for her to live on so had ignored her plea, instead sending instructions for her to collect the watch, a gold one, from a famous London jeweller’s instead.
When Red went to the house in Pimlico again for her first lesson, Mrs St Aubyn was beautifully dressed and made-up, looking even younger than Red had first expected her to be. Of her boyfriend there was no sign. Nor of a Mr St Aubyn.
The lesson went well; Mrs St Aubyn took her right back to basics, teaching her how to breathe and form vowels, and being very patient with her, making sure that Red had got it right before moving on. She was such a good teacher that the hour flew by, and Red went home to drive Jenny mad by practising all evening.
‘Do you mind? I’m trying to watch television,’ Jenny remonstrated.
‘I’ve got to get it right. Mrs St Aubyn said I should practise until it comes naturally to me.’
‘So go in your bedroom and do it! I’m sick of listening to you. You sound like Eliza Dolittle.’
Red gave her an indignant look. ‘You know I don’t have long. If I don’t get a decent part within the next few months my father will make me go home.’
‘I’m beginning to be glad I’m an orphan. Surely you can persuade him to let you stay on in England?’
‘You don’t know my father,’ Red said with feeling. ‘I had to promise that if I didn’t get a decent part within a year then I’d go back.’ Turning away, she began again. ‘Ooo. Aaa.’
Jenny threw a cushion at her in exasperation, then covered up her ears.
During that month Red went to her voice coach twice a week and made such progress that she managed to get a part in a commercial. She didn’t have to say much, just the name of the product a couple of times in a sexy tone, but at least it was work. On the strength of it she sent her father a picture postcard of Buckingham Palace saying, ‘Have got important new role,’ and hoped that it would keep him off her back for a while longer.
Her course of ten lessons was coming to an end, and she could now, with care, speak in what Mrs St Aubyn called ‘an unaccented tone’, but which Red thought of as an English accent.
Considering it money well spent, Red decided to spend the fee she’d got from the commercial on extending the course of lessons. If she could do a cockney accept there was a chance of getting a part in the soap set in London’s East End. And if she could sign a contract for a long-running part then there was no way that her father could make her go back to Australia.
Travelling home on the tube late one afternoon, Red noticed that the line went through Pimlico and, having made her decision, thought that she might as well break off her journey to go to Mrs St Aubyn’s house and book another set of lessons before someone else got there first.
It was a grey, dark day, and there was a light showing in the first-floor window and another through the fanlight over the front door, so Red rang the doorbell, confident that the voice coach was at home.
She waited but no one came, although Red thought that she heard a noise inside. Again she rang, waited, and was about to turn away, thinking that the lights must have been left on as a burglar deterrent, when she heard the noise coming from inside for a second time, and louder now. A strange sound, almost like a baby crying.
Ever curious, Red stooped to the letter box and lifted the flap to peer inside. There was an inner flap obscuring her view; she worked her hand inside, pushed the flap up, and gave a gasp of horror. Mrs St Aubyn was lying at the bottom of the staircase and looked as if she was trying to crawl towards the door. She cried out, the sound now a distinct cry for help.
‘Stay right there,’ Red yelled. ‘I’ll get an ambulance.’
She ran to the next-door house and rang the bell insistently, at the same time hammering with the knocker.
‘What is it? What on earth’s the matter?’ the middle-aged man who came to open the door demanded.
‘It’s Mrs St Aubyn; I think she must have fallen down the stairs. Could you call an ambulance? Oh, and we’ll need the police; they might have to break down the door.’
The man came to look for himself before he would phone, but then was more than helpful. ‘You wait here for the ambulance,’ he instructed once the phone call had been made. ‘I’ll go out the back and see if there’s a window open. We don’t want to have to break the door down unless it’s absolutely necessary.’
A police car was pulling up at the kerb just as the neighbour came hurrying back. ‘There’s a bathroom window partly open at the back,’ he said, panting slightly. ‘Only a small one, though.’
