Tomorrow's Bride Page 8

  Now he and Ines were ordering, the Spanish woman leaning over to Patrick, one hand, with lots of rings and red nails, placed ultimately on his dark sleeve as they discussed the menu. She said something in a voice too low to catch, and when he laughed Leigh was stabbed by jealousy. That deep, ultimate sound; once she had imagined it was for her alone... She pulled herself together. What fools we are, we women, she thought, allowing ourselves to be taken in...

  It was a relief when Kyle spoke, forcing her attention, though it was to Patrick that his remarks were directed. 'So it looks as if you'll be getting quite a large grant for your cause, Patrick. I think we were all impressed by the forceful way you put your case to the committee.'

  'I hope it will be successful.' His sudden grin and shrug dismissed his own efforts. 'Not my cause, as such—my company has simply been retained by the agency.'

  'But of course you're being modest.' Inés smiled admiringly at her companion. 'You, Kyle, know well enough, but perhaps you don't, Leigh, that Patrick spent a long time on the ground with an aid project.'

  Fortunately there was no need for Leigh to say anything since Kyle was doing it for her. 'Yes, and of course that makes all the difference. It shows you have some idea of just what you're talking about—rare enough in our circles.' He changed tack. 'You didn't find it a handicap, then, taking time out on your career for several years?'

  'No.' After a pause, while he and Ines were served, he looked up briefly, then, taking up his fork, broke off a piece of salmon. 'The reverse, if anything. I don't think experience of that kind is ever a handicap. In the end it comes down to confidence, I suppose.'

  As if, thought Leigh sourly, any Cavour had ever lacked that quality. Then she allowed her thoughts to wander, only vaguely picking up phrases like 'life-enhancing experience' and 'the cultural density of life' as they floated about her. She was even aware of her own voice, throwing in the occasional uncontroversial bland remark from time to time—the kind of comments a robot might as easily have produced.

  All of a sudden she started as Kyle, quite unexpectedly, put out his hand and touched hers, asking in a manner that was almost protective, 'Am I neglecting you, love? Tell me what you would like next. Cheese? Dessert? I've been told the tarte aux pommes is something of an experience.'

  'Not another thing, Kyle.' Now all she wanted was to be done with the evening; she wanted to be on her own and preferably in bed. 'I've had a wonderful dinner and-----'

  'Good. Two coffees.' He spoke to the hovering waiter and then to the other two. 'I promised to get Leigh back to the flat before midnight.'

  'The flat?' Inés raised a very slender black eyebrow, glancing curiously at Leigh, who was giving all her attention to a young woman at the next table, trying to be impervious to Patrick Cavour's thunderous expression.

  'Mmm. I have some business interests in Paris, and it seemed sensible to have a flat rather than pay astronomical hotel bills. We stay there when we come here on private business.'

  'But...' The arrival of the coffee robbed Leigh of the chance to explain that they never came together, and that if Kyle had unwittingly given the impression that they were both going back there tonight, then... But when the waiter had gone, the conversation had moved on, and the explanation would surely have enhanced rather than allayed any suspicions which he...which they might have had.

  She drank quickly, then reached pointedly for her handbag, and to her relief Kyle took the hint. 'If you'll excuse us? I promised to take Leigh to see the moon rise over the Seine...'

  What on earth was the man trying to do? Leigh looked at him irritably. Was he trying to make them think...?

  'In that case-----' when she chose, Inés could be quite acid' —I hope you have your rose-tinted spectacles. I doubt you'll see it otherwise.'

  'Ah, Inés.' Kyle shook his head in mocking disappointment. 'Ever the realist.' He pushed back his chair and stood. 'But Leigh is a true romantic, and has every confidence in my promises, so-----' there was a long moment while he and Inés looked at each other '—don't disillusion her, please.'

  And before she would have thought it possible they were outside in the warm evening, walking slowly down the path towards the river. Kyle, after asking her permission, lit up a cigar.

  'Mmm. He's a good-looking young man. And very astute. Seems to me he gets right to the heart of things.'

  'He is pretty well-qualified, after all.' The words came out before Leigh could stop them.

  'Ah.' He draped a friendly arm about her shoulder. 'So you do know something about him. I did wonder... And yet... that night at the reception I got the distinct impression that you didn't know him.'

  'It is quite a long time since we last saw each other, and...'

  'Neither of you, I suggest, would be easily forgotten. Tell me, Leigh-----' for a moment he held her at arm's length, staring down through narrowed eyes '—are you blushing?'

  'Of course not,' she lied. 'It's just... But you are right. I do know Patrick Cavour—used to, at least. Slightly.'

  'Ah, slightly. And yet I felt I was picking up some powerful vibrations...'

  'Well, as I said, it was such a long time ago.' Why on earth had she embarked on this senseless deceit? 'When I was a student he appeared at Oxford to do some research. That was when I met him.'

  There was a longish silence before Kyle prompted quite gently, 'And then...?'

  'Then nothing. It was just that I heard he had been to Harvard Law School, and after that he worked with an American firm of attorneys. So, you see, he would know his way around.'

  'Yes.' Kyle pursed his lips. 'So it would appear. Now what, I wonder, would bring him to Europe after seeming to be so successfully settled in the States?'

  'I couldn't say.' No point in explaining further, especially when the question he was asking was one .she had pondered through many sleepless nights. It had crossed her mind that he might have discovered where she was working and had followed her, but since she was certain he had been as shocked as she was that night there was little point in tormenting herself with a fictional scenario complete with sugary romantic ending. 'I suppose Ines might have more detail on that than I have...' Jealousy was like a knife-blade. ‘They did look-----' now she was being spiteful as certain ideas flitted into her mind '—remarkably friendly, don't you think?' Then she said, before he could answer, 'Didn't you find it an amazing coincidence, Ines appearing there the very time we were there? The odds against that happening must be considerable.'

  'Oh, I don't know.' He shrugged, drew deeply on the cigar, then blew the smoke away from her. 'It happens all the time in Strasbourg. There it is difficult to avoid people you know.'

  'Strasbourg, yes, that's understandable—but Paris...' She frowned, more puzzled by the random encounter now than she had been at first. 'Who was it told you about this place, Kyle? Can you remember?'

  'I think it might have been Charles Sebastian.' He frowned. 'Yes, I'm almost sure, and maybe... Yes, there was a group of us at the time, and I'm pretty positive Inés was there too. So there you -' he grinned '—mystery solved.'

  'Mmm.' She was unconvinced. 'I must remember to ask Ines next time I see her.' But her threat, if it was that, left him unmoved.

  'You do that,' he said cheerily, stubbed out his cigar in a flowerpot and began to lead her back along the riverbank in the direction of the car park. 'I'm sure she'll confirm what I've said—if you think it's important, I mean.'

  The balmy evening, the idyllic setting were soothing after the fraught time spent inside, and although there was no moon concealed lights along the sides of the path cast shimmering reflections across the water and made it quite seductive. There were secret sheltered corners, arbours tucked away amid scrambling roses, even a tiny dovecote—crumbling, picturesque, immaculate—offering privacy to passing lovers. Yes, it was all very pretty, could have been romantic given the right companion. What a pity Kyle did not fit the role. The very idea caused a wan smile. Even if he hadn't a long-standing marriage with a pa
rticularly charming woman he would never have compared with... with anyone she had ever... ever dated.

  But at least he was concerned about her, concerned and certainly non-threatening—very nearly paternal—so that when they stopped at a tiny spit of land, stood for a moment to watch the powerful current and he put his arm about her shoulder again, she didn't, with her normal good sense, move casually away. Instead she gave a shuddering sigh, deep and wearied, leaning against him in momentary weakness.

  'Something is making you sad, Leigh. I've noticed it for some time.'

  'No, truly, Kyle. Nothing at all.' But his sympathy brought the sting of tears to her eyes, and an unexpected sob was wrenched from her throat. Eyes wide, she shook her head, till a hand beneath her chin forced her to be still and to look into his concerned face.

  'A man?' His voice was gently teasing. 'None of us is worth it, you know.' His smile was cynical and self-mocking. 'Take it from an expert in the field.'

  'I'm sorry, Kyle.' Hastily she reached into her bag for a handkerchief. 'Just as well there's no moon—I could have blamed that.' It was an effort even to pretend to be light-hearted, impossible to explain why she was feeling so desperately weepy.

  'But since there's no moon...'

  'Don't worry about it, Kyle. I promise it's nothing but a touch of Weltschmerz, and I also promise it will in no way affect my work.' And to put an end to the discussion, and entirely on impulse, she leaned forward and dropped a light kiss on his cheek, not considering what his reaction might be.

  It was precisely the reaction she ought to have expected. And one Patrick Cavour had all the time in the world to observe as he sauntered along the main path with his companion. For, while she was being accommodated into the welcoming curve of Kyle Lessor's body, Leigh, stunned into quiescence, was looking directly at the taller man.

  For a moment she burned with the humiliation of the situation, then the blood seemed to leave her head. She was weak and giddy, clinging to Kyle from necessity rather than passion. It was the expression in Patrick's eyes, the distaste in his manner which were so destructive, both, in spite of distance and darkness, easy to interpret and owing nothing to her imagination, entirely consistent with his legal training. She was being charged, tried and convicted, and had little doubt that the sentence would be exacted with all the severity that the law allowed.

  They were, it seemed to her, cut off from then: companions. Ines, just a step behind Patrick, appeared to be watching something further down the river, and Kyle... Well, she had always known he was a typical opportunist male—what else?— and he was murmuring comforting words in her ear which she certainly had no desire to listen to...

  Close at hand she heard a sudden plop, as if a fish had broken the surface of the water, but she knew it was something else. She alone had seen Patrick Cavour's scorn as he'd tossed a pebble into the river. For a moment she looked at the shimmering reflections on the surface and then, disengaging herself abruptly from Kyle's embrace, she looked up to see Patrick following something Ines was pointing out to him. Their heads were very close together and her hand was possessively resting on his arm.

  They were walking away, Ines chatting with great animation. The entire scene, Leigh thought bleakly, as she and Kyle resumed then- stroll, might have been a final comment on her relationship with Patrick. It was as insubstantial and illusory as that.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THERE was no earthly reason for Leigh to go overboard for the christening. A new hat was understandable, but she had several scarcely worn outfits which would have served the purpose perfectly. Yes, she conceded, the ceremony was being held in Paris and, yes, all sorts of fashionable people would be there... But no! Tears made her eyes sting at the very suggestion which would not stay at the back of her mind where it belonged. No, it was nothing to do with Patrick Cavour, for heaven's sake. Nothing whatsoever. But not all the vehemence in the world was totally reassuring.

  It was the hat which was the key to the whole outfit. A black silk velour bombe, glossy as a guardsman's busby and with a spotted eye-veil, it was vampish and entirely irresistible, and from the instant the milliner had placed it on her head at that perfect angle she hadn't tried to resist.

  With the suit it was sensational. The curvy jacket was sunflower-yellow with a black rouleau trim, not one of her usual colours, but this— short-sleeved, nipped-in, showing her slender waist—was very chic, entirely French. The black skirt that went with it was short—certainly much shorter than anything else in her wardrobe, and with flattish black pumps—she didn't want to tower too spectacularly over Holly and Paul-black gloves and handbag, well, she couldn't remember when she had last been so excited by her own reflection. At least... it must have been when she had set off for the reception, and then, she thought with complete irrelevance, she had had no idea about whom she was going to meet.

  She gave a last confirming glance towards the hotel mirror, checking her seams were straight, her make-up as good as she could manage. In fact she had been rather light-handed—just a flick of powder, a touch of lipstick, a little more positive with the eyes, wide and luminous beneath the veil, her eyelids shadowy with a colour which called itself Wild Sloe... She turned away impatiently, suspicious of such unusual self-regard, then, almost defiantly, blasted herself with some new perfume, adjusted the hat fractionally and left.

  Arriving at Holly's flat, she was enveloped by a whirl of friends and relatives. She wished, not for the first time, that she had persisted with her original plan to meet up with them at the church. It would have been as easy to take her taxi there instead, simpler for everyone, and...

  'So we've arranged for Patrick to take you to the church, Leigh.'

  'What?' About to sip from the coffee-cup which had been thrust into her hand, Leigh looked at her friend in consternation. 'But Holly...'

  'No buts. I promise you, he doesn't mind a bit. He's an absolute sweetie, and when we asked of course he said yes. A quick glance in the mirror might give some explanation for such an attitude. But now, have we covered every point? When we reach the font I hand Pauli over to you, and then...'

  Leigh released her mind into a fevered spin, entirely oblivious of all the finer points of the day's ceremony which Holly was so painstakingly itemising. She must just rely on past experience to take her safely through the ceremony. It was so obvious now—all the recent days when she had been struggling to keep calm, Holly, it seemed, had been doing her best to undermine her resolve... had been busy with all sorts of plans. It was hard to excuse such persistent disloyalty from one she had previously regarded as a friend. Couldn't she see the kind of threat...?

  'Good, then that's all clear. Now, we'd better think about getting off—the last thing we want is to be late.' Holly giggled excitedly. I'll just give Patrick a ring, let him know you're waiting, then see if Pauli is ready for his big occasion.'

  And, of course—wouldn't you know it?—he-Patrick, that was—was enough to knock your eyes out.

  In an effort to simplify matters Leigh had taken to the corridor, walking up and down in a desperate search for calm—very difficult when memories of her last time in the building would keep intruding. So many disturbing images would not keep to the shadows where they belonged.

  Then came the soft whirr of machinery, a jolt in her stomach like the kick from a mule, the clunk of opening doors... She felt light-headed, slightly sick; her neck was much too weak to support the weight of that ridiculous hat, and her heart quite simply turned over in her chest when he stepped out and they stood looking at each other.

  And she, stricken with panic, tongue cleaving to the roof of her mouth, was unable to do more than contemplate. And admire. Reluctantly. But it would have been impossible to do otherwise.

  Perfectly tailored suit—conservative, as she would have expected for a formal occasion—dark grey, but relieved from dullness by a faint red stripe, white shirt and dashing tie in tiny black and white check. In the buttonhole he wore a single pink rose. Just like
—the recollection caught at her heart—like the one he had worn that other night in Oxford. Not, of course, that it would have been intended as a reminder.

  Aware of being caught gazing, afraid that her appreciation might have been blatantly displayed, she summoned a strained and deter-mined-to-be-casual smile. 'Patrick. Sorry to impose on you yet again. I gather you've been appointed to act as my chauffeur. You must be tiring of that role.'

  To that there was no reply, certainly none of the automatic denial which common courtesy demanded. Merely a raised eyebrow—might that be an accusation of hypocrisy?—a faint smile and a glance at his watch. Just a glimpse of heavy gold cuff-links and she had an urge, foolish but incredibly powerful, simply to touch the back of his hand, to feel the spring of hair under her fingertips...

  'We ought to be off. Beat the rush.' A gesture ushered her ahead of him into the lift and a moment later they were dropping silently to the underground garage.

  It was a quiet car journey too, although his naturally impeccable manners were in evidence. The door was held open for her—he appeared not even to notice her embarrassment as she struggled with the skirt rising way above her knees—and the seatbelt was dealt with before the door was firmly slammed shut.

  There were one or two remarks about the lightness of the Sunday traffic, about the type of car he was driving, but it was just minutes before they were parking in the quiet square, climbing the wide flight of steps to the church. She felt another quiver in the pit of her stomach when his fingers grazed her bare elbow as he guided her into the quiet serenity of the ancient building. Afterwards, all her recollections of the ceremony were bound up with Patrick Cavour. The central purpose of the day dissolved into the recesses of her mind, although it was a great relief afterwards to discover that she had done what was required of her, adequately if not impeccably. But when she took the infant into her arms, smoothing the extravagantly fringed shawl, it was Patrick's concentrated attention she was aware of, into his sombre intent eyes that she looked each time she raised her head... Had he noticed? she wondered. Whenever she flicked back her lashes they touched the veil, causing a tiny nervy throb... and for some reason her heart was racing too—wildly, loudly so that she was hah7 convinced that the entire congregation must hear and be wondering—and her legs were weak, so weak that she thought they might give way from sheer emotion. And if they did, what would happen? she speculated. Would Patrick perhaps attempt a saving dive for the infant, reaching him just in time? Once at a varsity rugger match she had seen him successfully scoop the ball and go on to make a winning try...