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Читать книгу: «The Marriage Resolution»
“It was a present. From a friend.”
“A friend….” Hugo’s eyebrows rose. “A friend and not your husband?”
“I don’t have a husband,” Dee gritted furiously.
“No husband!”
Something hot and dangerous flared in his eyes and Dee started to panic, but it was too late. The damage had already been done, the tinder lit.
“No husband,” Hugo repeated thickly. “What did he do, Dee? Refuse to play the game your way…just like I did…?”
Dee gave a gasp and then made a small shocked sound as the pressure of Hugo’s mouth on her own prevented her from saying anything else.
It had been so long since she had been kissed like this. So long since she had been kissed at all. Hungrily her mouth opened under Hugo’s, and equally hungrily her hands reached for him.
Celebrate the legend that is bestselling author
PENNY JORDAN
Phenomenally successful author of more than two hundred books with sales of over a hundred million copies!
Penny Jordan's novels are loved by millions of readers all around the word in many different languages. Mills & Boon are proud to have published one hundred and eighty-seven novels and novellas written by Penny Jordan, who was a reader favourite right from her very first novel through to her last.
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About the Author
Penny Jordan is one of Mills & Boon’s most popular authors. Sadly, Penny died from cancer on 31st December 2011, aged sixty-five. She leaves an outstanding legacy, having sold over a hundred million books around the world. She wrote a total of one hundred and eighty-seven novels for Mills & Boon, including the phenomenally successful A Perfect Family, To Love, Honour & Betray, The Perfect Sinner and Power Play, which hit the Sunday Times and New York Times bestseller lists. Loved for her distinctive voice, her success was in part because she continually broke boundaries and evolved her writing to keep up with readers’ changing tastes. Publishers Weekly said about Jordan ‘Women everywhere will find pieces of themselves in Jordan’s characters’ and this perhaps explains her enduring appeal.
Although Penny was born in Preston, Lancashire and spent her childhood there, she moved to Cheshire as a teenager and continued to live there for the rest of her life. Following the death of her husband, she moved to the small traditional Cheshire market town on which she based her much-loved Crighton books.
Penny was a member and supporter of the Romantic Novelists’ Association and the Romance Writers of America—two organisations dedicated to providing support for both published and yet-to-be-published authors. Her significant contribution to women’s fiction was recognised in 2011, when the Romantic Novelists’ Association presented Penny with a Lifetime Achievement Award.
The Marriage Resolution
Penny Jordan
MILLS & BOON
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CHAPTER ONE
DEE LAWSON paused in mid-step to admire the pink and yellow stripes of the flowers in their massed corporation bed in Rye-on-Averton’s town square.
She had just been to have coffee with her friend Kelly. Beth, Kelly’s friend and business partner in the pretty crystal and china gift shop the two girls ran in the town—a property which they rented from Dee herself—had also been there, along with Anna, Beth’s godmother. Anna’s pregnancy was very well advanced, and she had laughed a little breathlessly as her baby kicked when his or her mother reached for another biscuit.
With Beth’s wedding to Alex only weeks away Dee suspected that it wouldn’t be very long before Beth too was blissfully anticipating the prospect of becoming a mother.
Strange to think that so little time ago motherhood had been the last thing on any of their minds.
Dee’s eyes clouded a little. But, no, that wasn’t quite true, was it. Motherhood, babies, children, a family were subjects which had always been close to her own heart, even if those feelings, that yearning, had in recent years become something of a closet desire for her, a sadness for what might have been had things been different.
She wasn’t too old for motherhood, though, not at thirty-one—Anna was older than her—and plenty of women in their thirties, conscious of the urgent tick of their biological clocks, were making the decision not to waste any more time but to commit themselves to motherhood even without a committed relationship with their baby’s father.
Had she wanted to do so, Dee knew she could have quite easily and clinically arranged to conceive, even to the point of choosing the biological details of the male donor who would be the father of her child. But, strong though her maternal instincts were, Dee’s own experience of losing her mother shortly after she was born meant that, despite the caring love she had received from her father, for her own child she wanted the extra-special sense of security and belonging that came from being a child surrounded by and brought up with the love of both its parents, for it and for each other. And that was something that was just not possible…not for her…not any more…Once, a long time ago, she had believed…dreamed…
But that had been before Julian Cox had wormed his way into her life, corrupting her happiness, destroying her security.
Julian Cox!
Her full lips twisted distastefully.
It was typical of the man that he had cunningly managed to escape the legal retribution which must surely have been his had he remained within the reach of European law. Where was he now? Dee wondered. She had tried through the considerable network of contacts at her disposal to find him. The last time there had been a firm sighting of him had been last year, in Singapore.
Julian Cox.
He had caused so much destruction, so much unhappiness in other people’s lives, those people he had deceived and cheated via his fraudulent investment scams, people like Beth, and Kelly’s husband Brough’s sister Eve, vulnerable women whom he’d tried to convince that he loved purely so that he could benefit financially. Luckily both of them had ultimately seen through him and had found happiness elsewhere. For her things were not so simple. For her…
Dee stopped and glanced towards the elegant three-storey Georgian building from which the builders’ scaffolding had just been removed, revealing it in all its refurbished splendour.
When she had originally bought it, the building had been in danger of having to be demolished, and it had taken every bit of Dee’s considerable skill to persuade not just the planners but the architect and the builders she had hired that it could be saved, and not just saved but returned to its original splendour.
All the time and effort she had put into achieving its restoration had been well worthwhile, just for that wonderful moment when at a special ceremony the county’s Lord Lieutenant had declared it officially ‘open’ and she had seen the name she had had recarved and gilded above the doorway illuminated by the strategically placed lighting she had had installed.
‘Lawson House’.
And on the wall there was an elegant and discreet scrolled plaque, explaining to those who read it that the money to purchase and renovate the house had been provided posthumously by her father in his memory. And it was in his memory that its upper storey was going to be employed as office accommodation for the special charities which Dee maintained and headed, whilst the lower ground floor was to be used as a specially equipped social area for people of all ages with special needs, a meeting place, a café, a reading room—all those things and more.
And above its handsome marble fireplace she had placed a specially commissioned portrait of her father, which the artist had created from Dee’s own photographs.
‘I wish I could have known him. He must have been the most wonderful man,’ Kelly had once commented warmly when Dee had been talking to her about her father.
‘He was,’ Dee had confirmed.
Her father had had the kind of analytical brain that had enabled him to make a fortune out of trading stocks and shares. With that fortune he had philanthropically set about discreetly helping his fellow men. It was from him that Dee had inherited her own desire to help others, and it was in his name that she continued the uniquely personal local charity which he had established.
And it wasn’t just his desire to help his fellow men that Dee had inherited from her father. She had also inherited his shrewd financial acumen. Her father’s wealth had made her financially independent and secure for the rest of her life. Dee did not need to earn a living, and so, instead, she had turned her attention and her skills to the thing that had been closest to her father’s heart after his love for her.
As the financial brain behind all the charities her father had established, as well as their chairperson, Dee had made sure that the charities’ assets were secure and profitable—and, just as important, that their money was invested not just profitably but sensitively so far as not taking advantage of other people was concerned.
All in all, Dee knew that she had a lot to be grateful for. The friendship which had sprung up between her and the two younger women, Beth and Kelly, who rented the shop premises from her, and Anna, too, had added a very welcome and heart-warming extra strand to her life. Dee was part of a large extended family that had its roots in the area’s farming community and which went back for many generations; she had the pleasure of knowing that she had faithfully adhered to all the principles her father had taught her, and that her father himself was remembered and lauded by his fellow citizens.
A lot to be grateful for, yes, but she still couldn’t help thinking about when…But, no, she wasn’t going to dwell on that—not today—not any day, she informed herself firmly. Just because seeing Anna’s pregnant state and Beth and Kelly’s happiness had made her so sharply conscious of the void which existed in her own life that did not mean…
Above her head the sky was a vivid spring blue decorated with fluffy white clouds whipped along by the breeze. The Easter eggs which had filled shop windows in recent weeks had been removed to make way for flowers and posters advertising the town’s special May Day celebration, which had its roots in the ancient May Day Fair which had originally been held in the town in medieval times.
There would be a procession of floats, sponsored in the main these days by corporate bodies, a funfair in the town square, a bonfire and fireworks, and, since she was on the committee planning and co-ordinating the whole affair, Dee knew that she was going to be busy.
Amusingly, she had been shown an old document recently, listing the rules which applied to anyone bringing sheep, cattle or other livestock into the town on May Day. The modern-day equivalent was making rules for the extra volume of traffic the Fair caused.
Babies were still on Dee’s mind when she eventually got home. A second cousin on her mother’s side had recently had twins, and Dee made a mental note to buy them something special. She had heard on the family grapevine that she was going to be asked to be their godmother. It was a wonderful compliment, Dee knew, but, oh, how it made her heart ache. Just the mere act of holding those precious little bundles of love would make her whole body ache so!
In an effort to give her mind a different and more appropriate turn of direction, she decided that she ought to do some work. Strength of will and the ability to follow through on one’s personal plans were, her father had always told her, very positive assets, and to be admired. Perhaps they were, but over the years Dee had become slightly cynically aware that so far as the male sex was concerned a strong-minded woman was often someone to be feared rather than admired, and resented rather than loved.
Dee switched on her computer, telling herself firmly that it was silly to pursue such unprofitable thoughts. But it was true, a rebellious part of her brain insisted on continuing, that men liked women who were illogical, women who were vulnerable, women who were feminine and needed them to help and protect them. She was not like that, at least not outwardly. For a start she was tall—elegantly so, her female friends often told her enviously. Her body was slim and supple, she enjoyed walking and swimming—and dancing—and she was always the first one her younger nieces and nephews wanted to join in their energetic games whenever there was a family get-together.
She wore her thick honey-coloured straight hair long, primarily because she found it easier to manage that way, often coiling it up in the nape of her neck in a style which complemented her classically elegant bone structure. Whilst she had been at university she had been approached in the street by the owner of an up-market model agency who had told her that she had all the potential to become a model, but Dee had simply laughed at her, totally unaware of the dramatic impact of her timeless elegance.
Over the years, if anything that impact had heightened, rather than lessened, and although Dee herself was unaware of it she was now a woman whom others paused to glance at discreetly a second time in the street. The reason so many men appeared to be intimidated by her was not, as she herself imagined, her strength of will, but in actual fact the way she looked. That look combined with the classically stylish clothes she tended to favour meant that in most men’s eyes Dee was a woman they considered to be out of their league.
Dee frowned as she studied the screen in front of her. One of the new small charities she had taken under her wing was not attracting the kind of public support it needed. She would have to see if there was some way they could give it a higher profile. Somewhere for teenagers to meet, listen to their music and dance might not have the appeal of helping to provide for the more obviously needy, but it was still a cause which, in Dee’s opinion, was very deserving.
Perhaps she should speak to Peter Macauley about it. Her father’s old friend and her own retired university tutor shared her father’s philanthropic beliefs and ideals. A bachelor, and wealthy, having inherited family money, he had already asked Dee to be one of the executors of his will because he knew that she would see that his wishes and bequests were carried out just as he would want them to be. He was on the main committee appointed by her father to control the funds he had bequested to finance his charities.
Thinking of Peter Macauley caused Dee to pause in what she was doing. He was not recovering from the operation he had had some months ago as quickly as he should have been, and the last time Dee had driven to Lexminster to see him she had been upset to see how frail he was looking.
He had lived in the university town all his adult life, and Dee knew how strenuously he would resist any attempt on her part to cajole him into moving to Rye-on-Averton, where she could keep a closer eye on him, never mind how he would react to any suggestion that he should move in with her. But the four-storey house he occupied in the shelter of the town’s ancient university was far too large for him to manage, especially with its steep flights of stairs. He had friends in the town, but, like him, they were in the main elderly. Lexminster wasn’t very far away, a couple of hours’ drive, that was all…
It had been Dee’s first choice of university, since it had offered the courses she’d wanted to take, and, more importantly, had meant that she wouldn’t have to move too far away from her father. In those days the new motorway which now linked the university town to Rye had not been built, and the drive had taken closer on four hours than two, which had meant that she had had to live in student digs rather than commute from home.
Those days…How long ago those words made it seem, and yet, in actual fact, it had only been a mere ten years. Ten years…a different life, a lifetime away in terms of the girl she had been and the woman she was now. Ten years. It was also ten years since her father’s unexpected death.
Her father’s death. Dee knew how surprised those who considered themselves to be her closest friends would be if they knew just how profoundly and deeply she still felt the pain of losing her father. The pain—and the guilt?
Abruptly she switched off her computer and got up.
Seeing Anna had done more than reawaken her own secret longing for a child. It had brought into focus things she would far rather not dwell on. What was the point? What was the point in dwelling on past heartaches, past heartbreaks? There wasn’t one. No, she would be far better employed doing something productive. Absently—betrayingly—she touched the bare flesh of her ring finger, slightly thinner at its base than the others. Other things—such as what?
Such as driving over to Lexminster and visiting Peter, she told herself firmly. It was a couple of weeks since she had last seen him, and she tried to get over at least once a fortnight, making her visits seem spur-of-the-moment and accidental, or prompted by the need for his advice on some aspect of her charity work so as to ensure that his sense of pride wasn’t hurt and that he didn’t guess how anxious she had become about his failing health.
Her sleek car, all discreet elegance, just as discreetly elegant as she was herself, ate up the motorway miles to Lexminster, the journey so familiar to her that Dee was free to allow her thoughts to drift a little.
How excited she had been the first time she had driven into the town as a new student, excited, nervous, and unhappy too, at leaving her father.
She could still vividly remember that day, the warm, mellow late-September sunshine turning the town’s ancient stone buildings a honey-gold. She had parked her little second-hand car—an eighteenth-birthday present from her father—with such care and pride. Her father might have been an extremely wealthy man, but he had taught her that love and loyalty were more important than money, that the truly worthwhile things in life could never be bought.
She had spent her first few weeks at university living in hall and then moved into a small terraced property, which she had co-bought with her father and shared with two other female students. She could still remember how firm her father had been as he’d gone over the figures she had prepared to show him the benefits of him helping her to buy the cottage. He had known all the time, of course, the benefits of doing so, but he had made her sell the idea to him, and she had had to work too, to provide her share of the small mortgage payments. Those had been good years: the best years of her life—and the worst. To have gone from the heights she had known to the depths she had plummeted to so shockingly had had the kind of effect on her that no doubt today would have been classed as highly traumatic. And she had suffered not one but two equally devastating blows, each of which…
The town was busy; it was filled with tourists as well as students. All that now remained of the fortified castle around which the town had been built were certain sections of carefully preserved walls and one solitary tower, an intensely cold and damp place that had made Dee shiver not just with cold but with the weight of its history on the only occasion on which she had visited it.
Economics had been her subject at university, and one which she had originally chosen to equip her to work with her father. But there had always co-existed within her, alongside her acutely financially perceptive brain, a strong streak of idealism—also inherited from her parents—and even before she had finished her first university term she had known that once she had obtained her degree her first choice of career would be one which involved her in using her talents to help those in need. A year’s work in the field, physically assisting on an aid programme in one of the Third World countries, and then progressing to an administrative post where her skills could be best employed, had been Dee’s career plan. Now, the closest she got to helping with Third World aid programmes was via the donations she made to their charities.
Her father’s untimely death had made it impossible for her to carry on with her own plans—for more than one reason. Early on, in the days when she had dutifully taken over the control of his business affairs, there had been a spate of television programmes focusing on the work of some of the large Third World aid organisations. She had watched them with a mixture of anguish and envy, searching the lean, tanned faces hungrily, starving for the sight of a certain familiar face. She had never seen him, which was perhaps just as well. If she had…
Dee bit her bottom lip. What on earth was she doing? Her thoughts already knew that that was a strictly cordoned-off and prohibited area of her past, an area they were simply not allowed to stray into. What was the point? Faced with a choice, a decision, she had made the only one she could make. She could still remember the nightmare journey she had made back to Rye-on-Averton after the policeman had broken the news to her of her father’s death—‘a tragic accident,’ he had called it, awkwardly. He had only been young himself, perhaps a couple of years older than her, his eyes avoiding hers as she’d opened the door to his knock and he’d asked if she was Andrea Lawson.
‘Yes,’ she had answered, puzzled at first, assuming that he was calling about some minor misdemeanour such as a parking fine.
It had only been when he’d mentioned her father’s name that she had started to feel that cold flooding of icy dread rising numbingly through her body.
He had driven her back to Rye. The family doctor had already identified her father’s body, so she had been spared that horrendous task, but of course there had been questions, talk, gossip, and despite the mainly solicitous concern of everyone who’d spoken with her Dee had been angrily conscious of her own shocking secret fear.
Abruptly Dee’s thoughts skidded to a halt. She could feel the anger and tension building up inside her body. Carefully she took a deep breath and started to release it, and then just as carefully slid her car into a convenient parking spot.
Now that the initial agonising sharpness of losing her father had eased Dee wanted to do something beyond renovating Lawson House to commemorate his name and what he had done for his town. As yet she was not quite sure what format this commemoration would take, but what she did know was that it would be something that would highlight her father’s generosity and add an even deeper lustre to his already golden reputation. He had been such a proud man, proud in the very best sense of the word, and it had hurt him unbearably, immeasurably, when…
She was, Dee discovered, starting to grind her teeth. Automatically she took another deep breath and then got out of her car.
In the wake of the arrival of the town’s new motorway bypass there had also arrived new modern industry. Locally, the town was getting a reputation as the county’s equivalent to America’s silicone valley. The terrace of sturdy early Victorian four-storey houses where Peter lived had become a highly covetable and expensive residential area for the young, thrusting executive types who had moved into the area via working in the new electronics industries, and in a row of shiny and immaculately painted front doors Peter’s immediately stuck out as the only shabby and slightly peeling one.
Dee raised the knocker and rapped loudly twice. Peter was slightly deaf, and she knew that it would take him several minutes to reach the door, but to her surprise she had barely released the knocker when the door was pulled open. Automatically she stepped inside and began, ‘Goodness, Peter, that was quick. I didn’t expect—’
‘Peter’s upstairs—in bed—he collapsed earlier.’
Even without its harshly disapproving tone the familiarity of the male voice, so very, very little changed despite the ten-year gap since she had last heard it, would have been more than enough to stop her dead in her tracks.
‘Hugo…what…what are you doing here?’
As she heard the trembling stammer in her own voice Dee cursed herself mentally. Damn! Damn! Did she have to act like an awestruck seventeen-year-old? Did she have to betray…?
She stopped speaking as Hugo started to shake his head warningly at her. He pushed open the old-fashioned front-parlour door and indicated that she was to go in.
Obediently Dee did so. She was still in shock, still grappling to come to terms with his unexpected presence. It was years since she had last seen him.
When they had first met he had been a graduate whilst she had still been a first year student. He had been working towards his Ph.D., a tall, quixotically romantic figure with whom all her fellow female students had seemed to be more than half in love. Even in a crowd as diverse and individual as his peers had been, Hugo had immediately stood out—literally so. At six foot three he had easily been one of the tallest and, it had to be said, one of the best-looking men on the campus, so strikingly and malely attractive that he would have automatically merited a second and a third look from any woman, even without his signature mane of shoulder-length thick dark hair.
Add to the attributes of his height and male physique—tautly muscled from playing several sports—the additional allure of shockingly sensual aquamarine eyes and a mouth with the kind of bottom lip that just automatically made a woman know how good it would be to be kissed by him, and it was no wonder that Hugo had been the openly discussed subject of nearly every female undergraduate’s not-so-secret fantasies.
Dee had quite literally run into him as he was rushing to one of Peter’s meetings one day.
Dee, who had heard about Hugo from the female grapevine, and who had glimpsed him to heart-stopping effect in and around the campus, had been astounded to discover that Hugo was a leading activist in Peter’s small army of idealists and helpers.
‘What do you mean, what am I doing here?’ Hugo was challenging her now curtly. ‘Peter and I go back a long way and—’
‘Yes, yes, I know that,’ Dee acknowledged. ‘I just thought…’
She was in shock; she knew that. Her body felt icy cold, and yet at the same time as sticky and uncomfortable as though she was drenched in perspiration. Her heart was hammering frantically to a disjointed and dangerously discordant rhythm, and she suspected that she was actually in danger of hyperventilating as she tried to force some air into her tense lungs.
‘You just thought what?’ Hugo demanded tauntingly. ‘That I was still carrying a torch for you? That I just couldn’t go on living without you any longer…that my feelings for you, my love for you, was so strong that I just had to come looking for you…?’
Dee blenched beneath the witheringly sardonic tone of his voice. Was it really unbearably cold in this room or was it her…? She could feel herself starting to tremble. Only inwardly and invisibly at first, and then with increasing intensity until…
‘How are your husband and your daughter?’ Hugo asked her with obvious indifference. ‘She must be…how old now…nine…?’
Dee stared at him. Her husband…her daughter…What husband…what daughter…?
Someone was knocking on Peter’s front door.
‘That will be the doctor,’ Hugo announced before she could gather her confused thoughts and correct his misapprehensions.
‘The doctor…?’
‘Yes, Peter is very poorly. Excuse me, I’ll go and let her in.’
Her! Peter’s normal doctor wasn’t a woman!
As she stood to one side a very attractive, cold-eyed brunette walked through the door towards Hugo, saying, ‘Ah, Mr Montpelier. I’m Dr Jane Harper; we spoke on the phone.’
‘We certainly did,’ Hugo agreed, with far more warmth in his voice than there had been when he’d spoken to her, Dee noticed, digesting the unwanted recognition that knowledge brought as uncomfortably as though it had been a particularly unwelcome piece of food.
‘Please, come this way,’ Hugo was inviting the doctor, and she was smiling at him as though…
Angrily Dee swallowed down her own unpalatable thoughts.
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