His Convenient Marriage. Sara Craven

mouthful of guinea fowl turned to ashes in her mouth. Suddenly she was contemplating the prospect of being homeless and back on the job market at the same time.

      It had always been a possibility, she supposed, yet just lately—stupidly—she’d allowed herself to feel settled. Safe even.

      ‘Absolutely not.’ He looked genuinely surprised. ‘What gave you that idea? Didn’t you hear me say I was planning to do some entertaining?’

      ‘Yes—I’m sorry.’ She hesitated. ‘I suppose insecurity makes you paranoid.’

      ‘I can appreciate that.’ He put down his knife and fork, frowning slightly. ‘That’s part of the reason I want you to consider a change in your terms of employment.’

      ‘A change?’ Chessie was puzzled. Her contract with Miles had been carefully and meticulously defined. There were no obvious loopholes or room for manoeuvre. ‘What kind of change?’

      He drank some more wine, the blue eyes meditative as he studied her across the top of the glass.

      He said, ‘I thought we might get married.’

      Chessie had a curious feeling that the entire world had come to a sudden halt, throwing her sideways. The subdued hum of conversation and laughter around them faded under the swift roar of blood in her ears.

      Her whole body was rigid as she stared at him, lips parted in astonishment as she tried to make sense of what he’d just said.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ she said at last in a voice that seemed to have travelled vast distances across space and time. ‘I don’t think I quite understand.’

      ‘It’s perfectly simple. I’ve just proposed to you—asked you to become my wife.’ He sounded totally cool about it—unbelievably matter-of-fact. ‘Look on it, if you want, as a new kind of contract.’

      He was mad, she thought dazedly. That was the answer. Completely and totally insane. Suffering some kind of delayed shell-shock.

      Her lips moved. ‘Marriage is—hardly a business arrangement.’

      ‘I’d say that depends on the people involved.’ His gaze was steady. ‘Considering our individual circumstances and problems, marriage between us seems a sensible idea.’

      He paused. ‘You need more stability and security than you currently enjoy, and I’m going to require a hostess as well as a housekeeper. I think we could work out a perfectly satisfactory deal.’

      ‘Just like that?’ Her voice sounded faint. She still could not believe what was happening.

      ‘No, of course not,’ he said with a trace of impatience. ‘I don’t want an immediate answer. But I’d like you to give my proposal some coherent and rational thought before you reach any decision.’

      Coherent? she thought. Rational—when applied to this? The words were meaningless.

      ‘Judging by your reaction, this has been a bit of a thunderbolt,’ he went on.

      ‘Yes.’ Chessie swallowed. ‘You—could say that.’ She spread her hands in an almost pleading gesture. ‘I mean—we hardly know each other.’

      ‘We work together every day, and we live in the same house. That’s not exactly a casual acquaintance.’

      ‘Yes—but …’ She fought for the right words, and lost. ‘Oh, you know exactly what I mean.’

      ‘I think so.’ His face was sardonic. ‘You’re still pondering the lack of amorous advances.’

      ‘It’s not that—or not totally, anyway.’ She pushed her glass at him. ‘I will have some more wine, please. I seem to need it.’

      She watched him pour, his hand steady. He was completely calm, she thought incredulously. Detached, even. But how could that be, when he’d just turned her world upside down?

      She hurried into speech again. ‘There’s never been anything remotely personal between us—not until now. Yes, we’ve seen each other every day, but we’ve never talked about anything but work, and problems to do with the house.’ Mostly created by Jenny, she realised with a pang. Then—oh, God—Jenny.

      ‘Has this shift in our relationship plunged you into some kind of trauma?’ he drawled. ‘I didn’t intend that.’

      ‘No—but it’s all so sudden.’ She stopped, grimacing. ‘Hell, now I sound like the heroine of a bad historical novel.’

      ‘And highly sensible of the honour I’ve just done you.’ It was his turn to pull a face. ‘Only I don’t think you are, by any means. You look more winded than appreciative.’

      ‘Being hit by a thunderbolt doesn’t usually call for appreciation,’ Chessie said with something of a snap. ‘What did you expect—that I’d fall into your arms?’

      ‘Hardly. You’d damage the crockery.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘If you’re saying you’d have preferred a conventional courtship, then I can only apologise. But we’ve always had a reasonable working relationship, and our marriage would simply be an extension of this. So I thought the pragmatic approach would have more credence than hearts and flowers.’

      Chessie said with difficulty, ‘It doesn’t—worry you that we’re not in love with each other?’

      ‘You forget I’ve been down that path once already. I can’t speak for you, of course.’ His face was expressionless. ‘Is there anyone?’

      She shook her head. ‘No—not any more.’ She kept her eyes fixed on the tablecloth. ‘So it would be just a business arrangement—not a real marriage at all.’

      ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Initially, anyway.’

      Her heart thudded in renewed shock. ‘But later …?’

      He shrugged. ‘Who knows?’ The blue eyes met hers directly. ‘Ultimately, we might think again.’ He paused. ‘But any alteration in the terms would only be by mutual agreement.’

      ‘I—I don’t know what to say.’

      ‘Then say nothing. Not yet. Just think about it, and take as long as you need. I promise I won’t pressure you.’

      She flicked the tip of her tongue round dry lips. ‘And if I decide—no? Will I find myself out of a job?’

      ‘Do I seem that vindictive?’

      She reddened. ‘No—no, of course not.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Very well. I’ll—consider it.’

      ‘Good.’ His smile was swift, without a trace of mockery this time. ‘Now shall I tell them to bring the dessert menu?’

      ‘No, thanks.’ Chessie doubted whether she could force another mouthful of food past her taut throat muscles. She pushed back her chair. ‘Just coffee, please. And will you excuse me?’

      The ladies’ cloakroom was fortunately deserted. Chessie ran cool water over her wrists in a vain effort to quieten her hammering pulses.

      She didn’t look like someone who’d just been poleaxed, she thought, staring at her reflection, although her eyes were enormous, and there was more colour in her cheeks than usual.

      But nor did she look like the future wife of Miles Hunter.

      But then she wasn’t really going to be a wife at all, she reminded herself, absently sifting her fingers through the bowl of pot pourri on the vanity unit, and savouring its fragrance.

      Her present duties were being extended—that was all. Her change of status would permit her to sit at the opposite end of that beautiful oak dining table when there were guests, but little more.

      She supposed he would expect her to move out of the flat, and live in the main house again.

      She might even get her old bedroom back—for