The Marriage Bed: An Ideal Marriage? / The Marriage Campaign / The Bridal Bed. HELEN BIANCHIN

the romantically inclined accepted the media coverage as portrayed, while the city‘s—indeed, the entire country’s—upper social echelons recognised the facts beneath the fairy floss.

      The marriage of Benedict Nicols and Gabrielle Stanton had occurred as a direct result of the manipulative strategy by James Stanton to cement the Stanton-Nicols financial empire and forge it into another generation.

      The reason for Benedict’s participation was clear... he stood to gain total control of Stanton-Nicols. The bonus was a personable young woman eminently eligible to sire the necessary progeny.

      Gabbi’s compliance had been motivated in part by a desire to please her father and the realistic recognition that, given his enormous wealth, there would be very few men, if any, who would discount the financial and social advantage of being James Stanton’s son-in-law.

      ‘Shall we adjourn to the lounge for coffee?’

      The smooth words caught Gabbi’s attention, and she took Benedict’s cue by summoning a gracious smile and rising to her feet. ‘I’m sure Marie has it ready.’

      ‘Treasure of a chef’, ‘wonderful meal’, ‘delightful evening’. Words echoed in polite praise, and she inclined her head in acknowledgement. ‘Thank you. I’ll pass on your compliments to Marie. She’ll be pleased.’ Which was true. Marie valued the high salary and separate live-in accommodation that formed part of the employment package, and her gratitude was reflected in her culinary efforts.

      ‘You were rather quiet at dinner, darling.’

      Gabbi heard Monique’s softly toned voice, and turned towards her. ‘Do you think so?’

      ‘Annaliese is a little hurt, I think.’ The reproach was accompanied by a wistful smile, and Gabbi allowed her eyes to widen slightly.

      ‘Oh, dear,’ she managed with credible regret. ‘She gave such a convincing display of enjoying herself.’

      Monique’s eyes assumed a mistiness Gabbi knew to be contrived. How did she do that? Her stepmother had missed her vocation; as an actress she would have excelled.

      ‘Annaliese has always regarded you as an elder sister.’

      There was nothing familial about Annaliese’s regard—for Gabbi. Benedict, however, fell into an entirely different category.

      ‘I’m deeply flattered,’ Gabbi acknowledged gently, and incurred Monique’s sharp glance. They had lingered slightly behind the guests exiting the dining-room and were temporarily out of their earshot.

      ‘She’s very fond of you.’

      Doubtful. Gabbi had always been regarded as a rival, and Annaliese was her. mother’s daughter. Perfectly groomed, beautifully dressed, perfumed...and on a mission. To tease and tantalise, and enjoy the challenge of the chase until she caught the right man.

      Gabbi was saved from making a response as they entered the lounge, and she accepted coffee from Marie, choosing to take it black, strong and sweet.

      With a calm that was contrived she lifted her cup and took a sip of the strong, aromatic brew. ‘If you’ll excuse me? I really must have a word with James.’

      It was almost midnight when the last guest departed, a time deemed neither too early nor too late for a mid-week dinner party to end.

      Gabbi slid off her heeled sandals as she crossed the foyer to the lounge. Her head felt impossibly heavy, a knot of tension twisting a painful.path from her right temple down to the edge of her nape.

      Sophie had cleared the remaining coffee cups and liqueur glasses, and in the morning Marie would ensure the lounge was restored to its usual immaculate state.

      ‘A successful evening, wouldn’t you agree?’

      Benedict’s lazy drawl stirred the embers of resentment she’d kept carefully banked over the past few hours.

      ‘How could it not be?’ she countered as she turned to face him.

      ‘You want to orchestrate a post-mortem?’ he queried with deceptive mildness, and she glimpsed the tightly coiled strength beneath the indolent facade.

      ‘Not particularly.’

      He conducted a brief, encompassing appraisal of her features. ‘Then I suggest you go upstairs to bed.’

      Her chin tilted fractionally, and she met his dark gaze with equanimity. ‘And prepare myself to accommodate you?’

      There was a flicker of something dangerous in the depths of his eyes, then it was gone, and his movements as he closed the distance between them held a smooth, panther-like grace.

      ‘Accommodate?‘ he stressed silkily.

      He was too close, his height and broad frame an intimidating entity that invaded her space. The clean, male smell of him combined with his exclusive brand of cologne weakened her defences and lodged an attack against the very core of her femininity.

      He had no need to touch her, and it irked her unbearably that he knew it.

      ‘Your sexual appetite is...’ Gabbi paused, then added delicately, ‘Consistent.’ Her eyes flared slightly, the blue depths pure crystalline sapphire.

      He lifted a hand and caught hold of her chin, lifting it so she had little option but to retain his gaze. ‘It’s a woman’s prerogative to decline.’

      She looked at him carefully, noting the fine lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes, the deep vertical crease slashing each cheek, and the firm, sensual lines of his mouth.

      The tug of sexual awareness intensified at the thought of the havoc that mouth could wreak when it possessed her own, the pleasure as it explored the soft curves of her body.

      ‘And a man’s inclination to employ unfair persuasion,’ Gabbi offered, damning the slight catch of her breath as the pad of his thumb traced an evocative pattern along the edge of her jaw, then slid down the pulsing cord to the hollow at the curve of her neck, cupping it while he loosened the pins holding her hair in place.

      They fell to the carpet as his fingers combed the blonde length free, then his head lowered and she closed her eyes as his lips brushed her temple, then feathered a path to the edge of her mouth, teasing its outline as he tested the soft fullness and sensed the faint trembling as she tried for control.

      She should stop him now, plead tiredness, the existence of a headache...say she didn’t want to have to try to cope with the aftermath of his lovemaking. The futility of experiencing utter joy and knowing physical lust was an unsatisfactory substitute for love.

      His body moved in close against her own, its hard length a potent force she fought hard to ignore. Without success, for she had little defence against the firm pressure of his lips as he angled her mouth and possessed it, gently at first, then with an increasing depth of passion which demanded her capitulation.

      She didn’t care when she felt his hands slide the length of her skirt up over her thighs, and she cared even less when he shaped her buttocks and lifted her up against him.

      There was a sense of exultant pleasure as she curved her legs around his hips and tangled her arms together behind his neck, the movement of his body an exciting enticement as he ascended the stairs to their bedroom.

      She was on fire, aching for the feel of his skin against her own, and her fingers feverishly freed his tie and attacked the buttons on his shirt, not satisfied until they found the silken whorls of hair covering his taut, muscled chest.

      Her mouth slid down the firm column of his throat, savoured the hollow at its base, then sought a tantalising path along one collarbone.

      At some stage she became dimly aware she was standing, her clothes, and his, no longer a barrier, and she gave a soft cry as he pulled her down onto the bed.

      Now, hard and fast. No preliminaries. And afterwards he could take all the time he wanted.

      His