Marriage At A Distance. Sara Craven

over her ears, begging them to stop.

      ‘You’ll stay here, damn you,’ Lionel had roared. ‘And do your duty by your wife—if she’s prepared to forgive you. Or you’ll never enter this house again.’

      She’d looked up at Gabriel, her lips mutely forming the word ‘Please’, not knowing even then if she was begging him to go or to stay. The tawny eyes had flicked over her, bathing her in flame.

      Then: ‘I’m sorry,’ Gabriel said derisively. ‘But there are some sacrifices no man should be called on to make.’

      And he’d gone.

      She’d wanted to go too, distressed at the trouble the failure of their marriage had caused and tormented by her memories, but Lionel had forbidden it.

      ‘You’re my daughter-in-law, and the mistress of this house,’ he’d stated, his tone brooking no opposition. ‘Your home remains here.’

      But perhaps she should have stood up to him. Insisted on leaving. Her final school examination results had been respectable enough to win her a training course at a polytechnic, if not a place at university. By now she could have embarked on a career. Had a life of her own. But she’d stayed, feeling that she owed Lionel something more than loyalty, because he’d placed himself at odds with his only son for her sake.

      Not that their marriage breakdown had been the only point at issue, she reminded herself wearily. Lionel’s relationship with Gabriel had always been a volatile one. As father and son, apart from the shrewd business brains they shared, they had always been chalk and cheese.

      They didn’t even look alike. Lionel had been ruggedly built and fair-haired, with a florid complexion. Gabriel was equally tall, but his body was lean, like whipcord. And his dark, saturnine good looks were wholly derived from his Italian mother.

      Temperamentally, they’d been poles apart too. Lionel had been bluff, outspoken and sentimental. A man who enjoyed life openly and always had a good word for his neighbours.

      Gabriel, on the other hand…

      Ah, she thought. What was Gabriel? Had she ever really known?

      There were the surface attributes, of course. The quiet, rather drawling voice, the attractive, crooked smile, the athleticism, the raw courage he displayed on the polo field and riding in point-to-points, the icy nerve he brought to his business dealings. But none of these gave any real clue to what was going on in his mind.

      He seemed, she thought, to watch the world from behind a screen of faint amusement. There’d always been a reserve, a control in his behaviour, even when he’d made love to her—after the first time, at least, she thought, her throat tightening harshly, and this had forced her, in turn, further behind her own barriers of shyness and tension.

      Not that she could altogether blame him, she made herself concede. He hadn’t wanted to marry her. The situation had been forced on him.

      Lionel had just retired as chairman of Verne Investments and he’d needed Gabriel to succeed him, but only on his own terms.

      Joanna had always been aware of their constant conflict over Gabriel’s hedonistic lifestyle, the partying, the high-profile sport, the procession of spectacular girlfriends. The head of Verne Investments needed a more sober, stable image, Lionel had declared sternly. And becoming a married man would be the first step in his rehabilitation.

      And I was there, Joanna thought bitterly. Already groomed for stardom, though I didn’t know it. And with a stupid, schoolgirl crush on Gabriel that I conveniently mistook for the real thing.

      And for Lionel it solved two problems at once— Gabriel’s need for a suitable wife, and his own wish to see me provided for in the future.

      No wonder he’d swept them into it, she thought painfully. His motives, as always, had been of the purest, but the pressure was there just the same. And Gabriel’s ambition coupled with her own agonising naïveté had set the seal on the whole disaster.

      She had been eighteen. He was ten years older. And from the day, four years earlier, when she’d gone to live at Westroe Manor, he’d been her god—a magical being who would suddenly arrive and turn her life to radiance.

      He’d taught her to ride, played tennis with her, forcing her to improve her game, drunk her first champagne with her, swept her off to London to have her soft, straight brown hair properly cut, bolstered her uncertain dress sense and nursed her, straight-faced, through her first hangover.

      He had also shielded her from Cynthia’s occasional ill-tempered or patronising jibes, turning them aside with some cool, cutting rejoinder.

      Looking back, Joanna thought that had probably had more to do with his dislike of Cynthia than any feeling of protectiveness towards herself. Yet at the time she’d seen him as her own white knight, riding to the rescue.

      And she’d been too dazzled to realise that he was treating her just like the younger sister he’d never had.

      Instead I thought I was Cinderella, she mocked herself, and that Gabriel was Prince Charming. And that Lionel, my fairy godfather, would somehow turn this cold-blooded business arrangement into a love-match, and we’d live happily ever after.

      But her honeymoon in the Mauritian villa hired for them, had sent all her illusions crashing round her ears.

      Beginning, she thought, hugging her arms defensively round her body, with her wedding night that wasn’t.

      At the time she’d thought he was just being considerate. That he’d realised the demands of the wedding and the subsequent long flight had exhausted her when he’d told her quietly to go to bed and get some sleep, while he used an adjoining room. She’d even been grateful.

      They’d spent the following day quietly at the villa, relaxing at the side of the pool under sunshades. But when evening came, Joanna had been able to feel tension beginning to build inside her.

      She’d mentally told herself off for being an idiot. She knew what the mechanics of sex entailed, of course, but nothing of the sweeping emotions that transformed it into love.

      They’d had a late and lingering dinner on the verandah overlooking the garden. Joanna had refused the brandy Gabriel offered her with their coffee, and instantly regretted it. Maybe it would have dispelled the colony of butterflies which had taken up residence inside her.

      Gabriel, too, had been quiet over their meal, and was sitting, staring into the velvety darkness, cradling his glass in one hand.

      For a moment she’d wondered if he was nervous too, then dismissed the idea. Gabriel, after all, was hardly a novice in these matters, she’d told herself, swallowing.

      At last, she’d pushed back her chair. ‘I—I think I’ll go to bed,’ she said.

      ‘Fine.’ His smile was abstracted, as if his thoughts were far away.

      ‘Are you going to stay here?’ Her voice quivered a little.

      He turned his head slowly and looked at her. He was frowning slightly, and there was a faint hardness about the lines of his mouth.

      He said quietly, ‘For a while—yes.’

      Her throat seemed to have closed up, making speech impossible, so she made herself smile and nod, then escaped to her room.

      She showered, and put on the nightgown bought specially for this momentous occasion—crisp and delicate in white broderie anglaise—then slid under the sheet which was the bed’s only covering to wait for Gabriel.

      The minutes ticked by—became half an hour—and then an hour. In spite of herself, Joanna could feel her eyelids becoming heavy, her body sinking down into the mattress.

      No, she thought, sitting up. I’m not going to sleep.

      She allowed another fifteen minutes to pass, then left the bed and padded barefoot to the door. The passage outside was in darkness, but she could see a glimmer of light shining under the door of