The Token Wife. Sara Craven

You should have sown your wild oats by now.’

      He was seething inwardly. ‘Perhaps you’d like to suggest a suitable candidate?’

      ‘I could suggest dozens,’ his grandmother said calmly. ‘But I certainly wouldn’t jeopardise their chances by naming them.’

      In spite of himself, he found his lips twitching. ‘Gran, you’re impossible.’

      ‘I’m also serious,’ Lady Perrin returned implacably. ‘It’s my birthday in three months’ time. I shall expect you to attend it with your bride.’

      Alex was shaken to the roots. From the opposite sofa, he could see his father staring at them both in open incredulity.

      He said quietly, ‘Darling, that’s quite impossible. You must see that. How could I possibly meet someone…persuade her to marry me in that sort of time frame?’

      ‘You are wealthy, clearly attractive to women, and blessed with far more charm than you deserve.’ Selina Perrin’s tone was resolute. ‘It should be entirely within your capabilities.’ She paused. ‘I would not wish to be disappointed.’

      The warning was there—implicit—staring him in the face.

      He said, with a touch of desperation, ‘Grandmother…’

      ‘Besides,’ she went on, as if he had not spoken, ‘Rosshampton is a family house—a home waiting to be occupied. I must warn you, Alexander, that I should not wish it to become a bachelor pad. Or, indeed, permit that to happen. Do I make myself clear?’

      Alex stared at her, the colour draining from his face, the blood drumming in his ears.

      He said hoarsely, ‘Clear as crystal.’ And saw her give a brief, satisfied smile.

      Reaching for her cane, she rose purposefully to her feet. ‘Then let us go into dinner. I hope you’re both hungry.’

      He couldn’t speak for his father, Alex thought grimly as he followed her to the door, but his own appetite had been killed stone dead.

      He’d come prepared for disapproval, and instead been presented with an ultimatum.

      But he wasn’t going to let Rosshampton go without a struggle, he told himself. And, although she was infuriating, he did love his grandmother.

      If his inheritance depended on him finding a girl to marry in the next three months, then a wife he would have.

      But a wife on my own terms, he thought as he took his place at the dining table. Not yours—my dear, clever Gran. And we’ll see, shall we, who has the last laugh?

      CHAPTER ONE

      ‘LOUISE—are you up there? What on earth are you doing?’

      Louise Trentham, on her knees in the loft, surrounded by open trunks full of elderly clothing, heard her stepmother’s querulous tones from the landing below, and grimaced faintly.

      ‘I’m looking for thirties evening dresses,’ she called back. ‘For the Village Players.’

      ‘Well, come down, please,’ Marian Trentham said sharply. ‘I can’t conduct a conversation peering up into a hole.’

      Lou sighed inwardly, but made her way over to the hatch, and swung slim, denim-clad legs onto the loft ladder.

      ‘Is something wrong?’ she enquired as she made her way down. ‘I made up the rooms as you told me, and did the flowers. And all the food is in the refrigerator, ready for Mrs Gladwin.’

      ‘That’s the trouble,’ Mrs Trentham said crossly. ‘She’s just telephoned to say her eldest child is ill again, and she won’t be able to cook dinner tonight. And she knows how important this evening is.’

      Lou reflected drily that there probably wasn’t a soul in the known universe who wasn’t aware that Alex Fabian was coming for the weekend. And why.

      She said, ‘It’s hardly her fault. Tim can’t help being asthmatic.’ She paused. ‘Why don’t you have dinner at the Royal Oak instead?’

      ‘At a public house?’ Mrs Trentham reared back as if her stepdaughter had suggested a visit to a burger joint.

      ‘A very upmarket one,’ Lou pointed out. ‘With a restaurant in all the food guides. In fact, you’ll be lucky to get a table.’

      ‘Because it’s intended to be a quiet family meal,’ Marian Trentham said tartly.

      ‘Offering Alex Fabian a preview of domestic bliss?’ Lou’s cool face relaxed into a sudden grin. ‘From what I hear, he’d prefer the Royal Oak any day of the week.’

      Her stepmother’s lips thinned. ‘Please don’t be more irritating than you can help, Louise. On an occasion like this, the right atmosphere is essential.’

      ‘Shouldn’t he and Ellie create their own ambience?’ Lou enquired mildly. ‘Especially when he’s sweeping her off her feet into marriage?’

      ‘Well, I don’t intend to stand here arguing about it,’ Marian Trentham said with finality. ‘I simply came to say that you’ll have to stand in for Mrs Gladwin, and do the cooking.’

      Lou had seen this coming a mile off, and she had no real objections. But the word ‘please’ would not have come amiss, she thought wryly.

      ‘Shouldn’t Ellie do it?’ she suggested straight-faced. ‘Convince him that she has all the wifely virtues?’

      ‘He’s more likely to run out of the house, screaming,’ Marian said, with one of her rare glimmers of humour. ‘Ellie could burn boiling water. Not that it matters, of course,’ she added, reverting to briskness. ‘When she’s married, there’ll be staff to attend to that kind of thing.’

      ‘Of course there will,’ Lou murmured. ‘Silly me.’

      There’s staff here too, she thought. And I seem to be it.

      ‘So that’s settled, is it?’ said Marian. ‘You’ll cook tonight’s dinner? I thought you might do that mushroom soup you’re so good at—and an orange sauce with the ducks.’

      ‘Fine,’ Lou said equably. ‘And, having done so, am I expected to join this quiet family party?’

      Marian hesitated for a micro-second too long. ‘But of course. If you’d like to. It’s entirely up to you, naturally.’

      Lou took pity on her. ‘Actually, I think I’ll pass. Odd numbers and all that. And anyway, I have to go out. There’s a rehearsal at the village hall, and I need to get these costumes settled.’

      Marian’s eyes took on that slightly glazed look which appeared when village matters were under discussion. Marian was a big-city woman. She liked the idea of a weekend country home—something to mention casually in conversation, and invite people to—rather than the reality of it. And she took a minimal part in local activities.

      ‘Well, just as you please,’ she said, adding, ‘Lou, dear,’ as an afterthought. ‘And see if you can find something for Ellie to do, would you?’ She attempted a silvery laugh. ‘She’s getting absurdly nervous, silly girl.’

      Left to herself, Lou replaced the loft ladder thoughtfully. She didn’t mind being part-time caretaker in the house where she’d been born and keeping it pristine for the occasional descents from London by the rest of her family. But sometimes she felt a flicker of resentment at being taken so much for granted.

      But it wouldn’t be for much longer, she thought, giving herself a mental shake. Because she too was getting married, and would be moving to the tall Georgian house in the main square which belonged to David Sanders, her future husband, who would be furious if he discovered she was acting as head cook and bottle-washer again.

      ‘They’re just using you, darling,’ he told her over and over again. ‘And