The Right Bride?. Jessica Steele

it into her case on sheer impulse, but she realised now there would never be a better time to wear it.

      She went up to her room, stripping off shorts and tee-shirt, and the bikini she was wearing beneath them, then showered, shampooing her hair at the same time, to get rid of all traces of salt and sand.

      She might wear it up for a change, she thought, smiling to herself as she imagined Remy unfastening the clip at some point, and letting the soft strands spill through his fingers.

      She applied her favourite scented body lotion, then drew on a pair of tiny black lace briefs. For a long moment she looked at herself in the full-length mirror, assessing almost clinically the seductive effect of the little black triangle against the creaminess of her skin.

      I’m not a beauty, she thought, but please—please—let him find me beautiful tonight. Let him desire me so much that nothing else matters. That, in spite of everything, he’ll know that he can’t live without me—and he’ll forgive me what I have to say, and wait until I’m free to come to him. Oh, please…

      She zipped herself into the dress, then picked up a comb and began experimenting with her hair. She paused, her attention arrested by the sound of a vehicle approaching fast.

      It sounds like the Jeep, she thought, bewildered, and one swift glance from the window confirmed this.

      He’s come to fetch me, she thought ruefully, and I’m not nearly ready yet.

      Still barefoot, she began to descend the stairs, halting, a smile playing round her lips, as the door was flung wide and Remy strode into the living room below.

      ‘You’re impatient, monsieur,’ she teased. ‘You’ve spoiled my surprise.’

      Then she saw his face and gasped, her hand tightening convulsively on the stair-rail.

      He was as white as a sheet, his skin drawn tautly across his cheekbones, his mouth harshly compressed. The vivid eyes stared up at her, the ice of their contempt searing her like a living flame, and she realised he was holding something like a sheaf of papers, rolled in his hand.

      ‘A surprise, madame?’ His voice cut like a knife. ‘I think I have been surprised enough for one day.’

      He tossed the papers he was holding towards the foot of the stairs, and she realised they were, in fact, the pages of a glossy magazine.

      She said hoarsely, ‘I—I don’t understand.’

      ‘Then you have a short memory, madame,’ Remy returned with paralysing scorn. ‘Also a selective one, if you have managed to so conveniently forget your own wedding.’

      And then, at last, Allie remembered. Oh, God, she thought with a kind of sick despair, that dreadful interview with County magazine that Grace had insisted on—the ghastly pictures they took of me in my dress and veil, posing me beside Hugo so it wouldn’t be quite as obvious that he was in a wheelchair. The whole appalling farce. How could I ever have forgotten? Yet I did. And now—now—it’s come back to haunt me.

      She looked down at the crumpled magazine. Forced frozen lips to ask, ‘Where did you find it?’

      ‘I did not,’ he denied curtly. ‘Solange Geran was throwing away some old magazines her English guests had left in one of the gîtes, and she saw the photograph. Read the story of the bride and groom whose love triumphed over adversity.’ His laugh was corrosive in its bitterness. ‘A romantic story she could not wait to share with me, naturellement.’

      Solange, she thought with a terrible weariness. Of course…

      She bent her head. ‘Remy—I can explain…’

      ‘But how? By telling me that you have an identical twin who happens to share your given name? Or some other lie to add to the rest?’

      The savagery in his voice made her shrink. If she hadn’t been gripping the rail, she would probably have fallen.

      Instead, she forced herself to stand her ground, struggling to control her voice—to hide the hideous debilitating weakness that was making her tremble all over. Because somehow she had to make him listen to her. Salvage something out of the wreckage of her hopes and dreams.

      ‘No, it’s true,’ she said with quiet weariness. ‘I—I am married.’ She lifted her chin. ‘But I was going to tell you. I—I swear it.’

      ‘Ah, but when, madame?’ Remy asked with cruel mockery. ‘Did you plan to wait for our wedding night, perhaps? Inform me then that I had become a bigamist?’

      Her throat tightened to an agony. Tears glittered on her lashes. ‘Remy—don’t—please.’

      ‘Why should I spare you? he flung at her. ‘When from the first you have lied to me—deceived me in this vile way?’

      ‘I—I wanted to tell you. I—did try…’

      He said slowly, ‘If you had worn your ring and used your married name, then I would have known from the first. I would never have approached you.’ He shook his head. ‘But you did not. And Madame Colville encouraged you in this. C’est incroyable.’

      ‘No,’ she said. ‘You mustn’t blame Tante Madelon. She did her best to persuade me—to do the right thing. If I didn’t, then it’s my fault alone.’

      ‘Yes.’ His tone was starkly accusing. ‘You—alone, as I now see.’ He threw his head back, staring up at her with eyes as cold and remote as a polar ocean. ‘Mon Dieu, Alys, you knew that I loved you, and you—you let me think that you loved me in turn.’

      ‘I did,’ she said. ‘I do. Darling, you must believe that—’

      ‘You have a strange idea of love, madame. Presumably you loved your husband when you married him. Yet within only a few months of your marriage you broke your vows and gave yourself to me. The date of your wedding is given—here.’ He walked across to the foot of the stairs and kicked the magazine. ‘Isn’t it a little early for such flagrant infidelity? What kind of a woman does such a thing?’

       A desperate one…

      She winced inwardly. ‘I never meant you to find out—like this.’

      His mouth curled. ‘Now, that I do believe.’

      ‘And I didn’t marry for love,’ she went on desperately. ‘If you read the text with the photograph, you’ll know that my—that Hugo was very badly injured in a polo accident. He’s never been my husband in any real sense.’

      ‘Then why did you marry him?’ he asked scathingly. ‘For money? For his title? And did you find then that it was not enough? I think maybe it was so.’

      His laugh jeered at her. ‘And so you came to France—to find yourself a lover and enjoy a little sexual adventure, n’est-ce pas? Was that my purpose in your life, madame? To ease for you the frustration of a disappointing marriage? I hope I gave satisfaction.’

      ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No—please—it wasn’t like that. I never expected to meet you—to fall in love,’ she added on a little sob.

      The dark, bitter face did not soften. ‘I never hid my attraction to you, Alys. You knew from the first how it was with me. Yet you never stepped back,’ he said harshly. ‘Never warned me that legally and morally you were beyond my reach.’

      He took a deep breath. ‘God knows, I am no saint, but I would never knowingly allow myself to become entangled with another man’s wife, any more than I would knock him down in the street and rob him.

      ‘But that is not everything,’ he added grimly. ‘That day at the standing stones I told you plainly that I needed you to trust me, but in spite of that you still kept your secret hidden—because you could not bring yourself to confide in me. And that, perhaps, is the greatest hurt—the worst betrayal of all.’

      ‘I