His Convenient Marriage. Sara Craven

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      She said, ‘Good evening,’ her voice shy and rather formal.

      He looked up instantly, his eyes narrowing as if, for a moment, he had forgotten who she was. Then he nodded abruptly.

      ‘Punctual as always,’ he commented, opening the passenger door for her.

      Well, what did he expect? Chessie wondered defensively as she struggled with her seat belt. She was hardly going to hang about coyly in the house, keeping him waiting.

      As he joined her she caught a hint of his cologne, slightly musky and obviously expensive.

      ‘I thought we’d try The White Hart,’ Miles said as he started the engine. ‘I hear the food’s good there, if you don’t mind the village pub.’

      ‘Not at all.’ Neither Chessie’s clothes nor her confidence were up to a smart restaurant. ‘Mrs Fewston’s a marvellous cook. Before she and her husband took over the Hart, she used to cater for private dinner parties. In fact, I think she still does, sometimes.’

      ‘I shall have to bear that in mind. It’s time I did some entertaining.’ He sent her a swift, sideways glance. ‘Well, don’t look so astonished. I can’t go on accepting hospitality without returning it.’

      ‘Er—no.’ Chessie rallied. ‘And Silvertrees is a great house for parties.’

      ‘It’s also a family house,’ he said laconically. ‘As my sister never fails to remind me.’ He paused. ‘I think that’s a hint that I should invite her and her blasted kids to stay.’

      ‘Don’t you like children?’

      He shrugged. ‘I’ve never had much to do with them. Actually, Steffie’s are great, although she calls them the monsters,’ he added drily.

      If it hadn’t been for that land-mine, he might have been married with a family of his own by now, Chessie thought. She tried to imagine it, and failed.

      But that was so unfair, she reproached herself. She was behaving just like Jenny. Because she’d never known the man he’d once been. The man who’d enjoyed everything life had to offer—who’d played sport, and laughed, and made love.

      And the chances were she’d never have encountered him anyway.

      Miles Hunter, the award-winning journalist and hard-hitting television reporter, would have been based in London. He wouldn’t have been interested in a large, inconvenient house on the edge of a sleepy village. He’d have been where it was all happening—where he could pack a bag, and be off whenever a story broke.

      He would probably never have contemplated becoming a novelist until circumstances had forced him to rethink his life completely.

      Yet, here they both were. And together …

      The White Hart was a pleasant timbered building, sited near the crossroads outside the village. A former coaching inn, it was always busy. Jim Fewston was as knowledgeable about wine as his wife was about cooking, and that kept the people coming. Tonight was no exception, and the car park was almost full when they arrived.

      ‘Just as well I booked a table,’ Miles commented as he slotted the car with expertise into one of the few available spaces. ‘Although it would seem that not everyone’s here for the food,’ he added drily.

      She followed his glance, and saw movement in a car parked on its own under the shelter of some trees. Glimpsed shadowy figures passionately entwined, and hurriedly looked away.

      ‘What an odd place to choose.’ She tried to match his tone.

      ‘Not if you’re having an illicit affair.’ Miles shrugged. ‘Presumably any corner will do.’

      In the bar, Chessie drank an excellent dry sherry, and Miles a gin and tonic as they studied their menu cards.

      Many of the people already there were local and known to her, and she’d been greeted cordially when she’d arrived, although a few of the greetings had been accompanied by slyly speculative glances.

      But that was only to be expected, she thought as hunger drove out self-consciousness.

      She chose watercress soup, and guinea fowl casseroled with shallots in red wine, while Miles opted for pâté, and steak cooked with Guinness and oysters.

      “‘Do you come here often?” is the usual opening gambit in this situation,’ Miles commented sardonically as the waitress disappeared with their order. ‘But I’m well aware that you don’t, so what do you suggest as an alternative topic?’

      ‘I’m not sure.’ She played with the stem of her glass. ‘I think my social graces are rusty with disuse.’

      ‘And I doubt that I ever had any.’ His mouth twisted in faint amusement. ‘It promises to be a silent evening.’

      ‘I’m quite used to that.’ Tentatively, she returned his smile. ‘Jenny spends most of her time in her room, studying for her exams, so I’m accustomed to my own company.’

      ‘People tell me solitude is a luxury,’ Miles said after a pause. ‘But I’m not sure it works so well as a way of life.’ He paused. ‘What’s your sister planning to do when she leaves school?’

      ‘She’s applied to read natural sciences, but I don’t think she has any definite ideas about an ultimate career yet.’ She thought she detected a faintly quizzical expression in the blue eyes, and hurried on defensively. ‘But it’s early days, and she doesn’t have to make any hasty decisions.’

      She leaned back against the comfortable red plush of the bench seat. ‘I had to struggle every inch of the way at school, but learning seems to come easily to Jenny.’

      ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Miles said politely, after another pause. ‘There’s a good St Emilion on the wine list, or would you prefer Burgundy?’

      ‘No, the Bordeaux would be fine.’ She remembered with a pang a holiday she’d once spent with her father, exploring the vineyards of south-west France. It had been a magical time for her, even though he’d constantly fussed about Jenny left behind with her aunt’s family, and made a point of phoning her each evening.

      ‘There it is again,’ Miles said quietly, and she looked at him in startled question.

      ‘I’m sorry?’

      ‘That expression of yours—like a child who’s just heard Christmas has been abolished.’

      ‘Oh, dear.’ Chessie pantomimed dismay. ‘How wimpish. I’ll try and look more cheerful from now on.’

      ‘Are all your memories so painful?’

      She gave the pale liquid in her glass a fierce and concentrated stare. ‘How did you know I was—remembering?’

      ‘An educated guess—having attended the same school myself.’ He finished his gin and tonic. ‘Want to talk about it?’

      She shook her head. ‘What can anyone say? One minute you’re riding high. The next, you’re flat on your face in the mud, not knowing whether you’ll СКАЧАТЬ