Wedding Fever. Lee Wilkinson

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      CHAPTER TWO

      AFTER a night spent tossing and turning, and with her mind finally made up, Raine rose early and pushed a few necessities into a case. That done, she wrote a note to her father saying that she was going up to London for a few days, then, while the household still slept, she quietly let herself out.

      No doubt it was cowardly, but she couldn’t bear to stay and face Nick. Whatever it was that was bringing him here—a pricking conscience? Belated guilt at not having told her he had a fiancée?—she didn’t want to know.

      Nothing he could say or do would wipe out the past or mitigate her shame. Seeing him again, hearing him apologise, would only add unbearably to her humiliation, strip away any remaining shreds of self-respect.

      It was a dark, chilly November morning, with mist lying over the herbaceous borders and shrouding the trees, and, feeling like a fugitive, she hurried down to the old stable block that many years previously had been converted into garages.

      The engine of her small car sprang into life immediately, and, its lights feeling the mist like the antennae of some insect, she drove down the drive and turned left towards the station.

      Leaving the car in the station car park, she caught the early train into town. By breakfast-time she was booked into a quiet hotel near Green Park, confident that she could safely lose herself in London until Nick had given up and gone back to the States.

      Over the next few days she did her level best not to think about him, but the memories refused to be banished completely.

      Whenever she relaxed her guard she recalled the smile in his voice when he spoke to her, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled at her, the swift mental affinity which had made them enjoy each other’s company so much... And a great deal more she would rather have forgotten.

      And would forget, she vowed. She wouldn’t let herself keep on recalling the past, thinking of a man who belonged to another woman. A man who had only wanted to use her.

      Knowing it would drive her mad to sit in her room, she forced herself to go out each day—walking, window-shopping, visiting museums and art galleries, passing the time somehow, anyhow, until she could go home.

      On the fifth day of her self-imposed exile her phone call to White Ladies shook her, making her drop the receiver as though it were red-hot when Nick’s deep voice answered.

      Though she had no appetite, she made herself eat, and at night, refusing to let herself brood, she went to concerts, to the opera and to a couple of the long-running shows.

      Leaving the theatre on Friday night, after seeing a musical, she found that it was raining. Rather then just stand being jostled by the crowd, she had started to walk down Shaftesbury Avenue, keeping her eye open for a taxi, when she cannoned into a tall, slimly built man hurrying the opposite way.

      The impact made her step back and drop her clutch-bag, which opened, spilling its contents all over the wet pavement.

      ‘I’m so sorry,’ the well-dressed stranger apologised, and, stooping, he began to gather up her belongings and drop them back into her bag.

      Thanking him, she admitted, ‘It was my fault. I was trying to find a taxi and not looking where I was going.’ As she spoke she put weight on her right foot and winced.

      ‘Is there something wrong?’ he asked, his voice clear, with a distinctly upper-class accent.

      ‘I’ve just stepped awkwardly and turned my ankle. It’s nothing serious.’

      ‘Can you walk?’

      ‘Oh, yes.’ She took a step to prove it, and winced again.

      His look held concern. ‘Perhaps I’d better give you a lift. My car’s quite close.’

      When she hesitated, he added, ‘You won’t stand much chance of finding a taxi on a night like this.’

      He was young and good-looking, with gold-rimmed glasses and a reassuring air of quiet respectability.

      ‘Well, if it’s not out of your way...’ she said slowly. ‘I’m staying at the Wirral Hotel, near Green Park.’

      ‘I know it. And it’s not out of my way. I have a flat in Curzon Street, and the family home is in Mayfair.’

      ‘Then, thank you. It’s very kind of you.’

      ‘Not at all,’ he said politely, meaninglessly, as he offered her his arm with old-fashioned courtesy. As they began to walk—Raine hobbling slightly—he added, ‘My name’s Kevin ... Kevin Somersby.’

      ‘Raine Marlowe.’

      ‘Raine?’ he echoed blankly.

      ‘Short for Lorraine,’ she explained.

      ‘Oh.’ Judging from his frown, he didn’t approve of shortening names.

      His car was an extension of himself—an expensive, well-polished, rather sober saloon. He handed her in with care, and she found herself thinking that his excellent manners must have been instilled from birth.

      During the short drive they chatted, and it came as no surprise to discover that he worked in the Foreign Office and that his mother was Lady Maude Somersby.

      Though he was handsome, it was in an oddly negative way. His looks didn’t raise her blood pressure one iota, and he was so prosaic that he neither stimulated nor disturbed her. In short, he presented no threat, and she found herself relaxing in his company.

      Having escorted her into the hotel lobby and been duly thanked, he wished her a pleasant goodnight.

      ‘Goodnight...and thank you again.’ Raine offered him her hand.

      He held it for a moment, then asked a shade diffidently, ‘May I call tomorrow to enquire how the ankle is?’

      ‘Of course.’

      He was a very nice, correct young man, she thought as she took the lift up to her room, and the complete antithesis of Nick.

      When Kevin turned up after breakfast next morning, with a dozen long-stemmed roses and an invitation to lunch, she had no hesitation in accepting.

      The lunch-date stretched into the afternoon, and they ended up having dinner and spending the evening together.

      Before leaving her that night, he asked hopefully how long she would be staying in town.

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