The Right Bride?: Bride of Desire / The English Aristocrat's Bride / Vacancy: Wife of Convenience. Sara Craven

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      CHAPTER TWO

      SHE’D fainted, she remembered, sliding from her chair at the breakfast table one morning under Grace’s astonished eye. That was how it had all begun. And it hadn’t been the family’s usual doctor who’d answered the summons to attend her ladyship, but a locum, young, brisk, and totally unimpressed by his surroundings.

      He’d insisted on seeing Allie alone, questioning her with real kindness, and eventually she’d realised he was suggesting she might be pregnant. And suddenly she’d found herself crying, and unable to stop, as she told him how utterly impossible that was, or ever could be. And of the constant pressure she’d been under during her four months of soulless marriage, both from Hugo and his mother, to somehow bring about a miracle and give him the child he craved.

      ‘He doesn’t believe any of the consultants.’ Her voice had choked on a sob. ‘He says it’s my fault. But I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what he expects me to do.’

      Confronting Hugo and Grace, the doctor had announced that Lady Marchington had been under a great deal of stress since the wedding, and was in dire need of a complete break, well away from the Hall and its environs.

      ‘A holiday,’ Grace had pondered aloud. ‘Somewhere in the sun, perhaps, where they have good facilities for wheelchairs.’ She gave the interloper an icy smile. ‘It is, after all, my son who has suffered the real trauma here.’

      ‘I’m afraid I haven’t made myself clear.’ The doctor was a stocky man, with sandy hair and a pugnacious expression with a built-in ice deflector. ‘Lady Marchington actually needs to get away from all that. Build up her resources. Surely she has friends or family she could go to—somewhere she could relax in undemanding company for a while?’

      ‘I have a very dear great-aunt in Brittany,’ Allie said quietly, looking back at him, aware of Grace’s barely suppressed fury at the word ‘undemanding’. She drew a breath. ‘She would have me to stay with her, I know.’

      ‘Ideal.’ He nodded. ‘Walks on the beach, congenial surroundings, platters of fruits de mer, and plenty of sleep. That’s what I prescribe. Worth a ton of tranquillisers or sleeping pills.’

      ‘You may as well go,’ Hugo told her bitingly after the doctor’s departure. ‘God knows you’re of little use here.’

      ‘And perhaps while you’re away,’ Grace added with steely annoyance, ‘you can consider what you owe to the Marchington name, and come back in a more amenable frame of mind to attend to your duties as Hugo’s wife.’

      But I’m not his wife. The words screamed in Allie’s brain. Because he’s not physically capable of being my husband. We all know this, so why must we go on with this terrible pretence? Why do I have to lie beside him in bed, being punished by his anger for something that isn’t anyone’s fault—just a tragic reality.

      She wanted to cry again, but this time with the sheer relief of knowing that she was going to escape it all—just for a little while, although eventually she would have to come back…

      ‘Dearest girl, you look like a ghost,’ was her great-aunt’s concerned greeting on her arrival at Les Sables d’Ignac. ‘And there are deep shadows under your eyes. Are you not sleeping?’

      ‘Well, Hugo does tend to be a little restless. And life has been pretty hectic since the wedding.’ She managed a laugh. ‘I seem to be public property. People want me to join committees—open things. And Hugo’s mother is so much better at that kind of stuff. It all gets—a bit much sometimes.’

      There was pause, then Tante said gently, ‘I see.’

      But please don’t see too much, Allie begged under her breath. Or ask questions that I can’t answer.

      The house was just as she’d remembered, its living room occupying the entire ground floor, where a comfortable sitting area, with two large sofas, flanked a fireplace with a woodburning stove and was divided from the kitchen area at the far end by a large dining table, covered in oilcloth and surrounded by four high-backed chairs.

      She found herself chatting almost feverishly during the evening meal, describing Marchington Hall itself, and its history, recounting anecdotes about some of Hugo’s most interesting ancestors, while Tante listened, delicate brows slightly lifted, sometimes offering a faint smile, but more often not. She made her own polite enquiries about Fay’s health, and Hugo’s progress, accepting the halting replies without further comment.

      And when the meal was over, she announced quietly but firmly that Allie should have an early night, and shooed her upstairs. The window in her room was open, its shutters folded back, so that the filmy drapes moved in the breeze from the sea. Allie could hear the splash and hiss of the tide, the rhythm of its ebb and flow producing a faintly soporific effect.

      She undressed swiftly, and put on her cotton nightdress. Her final act was to remove her wedding ring and place it in the drawer of the bedside cabinet.

      Alice, Lady Marchington, belonged in England, she told herself. Here, for these few precious weeks, she was going to be Alys again. She would live entirely in the present, closing her mind against the recent past and forbidding herself to contemplate the future, although she was aware there were decisions that would have to be made. But somehow—somehow—she would build up the strength to do what she had to do in order to survive.

      She slid under the crisp white covers of the bed, stretching luxuriously, rediscovering the pleasures of space and privacy, guiltily grateful not to encounter Hugo’s bulk beside her. And not to be made to endure the frustration of his fruitless, angry demands.

      She fell asleep almost at once, and woke to the pale, sunlit sky of early morning. The wind had freshened in the night, and beyond the cliff-edge the waves were tipped with white. She could taste the salt in the air, and felt her heart lift.

      She showered swiftly, dressing in cut-off grey linen pants with a white shirt knotted at the waist, thrust her feet into red canvas shoes, and made her way noiselessly out of the house.

      A walk, she thought, to make sure she was properly awake, and then she’d drive into Ignac and pick up the bread and some breakfast croissants at the boulangerie.

      The bay immediately below the house was a wide crescent of pale sand, backed by a jumble of rocks and boulders and reached by a scramble of narrow steps hewn out of the stone of the cliff-face. It wasn’t the easiest access in the world, which helped maintain the bay’s privacy—the holidaymaking crowds in this part of Finistere preferring beaches that were more readily available.

      Allie had never chosen to bathe here on her visits. She was not a strong swimmer, and was wary about getting out of her depth because of the strong off-shore currents.

      Now, she picked her way across the pebbles, then slipped off her shoes, tucking one into each pocket when she reached the sand.

      The wind whipped at her hair, sending it streaming across her face, and she laughed aloud and began to run. ‘I feel free,’ she shouted at a surprised gull, and performed a series of improvised pirouettes, leaping into the air. ‘Wonderfully, gorgeously free.’

      And, as she did so, she heard the drumming of hooves not far behind her. She turned swiftly and saw a powerful chestnut horse approaching fast along the beach. On its back was a man, hatless, his dark hair dishevelled, wearing riding breeches and a crimson polo shirt.

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