Comparative Strangers (15 page)

The lazy brush of his fingers down her spine was another undreamed of delight. Her shoulders moved voluptuously, relishing each tiny sensation, even while some appalled voice in her brain was crying out that she couldn’t be allowing this—she couldn’t…

He had undipped the hook of her bra, and as he pushed her dress off her shoulders, the underwent with it, baring her to the waist. Her small breasts felt oddly swollen, the nipples erect, already eager for the touch of his hands—his lips.

His fingers shaped the soft, scented mounds, tugging gently at the tumescent peaks until a small moan shuddered out of her.

He lifted her then, so that she was lying across his thighs, in his arms, her cheek pressed against the soft kid of the casual jacket he was wearing. His hand slid up the cord in her neck and traced her jawline before cupping her face, turning it upwards for his kiss.

His lips barely touched hers, teasing her with a contact that was hardly more than a breath. His tongue flickered sensually along her lower lip, and she gasped, her head falling back against his shoulder in silent entreaty.

His fingers were warm on her knee under the demure black skirt, and she trembled as they slid upwards, over the stockinged smoothness, to the bare flesh of her thigh. Some hazy memory reminded her he’d once said he liked stockings, and he smiled into her eyes as if he’d remembered it, too.

Then, as his hand reclaimed her intimately, he bent his head, and his mouth possessed hers, deeply and passionately, preventing any protest she might have made.

Her body had tautened instinctively, because this was where it had all gone wrong before, yet she already knew that this time was different. Under the sensual sureness of his touch, she was melting, prey to needs she hadn’t known existed until that moment.

His fingers stroked her, circled on her, leading her inexorably down some unknown path. She ached with something more than pain, her breasts almost violently tender, a faint film of sweat bedewing her forehead.

Her senses seemed to have a separate existence. Under his dictation, they swelled to a crescendo of feeling, then subsided over and over again, each time taking, her fractionally nearer some mysterious summit of sensation.

Deep, deep within her, she felt something unfurling, like a flower opening its petals to the sun, so tenuous at first, she hardly dared acknowledge its existence, in case it escaped her.

As if he guessed, Malory’s caress deepened, took on a more rhythmic intensity, and his mouth closed almost fiercely on her breast.

She heard a voice she hardly recognised as her own sob, ‘Oh, God—please—please,’ as the rhythm inside her suddenly became a frenzy, her body convulsing in an endless series of sharp, soaring pulsations, at the height of which she thought she would faint—or die.

The downward spiral back to sanity was slow, almost dreamy. She pressed her damp face into the breast of Malory’s shirt, feeling totally spent, de-liciously, wantonly lethargic.

All she wanted in this world was for Malory to lift her into his arms, and carry her upstairs to his bed. That deep primal throbbing still seemed to echo through her blood and bones, hinting at more pleasure to come. When, eventually, he moved, her nails curled into his shoulders like a kitten’s.

The shock of finding herself deposited back on the sofa woke her sharply from her dream. His hands were brisk, almost businesslike as he ordered her dishevelled clothing, pulling her dress into place and reclosing the zip.

Then he got to his feet. He said quietly, and evenly, ‘Now that—
that—
is what all the fuss is about. Goodnight, Amanda.’

He gave her a brief smile, then walked to the door, and went out, leaving her to stare after him in anguished disbelief.

‘You’re almost a stranger these days.’ Mrs Conroy’s voice was plaintive, and Amanda smothered a sigh.

You’re welcome to come to Aylesford Green at any time,‘ she said, trying to speak gently. ’You know you’ve been invited over and over again.‘

Mrs Conroy gave her a sad smile. ‘You can be so insensitive sometimes, Amanda, dear. Something you inherited from your father, no doubt. Don’t you realise how painful it is for me to see you living in that house with that man?’

Amanda’s hands balled tensely into fists in the folds of her skirt. She hung on to her patience with an effort. ‘Mother, please don’t start that again.’

‘I’m not starting anything,’ her mother said righteously. ‘But I’m entitled to my opinion, and I find it hideous that any child of mine could have-sold herself for worldly gain.’ She shook her head. ‘A marriage begun for all the wrong reasons will never prosper.’

Amanda suppressed a wry smile. For once, she thought, her mother had been uncannily close to the target.

‘Did you see in the papers how well dear Nigel did in that Swedish rally?’ Mrs Conroy pursued eagerly.

‘I could hardly avoid it,’ Amanda returned neutrally.

She’d been half afraid that his success might revive the stories about her broken engagement and subsequent marriage, but she need not have worried. The newspapers had other, more promising scandals to occupy their attention, as Malory had prophesied. In fact, if she hadn’t panicked over Nigel’s insidious attempt to re-enter her life, there would have been no need for this marriage at all.

‘You’re very pale,’ Mrs Conroy surveyed her critically. ‘And I think you’ve lost weight, too.’ She sniffed. ‘Married life, I suppose. Some men have no consideration.’

‘Some men,’ Amanda agreed levelly. ‘Not all.’ Her lashes lowered to shut out the sight of the older woman’s disapprovingly primmed face. Her mother’s idiosyncratic attitude to sex had never bothered her before, but now she wished suddenly, passionately, that Mrs Conroy was different—the sort of mother it was possible to confide in.

But what could she say?

My married life doesn’t exist in the way that you think. Malory has made love to me once, and once only, and since that evening a month ago when he taught me more about pleasure in a few short minutes than many women experience in a lifetime, he hasn’t touched me or come anywhere near me.

Her mouth twisted ironically. No, she couldn’t say that. Mrs Conroy would undoubtedly tell her how fortunate she was not to be ‘bothered’ in that way.

She picked up her bag, and rose to her feet.

‘Going already?’ Her mother’s mouth turned down discontentedly at the corners.

‘I must, I’m afraid. We’re giving a reception at the house for some foreign buyers tonight, and I need to get back to check on the arrangements.’

‘I should have thought your husband was wealthy enough to employ someone to do that for him,’ Mrs Conroy said sourly.

‘Oh, he is,’ Amanda agreed with a semblance of cheerfulness. ‘But he likes me to be involved.’

And as it was the only purpose she fulfilled in his life, she was determined to make the most of it, she thought, as she drove home.

Her mind went back almost obsessively to that night over four weeks ago. When Malory had left her, she’d eventually pulled herself together and gone up to her room. She’d undressed, put on a lacy
peignoir
, and curled up on the window seat. At any moment, she knew, the door would open, and he would come to her—to finish what he’d started in that firelit room downstairs. To make her his completely.

She had woken, chilled and cramped, shortly before dawn, to the shattering realisation that she was still alone. She had crept into bed and lain there, shivering. She had been so sure she would spend the night in his arms. So sure, and so wrong.

When morning came, she had stayed in her room until she was certain he’d left the house, telling herself she couldn’t face him—ever. But that had been foolish. She’d been obliged to confront him that evening over the dinner table—and he’d beas if nothing had happened. No awkward initial encounter, no recriminations, no passionate aftermath. As if the previous twenty-four hours had been wiped away and they were still—comparative strangers.

As the days passed, Amanda had realised with a kind of shock that this was how Malory intended their relationship to stay. At first, she hadn’t been able to comprehend the reason, then eventually the truth dawned on Irer. Her initiation into the mechanics of sex had not been at all as she’d anticipated, and she’d been too obsessed with her own disappointment to consider Malory’s reactions. Now, it occurred to her for the first time that he might have been equally disillusioned, have found her lacking as a lover in all kinds of ways.

And there was no way in which she could argue with that, Amanda acknowledged with a small, bitter sigh, as she turned her car into the drive, and parked at the side of the house. Her sole option now was to fill the role he’d indicated for her in this marriage as efficiently as possible, and stop hoping for anything more. Because, shamingly, she’d come to realise that Malory had aroused needs and longings in her that only he could satisfy.

She’d come an awful long way since those early days when she’d written him off as some kind of neuter, she realised ruefully, as she let herself into the house by the side door. And living here with him, sharing a roof but nothing else, was becoming increasingly painful with every day that passed.

It wasn’t as if he was unkind, or dismissive with her. He was just polite and eternally, impenetrably aloof, making it clearer than any direct statement that she no longer held the least physical interest for him.

And that was something she would have to learn, somehow, to endure.

Mrs Priddy met her in the kitchen passage, full of the direst forebodings about the caterers hired for that evening. Amanda reassured her about their reliability and walked on into the utility room, where the flowers for the evening were awaiting her attention. She didn’t consider she was particularly artistic, but arranging flowers was one of her great pleasures, and spring flowers in particular were her favourites.

She spent a happy couple of hours experimenting with various containers, then began to carry the results of her labours through to the dining-room and drawing-room.

She was putting some finishing touches to one arrangement, and was too absorbed to be aware she was no longer alone until Nigel’s voice said behind her, ‘How very charming. You have all kinds of hidden talents, sweetie.’

Amanda cried out, whirling round, her hand pressed to her hammering heart. He was standing there, smiling, looking her over with that slow, sexy surveillance which had always had the power to set her pulses racing.

She steadied her voice. ‘How—how did you get in here?’

‘Not very welcoming, sister-in-law, dear’ he chided. I’m not barred from the house, am I? Old Mal hasn’t issued an injunction forbidding me to cross his sacred threshold?‘

She disregarded that. ‘You startled me. I didn’t hear the doorbell.’

‘I didn’t ring it.’ Nigel gestured towards the french windows. ‘I came across the gardens, and let myself in that way. I am family, after all.’ He paused. ‘Aren’t you just the tiniest bit pleased to see me?’

She’d wondered often and often what her reaction would be when she saw Nigel again, and now she knew. She felt numb.

She said, ‘Why have you come here?’

‘To offer my congratulations to the newly-weds.’ He smiled at her. ‘I suppose I could hardly have expected an invitation to the wedding, under the circumstances. But I’m quite prepared to let bygones be bygones and contribute a wedding present. Although I’m not sure what you give the man who has everything,’ he added, giving his surroundings an appraising stare before switching back to Amanda. ‘Including, of course, my woman.’

She bit her lip. ‘I think it would be better if you left.’

Nigel tutted. ‘All this hospitality,’ he remarked, looking at the floral displays. ‘And none for me. What’s the matter, darling? Suffering from a touch of the might-have-beens?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Just rather busy, that’s all.’

He laughed. ‘Found your
métier
, have you— sitting at Malory’s table—spending his money?

Makes up, does it, for having to let him maul you about once in a while?‘

‘I said—get out’ Amanda could feel her fingers curling into claws. ‘If you want to visit here, please do so when Malory’s at home’

Thus speaks the virtuous little wife,‘ he mocked. ’Dullness must be catching, sweetie. You wouldn’t have said that before Mal put his boring seal on you.‘

Hot angry colour invaded Amanda’s face. ‘I think you’ve insulted him enough,’ she said. ‘Now, will you go, or do I have to call George?’

He flung up his hands in mock surrender. ‘OK. I’ll leave quietly’ He moved back towards the french windows. ‘Want to see me safely off the premises—check my pockets for the family silver?’

Unwillingly, she followed. From now on, she thought, she would keep the french windows locked.

Nigel stepped out into the garden, then turned to look at her.

‘You’ve changed,’ he said softly, ‘but it’s all on the surface, isn’t it, Manda? Under the rich wife gloss, you’re still the girl I love’ His hand closed with startling suddenness on her wrist, drawing her towards him, pulling her against his body. ‘Think about this, darling, next time you’re lying underneath old Mal, wondering if he’d notice if you went to sleep’ He bent his head, and his mouth fastened on hers, hotly and greedily.

For a moment, she tensed to struggle, to push him away. But to fight would be to accord him some kind of victory, she realised, would make his as-sault on her mouth seem more important than it was. And she didn’t want to give him even that much satisfaction.

At last, he lifted his head. ‘Like kissing a statue,’ he said insolently. ‘But I suppose that’s what marriage to my dear brother does to a woman. See you around, sweetheart.’ He patted her cheek, and started away across the lawn.

Amanda stayed where she was, watching him go.

So, it had happened at last, she thought. The moment she’d dreaded. The moment she’d longed for. She’d seen Nigel again, known his touch, and his kiss. And, in spite of her brave words to herself, she’d waited for her starved body to go up in flames.

Only—she hadn’t. All she’d been aware of was a certain clinical curiosity about her own lack of response, and a very definite distaste for the feel of his lips sucking at hers—his attempts to push his tongue into her mouth.