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Moisture filled her eyes—for her uncle, but also for herself. Dear heaven! Even Justice Speak knew her marriage had been arranged. Did everyone? Was she the only idiot who had not seen the truth?
'There, there, girl, don't upset yourself. Bertie would have loved to have seen the old house lit up and full of laughter again. I don't suppose you knew his wife, but she was a wonderful woman—loved entertaining on the grand scale; after she died Bertie rather let the place go.' The old man chattered on. 'Can't say I blame him— different era, don't you know! But you gave him a new lease on life; he adored you.'
Justin's arm curved around her waist and she stiffened immediately. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she forced a smile to her lips. 'Yes, I know; this party was his idea. So thank you once again for coming,' she managed to say firmly.
The goodnights said, a steady stream of guests began leaving until by two in the morning only her friends from Magnum Advertising were left. Zoe was reluctant for them to go and insisted on sharing another couple of bottles of champagne. The idea of getting drunk held great appeal. It might anaesthetize her feelings, so that she would not feel the pain she knew was waiting for her the moment she relaxed.
She was sitting on the sofa listening to one of Nigel's shaggy-dog stories—something he was renowned for— and sipping her drink, when Justin walked into the room, having dismissed the band.
He took in the scene at a glance—Zoe and Nigel on the sofa, two of the girls sprawled on the floor at their feet. Pat and Pam, Zoe's luncheon friends, were almost asleep on the other sofa. His dark gaze sought hers but she avoided his eyes. She couldn't bear to look at him. She sensed him move towards her, and only looked up when he spoke.
'Sorry, folks, the driver is insisting on leaving. Time to go.'
'We have the room. They can stay the night.'
'I don't think so, Zoe. They have to work tomorrow.'
"The master has spoken,' Nigel quipped, getting to his feet and performing a rather drunken salute. But the rest followed suit.
Zoe smiled grimly, her gaze colliding with her husband's and moving as quickly away again. Nigel was closer to the truth than he knew. 'Yes, indeed,' she concurred, standing up, and, ignoring Justin's narrow-eyed scrutiny, she followed the last of the guests to the hall and bid them goodnight.
'What was all that about?' Justin demanded hardly, catching her arm when she would have walked straight past him to the stairs.
She glanced down at his long fingers curled around her arm, and then tilted back her head to stare a long way up into his harsh face. 'I don't know what you mean,' she said flatly, proud of her self-control when really she felt like tearing his eyes out. 'I'm tired; I'm going to bed. Lock up, won't you?'
'Zoe, don't lie to me. Something is wrong.' He moved closer and she flinched.
'You're being ridiculous,' she snapped; she could not stand his questioning much longer.
'I think not.' He was inches away, his tall figure dwarfing her. She could almost see his analytical mind going over the events of the evening. 'The party was great, you were enjoying yourself, and then I lost sight of you for a while. When I saw you again you were kissing Wayne, and then you could barely speak to me, and for the rest of the night you flirted with Nigel while treating me as if I were some kind of ogre. What happened, Zoe? Did someone say something to upset you?'
She could have wept. 'Upset' wasn't the word. 'Destroyed' maybe! She glared at him, hurt and fury warring within her. He looked so cool, so in control, even concerned! Uncle Bertie had once told her that the truly great barristers could just as easily be actors, the court the stage, and the judge and jury the audience, and, by God, Justin should have received an academy award for the part he had played for years!
'Answer me, Zoe.' His fingers tightened on her arm.
'No one upset me; I had a wonderful evening and you have an over-active imagination,' she declared flatly. She had to get away; his closeness, the subtle scent of him were draining her will-power. 'Y
ou're also hurting my arm.'
His hand fell away immediately. 'Sorry,' he apologised and, stuffing his hands in his pockets, his voice terse, he added, 'Perhaps you're right. Go to bed; I'll be up in a minute.'
Glad to escape, she kicked off her shoes and ran up the stairs. She closed the bedroom door behind her and quite deliberately locked it. She tore off her clothes and left them where they fell; her jewellery she dropped in a heap on the dressing-table along with the key and then she dashed into the bathroom and locked the door to Justin's room before stepping into the shower.
She lifted her head and allowed the fierce pressure of the water to wash over her, in the vain hope that it would wash away her tormented thoughts. Her tears mingled with the spray and, hating her own vulnerability, she turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. She wrapped a large soft towel around her naked body, sarong-style, and sank down on the small bathroom stool, burying her head in her hands. Her long, wet hair, hanging in tangled rats' tails down over her shoulders, dripped, unnoticed, on her rapidly cooling flesh.
Sara Blacket had been right all along. Justin had married her to please her uncle and further his career. His real preference was for large, luscious ladies and Janet Ord had confirmed the fact in a few short sentences.
Zoe groaned out loud. Justin! 'A three-times-a-night man'. How could she have been so naive? The pain in her heart was worse than any knife wound—it went through flesh and blood to her very soul. Justin—her husband, her lover, who had only spent the whole night with her once since their wedding night—the night of the funeral—and even then she had had to beg him to stay and comfort her. She felt so stupid. So used. . .
With hindsight it was all so obvious. Justin made love to her with a skill and sophistication she was helpless to resist—had never wanted to resist. But now she realised how naive she had been. She had thought the fact that Justin always brought her to a shattering climax before finding his own release was the ultimate act of love by a considerate husband. Now she saw it for what it was— a clinical manipulation of her body and her love for him, while never losing his own iron control.
Being brutally honest with herself, she knew deep down inside that she had recognised that Justin held some part of himself back, but had refused to face the knowledge until now. She had masked it by telling herself that it was solely a cultural difference. She had spent her formative years used to the easy friendship and the exuberant, extrovert types of people who had made up her parents' circle of friends. Justin's attitude was simply very British and nothing to worry about—the stiff upper lip, and all that, not the most tactile of people.
She raised her head and shivered; the water running from her hair was freezing her tender flesh, but she welcomed the numbness. She heard a sound and glanced at the door to Justin's room—the handle was moving. She thanked God that she had locked the door; she could not face him—not tonight. She hadn't the strength. She had a terrible suspicion that if he took her in his arms and kissed her she would be the same spineless pushover she had always been where he was concerned.
Sadly she realised her own weakness. Every night in Justin's arms was her idea of heaven. She could have forgiven him the steely control, the separate beds, even his ambition and conniving with Uncle Bertie to marry her. But what she could not forgive—could not live with!—was Janet Ord's last revelation.
No man who had any respect at all for his prospective bride—never mind love—would ever spend the eve of his wedding making love to another woman. To Zoe it was far worse than an unfaithful husband. If a married man went astray one presumed that he had at least tried to honour his commitment. Justin had not even tried; he had betrayed her on the eve—no, not the eve but the morning of her wedding, if Janet was to be believed . . . and Zoe did believe her.
