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‘Then maybe I should enlighten you. You see, your lover is already married, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘To my sister. And there’s no way you can become Mrs Marchant when she still has that title. Bigamy might be rare these days but it’s still a pretty big no-no where society is concerned.’
For the first time, Ashley looked at Jack properly, her heart crashing against her ribcage, not wanting to believe a word this intruder had said. And then her hopes died as she realised it was. For the truth was written on every pore of his face—from the pain which clouded the brilliant black eyes to the tight, hard line of his mouth.
And suddenly everything clicked into place. The gossip in the village. Christine’s awkwardness—did Christine know? But most of all. Jack’s own inexplicable desire for secrecy. Tell a woman you loved her and that you wanted to marry her and then tell her that it was a big secret. She hadn’t known why and she’d been too scared to dig deep and now she knew exactly why he had made that demand.
Jack Marchant was already married!
Somehow she began to move on legs which were threatening to buckle beneath her. She made her way towards the door—aware of nothing other than the terrible pain in her heart and an overpowering sense of shock and betrayal.
He had lied and cheated his way into her arms! Coldbloodedly mounted a slow seduction which couldn’t fail to be anything other than successful. He had taken her virginity and she had given it to him, gladly—because she had loved him. But more than that, she had dared to trust him—she who found it hard to trust anyone. She had given Jack her heart, and he had crushed it in his fist as if it was of no consequence!
Without another look, she passed the man with the American accent and her teeth were chattering as she made her way upstairs, her feet stumbling over the stairs which led up to her room. Once inside, she locked the door, resting her head against its surface, her shock and her distress so great that she slid to her knees on the floor.
And, burying her face in her trembling hands, she began to sob as if her heart were breaking.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘ASHLEY? Will you please open this door?’
From behind its protective wooden sanctuary, Ashley heard the sound of Jack’s voice. That was the voice she had once loved—which could veer between sarcasm and tenderness and which made her senses come to life. And wasn’t the pitiful truth that, despite what he had told her, nothing had changed. She loved him still and she suspected she always would. Even his unbelievable betrayal was not, it seemed, enough to extinguish the feelings she had for him. Once before he had stood behind her door and made the very same request that she open it. But that time she had not locked it—and that time she had not been in deep enough to have her heart broken into a million pieces. Now she was—and she had only her own stupid self to blame.
??Ashley—for God’s sake, will you at least answer me—just to let me know that you’re okay?’ ‘What do you want me to say, Jack?’ ‘I don’t care what you say, just say something. Call me every name under the sun if it will make you feel better.’
She gave a bitter laugh. He thought that would make her feel better? ‘What good would that do?’ she questioned tiredly.
‘Look, I don’t want to have this conversation with a door between us, Ashley. So will you open it… please? I’m not going to go away until you do—and if you persist in locking me out then I just may be tempted to kick the damned thing open.’
Would he have done that? Ashley didn’t know—or, rather, she didn’t feel in any fit position to judge what he would or wouldn’t do. Not any more. Had she known him at all, she wondered—or had the Jack she had fallen in love with been nothing but a figment of her own imagination? Had she seen only what she’d wanted to see—while blinding herself to the truth? He was a married man, she reminded herself bitterly. He already had a wife and yet he had blithely been proposing that he share his future with her. He had spun her a load of romantic fantasies—and she had fallen under his spell and accepted them as reality.
But he was right. She was going to have to face him some time—and either she endured a long and sleepless night or she had it out with him now. And besides, Christine would be here in the morning—and how could they possibly discuss it then? No wonder he had been so adamant he wanted to keep the whole affair a secret, she thought. Had Christine known of his marital state—and if she had, then why had she never mentioned it to her before?
Because she wouldn’t have dared. Christine would have known as a housekeeper that it would be overstepping the mark to question her employer’s morality with his lover. Jack held all the power, Ashley realised. He could do what the hell he wanted—simply because of who he was. He held it even now. open the door or he would be tempted to kick it down. Wasn’t that just another example of the arrogant aristocrat wanting his own way?
Slowly, she opened the door and saw him standing there, taken aback by the haunted look which had turned his face to a tortured mask—but she tried to harden her heart against it. She saw him glance over her shoulder to the bed behind her and a muscle tightened at his jaw.
‘We can’t talk here,’ he said abruptly.
Once she might have teased him about the bed and the temptation it offered—but those days were gone.
‘No, we can’t,’ she agreed flatly.
‘Put on something warm and come downstairs. You look half frozen.’
She glanced down at her goose-bumped arms. She was cold—freezing cold, come to think of it—and she hadn’t even noticed. ‘I’ll be down in a minute,’ she said.
For a moment he seemed to hesitate, and that was so unlike the Jack she knew—because when did he ever hesitate about anything?
‘Okay—but don’t be long,’ he said tersely.
Pulling a thick sweater on over the cream dress she had worn for his homecoming, she went downstairs to where Jack had lit the fire. He looked up as she walked in.
‘Please sit down, Ashley.’
Obediently, she sank down onto one of the velvet chairs, watching like a mute observer as he walked over to the drinks trolley, splashed some brandy into a glass and came back and handed it to her.
‘I don’t like brandy.’
‘Drink it, Ashley,’ he said fiercely. ‘Your face is so white I’m wondering whether there’s any blood left in your veins.’
