The Unforgettable Husband

He rounded on her furiously. ‘Who said we are leaving together?’

It shook her to the core. On a wave of hollowing weakness she stumbled into the nearest chair. The air throbbed, the anger roared like a lion in the sudden silence. He set down his glass; she pushed trembling fingers to her brow, where the muddle of memories were still struggling to sort themselves out.

‘Ex-explain about the Bressingham, then,’ she prompted eventually, taking his advice and trying, trying to stick to one problem at a time. But it was difficult, because they merged like two parts of the same whole and she couldn’t seem to separate them.

On a harsh sigh, he sank down onto the edge of her father’s desk, shoved his hands in his pockets, then sighed again.

‘Your father knew he was ill. He needed money. So naturally he came to me.’ His voice was no longer harsh, but just heavy. ‘I offered to bail him out—no strings attached. But he was too damned proud to let me do that. So he came up with his idea of an acceptable alternative,’ he explained, his tone alone telling her that it hadn’t been as acceptable to him. ‘He would give me the Bressingham on the promise that I would do what was necessary to keep it open. And I was to mention none of it to you,’ he added wearily.

‘But why?’ she questioned.

‘Why do you think?’ He sighed. ‘His precious daughter must be worried by nothing. Her wedding day was coming up. She had caught her prince. He wanted to—’

‘If you don’t stop tossing words like insults at me, I will probably pick up something heavy and throw it at you.’ Samantha cut in.

‘The old Samantha would have just gone ahead and done it.’

But the old Samantha died on a road in Devon, Samantha thought bleakly. And the new one was still struggling to evolve from what was left. ‘Please, go on,’ she invited stiltedly.

‘There is very little left to say,’ he murmured with a shrug. ‘We came to an agreement where I would do as he asked. But because I had my own pride to consider here, I refused to take possession of the hotel until you and I were officially married—hence the date on the documents you were given,’ he defined. ‘It helped me to justify what I was doing.’

‘Beginning our marriage with lies,’ Samantha inserted.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

But it wasn’t enough, because it was hard to forgive someone— No, she then amended that. It was hard to forgive the two people she’d loved most in the world for deceiving her the way they had.

‘Was I so weak, so pathetic that you both felt you had to protect me from the ugly truth?’ she asked painfully.

‘It was the deal.’ He looked away. ‘I couldn’t in all honour break it.’

‘So instead you broke the vow to honour that you made with me,’ she concluded. Then she remembered that André had actually suspected she was a party to her father’s deal.

A silent conspiracy. She smiled bleakly at the idea. Even her father’s will had been carefully worded, with a simple one-liner leaving everything he’d possessed to her. André had dealt with the details. She had never thought to question him. He probably saw that as further proof of her involvement.

Oh, what a tangled web, she mused emptily, and came to her feet. ‘If that’s it,’ she said huskily, ‘then I think I’d like to go now.’

‘Go where?’ he asked.

‘Back to the house,’ she told him. ‘To pack.’ Pack and leave the open way this time, the calm way. ‘I don’t think there is anything left to be said.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ he countered gruffly. ‘We haven’t even touched the tip of the iceberg as far as explanations are concerned… And if you think I am going to stand by and watch you walk out on me again, Samantha, then think again.’

‘You never watched the first time.’

‘Raoul,’ he breathed. ‘It always comes back to Raoul.’

Raoul, yes, Raoul, Samantha agreed wearily. Who’d come to live with them in London only weeks after their wedding. Raoul who had played adoring half-brother while secretly resenting André for everything. His wealth, his power, his new English wife. Raoul, the poor relation, born to the wrong parent, he’d used to call himself—out of André’s hearing, of course. He had wanted to be a Visconte but had had to make do with being a Delacroix.

‘He’s sorry, if it means anything to you.’

‘Sorry?’ Looking up, she sent him a huff of scorn.

‘Deeply ashamed of himself.’ He extended.

The fizz of anger began to rise again. If she could have stopped it she would have done, because she knew, by now, that she had taken more than she could safely manage to deal with.

‘He abused my hand of friendship, my hospitality, my marriage and me,’ she spelled it out coldly. ‘I hope he will live with his shame for the rest of his life.’