His Blackmailed Bride

‘Only what you can, sweet Juliet.’ His voice was soft, with a quality of fatigue that she’d never expected, and her eyes lifted slowly to his.

‘Quinn,’ she whispered.

‘What is it, Paige?’

‘I… I…’ She looked at him in confusion. What had she wanted to say to him? ‘I… I’ll do what you want.’

His eyes grew dark. ‘Will you?’ he said slowly, and then the coldness she’d come to know so well returned to his face. ‘You can start by joining me for breakfast tomorrow. We can talk about the dinner party then.’

Paige nodded. ‘All right.’ Quinn turned away, and the floral scent drifted to her again. Suddenly, she felt as if a fist had clamped around her heart.

Perfume. A woman’s perfume…

Not that it mattered. He could be with whomever he wished. But Paige lay awake half that night, tormented by images of a nameless woman lying sated with passion in her husband’s arms.

She joined him the next morning and again that night at dinner. They sat opposite each other in silence, like strangers sharing a table in a café, until Quinn put down his teacup and looked at her.

‘It’s going to be difficult to carry on a conversation with guests present if we know nothing about each other,’ he said.

‘We have nothing to say,’ Paige answered stiffly.

Quinn’s expression was grim. ‘Then we’ll find something.’

Their first talks were stilted discussions of weather and current affairs. It became easier when they discovered a common love of political cartoons. And then, one morning, Paige asked about a book of photos she’d found in the library.

‘Are they yours?’

Quinn nodded. ‘I’ve been a camera buff for years. I’m not very good…’

‘You are,’ she said quickly, and then her cheeks flushed. ‘I mean, I don’t know much about photography, but there’s a quality to your pictures that’s very moving.’

A pleased smile curved across his lips. ‘Well,’ he said softly, ‘thank you.’ And he offered to show her his basement darkroom. Paige, whose knowledge of film began and ended with the fact that it came neatly packaged in little yellow boxes, entered the small, red-lit room warily. She emerged a convert, convinced that what went on in all those chemical baths was a miracle.

The next day—a Saturday—Quinn was again silent at breakfast. Paige had almost decided their truce of the past week had ended, when he suddenly put down his cup and stared at her.

‘I’m going to Hyde Park to take pictures,’ he said, rushing the words together. ‘There’s a kite festival, and…’ His eyes sought hers. ‘Would you care to come along? You don’t have to, of course…’

‘I’d like to. Very much,’ Paige said quickly, and she smiled at him in a way she never had before. ‘Thank you for asking me.’

Later, she would remember the day as some kind of turning point. Quinn shot off three rolls of film, and then he bought a kite from a vendor and within minutes a shiny blue and red dragon was soaring over their heads. They laughed like children, feeding the dragon yards of string, watching as it sailed above the treetops. When the wind suddenly plucked the string from Paige’s fingers, she was desolate.

‘I’ve lost it! Oh, Quinn, I’m sorry.’

‘I’m not,’ he said softly, smiling at her. ‘It’s been a lovely day.’

She felt her face glow and she told herself it was from the kiss of the chilled air. But, when it was time to leave, it seemed natural for their fingers to lace together as they walked to his car.

It was impossible to notice all the ways in which they opened to each other after that. Paige only knew that, somewhere along the way, the day improved the moment Quinn arrived home. They rarely went out to dinner, preferring to have it in the quiet of the library. On Norah’s evenings off, Paige insisted on cooking.

‘I like to fuss in the kitchen,’ she said, and when Quinn solemnly complimented her on some simple meal, her heart filled with joy.

After dinner, they sat by the fire. They read. Quinn taught Paige chess, cheering her when she won her first game, although she had a strong suspicion he’d let her win. They went to concerts at the Barbican, to the theatre, and one drizzly evening they walked slowly through quiet Mayfair, huddled together comfortably under an umbrella.

They talked about everything—except what had brought them together in the first place. Paige wanted to talk about that. She wanted to expose the past for what it was—a dark set of circumstances forced on them by others, but she was hesitant. One evening, she finally broached the subject.

‘I spoke with my father today,’ she said. ‘He says he’s grateful…’

Quinn’s eyes flashed a warning. ‘I don’t want his gratitude or anybody else’s,’ he said, and he turned away from her. ‘How was your day?’ he asked after a moment, and she was quick to fall in with his obvious effort to change the emotionally charged subject.