A Proper Wife

Ryan’s mouth thinned. “There’s no danger of that for Devon and me, Miss Brimley,” he said.

Ignoring Frank’s faint, indelicate snort of laughter, Ryan went in search of his future wife.

Bettina snapped the top on her lipstick, popped it into her purse, and frowned at Devon, who was standing stiffly on the opposite side of the enormous first floor powder room.

“I just wish you’d bought something new to wear, darling. You don’t look terribly festive.”

Devon turned slowly and looked into the mirror.

No. She certainly didn’t look festive. Ryan’s secretary had telephoned two days ago to tell her that Ryan had opened accounts for her at Saks and Henri Bendel and Galleries Lafayette; she had carte blanche to buy whatever she wanted. And for her mother, too, if she wished.

Bettina had given a whoop at the news but her exhilaration had changed to disbelief and then irritation when Devon had refused to go off on a shopping spree.

“You’re marrying a very wealthy—and, I might add, very generous—husband,” her mother had said crossly. “The least you can do is show him the courtesy of accepting his generosity.”

Devon hadn’t bothered commenting on the flawed logic, she’d simply said she had her own clothing and jewelry and didn’t need anything from Ryan.

“Surely, you can at least buy a wedding dress,” Bettina had insisted.

Devon had suddenly thought of how thrilling it would be to choose a gown if she were marrying Ryan because he truly loved her, a gown that would make his incredible green eyes light with admiration, a gown he would later strip slowly from her body while the look in his eyes went from reverence to passion.

She’d wondered how it would be to let him finish undressing her; how it would feel to have his hands caress her breasts. She’d imagined the heat that would flare between her thighs, the fevered moment when he slipped his hands beneath her hips, lifted her to him and joined his body to hers...

For no reason at all, her eyes had filled with tears.

“I’m not buying a wedding dress,” she’d said fiercely, swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand, and Bettina had flounced out of the hotel to shop on her own.

Now, Bettina was dressed to the teeth in a hot pink silk suit with a matching hat and snakeskin pumps. New bracelets jingled on one wrist; a jeweled watch winked on the other. Heavy gold earrings glinted at her ears and clouds of Chanel No. 5 wafted into the air as she waited impatiently for her daughter.

Devon gazed into the mirror. She was mouselike by comparison. Except for the almost feverish glow in her cheeks, her face was deathly white; her eyes, and the shadows beneath them, looked funereal. Her hair was drawn back and secured with a gold clip at the nape of her neck. She wore a simple blue dress with no accessories.

Devon’s mouth trembled. No, she didn’t look festive, but why should she? There was nothing “festive” about realizing you’d agreed to sell yourself into a sham of a marriage.

What a fool she’d been, letting Ryan badger her into agreeing to this! How could she have let it happen? She’d known it was a mistake within minutes of having said she’d become his wife and she’d tried to tell him so, but by then it had been too late.

He had already made phone calls—to his attorney, to James’s attorney, to James himself, and finally to Bettina.

“It’s done,” he’d said, his face cold, and Devon had thought suddenly of how a fly must feel as the final bit of the spider’s silk wraps tightly around it.

Then he’d smiled politely and said he hoped she understood but he had tons of work to do. A beaming Sylvia had whisked her into the elevator, out the front door, and into a taxi. And when the cab reached the hotel, Bettina had come racing out, dizzy with excitement.

There’d been no further calls from Ryan, no visits. Nothing. The only reminder of the terrible bargain she’d made had been Sylvia’s phone call informing her that she was free to spend his money, now that she’d agreed to become his wife.

A chill swept along Devon’s spine. She could feel it penetrate the marrow of her bones.

“I can’t,” she whispered to her reflection. “Oh, I can’t!”

“Did you say something, darling?”

She swung toward Bettina, who was sitting on the edge of a chair, carefully smoothing her stockings.

“I said that I can’t go through with this.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Devon.”

“I must have been out of my mind, agreeing to marry Ryan Kincaid!”

“It’s just bridal jitters. I remember when I married the first time—”