Forbidden or For Bedding?

Wordlessly, Guy slipped his hand beneath Louisa’s woolen-clad elbow to lead her forward towards the vast panelled dining room beyond.

With iron self-control, he tamped down the dark, bitter emotions scything through him.

CHAPTER FOUR

ALEXA was painting. Painting and painting and painting. She’d been painting all week. A new commission had arrived, and she had gone into overdrive. Imogen had lined up at least two more portraits, and Alexa was thankful, knowing that her friend had done it deliberately. So far she’d managed to hold herself together, though when Imogen had come round that first evening she’d come very close to cracking. Imogen had urged her on—but Alexa would not oblige her. Would not even let her call Guy a bastard.

Let alone allow her to give all the details about his forthcoming marriage.

‘You should know!’ Imogen had wailed.

But Alexa had only said, ‘What for?’ and refused to let her friend say more.

Even so, it had been impossible to silence her completely.

‘According to the internet and the press, quoting the girl’s mother, this Lorenz cousin has been groomed to marry Guy de Rochemont for ever! There was a really yukky bit about how the daughter had been brought up to take her place at the head of the whole damn dynasty. Like they were royalty or something!’

‘Well, there are some titles washing around,’ Alexa had pointed out, keeping her answer reasonable—for being reasonable was essential. So was being composed. And calm. Very calm. ‘And obviously there is the “de” and the “von” in the names. So they are clearly aristocracy in that sense.’

‘Inbred, too!’ Imogen had muttered darkly.

Alexa had not responded. Her consciousness had been filled with a memory of Guy, walking out of the shower, his honed, water-beaded torso as perfectly planed as his face. ‘Inbred’ was not a word to describe him…

Then, something Imogen had said snapped her mind back.

‘…their only daughter—just turned nineteen…’

‘What?’ She stared at Imogen. ‘What did you just say?’

Imogen nodded, glad she had finally pricked Alexa’s calmness. She thought Alexa should be spitting with rage against Guy for having so unceremoniously dumped her. ‘Yup, his precious family bride is only nineteen!’

Alexa had paled, shocked by the disclosure. ‘She can’t be! Guy’s in his thirties. She’d be almost fourteen years younger than him. Nearly a whole generation!’

Imogen smiled nastily. ‘So, cradle-snatcher as well, then—plus complete bastard!’

Alexa flinched. ‘Immie, don’t. Please.’ Then she plunged on, ‘But I can’t, can’t believe he’d marry someone that young.’

‘He’ll probably enjoy a young wife. Someone naive and easy to manipulate. Someone he can impress. Make a fool of.’ She cast a dark look at Alexa. ‘Though you don’t have to be nineteen to be taken for a ride by Guy de Rochemont!’

But Alexa was still too shocked to react to the jibe. ‘She can’t be only nineteen,’ she echoed.

‘Well, she is. And don’t tell me he won’t find it convenient. He’ll be able to pocket her dowry—Daddy’s bank!—to add to his collection, and then after a night deflowering her he can set up a sophisticated, grown-up mistress—like you were, Alexa, whether or not you like that word—and sow his oats with her, not some inexperienced little teenage virgin!’

Alexa’s lips pressed together. ‘Immie, don’t. That’s a completely unwarranted accusation! Guy would never do that! Be unfaithful to his wife.’

Imogen laughed harshly. ‘Oh yeah? Wanna bet? Honestly, Alexa, you’re as naive about him as if it was you who was nineteen!’ She glared at her friend. ‘You just don’t get it, do you? Face the truth, Alexa—Guy de Rochemont used you! He treated you appallingly. It’s unbelievable. He turned up whenever he wanted and there you were, waiting and willing. Or if he decided he could fit you into his oh-so-busy schedule, he had you flown out to him—like some whore!’ Her voice sharpened, her expression fierce. ‘He used you for on-demand sex, Alexa!’

‘No!’ Alexa’s denial was automatic, instant.

‘Yes,’ insisted Imogen.

Alexa shut her eyes, twisting her head away. Imogen’s ugly words seared into her brain. No! she wanted to cry out again. It wasn’t like that! It wasn’t!

Denial fought with doubt.

Imogen hammered home her condemnation.

‘Guy treated you like dirt—why shouldn’t he treat his wife like dirt too?’