Christmas at His Command

Marigold sat absolutely still for a full minute. Celine. Whoever this other woman was, she would have to be called something like that; something more ordinary just wouldn’t fit the bill. Celine, Tamara… Were they born with names like that or did they choose them themselves when they decided to turn into femmes fatales? So, Flynn had a Celine in his life, did he? A Celine who he always returned to, by the sound of it.

Marigold stood up slowly, anger beginning to replace the sick feeling of disappointment. He’d had no right to kiss her when he was involved with someone else. ‘Whoever this girl is and whatever the relationship between her and Flynn, she’ll go the same way as the rest.’ The woman’s words burnt in Marigold’s mind.

Clearly Flynn and Celine had one of these open relationships, or perhaps the other woman just put up with the status quo because she knew she was different to a casual affair? That she had his heart if not exclusive rights to his body?

Marigold looked down at her hands and realised her fingers were curled into her palms so tightly they were hurting. She forced herself to relax them finger by finger, took a deep breath and then opened the door of the cubicle, stepping out into the carpeted area where the two washbasins reposed against a mirrored wall. It was quite empty.

She splashed her wrists with cold water for a few moments before dabbing some on the back of her neck. She had no reason to feel angry and let down, she told herself miserably, but she did. He had only kissed her a couple of times when all was said and done.

And then she frowned. No, this line of reasoning was flawed, she declared militantly to herself. Flynn had told her he was a single man, and maybe he was—technically. But with Celine around, in her book he was definitely not up for grabs. Not that she would have grabbed him anyway, Marigold reassured herself fiercely. But the fact remained he had not been totally honest with her, even if he had told everyone she was just a friend. At least those gossipy women hadn’t been sure if there was anything between her and Flynn. Which, of course, there wasn’t, never had been and never would be, Celine or no Celine, she added vehemently.

So…she would go back out there and behave just as she had been doing all evening. She’d laugh and joke and be friendly, and when Flynn took her home—if he took her home; he might well get Wilf to do the honours, for all she knew—she would thank him politely for a wonderful party and make a graceful exit out of his life. And that—most definitely—would be that. She would be quietly dignified and decorous, and would never intimate she knew anything at all about Celine. He was entitled to live his life exactly as he chose, but as far as she was concerned she thought it stank!

She stood a moment or two more, staring at herself in the mirrors. She would make it abundantly clear she did not fancy him or want anything at all to do with him; if nothing else he would remember her a little differently from the rest. Those words had got right under her skin, she admitted ruefully. There was something terribly humiliating in being herded under such a heading.

She applied fresh lipstick, ran her comb through her hair so it fell in shimmering wings against her soft skin, and then squared her shoulders.

Right, Flynn, she thought with a trace of dark amusement. This is where you start having to face the fact that you are not God’s gift to the whole female race!

Couples were dancing to a popular Christmas hit in the hall as she made her way back to the drawing room, edging carefully round gyrating bodies. Still more were jigging about on the perimeter of the drawing room and the buzz of conversation and laughter was deafening. Everyone was having a wonderful time.

‘I missed you.’ Flynn must have been waiting for her because no sooner had she put her nose through the door than he was at her side, the intensity of his gaze making her skin burn in spite of herself.

‘Oh, I doubt that.’ She forced a light laugh she was inordinately proud of.

‘Then I’ll have to convince you somehow,’ he murmured softly, smiling his slow smile. ‘Let’s find a quiet corner.’

Oh, no, she wasn’t having any of this. If he wanted a Christmas intrigue—Celine obviously being elsewhere—he had picked the wrong girl, Marigold told herself tightly. She flashed him a brilliant smile. ‘I wouldn’t dream of taking you away from your other guests,’ she said brightly, turning away from him in the same instant and making her way over to the group she had left earlier, inwardly seething.

Those two women had known about Celine and no doubt the existence of the other woman was common knowledge among the rest of the folk here, or a certain number of them at any rate. How dared he come on to her in front of everyone?

She had half expected Flynn to follow her and press his cause, but when there was no firm male hand on her shoulder or soft voice in her ear she assumed he hadn’t thought it was worth the effort—that she wasn’t worth the effort.

The talk within the group had shifted to medical matters when she rejoined them, several of the party being doctors and nurses. One of the other women—married to a young surgeon who was just relating the complications he’d encountered when he took the appendix out of some unfortunate soul—leant across to Marigold as she sat down. ‘It always turns to work,’ she murmured conspiratorially. ‘If I’ve heard about one operation at a dinner party or some function or other, I’ve heard about hundreds! It’s so boring. Oh, sorry, I never thought—you’re not in the profession, are you?’

‘Not me.’ Marigold smiled back into the rosy face topped by blonde curls. She had noticed this particular couple earlier; the wife was about seven months pregnant and always laughing and cuddling her doctor husband, and he was blatantly besotted with his pretty wife. Marigold had found herself envying them with all her heart, which had surprised her at the time. Even when she had been engaged to Dean she had been in no particular rush to settle down and have babies, and now that was definitely on the back burner. But something about this couple had made her terribly broody. It must be wonderful to be pregnant by the man you love, she thought with a sudden painfulness which amazed her afresh.

‘Good, I’m glad you’re not a doctor or nurse. We can talk fashion and hairstyles and soaps—anything but hospitals and operations!’ The pretty face smiled at her and Marigold smiled back, forcing herself to concentrate on the conversation rather than do what every nerve in her body was willing her to do and to turn round and see where Flynn was.

At one o’clock Bertha appeared with hot mulled wine and a stack of mince pies and a Christmas cake which would have fed a small army, and at half-past one the first of the guests began to leave—some to their rooms within the house, and others to the village inn some miles away where Flynn had apparently booked rooms. According to Marigold’s new friend, those guests staying at the inn were returning in the morning for Christmas lunch and tea.

Flynn had joined the group some fifteen minutes or so after Marigold but he hadn’t singled her out for any special attention, keeping everyone amused with a dry, wicked wit that could be slightly caustic, and which had everyone—Marigold noted with acid cynicism—hanging on his every word. He was clearly the big fish in this particular pond, and the other guests’ adulation—which bordered on reverence in Marigold’s jaded opinion—grated unbearably.

‘The offer’s still open for you to use the annexe tonight.’ Marigold had walked across to the laden trolley at one side of the room to leave her glass and empty plate with the others deposited there, and she hadn’t been aware Flynn had followed her until his deep voice stroked across the back of her neck.

‘No, thank yo

u.’ She tried, she really tried to keep her voice light and friendly, but even to her own ears it sounded strained.

‘OK, out with it, Marigold,’ Flynn said coolly. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘The matter?’ She nerved herself to turn and face him, wiping her face of all expression. ‘Sorry, I don’t understand. I thought I’d made it clear yesterday I intended to sleep at the cottage?’ And definitely, definitely not in his bed. If he thought he could use her as a bed warmer till Celine turned up, he’d got another think coming.

‘Forget where you’re sleeping. I asked you what was the matter.’

She stared up at him, at the stern mouth and firm jaw, and it was with deep self-disgust that Marigold realised she envied Celine more than she would have thought possible. ‘Nothing is the matter,’ she lied steadily.

‘Marigold, part of the job of being a good surgeon—and I am a damn good surgeon—is to know when people are tense and worried, when they’re keeping something back,’ he said evenly. ‘Something has happened tonight and I want to know what it is.’