Forbidden or For Bedding? (10 page)

She picked up her needlework again, the troubled look gone, replaced by hope. Above all she wished her son the gift of a marriage based on love. Even if it took a
marriage de covenance
to achieve it, as it had in her case.

Would it be so for her son as well?

For now, she could only watch, and wait, in hope.

‘A
LEXA,
it's the best thing that could have happened to you. Richard Saxonby is seriously nice. Plus he's good-looking, well-heeled, and really keen on you. You couldn't do better!'

Imogen's encomium was a ringing endorsement of what Alexa already knew about the man who was asking her out. Richard was indeed seriously nice. Plus he was good company and intelligent, which was important to her—though Alexa did not regard as highly as Imogen his financial status and keenness on her. She liked him, and, yes, with her eyes she could see he was good looking, with his brown hair and brown eyes, and sturdy, muscular build.

But did that mean she should go out with him?

‘Yes!' urged Imogen. ‘You can't go on moping for ever!'

‘I am not moping,' Alexa replied evenly.

‘Just living like a nun.' Imogen said acidly. She rolled her eyes. ‘It's been four months since Guy de Rochemont did the dirty on you. And since then—' she ignored the customary rejection Alexa always gave whenever she heard Guy criticised ‘—all you've done is work, work, work. If it hadn't been for me plaguing you, you wouldn't have seen a soul except your clients! C'mon, Alexa—it's time to rejoin the female race. Guy's history—and you're well out of it.
Find someone normal, with emotions, not just some jerk who thinks his zillions entitle him to treat women like disposable sex toys whenever he wants some personal R&R when he's not adding to his gold piles. That's why Richard Saxonby's so good—he's
nice
, for Pete's sake!'

‘Too nice,' Alexa prevaricated. ‘I don't want to—'

She stopped. Saying more would be revealing, and since Imogen was only too ready to find any reason to persist in her castigation of Guy de Rochemont Alexa did not want to add any fuel to the fire. But silently she completed the sentence in her own head.

I don't want to give him false hope…

Even as the words formed she felt the familiar scrape against her heart. If only familiarity lessened the pain—but it had never yet seemed to. For over four months her strategy had simply been to ignore the pain. Acknowledge it was there, but otherwise ignore it. After all, what else could she do? She had fallen in love—stupidly and unintentionally and rashly—with a man who was the very last she should have fallen in love with. He'd never expected her to, and if he'd known she had he would have been appalled with her. It wasn't his fault she'd gone and done it, which meant that the fall-out was hers and hers alone. She had to tough it out, that was all, because what else was there to do? At some point, surely, she would wake up one morning and realise that she was over him? Then, and only then, would she be ready to do what Imogen was vocally urging her to do—move on.

Move on to another man.

But that was the stumbling block. It was unimaginable still even to
think
of becoming emotionally involved with another man. The very thought was impossible. And for that reason she didn't want anyone becoming emotionally
hung up on her. Especially not someone as nice as Richard Saxonby.

She'd met him at one of Imogen's frequent dinner parties, to one of which she'd finally been lured, and it was blatantly obvious he'd been carefully selected as a dinner guest by Imogen, purely to dangle in front of her. She'd been placed next to him, and Alexa had to allow that Richard ticked a lot of boxes. He was nice, funny, good-natured and good-looking.

But he wasn't Guy de Rochemont.

No one is! No one possibly could be!

Alexa laid into her own futile objection ruthlessly. No one was ever going to be Guy, and Guy was beyond her now—beyond her for ever. Her future lay without him, and nothing on earth could change that.

I have to get over him! I have to!

The pain still scraped away at her heart, familiar and futile. So damn,
damn
futile…

And Immie was right. Until she made a determined effort to remake the rest of her life she would inevitably go on ‘moping', as her friend so cruelly described her decision to withdraw from the social world, turn in on herself, try and tough it out.

I have to get over him—I have no alternative
.

A deep breath filled her lungs, and she lifted her chin. ‘All right,' she said, ‘I'll give Richard a go.'

Immie shut her eyes. ‘At last. Thank God,' she said fervently. Then, less audibly but yet more fervently, she muttered, ‘And maybe that bastard who treated you like dirt will finally get the hell out of your head! And stay out!'

 

Guy was meeting and greeting. As the customary social phrases flowed smoothly from his lips, so familiar to him
that he could say them on automatic, his conscious mind was busy. Busy exerting what had become bleakly familiar to him over the last four months—iron self-control over his emotions.

Self-control had been an essential weapon in his personal armoury just about all his life, he recognised. It was what enabled him to function, and always had. It was as necessary as breathing. It enabled him to run the behemoth of Rochemont-Lorenz, bear the mantle that was his by inheritance, and cope with all the endless demands made on him—not only of ensuring that Rochemont-Lorenz would continue to survive and prosper in this uncertain new century but also far more tedious to endure, of being endlessly on call to just about every member of the entire damn clan.

So many relatives! So many gatherings of relatives!
Dieu
, he could have filled his days simply circulating around Europe, and further afield, on a non-stop diet of family social occasions from birthdays to weddings to christenings to funerals. His attendance was expected, his presence courted, and offence taken if he made too many repeated omissions. Ambitions were raised if he decided that relatives active in the myriad companies and enterprises within Rochmont-Lorenz were worth promoting, chagrin taken by those he did not consider sufficiently able.

Not to mention tracking and mitigating the endless politicking and jostling between the different branches—internecine rivalries and alliances alike. Not everyone had been of the opinion that a man in his early twenties—even though he was the son of the oldest branch of the family—should take over the helm from his father at so young an age. There had been plenty of older cousins who had challenged his succession. But Guy's dedication to his role, his
cool head and formidable financial acumen, had proved him his father's son both in ability and determination, and now his place at the head of the dynasty was assured—taken for granted, even.

The bleakness in his face was visible momentarily. Just as it was taken for granted that he would continue to guard the fortunes of Rochemont-Lorenz, whatever that required.

Right to the very point of marrying for that purpose.

His eyes glanced sideways.

Louisa was standing beside him—conspicuously so—standing very still as the mill of people in the ballroom ebbed and flowed, and the cluster that Guy was meeting and greeting came and went. She looked ill at ease, saying little, and although Guy made allowances for her youth and inexperience at such formal gatherings, and had sought to reassure her that he would give her all the support he could, that did not mean she would not have to learn how to handle them with the assurance that would be necessary as his wife.

It did not help that she was clearly of marked interest to anyone who knew him, for this was her first appearance in London as his fiancée, and for once her parents were not here. Guy had finally succeeded in shaking them off for his visit here, and Louisa was staying with the family of an old college friend for a weekend in England. Guy would have preferred her not to be here at all—not to be putting her through what was clearly an ordeal for her—but on the other hand she had to get used to the life she would be leading once she was married to him: the endless round of socialising and hostessing. That would best be done without her parents endlessly hovering over her—and over him.

The bleakness flared in his eyes again, mingled with the other emotion that was his constant companion—an
emotion that required every ounce of will to control. An emotion that being in London had brought dangerously to the fore. He hadn't been here in four months, and he was glad of it. It only reminded him of what he'd had to do without. Into his mind's eye flicked the image of the eagle soaring, free and unfettered, over the lofty Alpine peaks as he'd headed into the confines of the tunnel. Resentment bit into him at what he was no longer free to do. And what he had to do instead.

At his side, Louisa hesitantly echoed his greeting of whoever it was whose hand he'd just shaken. His glance went sideways again. His mouth tightened. Annelise might not be here in person, but she was here in spirit, given the choice of gown for her daughter tonight. The dress was far too overpowering, stiff and grandiose. Presumably Annelise had been intending to make Louisa look older, more sophisticated. Instead it just emphasised her youth—and her evident awkwardness.

She'd looked a whole lot better in the jeans she'd worn that first evening—casual teenage wear, Guy thought. Since then, whenever he'd set eyes on her, she'd always been wearing outfits obviously chosen by her mother, and never to her advantage. He'd made no comment, not wanting to make her even more unsure of herself, but had made a mental note to ensure that as soon as they were married he would put her in the hands of someone who knew how to dress her properly, to bring out the best in her.

Memory stung like an unwelcome wasp.

His murmured accolade—
superbe
…

The image was vivid in his mind.

A slender column of burnt sienna raw silk, sleeveless and high-necked, exposing graceful arms and accentuating the subtle curves of breast and hip…

His mouth tightened even more. Why was he remem
bering Alexa when she was gone from his life now? His future lay with Louisa and he must remember that, must banish distracting memories of his lost freedom.

At his side, Louisa's gaze suddenly flickered up to his, and he saw anxiety flare briefly. He curved a smile to his mouth to reassure her, and hoped he'd succeeded. As he'd said to his mother, none of this was her fault. A frown drew his eyebrows together. Despite the punishing demands of starting to sort out Lorenz Investment on top of all his other concerns, he'd made an effort to spend what time he could with Louisa, seeking to get to know her and, above all, establish that she was prepared to enter into such a marriage with him.

Like his parents, hers, too, had married for the sake of Rochemont-Lorenz, and he was as reassured as he could be in the circumstances that Louisa was willing to marry him, and that she understood that for now his first concern must be saving her father's bank. Once that was secure he would give Louisa the attention she deserved, get to know her better and draw her out of her shyness and reticence.

A young, adoring bride. His eyes frowned. Was that what he wanted? Even as the thought came, he knew the answer.

No.

But perhaps for Louisa—who, like him, had not sought this marriage—it would be the best way for her to find happiness.

The frown turned to bleakness. For him, happiness seemed unlikely.

Once more his eyes chilled. Once more his iron self-control hammered down—familiar and exacting. And absolutely essential.

 

‘More champagne?'

Alexa gave a slight shake of her head. ‘Not for the moment. I'm doing fine.'

She was, too—and not just in consuming the champagne that was circulating generously at this crowded charity gala. She was doing fine just being out for the evening with Richard. As fine as could be expected. She'd had cold feet half a dozen times since she'd given in to Imogen, but each time she'd gone through the same dogged loop of facing up to the unalterable truth that she simply could not go on living like a hermit for the rest of her existence. She had to get on with her life.

Even so, when Richard had disclosed that he was inviting her to be his partner at this charity gala, she had almost backed out. Something more low-key would have been preferable for a first evening. On the other hand as she'd gone on to consider, a charity gala was preferable to some kind of quiet, intimate
tête-á-tête
over dinner. Nevertheless, it had taken a stern degree of resolution to get herself ready for this evening and come here on Richard's arm.

Although he could not be faulted as an evening companion, she knew she was far from relaxed. The commercial property company where he was a consultant architect was supporting this event. At his table was a mix of fellow architects and their partners, and she was conscious of being reserved—even for her. Conscious, too, of the presence of so many glitteringly arrayed guests—the charity had clearly captured a good number of London's seriously wealthy people. The realisation made her uneasy. Evoked memories and associations she did not want. She felt the familiar scrape across her heart.

But the last thing she wanted was to spoil Richard's evening by being anything other than a good guest, and so, despite her reserve, she entered into the general conversation
at the table. As the evening wore on, a sobering truth came to her. Had she not ever gone through that rash, misguided affair with Guy de Rochemont—or rather, she amended, had she not committed the folly of allowing herself to so stupidly fall in love with him—she would have enjoyed Richard Saxonby's attentions far more.

It makes such sense to fall for him…

Surely, with time, she could make herself do so? Surely, with time, she could start to feel for him, finally expunge the hopeless, dead-end love she'd felt for Guy that was keeping her in this pointless limbo? Surely, she thought, as she smiled pleasantly at Richard, accepting his invitation to dance as the dinner, speeches and charity auction finally gave way to a general mingling around the huge room, surely it would not be too hard to take pleasure in lifting her eyes to his, letting their warmth set a glow in hers, letting his well-made mouth kiss hers? It should not be too hard to come to desire him. To fall—one day, when the time was right and they had come to know each other and desire each other—in love with him?