The Marriage Bed: An Ideal Marriage? / The Marriage Campaign / The Bridal Bed. HELEN BIANCHIN
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‘We each retired with superficial wounds,’ Gabbi declared solemnly.
‘Dare I ask when the game is to continue?’
‘Who can tell?’
‘And the weapon?’
She managed a smile. ‘Why—Annaliese herself. With you as the prize. Her formal adoption by James would make her a Stanton. Our divorce is a mere formality in order to change Stanton to Nicols.’
He lifted a hand and brushed light fingers across her cheek. ‘Am I to understand you are not impressed with that scenario?’
No. For a moment she thought she’d screamed the negative out loud, and she stood in mesmerised silence for several seconds, totally unaware that her expressive features were more explicit than any words.
‘Do you believe,’ Benedict began quietly, ‘I deliberately chose you as my wife with the future of Stanton-Nicols foremost in mind?’
Straight for the jugular. Gabbi had expected no less. Her chin tilted slightly. ‘Suitable marriages are manipulated among the wealthy for numerous reasons,’ she said fearlessly. ‘Love isn’t a necessary prerequisite.’
His expression didn’t change, but she sensed a degree of anger and felt chilled by it.
‘And what we share in bed? How would you define that?’
A lump rose in her throat, and she swallowed it. ‘Skilled expertise.’
Something dark momentarily hardened the depths of his gaze, then it was gone. ‘You’d relegate me to the position of stud?’
Oh, God. She closed her eyes, then opened them again. ‘No. No,’ she reiterated, stricken by his deliberate interpretation.
‘I should be thankful for that small mercy.’
He was angry. Icily so. And it hurt, terribly.
Yet what had she expected? A heartfelt declaration that she was too important in his life for him to consider anyone taking her place?
Gabbi felt as if she couldn’t breathe. Her eyes were trapped by his, her body transfixed as though in a state of suspended animation.
‘The coffee has finished filtering.’
His voice held that familiar cynicism, and with an effort she focused her attention on pouring coffee into both cups, then added sugar.
Benedict picked up one. ‘I’ll take this through to the study.’
Her eyes settled on his broad back as he walked from the kitchen, her expression pensive.
Damn Annaliese, Gabbi cursed silently as she discarded her coffee down the sink. With automatic movements she rinsed the cup and stacked it in the dishwasher, then she switched off the coffee-maker and doused the lights before making her way upstairs.
Reaching the bedroom, she walked through to the en suite, stripped off her bikini, turned on the water and stepped into the shower.
It didn’t take long to shampoo her hair, and fifteen minutes with the blow-drier restored it to its usual silky state.
In bed, she reached for a book and read a chapter before switching off the lamp.
She had no idea what time Benedict slid in beside her, nor did she sense him leave the bed in the early- . morning hours, for when she woke she was alone and the only signs of his occupation were a dented pillow and the imprint of his body against the sheet.
GABBI glanced at the bedside clock and gave an inaudible groan. Seven-thirty. Time to rise and shine, hit the shower, breakfast, and join the queue of traffic heading into the city.
Thank heavens today was Friday and the weekend lay ahead.
Benedict had accepted an invitation to attend a tennis evening which Chris Evington, head partner in the accountancy firm Stanton-Nicols employed, had arranged at his home. Tomorrow evening they had tickets to the Australian première . performance at the Sydney Entertainment Centre.
The possibility of Annaliese discovering their plans for tonight was remote, Gabbi decided as she slid in behind the wheel of her car. And it was doubtful even Monique would be able to arrange an extra seat for the première performance at such short notice.
It was a beautiful day, the sky clear of cloud, and at this early-morning hour free from pollution haze.
Gabbi was greeted by Security as she entered the car park, acknowledged at Reception en route to her office, and welcomed by her secretary who brought coffee in one hand and a notebook in the other.
As the morning progressed Gabbi fought against giving last night’s scene too much thought, and failed. During the afternoon she overlooked a miscalculation and lost valuable time in cross-checking. Consequently, it was a relief to slip behind the wheel of her car and head home.
Benedict’s vehicle was already parked in the garage when she arrived, and she felt her stomach clench with unbidden nerves as she entered the house.
Gabbi checked with Marie, then went upstairs to change.
Benedict was in the process of discarding his tie when she reached the bedroom.
‘You’re home early.’ As a greeting it lacked originality, but it was better than silence.
She met his dark gaze with equanimity, her eyes lingering on the hard planes of his face, and settling briefly on his mouth. Which was a mistake.
‘Dinner will be ready at six.’
‘So Marie informed me.’ He began unbuttoning his shirt, and her eyes trailed the movement, paused, then returned to scan his features.
Nothing there to determine his mood. Damn. She hated friction. With Monique and Annaliese it was unavoidable—but Benedict was something else.
‘I should apologise.’ There, it wasn’t hard at all. Did he know she’d summoned the courage, wrestled with the need to do so, for most of the day?
A faint smile tugged at the edges of his mouth, and the expression in his eyes was wholly cynical. ‘Good manners, Gabbi?’
He shrugged off the business shirt, reached for a dark-coloured open-necked polo shirt and tugged it over his head.
Honesty was the only way to go. ‘Genuine remorse.’
He removed his trousers and donned a casual cotton pair.
He looked up, and she caught the dark intensity of his gaze. ‘Apology accepted.’
Her nervous tension dissolved, and the breath she’d unconsciously been holding slipped silently free. ‘Thank you.’
Retreat seemed a viable option and she crossed to the capacious walk-in wardrobe, selected tennis gear, then extracted casual linen trousers and a blouse.
The buzz of the electric shaver sounded from the en suite bathroom, and he emerged as she finished changing.
Gabbi felt the familiar flood of warmth, and fought against it ‘What time do you want to leave?’ It was amazing that her voice sounded so calm.
‘Seven-fifteen.’
They descended the stairs together, and ate the delectable chicken salad Marie had prepared, washed it down with mineral water, then picked from a selection of fresh fruit. A light meal which would be supplemented by supper after the last game of tennis.
Conversation was confined to business and the proposed agenda at the next board meeting.
Chris and Leanne Evington resided at Woollahra in a large, rambling old home which had been lovingly restored. Neat lawns, beautiful gardens, precisely clipped hedges and shrubbed topiary lent an air of a past era. The