Penny Jordan Tribute Collection. PENNY JORDAN
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‘For better, for worse… Don’t remind me. We both know which it will be, don’t we?’
‘Look, it doesn’t have to be like this, Petra. After all, we both already know that we have something in common, some shared ground…’
‘And what ground would that be? The ground you’re hoping to design another billion-pound complex on? Money! Is that all you can think about?’
Petra tensed as she felt his grip move from her elbow to her upper arm and tighten almost painfully on it as he bent his head and whispered with menacing silkiness in her ear, ‘I would have thought that I had already proved to you that it is not. But if you wish me to show you again…’
Petra jerked away from him as though she had been scalded.
‘If you ever, ever try to force me to… to accept you as my husband physically, then—’
‘Force you?’
For a minute he looked as though she had somehow shocked him, but then his expression changed, hardening.
‘Now you are being ridiculous,’ he told her curtly. ‘There has never been any question of my doing any such thing. Even though…’
‘Even though what?’ Petra challenged him bitterly. ‘Even though legally it is your right?’
She was almost beside herself with misery and anguish mixed to a toxic consistency by an over-active imagination and the fear that she was not as indifferent to him as she wanted to be.
Now that the ceremony was over she was face to face with the knowledge that tonight she would be his wife—his bride. He was a sensually passionate man; she already knew that! If he chose to consummate their marriage would she have the strength to reject and deny him?
‘Rashid, your uncle has been looking for you…’
Petra released her breath in a sigh of relief as he moved away from her.
Several hours later, blank-eyed with exhaustion and misery, Petra stared bitterly in front of her, wishing she was anywhere but where she was and anyone but who she was—or rather who she was now.
Her godfather had not been able to join them. No doubt he would save his celebrations until after the New Year and the announcement of his peerage, Petra reflected savagely.
Her marriage to Rashid had been trumpeted in the press as the romance of the year, but of course she knew better! She hated Rashid more than she had ever thought it possible for her to hate anyone, she decided wearily, and she knew she would never, ever forgive him for what he had done to her.
Finally the celebrations were drawing to a close. Finally her attendants were coming to carry her away to the suite that had been set aside for her to change out of her wedding dress and into her ‘going-away’ clothes.
‘Where is Rashid taking you on honeymoon? Do you know?’ one of the girls, a married niece of her aunt, asked Petra before shushing the knowing giggles of some of the younger bridesmaids.
Petra was tempted to reply that she neither knew nor cared, but good manners prevented her from doing so.
‘I don’t really know,’ she replied instead.
‘It’s a secret. Oh, how romantic,’ another of the girls exclaimed enviously.
Yet another chimed in, more practically, ‘But how did you know what clothes to pack if you don’t know where you are going?’
‘She’s going on honeymoon, silly,’ another one submitted. ‘So clothes won’t—’
‘Stop it, all of you,’ the oldest and most sensible of her attendants instructed. ‘You are supposed to be helping Petra, not gossiping like schoolgirls. You must not worry. A man as experienced as Rashid will know exactly what to do!’ she soothed Petra. ‘I can remember how nervous I was on my wedding night. I had no idea what to expect, and I was terrified that my husband would not know what I needed, but I should have had more trust in him… or rather in my mother.’ She grinned. ‘She had ensured that I had all the right clothes—although I suspect if it had been left to Sayeed I might not.’
Clothes! She was talking about clothes! Petra didn’t know whether to laugh or cry!
At last it was over and she was ready, dressed in the simple cream trouser suit she had bought in the exclusive shopping centre nearby. The plain diamond ear studs which had been her mother’s, and which she had worn since her death, had been removed from her ears and replaced by the much larger pair which had been part of Rashid’s wedding present to her. She felt like ripping them out and destroying them, but of course that wasn’t possible, with her attendants exclaiming excitedly over the clarity and perfection of the stones, obviously chosen to complement the diamonds in her platinum engagement and wedding rings.
She had been misted with a fresh cloud of Rashid’s perfume, and handed the minute scraps of silk and lace that her aunt was pleased to call underwear—Petra still couldn’t believe that such minute scraps of fabric could cost so very, very much. Her manicure and pedicure had been checked by her eagle-eyed chief attendant, who seemed to believe that it would be a lifelong reflection on her if Petra was not handed over into the hands of her new husband looking anything less than immaculate. Now she was apparently ready to be handed into the care of her husband like a sweetmeat to be unwrapped and enjoyed—or discarded as he saw fit!
‘Come—it is time. Rashid is waiting,’ her chief attendant announced importantly.
As Petra looked towards the closed door to the suite the busy giggles fluttering around her died away.
‘Be happy,’ the chief attendant told her as she kissed her.
‘May your life be full of the laughter of your children and the love of your husband,’ the second whispered, as all the girls queued up to offer her their good wishes for her future and exchange shy embraces with her.
‘May the nights of your marriage be filled with pleasure,’ the boldest-eyed and most daring told her.
The noise from outside her suite was becoming deafening.
‘If we do not open the door soon Rashid might break it down,’ someone giggled, and there was an instant flurry of excited and delighted female panic as the door was pulled open and Petra was prodded and pushed through it.
The assembled wedding guests standing outside cheered exuberantly when they saw her, but Petra barely noticed their enthusiasm. Across the small space that separated them her bitter gaze clashed with Rashid’s.
Like her, he was dressed in Western-style clothes. Designers the world over would have paid a fortune to have Rashid wearing their logo, Petra decided with clinical detachment, refusing to allow her heartbeat to react to the casual togetherness of his appearance. Place him in any city in the world and he would immediately be recognised as a man of style and class, a man of wealth and knowledge. Wealthy, educated people like Rashid shared a common bond, no matter what their place of birth, Petra acknowledged distantly.
Silently he extended his hand towards her.
The crowd started to cheer. Briefly Petra hesitated, her glance going betrayingly to the windows, as though seeking freedom, but someone gave her a firm little push and her fingertips touched Rashid’s hand and were swiftly enclosed by it.
With almost biblical immediacy, the crowd parted to allow them to pass through. The huge double doors to the private garden of the banqueting suite were flung open, and as they stepped out into the softness of the night perfectly timed fireworks exploded, sending sprays of brilliantly coloured stars showering earthwards.
At the same time they were deluged with handfuls of scented rose petals, and the air was filled with a pink-tinged cloud of strawberry scented shisha smoke. Doves swooped and flew, and a cloud of shimmering butterflies appeared as if by magic—music played, people laughed and called out good wishes to them, and Rashid drew her relentlessly towards the exit to the garden.