Magnolia. Diana Palmer
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her shoulder at John, her eyes wild and desperate and pleading.
John was distraught. Diane hadn’t said a word to him in weeks. Now, at his wedding, she was declaring her love, begging him to forgo this marriage, promising a future for them, insinuating…what? And he, who loved her, and now knew for certain she loved him, was on the verge of marrying another woman. Instead of one barrier between them—her own marriage—he was creating two.
Was he mad to marry Claire, when he didn’t love her? His eyes sought Diane’s across the room and his pained expression brought a sad but reassuring smile to her lips. He turned away, miserable. Diane…his love, his life! He was losing her forever, because of his need to stem foul gossip about her and his pity for Claire. Why hadn’t he realized in time how deeply he was committing himself with this marriage? He hadn’t thought there was a chance of Diane’s marriage ending. Now there was the possibility—now, when it was almost too late! There could be no easy divorce, no quick annulment of his marriage to Claire even if Diane should suddenly become free, because that would create twice the gossip. Of course, they could go away…
There was still time, he told himself. He could stop this, right now. He could go to Claire, tell her that he hadn’t been thinking straight, that despite his compassion for her situation, he didn’t love her and couldn’t marry her. He could do that!
He even made the attempt. He joined her as she entered the church sanctuary, his feelings in turmoil.
She gave him a clear, uncomplicated look, something akin to worship in her soft eyes as she stared up at him, flushed with delight.
His lips parted to speak the words that would end the farce. But somehow, looking into those soft gray eyes through the thin white veil, he couldn’t find the words. He just stood there, speechless. She looked so pure, so untouched, so innocent. So much in love, he thought bitterly. And suddenly, the thought of hurting her was insupportable.
“Is…something wrong with my dress?” she asked worriedly.
“No,” he replied curtly. He glanced back at the full church and made a rough sound. “Wait for the music, Claire,” he said stiffly, and turned to go back down the aisle to the altar, where the minister waited to marry them. He was disgusted with himself. Pity was no excuse for marriage. His heart was forever Diane’s, now more than ever.
Good Lord, would he ever forget what Diane had just confessed to him? Would he ever forget the torment in those beautiful eyes? How could he have thought to marry Claire when a simple loan of money would have done equally well? But sanity had come far too late to save him. He could hardly walk out of the church now, with half of Atlanta’s most prominent citizens watching. The scandal would ruin him…and Claire. He had to go through with it.
Claire heard the music start and she walked down the aisle, all alone. There was no one to give her away; there were no bridesmaids, no attendants. It was a church wedding, but more funereal in tone than joyous. John had looked angry, unhappy. She glimpsed Diane through her veil and saw the woman looking straight at John with a curious, drawn expression. She still wanted him, it seemed. And a split second later, she saw John’s head turn helplessly toward Diane, saw his tormented gaze rest on the other woman.
As she stopped by his side and the minister began speaking, Claire’s heart raced. John was in love with Diane, and, judging by the way she was looking at him, it was reciprocated. Diane loved him, too! Claire felt trapped. John was as helpless in his emotions as she was in her own.
She loved him, but it wasn’t going to be enough, ever. He’d live with her, someday he might even make love to her and they might have children. But he’d be dreaming of Diane, loving Diane, wanting Diane, every minute of every day—just as she wanted him. It was going to be an empty triumph and a hollow, heartless marriage. And she’d realized it too late, overwhelmed as she had been with grief for her uncle and hopeless love for John.
The minister asked John if he took Claire to be his wife; he replied “Yes,” in a terse, forced tone.
The same question was put to Claire. She hesitated. At that instant, she felt John’s hand grasp hers, hard. She said the word without conscious volition, flushing. He put the ring on her finger, and the minister concluded the service, adding that the groom could kiss the bride.
He did, to give him credit, lift the veil from her face and look at her, but his expression was troubled. He bent and barely brushed his cool, firm lips against her own, in a kiss so very different from the one she’d hoped for, dreamed of, wanted with every thread of her being.
He took her arm and they walked down the aisle to the standing congratulations and happy cries of the audience. Only Diane didn’t cheer them on. John glanced at her miserable face once and felt his heart go cold. He looked away. He walked out the door without a single glance backward.
THEY ARRIVED AT JOHN’S apartment late, after the boisterous reception. It might have been fun, except that Diane looked like a grieving widow, and John’s forced smiles wore on Claire’s nerves. By the time it was over, Claire felt as if she’d been shaken to pieces.
The apartment was nice. It was on Peachtree Street, in a very pleasant neighborhood, with trees lining the road out front and plenty of them around the yard. Claire wished it were light enough so that she could see more. Tomorrow, she’d look at that shed John had told her about. She could keep Uncle’s motorcar there.
She hesitated in the doorway of the upstairs floor of the sprawling, late-Victorian house where John lived. There were fancy sofas and chairs in the parlor and curtains at the windows. There was a large ashtray, with a half-smoked cigar in it, and a fireplace in which a fire burned briskly, because some September evenings were cool even this far south.
“This will be your room,” John announced in a subdued tone, twisting the crystal doorknob of a door that led off the parlor.
She walked into it. It was small, but neat, with an iron bedstead painted white and a damask coverlet on it. There was a washstand with a pitcher of water and a large bowl on top of it, along with a mirrored dresser and a chifforobe. All anyone could want, she thought hysterically, except for a husband.
“Thank you for not insisting that we share a room,” she said discreetly, and without looking at him.
“It isn’t a hardship, since we don’t have a normal sort of marriage.” Angry, guilty, he knocked his hand against the dresser, welcoming the pain. “I must have been out of my mind!” He looked at her fully then, with eyes so bitter and full of agony that she felt his emotions bite into her body.
Her fingers clutched the lace curtain. “I didn’t trap you,” she reminded him curtly. “You convinced me that it would be for both our sakes.”
“Yes, I did,” he replied honestly, getting his feelings under tenuous control. “It was an act that we can both spend our lives regretting!”
She didn’t know what to say. He looked destroyed.
He closed his eyes and opened them again. He felt as if he’d aged twenty years. “Well, it’s done. We must make the best of it. There’s no need for us to be much together. You can keep the apartment tidy and I’ll go out to work each day. I often work late into the evening, even on Saturdays. We have church on Sundays. Occasionally I go to my club to play tennis.”
Apparently she wasn’t to accompany him. “I should like to have my uncle’s motorcar moved here,” she said proudly.
He sighed and made an odd gesture with a lean hand. “If we must.” He had no heart for argument. Diane’s lovely tear-filled eyes haunted him.
“We must,” she replied firmly. “Furthermore, I want my wheel.”
His eyebrows lifted. “You ride a bicycle?”
“Certainly I do. Most young ladies have wheels these days. It’s wonderful exercise. There is a bicycle club in the city.”
“It’s dangerous,” he said, concerned for her daredevil schemes. First a motorcar, now this. “A woman racer fell off