A Husband's Revenge. Lee Wilkinson
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‘It’s no use...’ She heard the desolation of her own despair. ‘I can’t remember anything prior to waking up in the hospital.’
Suddenly he was by her side again, looming too close. Tilting her chin, he examined her face, taking in the translucent skin stretched tightly over the wonderful bone structure, the paleness of her lips, the lost look in the long-lashed violet eyes.
His touch closed her throat and made her mouth go dry. Unconsciously, she ran the tip of her tongue over parched lips.
Something flaring in his green eyes, he followed the small, betraying movement. She froze, terrified he was going to kiss her, wanting him to kiss her...
He, who seemed never to miss a thing, obviously noted her reaction and smiled a little. Releasing her chin, he touched a bell by the bedhead before sitting down again. ‘When you say “anything”...?’
It took her a moment or two to recover. Then, forehead creased in thought, she said slowly, ‘I remember the ordinary everyday things of life. How to read and write, add up and subtract...that kind of thing. It’s personal memories that have gone...’
Were those memories so dark, so disturbing, that her subconscious wanted them blanked out? Had she needed to lose herself and the past in order to survive some emotional trauma?
Or was this feeling of being threatened by past and future alike merely symptomatic of her amnesia? When her memory returned would she find she was a perfectly ordinary woman with a perfectly ordinary marriage?
But suppose it never returned?
Fighting down a rush of blind panic at the thought, she went on, ‘I don’t know anything about myself. If I’ve got a middle name or what my maiden name was... I don’t even know how old I am.’
‘Your middle name is Linden, your maiden name was Berkeley and you’re twenty-four. You’ll be twenty-five on September the third. A Virgo,’ he added, with a derisive twist to his lips.
Before Clare could react to what seemed to be a sneer, there was a tap at the door, and it opened to admit a dark-suited dignified man, carrying a tray. Pulling the metal supports into position, he placed it carefully across her knees.
Bending his balding head deferentially, he said, ‘I’m delighted that madam is safely home.’
‘Thank you, er...’ She hesitated.
‘This is Roberts,’ Jos informed her. Then, to the manservant, he said, ‘I’m afraid Mrs Saunders still hasn’t recovered her memory.’
Roberts looked suitably grave. ‘Very upsetting for both of you, sir.’
After deftly removing the lid from a dish of poached salmon, he opened and shook out a white damask napkin. ‘Mr Saunders thought a light meal... If, however, madam would prefer chicken, or an omelette...?’
‘Oh, no... Thank you.’ Then, sensing a genuine wish to please, she remarked with a smile, ‘I’m sure this will be delicious.’
Roberts departed noiselessly.
‘A butler instead of a housekeeper?’ Sipping her tea, Clare spoke her thoughts aloud. ‘I get the feeling you don’t care much for women?’
‘In one area at least I find a woman is indispensable.’ His mocking glance left her in no doubt as to which area he referred to. ‘I also employ a couple of female cleaners. But I happen to prefer a male servant to run the household.’
Head bent, hoping to hide her blush, she asked, ‘Has Roberts been with you long?’
‘He came with the penthouse.’ Then, with no change of tone, he added, ‘Your salmon will get cold.’
Uncomfortably, she asked, ‘Aren’t you eating?’
‘I had a late lunch a couple of hours ago, when it appeared that you were still in shock and were going to sleep the clock round.’
She glanced at her bare left wrist before asking, ‘What time is it now?’
‘Nearly four-thirty.’ Lifting her hand, making the huge diamond solitaire flash in the light, he asked, ‘Do you remember what happened to your watch?’
‘Do I usually wear one?’
‘Yes. So far as I know, always.’ Letting go of her hand, he urged, ‘Do eat something or you’ll upset Roberts.’
Feeling suddenly ravenous, Clare began to tuck in with a will. Glancing up to find Jos’s eyes were watching her every move, she hesitated.
‘Don’t let me put you off,’ he said abruptly. ‘You must be starving. It’s over twenty-four hours since you were knocked down.’
Glancing once again at her empty wrist, she suggested, ‘Perhaps I left my watch behind when I... with my rings...’
He shook his head emphatically. ‘You wouldn’t have left it behind.’ Dark face thoughtful, he went on, ‘When you arrived at the hospital you had no handbag with you. Didn’t you think that was strange? Don’t most women carry a bag?’
Putting down her knife and fork, she agreed, ‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘It’s my belief that when you were knocked down, by the time the cabby had pulled himself together and got out, your bag and watch had been stolen. It’s a pretty rough area... Have you any idea what you were doing there?’
‘No.’ Then, harking back, she asked curiously, ‘What makes you so sure I wouldn’t have left my watch behind?’
He rose to his feet and, lifting the tray from her knees, set it aside before answering, ‘Because it was a twenty-first birthday gift from your parents.’
‘My parents?’ Her heart suddenly lifted with hope. ‘Where do they—?’
‘They’re dead,’ he said harshly, resuming his seat. ‘They died in a plane crash in Panama a few months ago.’
‘Oh...’ She felt a curious hollowness, an emptiness that grief should have filled. ‘Did you know them?’
After an almost imperceptible hesitation, he said, ‘I knew of them.’
‘Can you tell me anything about them?’ she asked eagerly. ‘Anything that might help me to remember? Our family background... where they lived?’
This time he hesitated so long that she found herself wondering anew if he would prefer her not to remember.
Then, as though making up his mind, he said, ‘Yes, I can tell you about your family background.’ His face hard, his green eyes curiously angry, he went on, ‘Your father was Sir Roger Berkeley, your mother, Lady Isobel Berkeley. He was a diplomat and she was a well-known hostess, prominent in fashionable society.’
Clare could sense an underlying tension in his manner, a marked bitterness.
‘You were born and brought up in a house called Stratton Place, a mile or so from Meredith.’
‘Meredith?’
‘A pretty little village not too far from London. A lot of rich people live there—bankers, stockbrokers, politicians... You went to an expensive boarding-school until you were eighteen, then a Swiss finishing-school.’
He sounded as if he resented their wealth and position, and she wondered briefly if he’d come from a poorer environment. But that didn’t tally with his voice and his educated accent.
‘You were an only child—and a mistake, I fancy.’ Chilled both by the concept and Jos’s deliberate cruelty, she asked, ‘How could you know a thing like that?’
He shrugged broad shoulders. ‘I’m judging by the type of woman your mother was, and the fact that you were pushed off to boarding-school at a very early age...’
Clare felt impelled to defend the mother she couldn’t remember. ‘But