The Spaniard's Blackmailed Bride. Trish Morey
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God, you mean she doesn’t know? I thought she must have been in on this crazy idea.’
‘She doesn’t know we’ve lost Blaxlea. I didn’t want to worry her unnecessarily. But now…’
‘Oh, Dad, no…’
The grandfather clock clicked loudly in the ensuing silence as the mechanism for the chimes kicked in, the prelude for ringing out the midnight hour.
Diablo strode between them. ‘Can you do that to your mother, then? Deny her the chance to see out her days in this house rather than some doss-house? What kind of a daughter are you really?’
She said nothing, just let her eyes tell him how much she hated him while inside her heart ached for her mother. Because Diablo was right—how could she do that to her mother after what she’d been through? After losing Nat, then the business and along with it their fortune, to lose the family home would kill her.
‘I can see you need more time to think about it,’ Diablo decided. ‘So I’m prepared to give you one more chance. You have until the clock strikes twelve to decide once and for all. Marry me and your family live in comfort for the rest of their days. Turn me down and you’ll be out of this house by the end of the week.’
‘You can’t do that!’
‘Watch me,’ he said. ‘It’s not as if you have anything left to pack.’
‘Even you couldn’t be so cold-hearted!’
‘It’s not up to me any more,’ he said as the clock finished its chimes and made the first of twelve strikes. ‘It’s up to you what happens next. Luxury or poverty, it’s your call. Will you abandon your parents in their hour of need or will you restore your parents to the life they desire?’
The clock struck again. ‘That’s two,’ he said. ‘I hope you’re thinking.’
Oh, she was thinking all right. Panicked thoughts with no beginning and no end and no hope. And, between them all, the clock struck again.
Would it kill her to marry him? Maybe not, but there was no doubt it would definitely kill her mother to leave Blaxlea, her childhood home and the seat of her mother’s family for generations.
And would she ever forgive Briar for rejecting the financial lifeline that Diablo was now offering?
The clock struck again and she looked up in panic. Had she missed one? How much time was left? There was too much to consider.
Why, oh, why, did it all have to come down to her? Oh Nat, she pleaded, what should I do? But she knew without question that if her big brother had survived the crash that had cut short his life, he wouldn’t hesitate to help. He’d do whatever it took to help his parents out, even if it meant sacrificing his own career and his own future into the deal. So why did the thought of sacrificing her own chances seem so abhorrent? After all, all she had to do was to marry Diablo.
Marriage…
The clock sounded again, straining her nerves to breaking-point. It was almost time.
Marriage sounded so final. But then hadn’t she always planned on getting married one day? Indeed, she’d been groomed from the day she was born for being a society wife with a rich husband…Would it really matter if it was to Diablo? And it didn’t have to be for ever. He’d get sick of her before too long—she’d make sure of it—and then he’d have to agree to divorce her. How long would it take—one year? Two? She’d make sure there were no children to suffer in the fallout. And then she’d have her life back. It wouldn’t kill her. Marrying Diablo didn’t have to be a life sentence.
All too soon it was just an echo that rolled around the room. The clock had rung out for the last time. The witching hour was here—the time when bad things crawled out of the night and ruled supreme. Diablo, the Spanish devil, was nothing if not faithful to the old legends.
She looked across at her father, who sat there looking like the beaten man he was. He looked up at her as if he’d realised too that this was it, his eyes bearing a rare spark of defiance. ‘Don’t do it,’ he urged in a gruff entreaty as he rose to his feet, some measure of his fighting spirit renewed. ‘This is my fault—all of it. You shouldn’t have to pay for my mistakes. We’ll make it through somehow.’
She smiled and mouthed a silent thank you.
‘Well?’ demanded the Spanish devil, drawing closer, obviously impatient to seal the deal. ‘What have you decided?’
‘That I hate you,’ she snapped. ‘With all my heart and soul.’
He lifted a hand to her face quickly and she recoiled, but his touch, when it came, was surprisingly gentle as he ran the backs of his fingers along the line of her jaw. She shuddered at the sizzle of flesh against flesh as his eyes bored into hers, rendering her breathless, unable to move. ‘Hate is such a useless waste of passion.’ He sighed and turned away and she dragged in air hungrily.
‘But so be it. Under the circumstances,’ he stated coldly, ‘I want you all packed and out of here by the end of the week.’
‘No!’
He spun around. ‘What do you mean, “no”? My terms were clear.’
‘It means we won’t be leaving.’
‘Briar,’ her father implored, ‘don’t do it. You can’t—’
Diablo held up one hand that silenced her father in a heartbeat as he scrutinised her face, the barest hint of a smile returning as the dark vacuum of his bottomless eyes sucked in hers. ‘Tell me,’ he insisted.
She took a deep breath and prayed for strength. Because she needed strength if she was going to do this. And she had no choice but to do this.
For my mother, she told herself, for my family.
‘I’ll do it,’ she whispered, feeling like a swimmer out of her depth, going down for the third and final time.
‘I’ll marry you.’
CHAPTER THREE
‘WHAT’S taking you so long?’ asked Carolyn Davenport, bustling with excitement as she swept into Briar’s room, holding her turquoise gown’s ample skirts up high and trailing a silky layered train in her wake. ‘It’s just fabulous downstairs,’ she announced. ‘Everyone’s here. Even with the short notice, I think the whole of Sydney society has turned out.’
Only out of morbid curiosity, thought Briar cynically as she applied the finishing touches to her make-up. No matter what story Diablo’s spin doctors had concocted to release to the press, there wasn’t a chance anyone believed theirs was a love match.
Anyone, that was, apart from her mother.
Carolyn Davenport had taken the news of the impending nuptials like the true society doyenne she was, swinging into mother-of-the-bride mode as if she was born to it. Any hint that she’d known about a link between her daughter’s rushed marriage and the fact that now suddenly they had servants again, with the funds to pay for them and much more besides, like her brand new Lisa Ho gown, for example, seemed to have been conveniently deleted from her memory. Her mother seemed all too ready to believe in the whole sorry fairy tale.
‘Fairy tale romance’, my eye, Briar thought, reflecting on the latest headline as she snapped the blusher compact closed. But even the business pages hadn’t been immune to the press bombardment.
‘Marriage Merger’ had been their angle—‘a blending of new money with old, the brash success of the young entrepreneur merged with the proven track record of the establishment’.
How the papers would lap it up if she came clean with her own version of the headline—‘Blackmail Bride—sold to save her family from financial ruin’. But that story would never come out, no matter how true.
‘You could do with more colour than that,’ her mother protested,