To Love, Honour & Betray. Penny Jordan
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in their lovemaking that was intriguingly at odds with the mild-mannered and restrained day-to-day image she presented to the outside world.
‘That’s because I’m in love with you,’ Tara had told him seriously and meant it, because it was true.
Her emotions had always been close to the surface, easily stirred and fired, and it had taken the gentle influence of her mother to help her learn how to harness the impetuous, impulsive side of her nature and to look beyond its immediacy to the eventual consequences. Tara felt privileged that in her the passionate intensity she felt, an inheritance from her father’s side of the family, was tempered and strengthened by the quiet wisdom that was her mother’s. Passion and sensitivity—they could, for someone without the loving parenting she had received, have been uncomfortable bedfellows, but Tara loved and valued both sides of her personality because they were her emotional inheritance from her parents.
She liked knowing that in her individuality she was still a part of them, just as the children she and Ryland produced would be a part of them. Like her, she hoped that they, too, would one day listen with the same rapt attention as she had while their grandparents told them stories of their own youth and that they, as she had done, would absorb from those stories a sense of family and continuity, a sense of security and safety, of warmth and belonging.
It still sometimes brought quick emotional tears to her eyes to visit her grandparents and to see the love and pride in their eyes, to see and touch the familiar things that she had known from babyhood: the Sèvres dinner service that a member of her mother’s mother’s family had brought back from France; the medals her maternal grandfather had received on the death of his uncle, a veteran of the Somme; the linen sheets both of her grandmothers had been presented with on their respective marriages and that both of them had ruefully admitted they never used, much preferring the easier laundering of modern bedclothes.
Despite her totally modern outlook on life, Tara was a girl who was very much in touch with, very much in tune with, her family’s past. Ryland, who had already recognised that about her, hoped it might incline his aunt to look favourably on Tara and approve of their marriage.
He might neither need nor particularly want that approval and the inheritance that would ultimately go with it, but as he had already told Tara, he felt it was his duty to accept the role in the family business for which he had been groomed. There were certain things about his family and that role that he had not as yet told Tara, but they did not affect his love for her, and who knew, if his cousin Margot changed her mind about remaining single …
He smiled in the darkness as Tara fell asleep in his arms. How could his family not love her? How could they possibly find fault with a person as instantly lovable and totally adorable, so perfect in every way, as his Tara?
‘Ryland’s coming home and he’s bringing a girl with him.’
‘A girl? Who?’
Lloyd propped himself up on one elbow as he looked down into the face of his lover—and cousin.
Margot shrugged dismissively. ‘I don’t know, some English girl.’
‘Is it serious?’
‘No relationships are allowed to be serious in this family until mother’s sanctioned it. You know that.’
The expression on her face echoed the bitterness and resentment in her voice as she sat up in bed and reached for the packet of cigarettes on the bedside table, lighting one and drawing fiercely on it.
In the clear light of the island morning, the sharp angularity of the bones both of her body and her face was almost cruelly revealed. What had, on the girl, been extreme slimness had become, on the woman she was now, an almost bony thinness, the outward expression of her inner frustration and bitterness, as though these deep-rooted feelings that had distorted her life had eaten away at her flesh as thoroughly and destructively as any bodily illness.
‘My God, if only things were different,’ she burst out intensely, her dark eyes flashing as she turned to look at the man lying beside her.
Three years separated them in age—three thousand miles in distance, apart from the brief days and hours they occasionally managed to snatch together, those and the six weeks they shared annually here on the island that belonged to Margot’s mother and his aunt.
Every summer for over twenty years, both of them had come here to be together, away from prying eyes. As first cousins, certain states considered their blood relationship too close for them to marry and legalise their love for each other as Margot so passionately wished they might. Margot wasn’t sure which was the stronger feeling she had for these weeks in the summer—hatred or longing. Longing when they were apart from one another and hatred when she was here because being here meant being aware of the fact that she could never ever have her heart’s desire; that she could never be with Lloyd as she ached and wanted to be with him. As they both wanted her to be with him, she amended hastily. After all, he suffered just as much as she did, yearned just as much as she did … ached, needed, wanted, loved just as much as she did.
They had both known, of course, even before they had fallen in love that such a love was forbidden.
‘But what will happen if I get pregnant?’ Margot had asked Lloyd tremulously the first time they had made love, lying uncomfortably together in the sandy earth amongst the trees, hidden out of sight of the house.
‘You won’t,’ Lloyd had assured her, showing her the condom he had bought.
That had been the beginning of it, the beginning of what to her was a continuous rack of pain from which there was no relief, no cessation, no, not even sometimes in his arms, because always at the back of her mind was the knowledge that their togetherness was only temporary, that ultimately they would have to part and go back to their separate lives.
‘Stay with me,’ she had begged frantically one summer a number of years ago.
‘I can’t. You know that,’ he had told her. ‘I think Carole-Ann might be beginning to suspect something. In fact, I think we might have to—’
‘No!’ Margot had burst out explosively before he could finish. ‘If she does suspect, then we’ll just have to find some way of … She can’t stop us being together, Lloyd. She has you all the time. Does she know how lucky she is to be your wife?’ she had demanded passionately. ‘How much I wish …’
Lloyd had turned and taken her in his arms. ‘You know that can’t be,’ he told her.
‘Oh, Lloyd,’ she cried. ‘God, why does it have to be like this? Why can’t we be together? Go away somewhere—abroad?’
‘You know we can’t do that. How would we live? Both of us are dependent on the business.’
‘The summer’s passing quickly.’ Margot shivered now. ‘Another three weeks and you’ll be going back. Oh, Lloyd, I don’t know how I can bear it.’
Helplessly, she started to cry.
Tiredly, Lloyd closed his eyes. They weren’t young any more. The UCLA branch of their business, which his aunt had originally set up as much to put some distance between him and Margot as anything else, had proved to be extremely profitable and certainly no sinecure. He loved Margot, of course he did, and he always would, but sometimes the intensity of her passion for him, her need, her dependency on him, wore him down.
These six weeks he spent on the island every summer, technically updating his aunt on everything that had been happening with his side of the business, were, for Margot, the pivot of her whole existence.
‘If we didn’t have this, there’d be no point in my going on living,’ she had told him more than once. Increasingly, though, he was guiltily aware that while Margot was so emotionally dependent on him, he was not free to live his own life.
It had been different when they were young. Then he had shared her passion, been as overwhelmed by his feelings for her as she was by hers for him. But now!
He